Author's Note: Not as happy with such a large 'reveal' so far in, even though this isn't a continuous story. Remember, unless otherwise specified, this is all set several years after the conclusion of the war.
The flatlands of Sera generally obeyed the rise and fall of the seasons, from rainy thaws to blistering equinoxes to windblown freezes, but in the mountain passes of the west the weather decided its own course. The natural order of things was usually harsh and cool; coastal breezes funneled into the narrow valleys, exchanging warmth for velocity and ripping entire sheets of snow off the peaks, turning a sunny afternoon into a whiteout in minutes. Weather satellites could track the progress of air masses and predict the weather had they not conked out halfway through the Locust War, and so it was that the hunter found himself trudging along in a growing swirl of snowflakes and chill.
To be fair, he had planned his trip well enough. He'd hunted in the mountains all his life, since before the Locust had come, and knew better than to leave his cabin in a rainstorm. He'd left as the ground dried out and followed the retreating storm deep into the Vadar Gorge, only to remember too late that the warm moist air rising up the mountain faces would soon cool and fall back down like a hammer. He pulled his scarf further up and tried to negotiate the steep hillside without sending too many rocks downslope or clattering the canteens on his backpack too much. A single-shot rifle from some unnamed post-war workshop was slung over his shoulder, empty grouse stringer hanging from the buttstock. Any hope he had of filling it was gone with the worsening weather; rock grouse tended to fly down into the treeline and hide out during snowstorms. The man stopped to look up at the peak looming behind him and the curling waves of snow starting to drift off in the wind and sighed into his scarf. He began to ease down the slope carefully, convinced there would be no chance for game before the storm hit and visibility dropped to zero. He was so busy watching his feet on the gravel and tundra grass that he almost missed the line of shaggy quadrupeds easing around the narrows of the pass ahead.
Ironhorn aurochs! The hunter dropped to one knee and froze, spotty bleached peacoat fanning out around him on the ground. The nearsighted beasts were perhaps four hundred feet away and a hundred feet further down than he was; lucky for him, they were high-mountain dwellers who rarely thought to look above them. Twelve individuals made up the group, flat faces and stubby horns pointing westward as they meandered down towards the valley floor a half-mile distant. The man settled onto both knees and brought his rifle across his lap as he observed the aurochs nosing around in the dried grasses, looking for roots. Their four-foot long bareskinned tails waved back and forth to preserve their balance on the tricky terrain. Rubbing his chin pensively, the hunter considered his options.
The smallest of the aurochs was still well above waist high and easily two or three hundred pounds. He had absolutely nothing to carry or drag that kind of weight down into the valley and around through the opposite pass to his camp, which meant he would have to butcher the animal on the spot and take it over in pieces. There was enough cheesecloth wrapping in his bag to accomplish this, but he didn't relish the idea of stumbling across a per-guien or a wildcat with his arms occupied by a corpse. But really, the man thought, how unlucky would I have to be for that to happen? More of a problem was not being able to finish the job before the storm set in and losing half the meat to scavengers or his own bad memory. He could definitely field dress it and quarter it in the remaining time… perhaps if he dug a cache and covered the meat with heavy rocks? There didn't seem to be a shortage of those in the area.
The hunter reached into his coat and brought out a cartridge: semi-deforming .300 ball, just like the old Lancer rifles used to fire. He looked from the herd to the bullet and back again. If it was good enough to kill big grubs, it should work on a herbivore, right? Assuming he could hit it in the vitals. Each passing minute brought the herd closer and closer to him, presenting their lungs for a double-penetrating shot trajectory that should knock them out instantly. The darkness of the snowfall was more menacing now, threatening to steal his vision with every second that he dithered.
"One shot," the man whispered to himself, "and I probably won't even get one of the bastards."
Slowly, he eased himself down onto his elbows, sticking the cartridge in his mouth. Bitter brassy flavour spread over his tongue as he flipped the rifle's ladder sight up and moved the adjustment slider to one hundred yards. A scope, even a simple diopter one would be worth the world right about now. He opened the sliding breech block and fished the cartridge out of his mouth, then rammed it home into the chamber and pushed the side-lever to close the action. As he brought the buttstock up to his shoulder and glanced down the iron sights, he offered a small prayer: "Allfathers, if I fuck this up please just let the animal go. Please don't let it suffer." He pondered his words for a moment and added, "Pardon my mouth while you're at it."
Looking down the rifle barrel, the herd dwindled to a single animal, midsized, probably a female. At ninety yards the auroch was no bigger than the tip of his thumb, and he could feel his cold-sapped hands start to betray him as he kept the gun trained on its chest. When the animal paused and lowered its head, he lined up both sights with the hollow behind its forelimb and slowly squeezed the trigger. The shot rolled out across the landscape, echoing off the walls of stone and ice and gravel. Ignoring the painful ringing in his ears the hunter lifted his head up to peer through the faint smoke and snow at the herd downslope.
Every single animal was in flight.
"Aw damnit!" he hissed, struggling onto his feet again. The man wrenched the side lever open again, sending the spent shell flying as he grabbed for another. Gravel and rocks skittered ahead of him as he hurried as quickly as he could manage towards the solitary figure falling behind the rest of the herd. Sky and mountains and howling wind all vanished into a shaky muted mess; all that existed boiled down to himself and the animal, now slowing to a limping crawl. After a dozen further steps it collapsed onto its stomach. Just as the man slowed his pursuit, one foot hit a patch of loose soil and sent him skidding out of control. He could only save himself by throwing his body sideways into a nearby cluster of big boulders; they stopped his death-fall, albeit painfully. He flopped down onto his back, winded and wincing against the ache in his ribs.
Lying still for a few moments let the ringing dissipate and the hunter was finally aware of the wind picking up and the darkening sky. He'd have to move now if he wanted to t least dress the corpse before things got too ugly. After that… well, he supposed he could take the hindquarters and a couple of the edible organs in bags and somehow bury the rest. Maybe he could quarter it, if the weather held for a little longer. Every scenario running through his mind started to make the hunter more and more annoyed at his haste. Grumbling, he lurched onto his unsteady feet, feeling a spike of pain go through his ribcage. He hopped over the boulders and froze again, hearing the faint crunch of gravel beneath feet.
In a few seconds the crunching materialized into an immense shaggy figure coming out through the pass on the far side. The man actually rubbed his eyes to make sure that he wasn't seeing things. It was a mass of dark brown fur, darker than the auroch's hide, shuffling along purposefully towards the corpse.
And it was walking on its hind legs.
He squinted as hard as he could through the increasingly snow-filled air. The word 'bear' ran continuously through his mind even as he reminded himself that bears never took more than a few steps like this. It had no pointed ears, no long bear snout, and the way it swung its arms – arms!
Yerba monta.
The last time he'd ever taken the mountain men legends seriously, he still had training wheels on his bike. They were just prospector's stories, tall tales, the musing of drunk campers. Nobody in modern Feria believed in giant man-eating apes traipsing about in the mountains. He crouched behind the rocks, watching the huge beast as closely as he dared. It was obviously cagey but the promise of a free lunch was too much for it. Carefully, head swiveling from side to side, it stepped over a log as big around as an oil drum as though it were nothing. When it reached the dead auroch, it inspected it briefly, then grabbed the animal and slung it over one shoulder. The auroch looked like a big dog compared to this monster. The man estimated it must be at least seven or eight feet tall and built like a brick shithouse. It looked up at the peaks ahead of it and the cyclones of snow and ice blowing off them, and started to head across the valley floor towards the opposite side.
He wanted to shoot it. Auroch be damned, he wanted something in his hands to prove he wasn't going crazy. The wind was roaring down now, turning the sky grey and making the receding figure a more difficult shot with each passing second. Being the first to prove the legendary apes existed… how much meat would that buy a man? As much as you wasted today, he grumbled in his own mind. Go ahead, idiot. Shoot it. Give yourself another eight hundred pounds of animal to deal with. Maybe you can cut off its head and drag that into town like some sort of barbarian. Sighing, he lowered the rifle in his hands and stared hard at the mystery before him, vanishing step by step into the huge boulders and snowy haze of the far hills. He turned and started back up over the hill to where his campsite was, left only with disappointment.
"I'm going to look like a damned fool when I tell 'em about this."
Like a sandblaster, the wind-driven snow whipped and curled around the figure struggling up the hill. Its fur was encrusted with the stuff, and it stung the beast's eyes and made them weep. Ducking down into a large crevasse brought shelter from the storm and calm, cold air; breathing left great clouds of vapour around the thing's head . The auroch scraped against the rocks as the huge thing made its way carefully down to the lowest part of the crevasse, a pit of gravel twelve feet in diameter. One enormous rock lay against the side in a curious position, with an even gap around all edges. The huge figure set the dead animal down and leaned one massive shoulder against the rock until it slid aside. From within the hidden tunnel, warm air rushed up and out. Taking one last look around for safety, the thing picked up the animal again and rolled the rock behind it, resealing the tunnel.
Inside, the tunnel was warm, lit by numerous crude lamps in metal brackets. The big figure reached up, tugging and pulling at the fur around its face until the hood slid back to reveal pebbly grey skin. It lifted the animal corpse, sniffing it fondly and rubbing one finger in the crimson trail leaking from its chest. Fresh auroch blood had such a pleasing, coppery smell. Throwing it back over one shoulder, the figure picked up an enormous cleaver laying against one wall and started down the passageway, murmuring contentedly to itself.
"Hungerrrrrrr…"