Hey all! It's been a minute since I wrote anything, but I got an itch and figured it would be nice to try my hand at something casual and fun again. Thank you for any and all support!

-Update-

After sitting on it for a little, I realized I wanted to take the story in a slightly different direction, so thank you for the patience as the minor changes.

-EldritchPug


Vo'kuith relaxed back in the pilot's chair, claws tracing along the screen and activating landing procedures as he drew closer to the backwater planet. His ship was one of the finest, a high quality model with all the desired features and attributes. In truth, he need not even be in the pilot's seat. There were other things on the ship he could occupy himself with beyond simple landing procedures for a solitary hunting trip. He could be tending to weapons, ensuring they were properly cleaned or sharpened as needed, or he could be reviewing documents and data of upcoming conflicts he was being called upon to arbitrate. But he enjoyed taking control where he could and, in that moment, Vo'kuith found solace in the routine of piloting, the steady hum of the ship's engines calming his restless mind. As the sleek vessel descended through the atmosphere of the lush planet below, he couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation building within him. The thrill of the hunt was like a dormant fire awakening in his chest, a primal instinct that called to his very essence. How long had it been since he'd hunted for personal pleasure? Not from duty or to bring in a renegade Bad Blood? Ages, he thought. Or it felt like ages at least. No, documents and data would wait. Now was time for himself, his personal pursuits and desires.

The familiarity of it all was a pleasant thing. There were many pleasant things awaiting him soon, in fact. He took in a slow breath, his large chest expanding and the metal straps of his gear stretching and groaning under the strain.

How long had it been since he'd granted himself reprieve from his work? Too many cycles now. In truth, he'd lost count. Arbitrating was as much a vocation as it was an identity. He'd found he and the role had bled together as one. Few, if any, spoke to him informally now. Always he was regarded with the greatest of esteem. Arbitrator was always before his name. It was he and he was it.

Except here.

He evaluated the map of where he would be going and a pleased purr began to rumble in his chest as he took in the mountainous terrain. He'd been here plenty before in the many previous years of his own lifespan. The first time in his youth with his paternal donor. It had been an odd and rare occurrence between Yautja father and youngling. Rarely did such bonding behaviors take place amongst their kind. There was little place for sentimentality amongst males bred for hunting, fighting, and violence. Pups were weaned from their mothers and trained diligently by a competent instructor who held no particular affection for any singular suckling. They all earned their keep, their food, and their scars. For a paternal donor to preemptively pluck up his suckling and fly him off on a solitary hunting endeavor, it wasn't done. How his mother had ever allowed such a behavior was still beyond Vo'kuith, but he'd never met her so he'd never had the chance to ask.

Yet, the formation of him as a hunter truly took place here. Under his donor's tutelage, a tutelage of firm patience and blood and praise, Vo'kuith had become the hunter and warrior he was today. It had been an education wrought in fighting experience, quiet moments, and stories over smoky campfires. He'd trade the experience for nothing. No other kill, no other chiva, no other trophy. It was uniquely his.

The next time he'd come to this place was to take in a Bad Blood who had decimated his raiding party in a fit of madness. The time after that on his own desire. The time after that for a young training party. Again and again. Soon, time after time he'd returned whenever he could. This place called to him.

The role of Arbitrator ensured him various luxuries, the finest of ships and the finest of supplies. Most of these were earned by virtue of the efforts of obtaining his status. His role in society was not an easy one. A role that required equal parts strength and wisdom. He went on the most dangerous of hunts, for those of their own kind, and entered the most contentious and backstabbing of political spheres amongst clan disputes. With heightened risk came heightened rewards.

Yet, he'd found no reward compared to a quiet campfire as he cleaned an early morning kill and contemplated the star systems above.

And, Vo'kuith thought, he could endure a brief respite from hunting Bad Bloods.

He leaned back from the map, felt the tremor of the ship as it entered Earth's orbit and chirps from the computer system declared as much. His fingers dashing over the holoscreens and claws tapped to zoom in on where he would land. He ejected drones pre-emptively to surveil the area. Ooman's changed and developed at a rate much like Yautja. While technologically the soft meat was ever behind them, they still flourished and developed at a rate that required constant attention of the Yautja. The landscape could be ever changing. Where once was a hunting site an entire city could have gone up over the course of a season or decade. Yet, his site had thus far remained unscathed and he hoped it was still so.

He cloaked the ship as it settled its way into the mountainous landscape, autopiloted to the hunting camp he'd claimed as his own for many years now. Scanners, already rushing through woodlands, brought back little evidence of a new populace. An occasional settlement, a cabin here or there, easily avoidable if needed. If avoidance was impossible, he supposed an Ooman or two would also make for vigorous hunting, though it was not his primary goal.

Vo'kuith's mandibles clicked as he considered the terrain below. Pleased with the initial results, he pressed a few buttons and the protective metal plating around the ship's primary window slid back, granting him a clear view of the setting. The mountains stretched out beneath him, a patchwork of autumn colors and mist-shrouded peaks. Despite the distance, the barrier of the ship, he could already imagine the early winter chill. Before him was an artisan's tapestry, a wash of blood reds, fiery oranges, and sun-brilliant yellows. He felt a warm sensation in his chest. Nostalgia. He'd learned the word listening to Oomans in their idle chatter, and had been intrigued. A sentimental longing, or wistful affection, for the past. He supposed it was true. This place brought him great nostalgia.

An alarm chirped that within five kliks of the usual landing site a human lodging had been established. The footage brought back evidence of a small farm, distanced enough from the next living presence that should its inhabitants disappear, he was confident none would notice in due time. He gave confirmation to the computer system to land. He would investigate, scope out the surroundings, and make final decisions from there.

The ship touched down with a gentle thud, and Vo'kuith felt the familiar vibration beneath him. Finalizing his efforts and forwarding a message of safe arrival to a close hunt brother, he activated his cloaking device and exited the ship.

He stepped out into the crisp mountain air. The scent of pine and freshly fallen leaves filled his senses, a stark contrast to the metallic interior of the ship. The crisp, cool air had a hint of sweetness to it from the changing leaves and the earthy scents of the forest. It was a refreshing and invigorating taste.

Around him were the sounds of wildlife. Bird wings flapped overhead and a woodpecker rattled at a tree. His vision snapped to a squirrel digging along a trunk to forage food, and deeper in the woodlands a doe grazed.

He moved silently through the forest, his thermal vision scanning for any unfamiliar signs of life. All was much as he last recalled of this place. Quiet, empty, and his.

The farm came into view, a quaint wooden structure surrounded by forest and a few small crops. What was being produced was sufficient for a small family and not more. Three heat signatures moved near the house – likely the inhabitants.

As he approached, voices carried on the wind. Below, in a small pen, he spotted an older female and a girl-child. The woman was average in build, dressed for the chill in long sleeves and a long skirt, boots on her feet and an apron tied about her waist. The same wind their voices traveled on lifted her brown hair, blowing it free of a ribbon that had attempted to tie it back. She reached for it, but quickly let it fly away. He crept forward still, minding the tree line even though he knew his cloaking device would hide him. The green ribbon tangled itself in a nearby tree. He snatched it loose and brought it to his mask. Opening his mouth, he took in great lung-fills of air and made notes of the scent.

Ooman in its base notes, soft and earthy and therefore familiar, yet this particular scent was pleasant, he supposed. He had smelled worse soft meats in his time. This one had traces of autumn air, cinnamon and clove, a touch of vanilla perhaps. It was comforting. He lowered the ribbon, focusing on the activity below, listening to the voices in the sweet, morning breeze.

Willow opened the door to the henhouse, arching a brow as the roosting hen within greeted her by fluffing her feathers and giving her a no-nonsense side eye. The morning air was chilly enough her breath was visible still. Autumn had dreamily entered this part of the mountains early with its grey, misty mornings and its orange and red leaves. The farm seemed to settle under the hush of the changing seasons. Admittedly, it was her preferred time of year. It never got particularly hot this far up the mountain, but summer could still feel like a slog with its long days and warm nights. This time of year, with the holidays getting closer, Hunter seemed to cheer up some as well.

"Good morning to you too," she murmured to the hen. In one arm, Willow held a basket of eggs, the other pushed back windswept hair, now free of its ribbon, and a hand came to rest on her hip. "I suppose we're not going to get through this without a tussle."

The hen warbled a warning. Willow thought of letting it be but knew the longer she let the hen lay claim to eggs that weren't her own, the more of a pain it would be to wrest them free of her later. She reached in, muttering little curses and dodging pecks, before finally she withdrew her prize of three unfertilized eggs. Behind her, she kept track of Ivy's location by the little girl chattering away to a goat she'd named Oliver. The seven-year-old had taken such a fondness for the thing Willow worried how she'd react when the time came to slaughter it. Ivy was usually unflappable when it came to the death of animals on the farm. It was part of life. Animals had a purpose and when the purpose ran out, they had a new one: to feed the family. Ivy had even helped with her fair share of plucking chickens and ducks. But every now and then the girl found one animal she took a shine too and every time she begged her father to let it live, and every time Hunter insisted on killing it and he insisted Ivy stand by and watch.

She has to learn, Will, he'd tell Willow as he washed the blood off his hands and down the sink, staining the white porcelain interior pink. How's she going to handle it when it's her turn to cook some damn cow or chicken she named so she can feed her family?

Because God willing she wouldn't have to, Willow thought.

She stared down at the eggs in her hand, lips pursed.

God willing, Ivy found a man who let her keep the animals she fell in love with, didn't push up their execution date just because he'd learned she'd taken a shine to it, and hell didn't make her watch when he had to put one down. Maybe she wouldn't even live on a farm at all, if that's what the girl wanted.

Willow slipped the eggs into the basket and closed the door on the grumbling hen, turning around. Ivy was walking along, chattering away at the goat. The little girl had her father's strawberry blonde hair and broad smile. She possessed a perpetual bounce in her step, a liveliness Willow suddenly wondered if she herself ever had. She smiled though when the girl caught her eyes. Ivy beamed and waved her whole arm, enthusiastic as the sun was bright.

"Mama! Look! I taught Oliver a trick!" she declared.

"Oh? Well go on, let's see," Willow chuckled, walking over to survey said trick.

With the utmost seriousness, Ivy turned to Oliver and held out a hand.

"Staaay," she said, drawing out the word. Keeping her hand poised in the air, she moved a slow step back. The goat stood in a place a moment, head tilted to contemplate the little girl's gesture, and then it took a step forward and snuffled at her palm for treats. "No! Oliver, no! Stay!" Ivy looked exasperated. "Mama, I swear he did it!"

Willow smiled and brushed Ivy's hair back from her heart-shaped face. "I believe you, sweetness," she said. "You've always had such a way with animals. Maybe Oliver's too shy to do it when I'm watching, hm?"

"Maybe," Ivy pouted, and suddenly draped herself onto Willow. She wrapped her arms around her waist and pressed her face into her middle. Willow resisted a gasp. Her body screamed in protest of the motion. Her insides recoiled and the instinct to shove the girl away jolted her hand, but she resisted, biting her cheek instead until she tasted blood. With effort, she focused on breathing through her nose and let Ivy hold and nestle into her. She took her free hand, the one meant to push the offending child back, and, shaking thought it was, brushed at the strawberry blonde hair once more.

"Now, what's say you that we finish up our chores and then mama will make some breakfast?" she asked, voice tight.

"Ooh! Can we have biscuits and gravy?" Ivy asked, releasing Willow and walking backwards toward the exit of the animal pen. Still tense, Willow managed a smile and nodded.

"We sure can," she said. "In fact, I bet if you hurry and milk the cows, we can even make some chocolate milk before daddy gets home. He'd love that, don't you think?"

Ivy's eyes grew wide, and she turned, bolting for the barn where the milk cows were still resting, waiting to be fed and released to pasture. Willow watched her, waited until the girl was out of sight, and then hit her knees. The basket of eggs toppled to the ground and its contents rolled loose. She grabbed her tender midsection and before she could stop, she retched. The world around her swam for a moment, tunneling in her periphery. She heaved once more. Little came up except bile. The contractions in her abdomen jolted her, but finally began to ease. She waited a moment until the pain in her insides was just a dull roar. She took her time gathering back up the eggs and swept some straw and dirt over her sick with her foot. Satisfied the evidence was hidden, she wiped her mouth with her apron and made her way back to the farmhouse.

Inside, a boy just on his journey to becoming a man, was washing his hands in the same sink Hunter cleaned the blood from his in. Alder turned to look at his mother and a pleasant, albeit more subdued smile, touched his freckled face. If Ivy reflected her father, Alder was a shining reflection of her, Willow thought. The boy's brown hair and freckled face mimicked hers in every way. His expression had grown more serious as time went on; his lips often drawn into a contemplative frown. His eyes were hazel, greener than her own, and bright.

"Mornin', Mama," he said.

"Morning, darling," she said, walking over and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He was getting taller, she realized. He was almost as tall as her, and soon enough, he'd be taller. She wondered if he'd outgrow his father. She leaned close and kissed his forehead. "Did you finish your chores?"

"Yes'm," he hummed, turning off the sink and using a towel to dry his hands. "Where's Vee?"

"She's milking the cows," she said. "Would you be a dear and go keep an eye on her? I told her we'd make chocolate milk before daddy gets home."

Alder hummed again and she saw him get more serious. "I heard some shooting this morning. So, I think he caught something."

"Well, I hope so," she said. She tried to make her voice light, cheerful. Alder gave her a look that showed he didn't believe it, that instead he knew what lay beneath her bubbly tone. Concern.

"I hope so too," he said, grave.

He left out the screen door and, from the window over the sink, Willow watched him on his way to the barn. He'd be turning thirteen this year, and all at once he was too young and too old. Too young for everything he knew, too old in his eyes. Too young for the weight he carried on his shoulders and too old now for having carried it. She drew back from the window and wandered from the kitchen. The little farmhouse was everything she'd dreamed of as a girl. Quaint and charming, with its lace curtains and comfy furniture. She'd loved the idea of having a homestead since she'd read about one in a book. She'd have a garden of her very own, some milk cows and hens, and she'd enjoy cups of coffee on the porch and watch the sun rise and set. She'd dreamt of the clean air and the sound of nature and of her children and of all she had.

Hunter made it all a nightmare.

Or maybe she had. She didn't know anymore.

She stopped beside the hall tree near the staircase, looking into the old mirror. The woman who stared back at her she barely recognized. Her red hair was the same rich brown as Alder's, and her freckles just as prevalent. Her face was paler though, dark circles lingered under her eyes, and on her face was a tinge of yellow along her cheekbone and around her eye. Her expression was often solemn now, her lips often turned down. Slowly, she lifted her blouse from where it was tucked into her skirt and apron, and the ugly purple and black bruising along her mid drift stood out garishly on her white belly. Her body showed the impact of two children and too many of Hunter's fits of rage.

She lowered her blouse again, staring at the woman in the mirror. Who are you? She wondered. Distantly, down the road, she heard an engine, and knew Hunter was on his way back home. She slipped her mouth into an easy, practiced smile. She hoped he'd caught something.