In the Hall of Midnight
When Tugrik entered the hall, he was surprised at how numbingly stark it was. Compared to the other halls he remembered visiting during his travels, this hall was an immense void. There were no chronicles of warriors and their adversaries carved upon the walls in the brutal and animalistic style of his race. There were no proud trophies displayed nor were there any clan symbols and weapons. A line of torches illuminated the hall, but their flames were dim, casting deep shadows into the corners and alcoves of the hall.
The barrel vault of the ceiling was a massive construction of curved black logs with their branches intact. The vaulting was the only feature in the hall that had any semblance of decoration; the branches, left at various lengths and carved to form needle-like stalactites, seemed to reach down in various angles from the ceiling like a forest of spears waiting to impale. Shadowy and distorted reflections followed Tugrik as he walked across the floor. For a moment, he was disoriented by it all, and the odd sensation that he was falling through a glowing starless space made him ill at ease, but the feelings disappeared as he watched the eta walk up to a wall and press against it with one taloned hand. He noticed the hand was missing some of its fingers. The sight of the eta's mutilated hand should not have bothered him, but it did and he could not fathom why. He had seen injuries far worse and yet the hand appeared to speak of loss, loss of status, of prowess, and of power.
A cleverly hidden wall panel opened with a click to reveal a corridor lit by guttering torches. The servant turned to him and pointed to an open doorway four doors down. Tugrik stepped into the corridor, turning slightly at the sound of one of the doors softly closing beside him. Hesitating because he was curious, he was about to knock on the door in question, but stopped. Thinking it might be rude of him, especially in an unknown dwelling, he lowered his hand. Continuing on, he walked down the hall, alone with his thoughts, and when he entered his room, he absentmindedly placed his mask and spear on a low stone table next to the doorway.
Tugrik appraised his quarters. The room was bare except for a table and a sleeping platform. The walls' wooden panels were not the absolute emptiness of the main hall. The whorls and grain patterns of the natural wood gave the walls a murky, wraith-like appearance as the panels caught the flickering torchlight.
Looking through the only window, he noticed a small foundry adding its own red glow to the complex. The rhythmic breathing of its bellows was the only sound in the clearing. The smiths were busy tonight, hard at work for their master, yet there was something missing. Tugrik cocked his head, listening for another sound. He was so familiar with the throbbing hum of machinery, especially after traveling for so long aboard his ship that its absence should have made itself apparent to him earlier. However, he had failed to notice. There were no generators near the dwellings, he suddenly realized. Torches lit the dwellings within the clearing and the black wood fueled the foundry. Surely, there was a generator somewhere to power the whole compound? Then he heard it, somewhere in the distance like a great heartbeat. It was coming from below, deep beneath the clearing.
Lying down on the sleeping platform, Tugrik allowed the distant heartbeat of the underground generator to lull him to sleep where he dreamed of the past and remembered.
The Treacherous Path of the Hollow Warrior
His younger brother's laughing face acquired the thin scar running down the right side of his face during a sparring session with Tugrik in the kehrite. It had never healed properly, but it gave his brother a rakish look. His brother had called it the Badge of Ineptitude. Both of them were looking forward to their first blooding. They had been so young and eager to show their skills on their Blooding Hunt, and when they embarked upon the journey with a group of young, untested warriors, they were led by the venerable hunter, Nei'l'hsaun.
The first Hunt ended successfully for the majority of them. Nei'l'hsaun marked the successful youths with his distinctive sigil: the stylized spiral coil of a kainde amedha in repose. The youths celebrated their new status, but what was to be their last night of joyful exuberance on the seeded planet ended in carnage and flames. The Bad Blood had come out of nowhere in his ship. During the howling chaos that followed, they had caught a glimpse of the killer. They saw that their assailant had the same Blooding mark they had just received from Nei'l'hsaun. Who was this Bad Blood and why had he desecrated and trampled their rite of passage? Bitter ashes and unanswerable questions now tinged their glory with the shadow of the unspeakable.
Tugrik and his brother, along with three others, had made an oath upon their spearheads as they watched their ship and the rest of their cohort burn that night. With their Leader and most of their comrades dead, they vowed to search for the murderer who had left them stranded on a hostile world. They knew that the Arbiters may catch up with the Bad Blood, and if they failed and perished in their pursuit, then it was up to Tugrik and his group to take their place. Until then, they had to contain their rage and further refine their skills, for the Path before them was arduous. There would be time enough for them on their journeys to search for their personal enemy or revel in his demise at the hands of the Arbiters.
The five newly Blooded survived their ordeal when the ship of another clan stopped on the planet to investigate their sensory readings. It was they who brought the survivors back to the Homeworld.
vVv
Tugrik's sleep was deep, populated with the sounds and scenes of distant dreams. When he awoke, it was from a memory that always slipped quietly into the landscape of his dreams. He could never escape it in his sleep.
He had a son once. When forced to raise his hand against him, Tugrik found the task painful, but necessary. Of course, he had sired numerous sons and daughters, yet the last son had been his favorite, the last one born before he left the Homeworld to wander alone in the far darkness. However, this child of his pride was also his child of sorrow and shame. The young warrior had turned into his most hated enemy: a Bad Blood. In his rage, Tugrik vowed to track his own son down along with the members of the pack he traveled with; there would be no mercy, not even for his son. His son and companions were now feral beasts, slaughtering in sheer bloodlust, and caring for neither honor nor respect.
Tugrik, his clansmen, and the Arbiters had caught up with the Bad Bloods in the end. When the Arbiters decided their fate, they all died. When it was time for Tugrik's son, he had asked his father to strike the deathblow. As the Arbiters watched Tugrik execute his own son, they praised him for his steadfast honor. The Code demanded his son's death, and his hand never wavered in the task.
However, such justice made Tugrik question his own honor and himself. His son shared his blood and a son was a reflection of the father. The only thing his son ever uttered while he was under Tugrik's h'sai-de was a question that forever haunted him: "Did you enjoy the thrill of this hunt?" Madness colored his son's harsh words, sheer and spiteful madness.
Masks
Sitting up suddenly, Tugrik shook his head to remove the pain of that memory, unaware of the figure in the doorway. Looking up, he was amazed to see a female yautja gazing at him from the torch lit corridor. In polite greeting, he bowed his head. The female returned the gesture in silence. She was not a slave, Tugrik could see. Her height was impressive, but he had seen and mated with larger females on the Homeworld. The plain long fabric she casually wore over her shoulder and around her waist was black; the thin material was delicate against the sinuous outlines of her powerful musculature. Her tusks were white against the yellow ochre and dark emerald hue of her skin, and ivory bones bound her tresses into glistening blue-black locks. This female would be a prize, if the victorious male could subdue her long enough.
Tugrik stood up quickly when she walked in and began inspecting his mask and weapons on the table. She picked up his ki'cti-pa and extended the blades to their full length. She stared at them, purring softly. Lovingly running her talons along the lethally sculpted edge, she returned the weapon to the table. She looked at the mask for the longest time, turning it in the light of the torch and caressing her long fingers across the worn metal surface. There were thin scars crisscrossing the back of her hands.
"Your equipment tells me of your good standing on the Homeworld," the female stated as she handed it back to Tugrik, "But there is no mark on this mask."
Her body was close and Tugrik could smell her musk; subtle and captivating, it filled the room. "It is an old hunting mask that was never marked. The other mask with the Blooding mark was destroyed when I received this," he said as he gestured at the massive scar on his forehead.
She looked down at him, her tusks playing lightly in the torchlight. Her presence was nearly overpowering. "If I had been an Arbiter, I would have accused you of being a Bad Blood, pronounced my judgment, and killed you in your sleep. However, I am not, and the lack of a Blooding mark intrigues me instead. Tell me warrior, who was your Master, the teacher who gave you your absent mark?"
Tugrik looked up at the towering female. "Nei'l'hsaun was my Leader." He breathed her musk in deeply, remembering the last time he was with a female. It had been not so long ago. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, she was standing closer. He did not move back; instead, he held his ground, basking in her body heat. Maintaining eye contact, he subtly positioned himself into a defensive stance, ready for anything, including violence.
"I know that name," she softly whispered. "The matriarchs of my line had fond memories of the old Leader. Is he still alive?"
"No, the Black Warrior sought his company long ago," said Tugrik. He could not bring himself to tell her the truth.
"As long as he died honorably in battle, I will sing his songs for him." The female paused as she glanced again at the mask on the table. Pointing to the mask, she asked, "Why did you not keep his mark? You could have burned his symbol on that mask, unless you felt you were not worthy to carry his mark." Her deep yellow eyes stared at him carefully. "You told me that the previous mask was destroyed. I do not believe you. The damage on your head would have been far more extensive, and you would not be here standing in front of me telling lies. A warrior of your standing would have had the mask repaired." Her taloned hand shot forward, grasping Tugrik's upper right arm tightly.
"You were not so quick to judge me earlier," Tugrik growled, "yet you stand here now accusing me. What is next, my execution? I would gladly go to my death if it would end…" He stopped himself from saying more to the female.
She pulled him nearer still until Tugrik could feel his mandibles brushing her chest. "You are a brave one and yet you hide behind your masks, the masks you use to hide your secret shame or an unfulfilled oath perhaps. What else were you going to tell me before you placed a mask over it again?" She leaned down close to Tugrik's forehead, her breath hot and moist against his skin. Releasing his arm abruptly, she said, "The hard meat's blood was not kind, yet you survived. I can see the ghost of the mark on your brow. I have seen it before."
Tugrik looked up, startled by her words, "Have you seen this mark before? Where did you see it?" He quickly grabbed her arm in order to restrain her as she turned away. He was fortunate the female did not turn on him. If she had, he would have paid with a ferocious mauling.
Instead, she laughed and pulled her arm away from Tugrik's hold. Edging closer, she whispered, "They all came looking and when they found the one they sought, they paid with their lives, except for one: he paid with his freedom." She turned once more and disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind the soft whisper of fabric and the slight clicking of bones as they danced within her shifting black tresses.
The female's enigmatic words stopped Tugrik from following her out. He slowly sat back down on the platform. He was still sitting with his thoughts when a servant summoned him to dine with his master.