The volcanic pools were in even more of a fluster. The waves of liquid fire were crashing around the rocks of ash, tearing them apart and reclaiming them. They leapt as they hit the rocks into the air and met the eerie lightning midway in a sinister embrace. A bad omen.
Wahisietel wasn't one to believe in the supernatural, but he would have surely been grateful for an auspicious sign. The last thing he desired at the moment was for a Mahwaji – born from the tiny essence of a Mahjarrat that might not have been absorbed by the tribespeople and the environment, and powered by the mating of fire and lightning – to come and push him into the swirling lava.
A shower of lava rose high into the sky and scalded a side of his face and bone ridges. Yelping in agony, he hastened his pace towards the site he was prospecting. The site was nothing remarkable; no defensive or offensive structures that could turn the tide, no natural outcrops that provided shielding from the elements, no other useful location particularly close or far. But it was close to the volcano, and that was good for what he was about to do.
Ash flew into his eyes and blinded him briefly. In his frustration he tried singing the ash further into oblivion, but ended up targeting his nose instead. Such a waste of power, he growled in thought. He ought to get a grip on himself.
He stood in the middle of the site, staring out everywhere, taking in crucial information, all alone – just like he had always been. But now he felt more alone than ever – not lonely, for the closest thing that came to loneliness for Mahjarrat was loss of power – but isolated.
Isolation was dangerous. Isolation meant the tribe did not need you anymore. Isolation was equated with being sacrificed.
He let out a huge roar of anger that matched the roars of Freneskae. "To the Void with you, Sliske!" He yelled. "To the Void with you, Azzanadra, you Mah worshipping ancient fool! To the Void with you, Mah! To the Void with you all, you scheming wildfolk!"
Immediately after his rage ebbed away, he began properly surveying the site, assessing the weak spots, the places where he could hide, the places where he could deftly leave a false trail and so on. The analytical nature of the work cooled him down further. Once he was done, he took a quick look around an in a grave, quiet tone that was quintessentially him, he said, "These obstacles shall not deter me. I will rise above them and get the answers I deserve."
He began the trek back to the current encampment. He was pleased he could get his claws on the scouting task before anyone else could. Not only had it helped him regain any trust that he might have lost, it had also given him ample opportunity to plan how he might stage a raid. Scouting wasn't an easy job – it required you to be strong enough to individually fend off hordes of Chelon-Mah and Mahserrat should you encounter them, remember what sites a tribe might have camped at earlier, discover a good path, and be accountable to the wrath of the overseers should the site not be good enough.
When he finally reached back and reported his findings, Temekel quickly charged the tribe to get ready for the journey ahead. Sliske caught his eye, but Wahisietel refused to say anything. He could pick up a few tips from Sliske about stalking and stealth, but he did not feel up to the conversation.
They reached the camp without much hassle. They spent a lot of time going about their lives, sparring, constructing shelters and swapping stories of battle. Wahisietel spent his time devising better ways to construct tools, shelters and defensive structures or whatever other duties the overseers assigned.
He did not mind doing chores like these – they required skill and understanding different from the skill and understanding required for fighting. Wahisietel respected hierarchies – and even if he didn't he would have had to – but it would have been more pleasurable indeed to respect hierarchy based on intelligence instead of that based on raw power.
Sliske did whatever Sliske does. He expected him to teasingly ask him if he would ever be able to conduct a fake raid, but to his surprise, Sliske never did. Whatever exchanges they shared, Sliske was brief, serious and to the point.
When everyone had settled into the new version of an age old routine, Wahisietel found a dark, lone spot during a lightning storm and went there. Everyone else was in a restive state – they had dulled the magic in them to the bare minimum in order to conserve their life essence. Wahisietel shut his eyes and tried to subdue his power to the point that it became difficult to recognise his aura. He subdued his power enough to make him untraceable, but not enough to stop him from fighting.
When he felt satisfied that his essence won't be traceable back to him, he quietly made his way through the camp. It was a long way out, since as a fairly high ranking person in the tribe he dwelled close to the centre. He reached the edge without too much trouble however and tried to find a route that he could use. Kharshai was on guard duty this time. Wahisietel knew Kharshai was more intelligent and resourceful than what the rest of the tribe gave him credit for, but he wasn't the most skilled when it came to guarding and fighting, and for that he was thankful.
Walking a hundred paces away from the camp, he shut his eyes before releasing a devastating bolt of power. Before the bolt could even reach his target, he sped away in another direction, steadied himself and released another bolt. He heard the sounds of the tribe roaring in bloodlust as he flitted away to a third location. A bolt came from the camp and struck the spot where he had been a few ticks before.
He imagined he could hear the sound of Azzanadra yelling orders, trying to find a way to fight effectively in the storm. Wahisietel moved on to another location randomly, leaving the charring from the lightning and the ash and lava from the storms to cover any tracks that he might have been careless enough to leave.
"Invader! You will stop!" Came a cry from somewhere and he was hit by an ice barrage before he could turn around. Wahisietel broke out of it before his assailant could do any further damage and cast a shadow barrage at him. The Mahjarrat had almost cast aside the spell before Wahisietel whipped up a vicious blood barrage and teleported away, leaving the wounded Mahjarrat to bleed out his life essence.
Wahisietel was upset at both having being found (though thankfully not identified) and for attacking a tribe member, but it had to be done. He was now facing the camp with the volcano behind him. Summoning up his power, he created a number of shadow beings that would serve as diversions and raced to the camp, throwing additional bolts around the way. His bolts injured more Mahjarrat, and he cringed every time he heard a scream of pain, but he carried on relentlessly.
He reached the interior of the camp and made quick work of the guard around the tent where the young ones would be holed up during attack. Hoping more desperately than he ever had, he tried reaching into the Shadow Realm. He couldn't innately use the Shadow Realm, but he hoped Sliske's training helped him this time. He opened his eyes to find himself in a dark distorted area with strange muffled sounds and knew he had been successful.
But that was the easy part. Now he had to not just pull other beings into the Shadow Realm, but also carry them all the way out towards the volcano. As if that was not difficult enough, the Shadow Realm twisted and distorted even more the longer you were in it, so he would have to apply his concentration to a lot more than making sure he wasn't traced.
But this was no time to retreat. He had made it this far; he had to continue. Not liking himself for subjecting three young children to this, he deafened himself to their bawling and pulled them into the Shadow Realm. The children started howling even louder from fear and he zapped them to shut them up. He would let conscience punish him later; now, he had a job to do and treachery to commit.
He plowed through the Shadow Realm, hoping against hope no Shadow Walker would come into the realm and identify him. He walked on, trying to apply the theories of navigation into actuality. A great weight started forming on his mind and he began losing his vision. His power was slowly being drained and just when he felt he couldn't walk further without getting lost or swallowed up by whatever horrors that lurked here, he pushed himself and the children out of the Realm and collapsed in torpor.
It was a long while later when he woke up. He was dazed and had trouble remembering what he was supposed to be doing and why he was outside the camp. It slowly came back to him. He wildly searched around for the children – they were in a worse state than he was but they would live. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised himself up – more out of sheer willpower than anything – and invested the last of his energy that he could afford into creating a Chelon-Mah sigil. He flung it in the direction of the volcano tiredly and scooped up the children who looked like they were almost dead and began walking back.
He was almost crawling by the time he reached the centre of the camp. He took in the scene through a haze – he could make out that the camp was very damaged, but he couldn't take in the exact nature and quantity of the destruction.
In a hoarse, sluggish voice, he muttered out, "Children... found them… volcano… Shadow Realm… plan…"
The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him again was the grim expression on Azzanadra's face.