Hir'cyn looked down the table at the Clan he was traveling with. They were all eating hungrily, still toasting themselves on the Queen's capture. The bard, Escthta, performed his finished lyric aloud with dramatic gestures, punctuating the story with his imitated howls of the Queen and the strong, valiant roars of Ri'thcte and Cthinde. For the most part, the Hunters were quiet and listened. They roared in indignation when the Queen clawed Rithc'te; they howled with satisfaction when she was muzzled. Even the recounting of the tale got their blood boiling hot; the smell of musk was thick in the air.
Hir'cyn was no stranger to the smell of aggression. Some 850 years old, he had seen more than his share of Hunts. He moved from Clan to Clan, living off of them. The bi-annual council was meeting this year, and the Council paid close attention to who the Elders recommended. At the last Council two years ago, his recommendation had been passed over in favor of a violent and ill-tempered Blooded who had been washed out before. Hir'cyn had no desire to travel with the Clan that was Lead by such a tyrant; the kehrite would always be wet with musk and sweat there; there could be no peace when the Leader was always panting after battle and ways to prove himself.
Hir'cyn was much more at ease with this Clan. There was a nostalgic air to the room right now, and he could almost believe that politics had no effect here. The bard soothed him; it reminded him of the stories he had heard as a runt. Escthta had changed to some bawdy tale involving a female and an ill-placed spear, and Hir'cyn chuckled softly. Well, almost like the child stories.
He leaned back in his chair, his hooded eyes watching the Clan. Someone here was going to be his recommendation for Leadership. The ship was en route to the homeworld, set to enter orbit in the early hours of the morning. Landing clearance would take a few hours, but that was to be expected with the incredible number of dropships, each carrying eight or fifteen yautja, all bound for the Council. With luck, he would be able to meet with the Council and make his recommendation before the day was out. The obvious choice was an older Blooded, who would lead a Clan with experience. The oldest Blooded there aside from himself and Syu'ne was Dvi'ren, and he did not have the drive or charisma of a Leader. Neither did the next two, Kuthok and Yerunde. They were content with Hunting; neither one of them possessed the need to Lead.
The next youngest was Escthta, but Hir'cyn chafed inwardly at taking the bard from his true skill, which was storytelling. He had no doubt of Escthta's prowess in battle- he had seen it in the kehrite many times- but the yautja's quiet demeanor when not telling stories worried the Elder. A quiet yautja was never a good sign. Even the timid ones were loud and quick to make challenges. It was all well and good to think and tell stories, but being too quiet led to the appearance of dishonor. Hir'cyn sighed softly. Many of the Elders he spoke with dearly missed the storytellers. Their caste had fallen out of favor with the newer, blood-driven Hunter that was around these days. Escthta was a welcome sight to Hir'cyn, and he used the familiar devices of his dying breed: the upthrust fist, the canted knee, the toothy snarl. Still, something about the deep nature of Escthta's eyes, how they always seemed to be focusing just past him and inside him, told Hir'cyn there was more to this Warrior than he was prepared to bargain for.
That left Cthinde. He was fifth choice, but Hir'cyn was not displeased with the idea of choosing him; he was charismatic- an important quality in a Leader, for all must follow his orders. He was just and good, and did not frivolously bring complaints against others. He preferred to settle things in battle, and always allowed the opponent a graceful retreat while never seeming defeated. It was a fine line that Leaders must walk, mused Hir'cyn. Cthinde's youth would not help him on the Council, but perhaps he could persuade them with his performance in the Leadership trials. The Arbiters that awarded the Leaderships were notorious for their ageism; they deferred to whoever had the most seniority. Leaderships also had to be available; the construction of new ships took ages and untold resources. Most yautja were not even aware of how the ships were built or how the Arbiters obtained them. To be named a Leader was to become part of an inner circle, part of the elites who were privy to such knowledge.
Hir'cyn stroked the side of his mandible thoughtfully, sliding his fingertips down to the end of his tusk. Cthinde had taken that Royal Guard's skull, too, hadn't he? And during a Queen's capture, no less? The Queen was in immaculate condition, and the skull itself was near measureless against other trophies, save that of a Queen. It was an addition to the hunter's wall that could vault him into Leadership. Hir'cyn's brown eyes flicked back to Escthta, who was letting the others take the action and mime out Hunts.
Cthinde was using Dvi'ren as a prop in a retelling of his last hunt for the Soft Meat. Dvi'ren was remarkably good-natured about it; as Cthinde "took" his skull, Dvi'ren the human corpse flopped around and then latched onto Cthinde's leg. The room howled with laughter as Cthinde tried to dislodge the older Blooded from his shin. Dvi'ren shouted something about what a Hunter; doesn't he kill his prey first? Cthinde roared in mock-anger and made a false claw-challenge. Dvi'ren leapt up and the two circled each other, making over-dramatic charges at each other. The other Hunters were nearly rolling on the floor with laughter, and egged them on with insults and one-liners.
"Is that all you've got, Cthinde? You fight like a rhynth!"
"That's better than Dvi'ren! He fights like an ooman!"
"Are you sure that's better?" And the Hunters dissolved into howls again.
Hir'cyn smiled wanly. Cthinde was still so young and inexperienced. A Leader could be friendly with his Clan, but he had to remain somewhat distant or they would never respect him. Hir'cyn wondered if he was doing Cthinde a disservice by recommending him for a Leadership. Cthinde had proven victorious over Dvi'ren, who was taking his welts admirably. Yes, Hir'cyn thought as he observed Cthinde with the Clan, I must be a vile creature to take you away from this.
As a rule, Hir'cyn didn't like landings. He'd been in space for far too long to feel like ground was an entirely safe thing to be walking on. Hir'cyn used this as an excuse for his true fear of dropships: he hated heights. The planet loomed large in the portal at his cheek as the warship entered orbit. Up here it wasn't so bad, he thought. The dropship would leave the enormous warship and enter the atmosphere on its own. He was sorry to leave the Clan he had grown so fond of. They were milling around, finding their seats for the journey to the surface. The musk in the air stank of excitement and anxiety. This Clan was an established Clan, and it had a long history of its members becoming great leaders and many had been honored at Councils before. But this, however, was not what made them almost quiver with anticipation. During and after the Council's month-long business, the females would select sexual partners. He looked at Cthinde, his chosen recommendation, who seemed as antsy as the rest of them, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet to try and work off some of the adrenaline. Hir'cyn was feeling some of the adrenaline himself, but it was more over the cold and unexplainable fear that crept over his neck when he saw the surface rise up so quickly to meet him.
He turned away from the quiet view of the softly-glowing homeworld and looked again at the score of yautja who were finding their places and belting themselves in. Escthta was quiet, and showed none of the tension of the others. Where others tossed their heads, their braided dreadlocks always flying, Escthta's long tress remained still. Where others' legs twitched nervously, Escthta was unmoved. Hir'cyn was made uncomfortable by the bard's lack of anxiety; at 300 years, the storyteller was coming into an age of prime selection by females. To not be anxious, to be totally ignorant of the sexual frenzy that was building around him, well...Hir'cyn huffed softly. To his surprise, Escthta turned and looked directly at him. He couldn't have heard that, Hir'cyn thought. The youth dared stare at the Elder for only a moment more without being impolite, and then his gaze drifted away again, focusing on things that were not there.
xXx
Hir'cyn disappeared from the shipping bay almost as soon as the hatch opened. His small entourage joined him in the dimly lit corridors that wound away from the docks, and his companion clicked softly as they moved, informing Hir'cyn of other happenings in the preparations for the Council. Several other ships had already arrived, their virile cargo being settled into their quarters for the month. "All the other Elders have arrived and made their recommendations, sir," the assistant chittered. Hir'cyn grunted. He was sure that his rival, the Arbiter Noskor, would have much to say about his recommendation. A smile curved his tusks wide. Indeed, he thought with pleasure, Noskor would not have the Council's ear this year, not after that Morun debacle. Noskor's previous pick had been given his own ship and his own Clan, yet so ambitious and so cruel were his Hunts that they were often reduced to fighting, not Hunting. It was disgraceful, and Hir'cyn had heard through various sources of his that Morun was going to be given official discipline and that all Hunters on that sojourn were in deep investigation, restricted to prisons until cleared by the Arbiters. Hir'cyn tossed his head slightly, shrugging off his personal acquaintance with prison. His companion let the gesture pass as they entered their car, which slid silently away from the spaceport on a cushion of gravity, vanishing into the dark, brooding city. He fingered his tusks restlessly as they moved ghost-like through the streets. He had an appointment with the Council; he was the last Elder to arrive, and they would be impatient to get on with the official business of the month now that he was there. The car slowed and pulled up at the small Council barracks, noticeably plusher than those granted to Hunters or even Elders. Other Arbiters not on the Council would be housed here as well, although Hir'cyn had no business with them. He and his valet stepped off the hovering car, which zipped away to another summons.
There were no badges of office that indicated this was the seat of power for their civilization. Hir'cyn walked up to the door and tapped the sumcom. The door whirred open. He turned to indicate that the servant was to wait outside, but the diminutive yautja had already hunkered down next to the wall. He was used to waiting while his master paid calls to Council members and Arbiters.
The inner chamber was as plain as the exterior, but dramatic, with black stone walls and a smooth, polished floor. The longish black box had no windows, and no other doors save the one opposite him. Between him and that door was a massive skull, mounted on black rock and lit with a strong white light. The smooth bone seemed to glow in the surrounding blackness, and Hir'cyn took a moment to admire it, as he always did. The skull was from a carnivorous species that had gone extinct before he was young. It was the loss of such magnificent prey that convinced many Hunters that conservation and preservation of natural resources was key to having good Hunting worlds. The skull had a pristine appearance; even after so many centuries, its many processes and fenestrae remained beautifully clean and sleek. Leaving behind the skull with a sigh, he proceeded to the other end of the hall, his footsteps making heavy, blunted sounds bounce off the stone walls. He rapped on the door, and shifted uneasily while he waited for them to answer. Meeting the Council was always dicey at best; the aged yautja were sometimes too brittle for the information they received. The door's metallic grinding cut him short, and he found himself in the company of a servant, which bowed deeply before him and stammered that he should kindly follow this way.
He walked purposefully behind the loping servant, his blue half-cloak drawn around his shoulder. He enjoyed the company of the Head of the Council, Tjat'le, but he was almost the only vestige of sanity left. All the others were cruel, sometimes ruthless in their judgments. There was almost always a death sentence for even the most trivial of crimes. Few of the Bad Blood survived if they were taken into custody. Hir'cyn grunted and it made servant slide to a halt and peer up at him with a frightened look. Hir'cyn hissed at him, impatient, and cuffed the servant on the side of his head. The servant yelped and sidled quickly down the hall. Hir'cyn could see the way his foot turned inward, which accounted for the strange gait. A small sting of regret touched him, but only for a moment. The servant bowed as they reached a larger set of doors, and tried to turn away. Hir'cyn blinked and quickly held his arm out to bar his way. He gripped the smaller yautja's mandibles and turned his head back toward him. The eyes were dull with ignorance and fear, but on his brow, there was a Blooding mark.
"What's your name, slave?"
"I-I don't have-" He yelped again as Hir'cyn's grip on his mandibles grew stronger. "Rathde, my liege," he stammered.
"Tell me, Rathde: how is it that you are Blooded?" Hir'cyn's voice was deadly quiet. "I always thought that deformed infants were killed at birth. Isn't that true, Rathde?" Rathde nodded eagerly, desperate to get his tender jaw out of Hir'cyn's grasp. "Then you got that club foot on a Hunt?"
Rathde froze, his eyes filling with understanding. "My liege, I-" Rathde's eyes darted left and right, but lingered on the large doors.
Hir'cyn lifted his head slowly. "This was your punishment?" Rathde had begun to whimper and squirm, and Hir'cyn released his head, standing quietly and watching the younger, smaller yautja rub his throat.
"I pray daily for Cetanu to release me," Rathde spat bitterly, and he ran to a service corridor as fast as his deformed foot would let him.
"As will I," Hir'cyn murmured. He watched the corridor where Rathde had disappeared for a few moments more, and then tapped lightly on the Council's doors. The doors opened before his fist fell, and he stepped inside.
xXx
Escthta and Cthinde were settled into their quarters with the rest of the Clan, but had barely gotten used to the smell when an announcement blared out from the sumcom; the Council was convening. Escthta and Cthinde followed the rest of their Clan out to the small robotic cars which were moving Hunters to the Great Hall in the center of the city. Cthinde saw its gloomy silhouette loom high and dark above them, and he felt discomfited by its domed shape, much preferring the smaller ziggurats that dotted the landscape surrounding it. The City had no name; it was simply where the Council was held every two years. The meeting place of Arbiters and Clans, Elders and females, it was not so much a city in use as a convention center. It was maintained between councils by slaves and lower-caste yautja, but it exploded with activity every two years, as the Arbiters awarded Leaderships and the females sought the mates who would breed them children.
Escthta worked this through in his mind with a sort of routineness; every two years they came and he mated, and every two years, the females would go to raise the young and the males were left with nothing but unrequited lust, which matured to blind rage. The Arbiters guarded the location of the female planet carefully, and Escthta hungered for that knowledge, not because of his lust, but simply because no one else knew where the females went. He felt the tender pangs of regret at relinquishing that skull to Cthinde, and he turned to look at his friend as they walked through the cavernous entrance of the Hall. Cthinde's eyes were wide, and Escthta heard his breathing whistle through his tusks, the noise that yautja made as they moved air over the olfactory organ in their mouths. Escthta could smell it too, that unmistakable aroma of female flesh, and in spite of his desire to remain distant, he felt his stomach muscles tighten to hold in that fragrant air.
The Hall's cavernous mouth was framed with glyphs and friezes of great warriors and priceless prey. He recognized a tableau of a young warrior and watched him become Blooded and honored as they walked past its scenes into the Great Chamber, several floors tall, and hundreds of tspans wide. The air was choked with musk, and each Clan had its own area, walled off from the others so that fights would be kept to a minimum. It was the only bow to civility made at these gatherings, and it was barely effective.
The honeycombed walls seethed with dreadlocks and flared tusks, and Escthta found himself nudging Cthinde and jerking his head toward the mezzanine adjacent to the Council members. Some females had entered and were reclining on heated stone couches. A shiver ran through him at their size and power, and the muscles in his arms twitched involuntarily; he curled his hands into fists, his claws biting into his palm. When the females were not around, he could pass them off as a biological urge, but the females' musk tampered with his ability to remain cool and level-headed. He could feel his skin getting hot, though it was already warm in here from all the bodies and the heaters. Cthinde clapped him on the shoulder, grinning lewdly. "We've got some good seats here, my friend. Right across from the females and really close to the Arbiters." Escthta nodded slowly, his eyes locked on an enormous female, at least a head and a half taller than him. Cthinde grabbed Escthta's tress and jerked his stare free of her, whispering urgently. "If she catches you staring at her, she'll challenge you. She's a giant!" Escthta blinked and then shook off the lust which had been blinding him, turning his eyes to the Council members who were gathered in a small group on their balcony. He recognized Noskor, the grizzled Arbiter who had gifted him with a library. Noskor's eyes, one clear and sharp, the other cloudy and blue, seemed intent on the other Arbiter, and their low tones remained indistinct to Escthta's ears, no matter how he strained. Eventually, he gave up and moved to the stone benches to sit next to Cthinde.
The Council's seven members turned as one, their greying heads thick with metal rings. Noskor was the youngest among them, and he had been an Elder for some time before joining the Arbiters and becoming a Council member. As the "young blood", he would have the least amount of influence on the Council, but some influence proved better than no influence at all.
The entire Great Hall fell silent before the Arbiters' tress stilled. None dared challenge the Council's authority or bring down dishonor and disrespect on themselves or their Clan. Escthta felt a small surge of pride in looking down at his mentor. He longed to tell him all he had learned from the documents left in his care, and how he wished that their race might be bettered through cooperation and understanding. Noskor's face remained closed to him; all he could see was the blind eye in its crippled orbit and scar. Escthta began to feel his enthusiasm ebb; even he who was so learned was still bound by the traditions of their race. No, not bound by them, he corrected himself. He's embraced them.
He had expected nothing else; the ancient tales were rife with victories over rival Clans, and the slaughter of those dishonorable yautja who attempted diplomacy. Escthta watched the rituals which opened the Council, the symbolic disemboweling of a struggling prey, and he felt helpless. So many times in these stories, he empathized with the yautja who were killed, even while defenseless. A defenseless prey was no prey at all, but the stories made much of the warriors who slaughtered these people to preserve the Hunters' way of life and so, gain glory for themselves. Such glory was bought with the blood of males and the screams of the females as their children were burned by the fires of war.
He snapped back to reality as the Council opened its business. "...new species which may be worthy Prey for us." Escthta's ears perked. A new species being discovered by their race was unusual enough; perhaps more unusual was that it was first order of business at the Council. "The Elders traveling among you have made recommendations for First Challenge, and from them we have selected a choice few to engage this creature in combat." Escthta became antsy, and he lightly bounced his legs to try to calm himself. "You who are chosen to meet him, step forward!" A rough hand grabbed Escthta and pushed his shoulder toward the lift. Escthta turned angrily to see who had made the challenge, but found only Hir'cyn, purring with pleasure. In his outstretched hand, he held a spear and a set of wrist blades. "My meeting with the Arbiters went well, Escthta. You have been selected to fight the Bathyrian."
xXx
Escthta stood on the lift in a daze, his fingers attaching the wrist blades by themselves. He wore only the most minimal of armor, but Hir'cyn had brought his heaviest spear. What is going on? We're going to fight this thing right here? Right now? He looked over at the handful of other Hunters who had each slid down on the lifts from their Clans' boxes. Their eyes were paranoid; they could not find a place to rest. A few were shaking out their limbs, trying to ready themselves for the fight. Escthta was seething with questions about his opponent, but the Head of the Council held up his hands and the entire Hall quieted.
"When new species are found, many times we simply kill them and take our trophies. Although our skulls are glorious, the true account of the Hunt is lost forever to those who did not witness it." Tjat-le's voice boomed and rolled around the arena; he held his audience spellbound with his tone. "This, honored warriors, is the first time in many centuries that we have found prey worthy of appearing at our Council. It is strong and sentient; ten Hunters lost their lives bringing it forth." A murmur swept through the Hall. Ten Hunters was the average casualty count for a Queen; what the hell had they found, and why did they bring it here?
Tjat'le's hoary head tilted down, and he gazed upon the group of Hunters below him, in the Arena. Almost like a father, he smiled down at them and spoke softly. "My friends, you are at a disadvantage in this Hunt, for your enemy is as smart as you are, outweighs you by ten times, and will never come to rest." He raised his hands and pushed the air in front of him away, his palms out. "Dtai'k-de!"
The platform beneath the yautja shuddered and dipped. Below them, the floor slid open, rolling away into unseen storage. Where there had been floor, there was now an enormous vat of water. The platform began sinking toward the surface, and the other yautja nearly spilled themselves over the railing trying to see their prey. It must be huge, Escthta heard them whispering. His eyes were also sliding over every wave, straining to see through it to where their prey might be. The platform was now a good distance below the original plane of the floor; if Escthta jumped as high as he could, he might be able to break the plane with his outstretched spear. The platform stopped when it was only just clearing the water, the cessation of motion causing many to half-crouch. Escthta again searched the black water for signs of prey. A shout came from behind him; something had disturbed the water and made a wake. Escthta crowded over with the other yautja, looking at the wake. It was broad, and anything that made that would be moving at a respectable speed. He opened his mandibles eagerly and was almost knocked over. A vile chemical smell blanketed the area, and it made black spots appear in his vision. He stepped back to take a deep breath and clear his head. The yautja next to him choked and vomited into the water. The railing held him up, and he watched his stomach's previous occupant slide around on the surface.
Tjat'le watched them stumble around on the platform, several meters down. He lifted his hand and signaled for the lights to be turned on. Escthta blinked and stood back from the railing of the platform. Something was very wrong. He looked down at his spear and then at the water, realizing in a flash that it would be too heavy. If he must battle something in the water, he had to stay as mobile as possible. He laid down the spear, checking his wrist blades one last time. A clank jerked his head up. A huge mat of ooze had wrapped itself around the railing. It was still for only a moment, and then it pulled down. The platform rocked violently, and the Hunters speared it gingerly, trying to preserve their anticipated trophy. The lack of air caused one Hunter to black out, and his body bounced and flipped off the platform into the water. The fleshy mass was unfazed by the wounds, and it reluctantly released its hold and slid down into the water. As it descended, each one of its talons clicked on the railing like an ominous metronome. Escthta shuddered and then turned to his own side of the railing, but was brought up short by the reddish glow. The lights were constantly obscured by the tank's occupant, which only shone through its flesh. He heard the clicking on the railing behind him, so unlike the friendly chatter of yautja, and it made his blood freeze. Nothing was going to be done by standing here. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and mandibles tightly and vaulted himself over the railing. Behind him, the platform tipped over and dumped his companions into the water.
Escthta surfaced, gagging. There was a oily substance in the water, an unpleasant sort of slime that was coating him and making it hard for him to breathe. He desperately wished he had a breathing mask, but there had been no time, no preparation. He was confused by the smell and the way it clung to him. A clear, fat globule dripped off one of his tusks and he spat in disgust. He looked around for anyone else, but he seemed to be alone. A stone formed in his gut as he began to realize that he would have to take this thing on without a Hunting party. He ducked under the water, deciding to risk opening his eyes.
The water stung them, but he could not trust the enemy to announce its attack. He could barely make out its form against the light, and it shimmered, seeming to change its shape even as he looked at it. He squinted, damning his eyesight and the oily slick in the water. If only I could get a good look at it. Almost as if it heard him, the flesh flowed away from the hot light, and the tank was fully illuminated for the first time.
Something from his most horrible nightmares lurked here. Thick coils of flesh radiated out from a central point, although it could hardly be called a body. It loomed in the blackness, nearly three times bigger than he was. The dorsal side had form, where the rest of the body did not; it was a large, domed half-skull with outgrowths like horns or fins on either side. Both textures and patterns of light seemed to drift across its skin. The skin gave the massive bone an iridescent quality as it flowed in and out of its grooves and over its processes. As he watched, the tentacles moved, their claws trailing threads of bright green. As he looked beyond the veils of blood, he saw two large eyes set side-by-side, jet black, with a surface like glass. They watched him, inscrutable, and he watched back, treading water. Something sent a shiver down his back, a feeling of raw danger, and he hunched over, just as a tentacle pushed through the water where he had been, claws extended. The movement flushed cold water down his back, and he knew that he had to move.
He twisted in the water and reached up with one hand to grasp the tentacle. It felt cold and squishy; his revulsion was immediate. He brought up his blade hand and tried to cut through the soft skin, but as he did, the tentacle slipped away, leaving only a thick coating of slime on his fingers. He was almost out of air, and he kicked toward the surface to breathe. A fleshy vine curled around his foot and tugged him down. Escthta grimaced as he felt the claws bite through his braces and into his leg muscles. He reached up, and his fingers broke the surface of the water, but the tentacle held him firmly down. He thrashed and then reached down and slid his wrist blades under the trailing part of the tentacles and drew his arm up sharply. The tentacle gave, and he clawed to the surface, gasping for air.
He gulped air and swam a few tired kicks over to the platform and reached up with one arm to grab the railing and began hauling himself out of the water with the other. The metal was bright green- slick with blood- and Escthta slowly became aware of a severed limb that was nudging his shoulder as the water moved. He retched under his arm, his nausea worsened by the fetid odor that clung to him. He had been on Hunts, and he had taken his share of trophies, but... this was his own people! These were Hunters, yautja, that this thing had ripped apart, twisting their limbs off as if they were nothing more than twigs. His muscles were trembling and his lungs ached, but he slowly pulled himself onto the platform, sliding belly-first through the gore and entrails.
Escthta lay there, panting, trying desperately to draw in some air that was not tainted with the miasma. He closed his eyes briefly before placing palm to deck and pushing up onto his forearms. I must not let it have the advantage. He was unsteady on his feet, and a burn was beginning to bloom in his injured leg, a sure sign of poison. He checked his wrist blades and found that they were still attached, still sharp. A spear lay near the lip of the platform, and Escthta felt sure that its owner could not begrudge him its use. He turned for it, and had only just wrapped his fingers around it, when he heard the movement of great amounts of water; the Bathyrian was surfacing behind him.
He turned to face it; it was unmatched in its hideousness. The smooth dome of its cranium blushed an angry red and its horns seemed like flames, but the eyes, those terrible eyes, remained deep and unfathomable. Though his body began to burn with fever, Escthta felt those eyes strike him cold. He was paralyzed by its stare. Before he could react, the two prime tentacles rose up out of the water and curled around him. He roared and struggled, but the tentacles were elastic, and they gave where he stretched and shrank where he moved. He began to exhaust himself; the binds were so tight that his wrist could not turn enough to extend his blades. He sucked in air, and turned his eyes up. The tips of the tentacles hovered menacingly, and finally, the flesh shrank back to reveal a sucker pad studded with long, wickedly curved claws. Its twin revealed a similar sucker, colored dark blue against the agitated red. With lightning speed, the tentacles thrust down and each met with the side of Escthta's head.
The Bathyrian rumbled, a deep, sonorous boom that was felt in the boxes high overhead. Escthta's eyes remained open, wide open, locked in that unbreakable stare. The Bathyrian roared again, and Escthta slowly closed his eyes. They remained like this for minutes or hours- the spectators were part of the spell, and not even Tjat'le could find the will to order the Hunt stopped. Then, as suddenly as it had attacked, it was gone. The tentacles unraveled, leaving their charge collapsed on the platform. The Bathyrian sank back into the cesspool and the water was still. Escthta lay quietly, blinking slowly through the blood that flowed from his temples, and then he rolled over, ignoring the filth and blood. "It is over," he wheezed softly. "I will not fight."
xXx
AUTHOR'S NOTE:Many apologies to Architeuthis dux and the Watcher in the Water, as I have borrowed their physiology extensively.
Also, much love to Solain Rhyo, without whom I would not have even found the courage to re-work and post this story.