Queen of the Land
The horizon dips and rolls; rocky hills swell out of the ground and pools of water encircle the base, dotted like the pips of a die across the expanse. They stretch and trickle together deep underground to form the mouth of the river. The air is clean and sweet on her tongue, the grass luscious underfoot. It sways in tune to nature's rhythm, the same breeze that teases her hair into unruly strands. It's all too beautiful.
But then her hand runs down to the scar gracing her hip: carved into her skin from her left shoulder blade down to her right thigh beneath her leathers; and she finds herself again.
A girl stands by the water's edge, the cool liquid slipping through her fingers as she bends down to drink. Her companions wander not too far ahead, alternating their paces, postures guarded. Hands reach for the others' backs, reassuringly, with quirked upturns of the mouth speaking of muted assurances. They watch the sky together, watch the clouds drift by lazily; boredom etched into their expressions with deep, thick lines. Faintly painted over, colour watered down, is the anticipation building between them.
For their patience they are rewarded, the rhythmic beating of wings forcing three pairs of eyes skywards in time to see the wyvern spread them wide, sunlight lancing through the membrane in delicate strands, tail curling beneath her body majestically in preparation for the landing. Their unspoken agreement rings in her ears and, urged on by the thought of frothy beer and the feel of gold coins tumbling into her palms, she climbs up the tree on nimble hands, swinging herself up onto a sturdy branch where she crouches, low and predatory. She grasps for her bow, lips tightening in concentration, and she positions the arrow. The bow creaks testily in her fingers. She waits.
It feels like aeons before the wyvern lands: tail grazing the tips of the grass before her hind legs touch down with a heavy thud; and then the sensation changes and her heart is hammering so hard she can hear it, feel the adrenaline rushing through her body and daring her to do it, to do it now. She keeps still, stays hidden, cleverly concealed behind a veil of green.
Rathian was the name given to her by the Guild, the name they printed in the science texts and on the rough board of the warning posts surrounding the forest: scrawled in dripping white paint, 'BEWARE! RATHIAN BREEDING SEASON!'. There's another name she goes by, the name she's passed down through generations of hunters through bloodshed, and she holds it with pride as she walks; head bowed, neck arched, cognisant. With every heavy footstep she surveys the trees suspiciously, a subtle turn of her head this way and that. Majestic describes, all at once, the terrifying speed she encompasses and the beauty she upholds – from the vicious curve of her tail to the emerald glint of her body plate when the sun hits at just the right angle. It speaks, in simpler terms, of her position as queen of her domain.
Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a glint of silver and red, moving slow and graceful to circle round the wyvern, carefully keeping to her back. Rathian leisurely stretches her wings and lumbers towards the lake, a deliberate feint as her eyes flicker to where they both know he is hiding. She knows, but there's no turning back now. She pulls back on the bowstring, fingers steady, arrow poised. Then she lets the arrow fly free from her hand.
I do not own Monster Hunter - it belongs to Capcom.