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Going Feet First

By: DarkPulse



Quick author's note: This is a story of a Vietnam era soldier, lost in a world filled with magic and creatures of fantasy. It is a plot-focused and action-driven story, but it still gets steamy later on. Enjoy...

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Atop a round table in the middle of a kitchen, a small radio sitting beside a cup of warm coffee softly played an age old piece of classical music. The lady sitting beside the table in her yellow spring dress hummed along to the violin symphony and the low brass that joined in. A heavy 'thud' sound caused her to rise from her chair to retrieve the newspaper which just hit against the base of her front door. The signature jingle of a small bell following as the newspaper boy passed by on the street.

A smile crossed the woman's face as she approached the door, opening it up to a warm spring morning. In the tree beside her driveway, a small bird sang its tune as kids waited for the school bus to arrive. A small breeze picked up on the American flag flying off the front of her house and blew a lock of her long brown hair her across her face. She brushed it aside as she took in the fresh scent of spring in the air and went to pick her paper up off the stoop.

The whirr of an engine rolled up to her house to pull her attention toward the jeep as it pulled up. The vehicle rocked slightly as two men in Army class-A uniforms climbed out and donned their service caps. One of them holding his head low as he walked with his fellow officer up her driveway with a folded flag.

At first, she couldn't believe the sight of the two men; refused to believe that they had come. A terrible tremble rattled her knees as her tongue turned to a gritty piece of sandpaper. Her mouth was moving, but dry tears seized her throat in a stone grip to keep the words from coming out.

By the time the officers came to her doorstep, she was struggling to keep herself up on her own two feet. One of her hands was braced against the door frame while another was held against her mouth, holding her scream and catching the tears as they streamed down her face. One of the men caught her just in time before she fell, holding her up and allowing her to unleash all her tears into the breast of his jacket. The officer held her there for a few minutes as she cried on. When her legs could finally support themselves, the two men assisted her back into the house.

An hour later, when her tears had dried and her coffee had gone cold, the officers turned for the door and gave their final condolences for her loss. They tipped their hats and turned for the jeep parked at the end of her driveway. In her still-quaking hand, the woman held up the letter that the officers had left with her. Holding back her tears, she slowly re-read the final words from her boy.

A young soldier in Vietnam who had written one last letter home the day before he was declared MIA.

March 2nd, 1966

Dear Ma,

Happy birthday. I'm writing you this letter because I'm shipping out on my first operation tomorrow morning. The Major says I can't say nothing about it, only that we are moving to free some Vietnamese from communist forces. I know what we're doing is right, so don't bring that argument up again in your next letter please. We gotta keep the reds out of South Vietnam otherwise they could be looking at Thailand next. Captain says that if one country falls to the commies, then it'll go like dominoes and next thing we know, T-55 tanks are rolling through downtown Tokyo. So we're heading off to kick some commie butt outta these jungles and send them back to red square where they belong. It's what dad fought for in Korea. Could you put some flowers on his headstone for me? I want him to know I still love him. Command is calling lights out, so I gotta go. I'll write as soon as I can. Love you ma, always will.

Your Son, Private Galen Martin.

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The roar of the C-130 Hercules' engines thundered in Galen's ears almost as loudly as the Sergeant's voice up front. Butterflies fluttered around in his belly as he held on tight to his M14 rifle. Every instinct and muscle he had clung to the weapon as though it were his own life. Where he was going, this rugged, lethal piece of steel and wood was going to be the only thing that was going to get him out alive.

Well, that and the sixty three other men loaded onto the aircraft with him. Each one of them boasted the patch of the 101st American Airborne on their shoulders just as Galen did. That screaming eagle sewn to their olive drab uniforms was a badge of honor, and most of them acted like that lone piece of cloth made them invincible, that as long as they wore it, not a force in the world could touch them. Every minute that passed by, Galen wished that were true.

Silent among his open and very chatty comrades, Galen mentally reviewed everything he got ready for his first combat jump. Though most of the ruck sacks on board were loaded and inspected to have the standard load out, some soldiers carried not-so-standard gear. A custom knife here, a bandana there, a personal sidearm over there. In the end, everyone carried the same ammo, knives, tools, water, and all the supplies they would need to survive when they got their boots on the ground.

"Hey, Martin!"

Galen looked up to the soldier who had called his name. "Yeah?"

"You okay, kid?" he asked.

Galen nodded before he answered, "Yeah, just a bit nervous is all."

"Yeah, so am I. Just keep your head down and your rifle ready, and we'll be back at base before you know it."

"Thanks, Isles," Galen said before his gaze went back down to the floor.

Truth was that his feet were rattling in his boots. Corporal Isles' words couldn't stop the thousands of scenarios from running rampant through his imagination. What if his parachute failed? What if the AA got him? What would happen if a dozen NVA troops got him the second he landed? Or if he got separated from the Company? A thousand things could kill him before he was even on the ground. All the more reason to hold his weapon tight and hope for the best.

"Glory, glory, what a Hell of a way to die!" one of the troopers out front yelled, his voice loud above the roar of the engines. Without delay, the rest of the men on the aircraft joined in on the chanting of the ceremonial song.

"Glory, glory what a Hell of a way to die! Glory, glory what a Hell of way to die, and he ain't gonna jump no more!"

Galen's fingers dug into the stock of his rifle as he listened to his brothers sing. Most of them knew how much he hated the tune, being the freshest recruit of them all. Some of the men around him had seen action in Korea; others had fought the NVA already when they had been stationed at an FOB along the border with North Vietnam. Galen, however, was green as grass and as jumpy as tumbleweed. His lack of experience was the joke of every other soldier in the plane, and with the singing of "Blood on the Risers", they were sure to get one last laugh out of him before they arrived at the drop zone.

The order in which the troops lined up put Galen at the end of the line of paratroopers, which meant he was the last one to jump. This also meant he was the last one to touch the ground, and if his chute did fail, one of his brothers would be right there to collect his tags.

After they decided whether or not to mop him up of course.

"He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright!" the men chanted at the top of their lungs, some of them smiling as they were staring directly at Galen. "He checked off his equipment, made sure his pack was tight!"

To many of the others' pleasure, Galen did check the straps of his parachute and combat gear, making sure nothing was going to snap off or come loose.

"He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar! You ain't gonna jump no more!"

By now Galen wanted to bury his head in the sand as the rest of the men went through the chorus. The Private pulled off his helmet and ran a shaky hand through the brown stubble on top of his head, wiping away a bead of sweat that had run down into one of his ocean blue eyes. The young soldier was still weeks away from turning twenty; most of the guys still treated him as though he were a kid.

Galen wasn't big and beefy as some of them were, but he was no cornflake. He could carry his one hundred twenty pounds of gear all day long without griping at the end of the day. It was just like what they had all done in training; ten miles with two hundred pound packs going nonstop before breakfast, days out in fox holes while it rained sideways, hours in the fighting ring, going hand-to-hand against his brothers-in-arms. Each one of them was a tough trooper, each one was trained to pull their weight and survive when everything was against them. Galen was no exception.

Before the Company could reach the next verse of their song, the engines of the C-130 throttled back, turning the inside of the cabin very quiet, much to Private Galen's relief. At the front of the plane, the jump master stood up and took his position by the door. The ominous, red jump light coming on signifying he was ready. When the jump master was ready, you were ready.

"Everyone, STAND UP!" he ordered.

At once, the whole of Charlie Company released their safety harnesses and stood up from their seats, turning to face the front of the plane.

"Hook up!"

There was a long series of clicks as everyone attached their parachute cables to the static line. Galen's hands fumbled as he shakily clipped his into place. Several seats forward, one of his fellow paratroopers, Michael, passed a glance back in his direction, giving him that one nod of assurance that told him everything would be okay.

Having joined a few years before Galen, Sergeant Michael Polson was one of the top NCOs of Charlie Company, having already done two combat drops before and racking up several kills. He was brutal by nature, raised out in the country by a hunter father. His eyes were green as the grass in which he prowled, his hair black as a moonless night sky.

Rumor had it that he had Blackfoot in him, and Michael played on it by shaving his hair into a thick bushy Mohawk and painting black lines down the side of his face before he went out into the field. Nobody minded it much, but they never had the heart to tell him he was emulating the wrong tribe. Nonetheless, he was one of the few men whose Company Galen fully enjoyed.

Sure, every man in this plane was his friend and brother. They'd all gone through training and ground patrols together, done several practice jumps together stateside, but out of every man aboard, Galen was the only one without actual combat experience, and Michael was the only man who didn't haze him for it.

The door opened and the air pressure in the cabin plummeted, a violent breeze whipping around between the troops. The jump master turned to the red light beside him, staring it down as explosions started to go off below. Galen nearly jumped right out of his boots as a flak round detonated beside the plane, flying bits of shrapnel tearing through the hull. The predawn light dimly glowed through the holes in the body, the flak fire intensifying every second they hung in the air.

Then the jump light went green. The jump master grabbed the first troop in line and shoved him to the door, "GO, GO, GO!"

The men began piling out the door, jumping free of the plane and into the eruption of flak and anti-aircraft fire below that ripped into the skies. The craft rocked as projectiles and detonations impacted it on either side. Just as the first half of the paratroopers were off the craft and in the air, an explosion tore open the side of the plane.

Galen was thrown to the rear of the craft with several other paratroopers. Those who were not sucked out the new hole on the starboard side of the plane had begun to run for the door. Galen rolled across the floor as the whole the aircraft began banking toward the side that had been torn open. Without warning, a huge bolt of lightning struck down from above. Where he saw a starry night sky only a second before, he could now only see blindingly bright light where the superheated bolt cracked the sky and narrowly missed the wing.

A line of bullets tore through the floor around Galen, followed by his screams as he buried his head into his knees. Then the lightning hit again, the massive bolt striking the starboard wing of the C-130 and setting it ablaze. Galen held nothing back as he unleashed everything, screaming at the top of his lungs and holding onto his rifle as the plane tilted to the side at a dangerous angle. The other C-130s that had been flying alongside them had dropped their troopers and were now breaking off, leaving the flak rounds to focus on Galen's plane.

Bursts of shells exploded alongside the aircraft, tearing more holes in the plane until it seemed more like a giant cheese grater with wings than a transport. Knowing he was in his last moments, Galen turned toward the front of the plane, toward the last few of his brothers who stayed on board. Those who weren't dead or lacked any common sense had already leaped from the plane. Of the sixty-four troopers that had come aboard, seven remained. One was Michael, holding desperately onto the safety harness as the great vacuum tried to suck him out the plane. Galen could only watch in horror as the plane neared the ground, the g-force of their descent pressing him against the rear hatch of the aircraft.

Right then, outside the cockpit window in front of the aircraft, three lightning bolts collided midair. A cascade of fire erupted in sky that completely engulfed the plane. The flak fire ended abruptly, likely because the burning wing was brushing against the top of the jungle canopy. The great steel beam tore through the trees until a deafening snap rattled the plane. Just like that, the burning wing was bouncing along the ground and the plane was banking hard toward the heavier side.

It was then that Michael's grasp on his harness was lost. Desperately, the Sergeant reached for any sort of surface he could, fighting as long as possible before he was at last sucked out the side of the C-130.

The last words to pass through Galen's mind before the crash was the line, "And he ain't gonna jump no more."

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The Massive C-130 Hercules transport aircraft came in at a light angle down a hillside, tearing out a wide scar as it mutilated trees and sliced through two hundred yards of forest canopy. Trees of all sizes were shredded and ripped apart right down to the heart wood by the razor-like wings. Pieces of the craft tore off as it slammed into the forest floor, tossing huge plates of aluminum in every direction and littering them across the landscape. The shattered wing cartwheeled for a couple dozen yards after slicing several trees in half before coming to rest a hundred yards short of the aircraft's crash site.

The plane itself had ground to a halt in a wide clearing at the bottom of the hill, half of its outer hull missing and its remaining wing buried in the ground right up to the engine.

It was at that moment that the sun broke over the horizon.

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Warm light cast itself on Galen's face, stirring his mind as the first breath of life came back into his body with a warm breeze. As the young soldier began to sit up, he realized he was pressed against the back of the pilot's seat. Pain surged through his left arm as he tried to move it, his neck giving audible cracks as he turned his head to see what pained him so much.

A glass shard the size of his thumb protruded from his left bicep, sinking in at least half an inch into his muscle. With a tear and a cry of pain, he eased the shard out from his skin and dropped it to the floor. He gave long sigh as his arm gained instant relief and full control over its motor functions. Next thing on Galen's mind was the wound left over from the shard. It had begun to bleed and if he didn't clean it, infection was bound to set in. In the jungles of Vietnam, who knew what kind of disease he would contract?

Still dizzy from the crash and running off automatic responses drilled into him in training, Galen pulled off the emergency field medical kit from the shoulder strap of his ruck sack. With a wince, he removed the pack and undid the buttons of his uniform to reveal the nasty gouge torn in his flesh. He bit down and tore open the medical package with his teeth, spitting away the excess and fumbled with a packet of white sulphonamide powder, dumping the whole of the contents into the wound.

When the packet was empty, Galen pulled the white bandage from the med kit and began winding it around his arm, knotting it the best he could and pulling it tight. The bandage snugged up right up against his skin, pressuring the wound enough to make the Private grimace at the pain. But with his arm dressed, Galen buttoned up his uniform and lay back against the back of the pilot's seat, giving a long sigh.

I survived. I live to jump once more.

The thought passed through his head with a bit of a chuckle. He inspected his body for any other signs of wounds, which, to his comfort, were only a few scrapes and cuts so minor as to not even be worth worrying about. What he needed to do next was see if anyone had survived, or if he was the only one. The dark cloud of horror came over the Private's head as he realized what he had to do.

Galen swallowed hard on the new lump that developed in his throat. This new task sent a nauseous wave through his stomach as he unsteadily rose to his feet, pulling the straps of his pack over his shoulders and checking the cockpit behind him for any sign of life from the pilots. From the fact that the scene looked like a flak round had blown off half the face of the plane, and half the pilot's head for that matter, it seemed that both the pilot and the co-pilot likely bought it long before the crash.

The other bodies in the craft didn't fare much better. A bit of bile worked its way up Galen's throat at the sight of the jump master. All his strength went to barely containing his stomach as he saw the man had been cut in half by a propeller. It probably came off one of the right engines, the ones that had been torn off during the crash.

Four of the other paratroopers were riddled with bits of shrapnel, blood soaking through their uniforms and coating the floor of the craft. It became too much. Nausea finally got the better of Galen as he ran for the side of the plane, leaning out a hole and throwing up the last bits of the breakfast he had eaten that morning. The vomiting knocked his vision out of whack as his mind drifted back into a state of light-headedness. For several minutes he stared at the ground over the side of the Hercules, not particularity looking at anything, only keeping still as he waited for his sickness to pass.

When his vision finally returned, Galen stumbled toward the starboard door of the plane. The whole craft had tilted toward the intact wing on the left side, leaving Galen stuck with a five foot drop to the ground. It wasn't much higher than jump training in basic, so the Private took a breath and jumped out the door.

Unfortunately for him, crash was the better word to use for his landing as he hit the ground. New pain pierced into his injured arm as it connected with the ground, sending Galen to a wail. Tears escaped his eyes as he grasped onto his bicep, trying to massage the pain away, rubbing soft circles around the wound before the pain faded and the senses returned to his head. Eventually, he coaxed his wobbly legs into standing once again as he braced against the plane.


Going Feet First Ch. 02



Author's note: this story is a direct sequel to my tale, 'Going feet First', and continues to follow Galen, a soldier once in Vietnam, now on an interesting journey into a medieval fantasy world filled with Elves, Magic, and all kinds of interesting creatures.

Welcome to Raska.

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Going feet first

Chapter 2: Boots on the Ground

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Flames crackled in a small, stone fireplace on one end of a vast log cabin; beside it on the floor sat an aged, feline creature wrapped up in a heavy, wool quilt. Behind the elder, two dozen other Nekonian males and females, both young and old, had gathered at the long table behind him. As the group sat patiently, the door at the far end opened, soft thud sounds following as two more persons entered the room.

Yawning, the elder listened as the steps drew closer to him until he heard two persons take a seat at the table closest to him. With a bit of a tired groan and show of fatigue from his extensive life, he stood up from his spot and walked over to the chair placed at the end of the table, taking a seat and drawing his feet up into his blanket. His attention came to the human sitting beside him, who had a solitary hedge of black hair running down the middle of his head and wore a green jacket bearing an eagle on the shoulder.

Beside the human sat one of the more proficient trackers of his tribe, Mila. He gave her a gentle smile before studying the human beside her with his tired, yellow eyes. When the human lifted his chin up, hand tensing up on the crutch he had beside him, a warm sensation flowed through the aged Neko's pale grey fur. From peering into his powerful, green eyes, the Elder could sense the honor of the human before him as clearly as the bond he held with Mila. 

Taking in a deep breath and rubbing the severed stub of his left ear, the Elder turned to the dark-furred warrior sitting across from him at the other end of the table and nodding for him to begin.

The younger Willher stood from his seat, clearing his throat to bring all eyes in the room upon him. "The counsel begins. Human tongue now, because human not know our tongue good. All have explainers to explain when something not... easy understanding?"

"Yes," the entire room announced.

"Good. Today, we talk about human who wants live with us. I: Warrior Leader Sayn, Elder Misn, Lady Akal of the Trackers, Huntmaster Hail, and Lady Teak of Trade will judge argument on human living with us. There will be one argument each, for and against, and then the human speaks. Begin warrior Bein, standing for those against the human."

The Neko took his seat as another warrior stood up. "Thank you, Warrior Leader. I stand against having a human among us. Humans are slow, weak, and live by greed. He will burden us, and we know from the past he will try to change how we live. Before we even knew him, he had pulled our warriors out into the forest without consent of Warrior Leader Sayn or Elder Misn. And now, he hides what he had brought with him and will not allow the keepers to see it. If he cannot trust us, we cannot trust him. If he thinks he is better than us, then he deserves not to be here longer than it takes for us to heal his wounds. He should be taken back to the human tribe."

The warrior took his seat, glaring at Michael before looking over to Sayn. The Warrior Leader nodded, then stood up.

"First argument made. Bein sits. Rise Mila, wanting human." He motioned for Mila to rise, taking his seat as she did.

"Thank you, Warrior Leader. I cannot speak for Michael's speed, but I do know that he is strong. By himself, he had slain a veteran Ra'zorlich warrior while he was badly wounded in the leg. Despite the immense pain of his injury, he had gone zetrans without healing and still shows no sign of illness."

"Damn right," Michael muttered as Mila continued.

"He is a great warrior where he comes from, and he is not a man of greed. We needed our warriors to claim destructive weapons brought with him from his lands. Weapons that are deadlier than anything we can even dream of. I am sure when Michael recovers, he will show us what he has brought. If he stays, we may be able to make better arrangements with Atzla humans. In time, Michael will prove to us that he will not be a burden, but a powerful friend."

Mila returned to her seat, Sayn giving her a respectful nod and looking over to Michael. "Human, stand."

Bracing against his crutch, Michael came to his feet and shifted his weight around, uneasy with the amount of eyes focused up him. He cycled his lungs, wet his lips, and cleared his throat. At first he looked directly at Bein, locking eyes with the warrior as he started. "I'm not Nekonian, I'm not from Atzla. Hell, I'm not even from Raska. But what I am is a soldier, well-trained and well-practiced in the art of war. Where I come from, my warrior's rank is 'Sergeant', something like a pack leader. I'm the one who takes the orders and gets them done. When the bullets or arrows start flying, I make sure that the only people getting killed are my enemy. I make sure that nothing stands to threaten what I love. And what I love is the beauty of this place. Atzla. My tribe. My mate. I would die for everything, and everyone, in this village."

He turned to the other judges, stiffening up on his crutch, "I would give my life for this place because never before have I been given the chance to live the life I want. To live outside civilization and away from the greedy bastards of society; to spend my days hunting, fishing, laying in the meadow and watching the clouds blow by. And..."

He glanced down at Mila, smiling at her before looking back at the counsel before him, "To have someone to share it with, everything I ever wanted. I wouldn't dare try to change anything about this place because everything is perfect as it is. If anything needed to be changed, it would be me. To fit in with my new tribe, to do my part and help in every way I can. Until the last ounce of life fades from my body, don't doubt for a minute that I would give you anything less than my best."

Michael dropped down into his chair feeling the air lighten up a bit around him. Even Sayn seemed to be in his favour at the moment as he rose up before the counsel. "Judges, speak with your groups."

The Warrior Leader circled around the table, coming to the male Nekos in the heavy leather armed with swords and stone axes. Quietly amongst themselves, the different groups at the table spoke of the decision to be made. Michael held firmly onto Mila's hand, not wanting to let her go even for a second. Nobody in the room was speaking English anymore, and that made him that more anxious. 

Several minutes passed before one by one, the groups went silent. Finished speaking with his warriors, Sayn took his place at the end of the table.

"Have all a decision?" he asked.

The three other judges rose from their seats, two female and one male, all significantly older than those around them. One female dressed in heavy wool wraps cleared her throat. 

"The Trackers stand against keeping the human. We do not want to lose one of our own for years while she mothers a litter of half-breeds."

"Lady Akal has spoken. Huntmaster Hail, your words?" Sayn inquired.

A slim, nimble-looking Neko male straightened out his back, fixing his leather jerkin as he declared, "The Hunters stand against. We wish not a foreign mouth to tell us how to hunt or what to hunt, while ordering us to feed it only what food it desires."

"Huntmaster Hail has spoken. Lady Teak, your words?"

The youngest of the judges sitting at the table and perhaps the only Neko in the village wearing any form of jewelry, a Lady Teak stood up, fixing the golden necklace hanging over her blue linen dress. Her bright orange eyes narrowed upon Michael as she gave him a sly grin. Something about her didn't sit right in the Sergeant's stomach, but at that moment, his fate was in her hands. "The merchants have decided that we are unanimously... for the human. He may help with matters of trade and dealing with human greed, and be of use in future deals."

"Lady Teak has spoken," Sayn declared, leaning in over the table. "I shall allow Bein to speak for warriors."

Bein and the other men, the crowd who had presented the argument against Michael, eyed their leader for a moment before looking over to the human. The Sergeant made direct eye contact with the warriors, keeping his chin up as they stared intently at him. At this decisive time, he couldn't appear to back down for any reason. The cards were on the table, his argument had been made. He had to back it up and try to help these warriors see through the forest and spot the trees. 

Bein slowly rose from his seat, taking an extra moment to trade glares with Michael. The Sergeant gave the Neko a single nod.

"We, as the Warriors, revoke our decision; our stance is now in favor of the human. He has powers of war, he can kill a Ra'zorlich while wounded, and he says that he will defend our village with the weapons of his world. It may give us the edge we need against the threats from the Ra'zorlichs and bandits."

There were a lot of surprised looks from the hunters and trackers, neither expected that from the man who argued against the human.

This left the decision up to the tribe's eldest, the old Neko sitting half-asleep in his chair. His head slowly rose, looking around at the patient eyes set on him in earnest. Sighing, the elder turned to Mila. His voice was wheezy, his lungs straining to push air through his voice box as he asked, "Child, do you wish for this man as a mate?"

"Yes, elder," Mila answered.

"Is it love?"

She smiled, her hand tightening up on Michaels hand. "Yes, elder."

He nodded weakly, then turned to Michael. "Is it true love you have?"

Though initially shocked at the elder's sudden vocalization, the Sergeant quickly nodded and answered, "As strong as I've ever felt it."

The elder shut his eyes, taking deep breaths before turning to the counsel. "Then the human... stays... If he can prove himself tonight..."

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The shadow of night overcame the last rays of the sunlight as the red orb was swallowed by the tree tops in the west. Stars lit up in darkening sky like sparkling dust bringing life to the blackness above. Among these effervescent dots sat a light blue moon, casting its reflected light down upon the breadth of Atzla forest.

Down in the near-endless sea of trees, two bodies moved swiftly between the rows of underbrush. Through the thicket ahead of them lay the orange glow of torches mounted atop of a primitive log wall. Panting, sweating, smiling, Private Galen Martin clutched the hand of his elven companion, Celia, as she guided him forward toward the firelight.

After a day's travel through heavy forest and a tango with Atzla's unique wildlife, they had finally arrived at their destination. Upon approach, the golden aura from Celia's body died down momentarily so she and Galen could hide in the brush line edging a heavily deforested area.

In the middle of the clearing, some forty yards across a broad field of tree stumps, stood a wall of wooden poles several feet high. Behind this fortification stood an entire village of tents and wooden shacks. Steady trails of smoke rose from the village center and from the chimneys of several homes, the sparse, black wisps arcing in a steady gust of wind.

Directly across the clear-cut field from Galen and Celia, there was an opening in the village walls, a full entrance into the settlement lit on either side by a pair of iron braziers. Two large, Nekonian warriors stood guard at the entrance, their thinly furred bodies covered by hard leather jerkins and knee-length, buckskin shorts. 

Squinting, Galen spotted the stone axes hanging at their sides and bows sitting idle in their hands. Other than the braziers, there were no signs of any metal weapons, armors, or trinkets—something the Private noted for later. Both warriors kept watch over their village, but not as one would in a time of war. The two Nekonians appeared to be quite relaxed and very talkative, keeping up a lively conversation in their own tongue with little concern about any sort of threat.

"So this is the Willher village?" Galen asked in elvish.

"It is. It's grown a bit since the troll attacked it a few winters back, but this is them." 

"Do you know much about them?"

"Very much. I studied them a lot through the cauldron after they had been attacked. I was actually looking for one of them when I found you. What do you wish to know?"

Galen rolled his eyes for a moment, blushing a bit even though it was her that admitted she sought them out for sexual reasons. "Give me a summary."

"They are a very peaceful tribe, with good trade with all others but the Ra'zorlichs. They have many proud warriors who live for battle, but really specialize in medicines and healing. They have many healers that go out around to forest to give aid to any who need it, and also patrol the Ra'zorlich borders for any sign that they might expand their territory or start raiding outside their lands. And they have sheep."

"Sheep?" Galen repeated.

"Yes. There's a large clearing to the west that's fenced off and heavily guarded by the Willhers. They have many sheep and deer they keep for milk, meat, and wool to trade with other tribes."

"Huh, interesting..."

"When will you tell me who this friend of yours and the Neko woman is?"

"Soon. I would rather you meet them first before I go talking behind their backs."

Celia's pointed ears drooped slightly as she nodded respectfully and looked back toward the village guards. Her clouded white eyes scanned over the pair of feline men as she tried to connect with her gut feelings, to allow her premonitions give her hints on whether they were dangerous or not. A shift in Galen's presence snapped her from that particular train of thought. 

Slightly frustrated with herself, Celia began the mental task of crushing down those urges to analyze and judge the men in her sight. She had to get rid of them. Done were the days of her going out searching for the next lover of the tree elves. This was a new time in her life, to go out into the world to follow her own will and her own ambitions. To enjoy both Galen, and the incredibly long life with which her species was blessed. 

With a relaxed grin, she rested her cheek against the eagle patch on Galen's shoulder, keeping it there as he pulled a small, hand-sized object from his pack. It was an object Celia recognized from visions provided to her by Tanza's cauldron. A pair of metal tubes bonded side-by-side with glass on either end: something humans used to view distances farther than what their eyes see could on their own.

A slight groan suddenly erupted from Galen's weapon, the living moss covering the body yearning for attention.

"Oh, shush you," Galen whispered as he watched the village guards through his palm-sized binoculars.

Celia noticed he had little anxiety about the settlement ahead, whereas she could not put it from her mind. The elf had never entered any form of civilization other than her own village. Never before had she been surrounded by another race without several of her sisters there to protect her and even then that encounter had been in a forest camp. The idea of entering a fortified village frightened her. Were it not for the man at her side, she would've never come within a walking zetra of any tribe's home...

Screaming mentally at herself, Celia forced the thoughts of being without her sisters from her conscious mind. This fear pumping through her veins, of being out in the world without their support, needed to be quelled or she would not last. Galen, or no Galen.

She had her knowledge of nature, she had her unity with the Atzla forest, and she had him. With this revived confidence warming her chest, Celia nestled into her love's uniform and waited as he continued to watch the village entrance through his spy piece.

"I don't think the guards are there to keep people out. They look more like watchmen keeping out the riffraff than anything else. So long as we don't approach too fast and keep from looking hostile, I'm sure they won't mind us. Come on, let's go."

"What's riffraff?" Celia asked as he grabbed his rifle.

A thoughtful look came about his face as he pulled her from their hiding place. The white loin cloth hanging between her legs caught momentarily on a bush, causing the elf to stumble and yank on the article to pull it free. 

"Riffraff is a word we use where I come from... means something like unwanted persons," Galen answered as the guards noticed their emerging from the tree line. "And it's not something we want to appear to be."

When she refocused on the area ahead, the elf felt as if her heart was pierced by a thousand thin needles. There were hundreds of tree-stumps all around the clearing that looked as though they had been hacked down with dull axes. Not a slow process, but done over the course of several hours or even a day for each tree. It was clear to Celia that these humble deciduous beings had suffered much in their felling, and their mutilated bases continued to do so.

In a low voice, Celia mumbled a few words to bring the toes of her boots to a glow. Stepping over the remains of the fallen trees caused tiny branches full with leaves to sprout up silently from the center of the stumps the second her foot pulled away. She glanced back at these new sprites, smiling gracefully at the trees' sudden rebirth.

Botanical generation was a spell any magical creature could learn, she just knew the tricks.

The friendly conversation between the two Willher guards came to an end as one them began to yell at Galen in Nekonian. The other guard, decided to back off a bit and drift a bit to the left of his partner. It was clear that they meant business as he pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back and notched it onto drawstring of his bow. 

Unconsciously Galen's hand drifted to the holster on his hip and gripped the leather strap. The snap popped open, releasing its hold on the pistol. As there was no way he could bring his rifle around in time before that Neko could unleash his arrow, the soldier remained ready to draw his .45 at any moment. It was their only hope if they decided they wanted him dead.

"You speak human?" Galen yelled out as he and Celia approached the guards. 

The two were a good twenty yards from the gate when the forward guard yelled out, "I speak your tongue, human. Name you and her who follow you."

"I'm Galen Martin, this is Celia. We're just lookin' for our friends, maybe ya know them? One's name is Mila, she from your village, and the other is Michael P-"

"Are you the human we are expecting?" The Nekonian interrupted, his partner lowering his bow.

A tense breath cleared Galen's lungs as their weapons lowered and returned to their sheaths or quivers. Celia's tight grasp on his arm had loosened off as well, her aura returning to its normal brightness. A soft click sounded from his holster to confirm the snap was back in place.

Both the guards took a much friendlier stance, their hard faces softening as Galen freely approached them. When he came close enough, one of the guards hunched down to bring his head to level with Galen's, a critical eye looking the soldier up and down. 

"We are... sorry for threats. We watch for Ra'zorlichs. You warrior who fell the troll?"

A small smile crossed Galen's face as he stood dumbstruck for a moment. Both guards stared quizzically at him, waiting for an answer. Opening his mouth to speak and then shutting it again, Galen raised index one finger to the guard to signal him to wait a moment as he whispered in Celia's ear. 




Going Feet First Ch. 02



"What's a troll?" he asked, hoping the word for the creature was universal across languages.

"The giant creature you saved me from, love," she answered. 

With a quick nod and a firm smile, the Private patted his rifle as he answered, "Yeah, that was me. It was trying to kill my elvish friend here before I blew out its knee."

The two Neko warriors smiled a moment, "So it was you. You welcome here, human. You find your friend with Mila in her tent. Walk straight on main path, her tent on the left after the third wooden home. If not found there, may be at the grand fire in center of village."

"Thank you kindly, sirs," the young soldier responded, habitually giving a quick salute and carrying on into the village. 

As the couple passed them by, the two guards went back to speaking in their native tongue. Hushed words were exchanged as they eyed the human in silent wonder, both Galen and Celia failing to hear as Nekos shared several lewd comments about the elf. 

Celia found herself snug against Galen's bicep as Nekonians all around buzzed about the paths cutting a maze through the settlement. The village's infrastructure was made up of single room shacks of varying sizes or large canvas tents. The majority of Nekos and their families were moving toward the main plume of smoke rising from the center of the village. Each one carried out their own conversations and routines like normal until they noticed the new additions to their village. Upon seeing the human and his elven companion, the feline humanoids stared awkwardly at the visitors.

Many odd looks were passed Galen's way, as well as many glares and curious glances. It was a daunting task, figuring out whether or not he was truly welcome in this place. He received so many mixed signals that he couldn't figure out if they held him in contempt or curiosity. On top of all that, he had to force down the terrible premonition coursing through his gut, the inexplicable feeling that told him, screamed at him, to escape while he had the chance. To take Celia, get away from their eyes, and flee from their lands. 

This urge was growing greater with every step forward, but he had come for Michael and Mila, to get a grasp on the area and try and find a quick route to human territory.

A choking feeling slowly clamped down on Celia's throat as she moved with Galen toward the village center. It felt as if a layer of rust was forming on the inside of her lungs, her heart pumping ash into her arteries. Crippling pains tore through her chest, yet the elf held her composure. Whatever was doing this to her had to be environmental, and when they reached whatever home Galen searched for, it was sure to cease. Hopefully.

Suddenly a gust of wind whipped through the crowd, carrying a thick plume of black smoke from the village center and blowing it right into Celia's face. In that second, every nerve in her nose felt as if they had been lit ablaze under her skin. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she buried herself in the folds of Galen's sleeve, emptying her seared lungs with a muffled scream.

"Celia?!" Galen clamored.

"Galen? Is that you?" a female voice called.

The elf would have looked but her nose, eyes, every other sense and nerve in her face screamed with agony. A torch seemed to slowly scald the inside of her skull as thousands of tortured screams filled her ears. Her knees buckled under her own weight, the golden aura about her body flickering like a dying bulb as she screeched with pain.

"Celia? Celia, what's wrong?!" Galen panicked, his arms wrapped protectively around her as her legs gave out. 

The commotion drew the attention of many Nekos, all wondering why a human was suddenly in a panic or the elf couldn't support her own frail body. And why was the club on his back beginning to groan? 

Galen hoisted Celia back up to her feet and pressed her body close against his own and her mouth close to his ear. The elf struggled to assist any way she could, but Galen only grimaced as her nails dug into his shoulder and she attempted to lift herself up. 

With her eyes clenched shut, Celia whimpered, "I have to leave... I hear their screams in this smoke... they are in pain... and their pain hurts me." 

Panic pounded in Galen's ears as he swept his arm swept up under her knees to lift her right off the ground. He held the elf close against his chest as he began to run through the crowd of Nekos, who had taken notice of her collapse. 

Once again, Celia heard that same female voice call out, "Michael, Galen returned!"

"Mila!" Galen called back. "Help me! There's somethin' wrong with Celia!"

"Who's Celia?"

"I'll explain after! I need t'get her outta the smoke!"

"Here, come to my home!"

As Celia vaguely wondered what he had just said, Galen charged through the crowds of Willhers, the elf fading fast in his arms. He nearly smacked a Neko female in the back of the head with Celia's boots as he made a beeline for Mila's tent. It was not until Mila began yelling at the people in Nekonian that the crowd finally began to open up for Galen to cut through.

Not a moment too soon. The second he was at her doorstep, Mila jerked open the canvas door so the Private wouldn't have to slow down as he rushed inside. 

The spacious, circular tent was much the same as any other in the village, perhaps even smaller than some seen near the gate. From wall to wall, Mila's quarters were easily ten feet wide and seven feet high, with a small flap opened up in the roof of the tent to allow the full moon to light up the inside. A central post supported the roof, and Galen saw combat webbing hanging there with Michael's crutch leaning against it.

Every crate from the crashed Hercules C-130 was stacked beside the grassy bed on the far side of the tent, and a US Army issue reserve chute had been spread out beside it with a familiar Sergeant lying on it. Michael propped himself up on his side as the Private came through the door. His greeting was on the tip of his tongue only to freeze the instant he saw the elf that lay limp in the young soldier's arms.

"Who the Hell is that?" he asked.

"I ain't got no time to explain!" Galen shot back. The second he got Celia's cleared of the smoke, she took a sudden, sharp inhale as though a clamp just released from her throat.

"Water," she gasped, fighting with her next breath.

"Right away!" he answered as he placed her on the grassy bed beside Michael. 

He dropped his pack and threw his rifle aside to remove the weight off his back. With fumbling hands he managed to pull his canteen off his combat webbing, spin off the lid, and bring it to her cracking lips, "Here, drink."

The elf desperately lapped up the water as it drained into her mouth. When Galen tilted the canteen down to slow the stream, she pushed it back up to get as much as she could before she choked. A sudden cough sent a surge of water spraying from her mouth and into Galen's face. 

As Galen retracted the canteen and wiped a couple drops from his eyes. Strength returning to her body, Celia managed to sit up and swipe back the container. In seconds she gulped down the last of its contents; break out into a coughing fit before handing it back to the awed Galen. Her record time in downing an entire quart made him wonder what had happened to make her so parched.

Though she settled her cough, the elf couldn't calm her heavy breathing any more than she could quench her thirst. Sweat rolled with the tears running her cheeks as she threw herself around Galen, burying her face into his shoulder as she wept.

"What was that? What's wrong?" he asked, one hand rubbing her back and the other pressed against the back of her head.

"You cannot feel it, but the trees... Their pain... They are suffering, suffering most terribly."

"The trees? I don't understand, I thought you lost your forest connection," He glanced out the door into the smoky street.

"I was born with this bond. No magic can completely server it. I can still feel a tree's spirit when it burns with its spirit trapped inside," she whimpered, arms tightening up around Galen. "Their agony comes out in the smoke."

"What the Hell are you two saying, Private?"

Both soldier and elf turned toward Michael, Celia sniffling as she mumbled something to Galen, who answered back in the same foreign tongue. Then Galen's M14 began to groan in the corner. Michael's brows raised as he stared at the two across the tent and the possessed rifle beside them, utterly confused.

"Michael, this is Celia. A Tree Elf," Galen finally said in English before speaking with his new friend in her tongue. 

The Sergeant's eyes bounced back and forth between the two, a hint of suspicion locked within them as he focused on Celia. There was something about that glowing aura coming from her core making him leery of her presence. She suddenly appears with Galen after he goes missing for a day and the Private, a small town boy who never bothered with a second language a day in his life, now spoke so fluently in a tongue the Sergeant never even heard before. 

Michaels thoughts were interrupted by a soft hand placed upon his shoulder. Mila knelt down beside him.

"You have any idea what they're saying?" she whispered.

"Not a clue, and I'm getting awful tired of being left in the dark," he grumbled before snapping, "Galen!!"

Both the Private and his new friend turned back to Michael at once, the elf breathing steadily as she wiped away a tear. She muttered a few words, to which Galen replied before swapping back to English, "What?"

The elf fearfully drew her cloak over her face as the Sergeant growled, "You got a lot of explaining to do, right fucking now."

..........................................................

Two Nekos prowled along the ground in the clearing around the wreckage of the C-130, their black, furry bodies moving though the grass like snakes on glass in the moonlight. Their glowing eyes scanned over the fuselage of the plane, checking for any sign of movement amongst the twisted metal and dangling cables. One of the Nekos even dared to throw a stone against the hollow shell of aluminum, a loud clang sounding before the pebble landed in the dirt. The only reaction she stirred up was a pair of small winged creatures fleeing out the other side.

"It is clear, the humans are gone," one of the Nekos whispered before they both stood up.

"Damn," one cursed as she gritted her teeth. She whipped her head in a circle to swing her long, thick braid of black hair behind her. Her tail flicked as the dark steel band holding her intricate braid together batted softly against her lower back. 

The Neko blended perfectly with any nighttime environment, as both her hair and fur matched the color of shadows. Pitch black, with a dark, grey undercoat. It was a requirement to become a Shadow Stalker; to be born the color of darkness, as to become one with the shadows when stalking the kill; thus the name.

Brandishing an annoyed sneer upon her face, the lead Stalker crossed her arms over the cloth wrap that kept her breasts pressed firm and motionless against her chest. The cloth wrap wound around her pelvic region caused her a bit of discomfort as she shifted her hips, the rough linen rubbing uncomfortably against her sex.

She narrowed her dark brown eyes to focus on the area before her, scanning to lock the images in her mind and stored it away in her memory. If even a pebble were to be moved, she would notice. If prey were to so much as shift a blade of grass, even if initially undetected, she would notice when she looked upon this sight again. Her memory was impeccable, her eye for detail impossible to beat.

"Check for a trail. The humans must have left something to track them with."

"Yes, Petra," the other Shadow Stalker answered, setting down her satchel as she headed straight for the plane.

With her partner checking the ruins, Petra began to go over the clearing to search for clues. She inspected the fresh graves and the crosses that marked them. Characters on the silver tags were foreign, as was the metal. However, she would perhaps find the human's technique with tying knots before she killed him; his skills with a rope seemed quite impressive. Over at the firepit, she ran a hand over the ashes, finding them to have long gone cold, and there were no stores gathered for another night. It confirmed her theory that they would have moved on.

A few yards away from the metal beast a red patch in the grass dulled the moon's shine off the dew. Upon approach, Petra could tell the patch was a large volume of dried blood. The smell confirmed that it was human blood, which meant these humans had lost many of their own in some conflict. Possibly with the metal beast. It would explain the fresh graves.

Moving away from the crimson stain, the elder Shadow Stalker turned toward the downed craft. She stopped a moment when she spotted the words 'death awaits trespassers' scratched out in Nekonian script on the side of the plane. 

Petra cocked her head at this, wondering for a moment if she should proceed. It didn't take more than a second's thought for her to shrug it off with a bit of an amused smirk. She stepped past the warning and began to climb up into the craft, only to stop when a new smell caught her nose. 

Her smirk growing to a smile, she leapt out from the craft and wandered over to the brush line in front of the glass face of the beast. Parting several bushes, she discovered a blood-soaked cloth partially buried in the dirt, right beside a spot where a male had urinated. One did not need a Lycan to tell that the two scents matched.

The Shadow Stalker grabbed the cloth and took a deep inhale, planting this unique smell into her mind. When she pulled the cloth away, she tilted her head back and began to sniff the air above her, finding that same scent coming in on the breeze.

"I'm tracking you now, human." she purred.

"Petra!" the other Stalker called. "I have found something!"

The lead Shadow Stalker turned to her underling inside the metal beast, spotting her through a hole in the side. In her hands she held a curved plate-like object at least a two thumb-widths thick and wrapped in cloth. A glint of moonlight came off a thin length of loose wire coming out of the top. Teirie looked at the wire, mumbling something before grabbing hold of it.

I warn you of these humans' new weapons, Farok's words repeated in Petra's head as she eyed the object, they seem innocent, like children's toys. But one wrong move or false judgement, and the next journey you shall take will be to Yariid for judgement.

"Teirie! Put that down! Teirie!" Petra ordered, right before the young Shadow Stalker pulled the loose wire out from the claymore, setting it off.

.........................................

"So, as long as you're with Celia, you can speak her language," Michael asked, a question to which Galen nodded. 

For the past hour, the Private had recounted what happened since the morning. The troll, the trials, the feast. Though, when he got to the point in the story about his experience with Tanza and the four other elves, he fibbed, saying that Celia herself was his gift for his success, to guide him and love him as he settles into a new world. This version would be less embarrassing than retelling the other ceremonies that had been performed, as Michael would no-doubt grill him for the steamy details.

The rifle, however, was one of the more disturbing topics of the conversation as it grumbled when Galen explained how the moss brought it to life. The rifle became lighter, comfier, and guarded itself from falling into the wrong hands, but also made it a sucker for attention. Again, all part of his "reward", if one could use the word for such an insufferable thing, and to help protect Celia.

Any time Galen wasn't holding the rifle, it groaned. Whenever he did hold it, it groaned. Unless Galen was stroking it or holding it in a battle-ready position, it groaned. It wasn't very loud, barely audible if one was speaking in a normal voice, but it was still distracting. The whole rifle had a personality of its own, and it didn't like being ignored.

Celia herself had ended up laying her head upon his lap mid-story, wrapped up in her cloak as she listened to him speak. She didn't understand a word, but she still listened intently.

"It'd be better if she knew what we were sayin'," Galen commented. "But her magic only is one way. I don' think she got a clue 'bout anythin' we just said."

Mila, with her knees tucked up underneath her chin and pupils expanded to their full, kept her full focus fixed upon Celia. How innocent the elf seemed, with her warm smile that never faded from her golden features, the playfulness in her expression as her ears twitched in reaction to Galen nestling his fingers in behind them. Despite her earlier ordeal, she now seemed perfectly at peace with her love, as Galen seemed with her.

How coincidental it was for Galen to intercept a Tree Elf at the beginning of the mating season. The pure luck of the situation he had stumbled upon. Astounding how he was strong enough to pass their trials and be granted companionship with a creature that others have died pursuing. It was a companionship he clearly enjoyed, as he smiled every time his eyes fell upon her. Never were his hands idle on her skin; they constantly explored, stroked, caressed, or held onto her as though he could not let go. 

Legend had stated the Tree Elves were as open and affectionate as they were beautiful; Mila could see now that those old tales were indeed true. This one had him wrapped completely around her finger, or perhaps they were wrapped around each other's fingers, as the Neko found herself with Michael.

A few silent moments passed after Galen concluded his tale, with only the crackling of the Great Fire in the background filling the void. Even Galen's rifle was silent. Finally, Mila cleared her throat, bringing everyone's attention to her as she said, "Celia."

The elf looked up at the cat girl, "Hmmm?"

"Do you speak Nekonian?"

After a moment, and much to the Neko's surprise, Celia nodded.

"More than I speak Human. Much more. I've studied it for the past ten years after learning others. There are few Humans in Atzla, so I had not ventured deep into studies of their tongue."

"Yet it is a human you are now with," Mila joked.

"Such a... umm... weird happening. Unexpected, that is the word. Unexpected happening. But I do not care what he is, so long as he is with me," Celia said, placing her hand on Galen's as it sat behind her ear, smiling just a bit wider.

Galen began shifting his stare back and forth between Mila and Celia. His shocked look gave way to a slight chuckle accompanying a widening grin.

"Well, this is even more surprising," he stated, instantly bringing Mila's full attention back to him.

"Galen? How- When did you learn Nekonian?"

"Whoa, wait, what the Hell is going on here?" Michael butted in. "What the hell just happened?"

The Private shrugged helplessly in response, apparently as clueless as Michael felt. Celia suddenly spoke out a bit in Nekonian, her words prompting both Galen and Mila to nod. Expelling a breath with force and irritation, Michael pressed the ends of his fingers into his brow and pinched down on the bridge of his nose.

"What, what is it?" he demanded. "Could somebody tell me what the fuck she just said?"

"Celia's magic gave Galen more than elvish tongue," Mila explained. "She had knowledge of Nekonian, and the spell is that he will understand her no matter what language she speaks. She has my language, and now, so does Galen."




Going Feet First Ch. 02



Michael sat in his place, one eye brow raised and both eyes wide as he looked Galen up and down. "I leave you alone for one damn day, and all the sudden you've become a linguist and land one of the rarest girls in the forest."

Galen again shrugged, this time with a smug grin, "I guess Lady Luck's been castin' her smile upon me a whole lot lately. That or someon-"

A sudden explosion cracked off in the distance, silencing the Private as his attention turned toward the miniscule bang. Then a colossal fireball erupted into the sky several miles away, the concussive blast following several moments after. Celia rattled with fear as she saw the mushroom cloud rise up into the sky, her nails digging into her palms as it blocked out the moon.

Michael seemed indifferent to the detonation as he turned toward the door of the tent. Several Nekos outside began aweing and passing fearful words between each other as they pointed up at the cloud. An incredibly powerful voice then boomed out over the village, quickly sending the Willhers on about their business. Without much sign of caring, the Sergeant gave a shrug and grabbed his canteen from his pack lying beside his bed.

"The Hell was that?!" Galen demanded.

"Claymore on the plane. It probably ignited what was left of the fuel when it blew. We left a note that said stay out," Michael answered, taking a drink from his canteen and tossing it beside the central post.

"Why would you leave an active claymore out there?!" Galen roared, fearful at the thought of all the innocent creatures that could've tripped the mine. 

This got him nowhere with the Sergeant, who brushed off the question without a second thought. That only served to make Galen vibrate in anger, knuckles going white on clenched fists. What made him retract his rage was the tightening grip of a fearful Celia around his chest. His outburst had her shaking and drawing even more tears out of the frightened elf.

"Ra'zorlichs," Mila answered, drawing Galen's attention away from Celia and Michael. "They have assassins that do leave their lands. If they decided to send them upon you two, first place to begin a search would be the... umm... the 'Hurr-coo-leez', a beast any intelligent creature would fear or ignore. Do not worry about my people, we have told them what to expect if the Ra'zorlichs set off the trap, though not to that scale..."

Suddenly, the door flap to the tent was pulled open, causing everyone in the tent to turn toward the Willher warrior stepping in from outside. There was a certain air of arrogance to him as he crossed his arms and looked down upon Mila.

"Mila, you and... umm- you is... rak," he swore, thinking hard for a moment as he struggled with the human language. After several pauses the large Neko male swore again and spoke in Nekonian before turning to Michael, "You. Elder want. Great Fire. Come."

With a solid nod and a hint of satisfaction at his broken speech, the Willher male backed out the door and walked off toward the village center. After exchanging a few awkward glances with Galen, Michael turned to Mila asking, "Who was that bastard? Couldn't he have knocked first?"

Mila shook her head 'no' as she stood upright, offering a hand to Michael to help pull him to his feet. "That was one of the village messengers. The elder wishes for us to join the village at the Great Fire. Galen and Celia are invited as well, but they do not have to."

"Celia can't go out there anyway," Galen declared. "There's somethin' 'bout tree spirits trapped in the wood you're burning. It... just... strangles her."

"Tree spirits?" Mila repeated, pausing for a moment as she glanced over to the elf and thought for a moment. Tree elves must've had fires of their own, as Mila didn't know of a race that did not burn wood for warmth or cooking. There had to of been something they did to keep themselves from suffering in the smoke. Perhaps they pulled any taints or spirits from the wood prior to burning, purge it to meet their needs?

"Celia," Mila started. "The tree spirits that had you in pain, how can we release them?"

The elf swallowed hard while looking down at her hand, watching as her fingertips began to glow. "I would use magic. It takes only a few words and a few seconds, but will do much good for me and the forest."

"Then let's do that."

"But the smoke..." Celia muttered. "I can't get through it. It could kill me."

Right at that moment, a light bulb lit up over Galen's head. "Celia, what about the smoke is so dangerous for you? Breathing it? Touching it? What?"

Celia pondered for a moment on her experience, "Breathing it, perhaps? Why?"

"I have an idea," he declared as he got up and moved to his pack sitting over by the door flap.

"What are you up to now?" Michael asked as he righted himself on his crutch.

"Celia can't breathe the smoke, or else she chokes up..." Galen said as he opened up his pack.

"So how about she just don't breathe the smoke?" He turned to Celia, holding up a gasmask for her to see. 

Right away she was taken back with a dreaded look upon her face. The empty glass eye-ports seemed to stare at her, a sense of evil within that repulsive, rubber face sending a cold shiver running down her spine.

"Is that... Demon skin?" she asked, her voice trembling as badly as her body.

"No, it's a special mask we wear to protect ourselves from dangerous air. It'll protect you from the smoke. Trust me."

"You're giving her your M17?" Michael asked. "Smoke is that deadly for her?"

Galen half-shrugged, half nodded, "Yeah, looks like it. She couldn't even breathe when she got hit with it. At least with this, she can do her magic and free th' trees spirits or whatever her plan is to make it so she won't die by walkin' out into the street."

After a minute of convincing her that the mask was not the severed face of some demon, Galen managed to help Celia pull the mask onto her head. Taking no chances, he made sure the filter was tight and the straps were snug. Only when his gut quite nagging him of danger did he dare bringing her toward the door for the moment of truth: hypersensitive nature, versus human ingenuity.

It was then that Galen's rifle piped up, seemingly calling for him to take it in his arms. Already on edge, Celia backed off a bit as a grim look came about the soldier. Both anger and annoyance seared in his eyes as he turned to the rifle.

"For the love of- Would you please shut up!" Galen erupted at the weapon. "You better damn-well behave yourself or I'll smash you, burn you, and bury your ashes in the muck and take the other M14 we got in the crate! A real nice one with a scope! So buck up you bastard, 'cause you're seriously startin' to piss me off."

Michael stared at Galen for a moment, "You're bat-shit crazy" scrawled all over his face. But the rifle went silent, and Galen shrugged off the Sergeant's expression as he threw an arm around the masked Celia to lead her out into the smoky street. 

At first her breathing was harsh and staggered as she adjusted to taking air in through a filter. After cycling her lungs several times, though, she managed to adjust to the breathing apparatus. Her breaths became clear and steady, though she couldn't help but fidget with the seal around her face. To have her be able to stand freely in the smoke without a recurrence of her previous experience did much to relieve Galen's worries.

The Great Fire was a towering inferno several feet high, held in the middle of a large open area in the village center. The entirety of the Willher tribe surrounded the bonfire, a hundred Nekos at least ranging from spry, young kittens to wrinkled, old elders. Together they watched the flames dance before them, the crowd several persons thick and alive with many conversations and the clinking of celebratory mugs.

From just outside Mila's tent, Celia was able to see the large gathering several houses down, her view unobstructed now that the streets were empty. Hot tears watered up in her eyes as she watched two males stack several more logs onto the already intense bonfire, sending a cascade of sparks into the sky and adding to the agonized screams that echoed in her mind.

"Whatever she needs to do, get it done," Michael ordered. "I don't want to freak out the tribe by showing up to their ceremony with a rubber-faced elf beside me."

"What is it that you need to do?" Galen asked Celia, shooting Michael a dirty look.

"Just get me within a stone's throw from the fallen trees, it's all I need," she said in Nekonian.

"Our wood stores are there," Mila said, pointing to the large pile on the opposite side of the crowd. 

Celia nodded as she spotted it, marking the location out in her mind. The second the Neko turned her back; she pulled Galen off to the side with her to take to an alternate path. Michael and Mila continued on toward the fire, oblivious to their abandonment as they joined the circle to take part in the final tradition. Native Willhers had to publicly declare their love and be blessed by their parents, though Michael had been given another task to perform before the tribe as well. He had to prove his worth.

This had been explained by the Elder, and translated to Michael by Mila, as the two took their place before the crowd. It earned them several quizzical looks that were shrugged off as the Elder continued into the ceremonial opening speech. Michael sat and listened, patiently biding his time. He had to wait for the old Neko to finish so Mila could have a chance to translate for him, as she would have to continue to do until he learned their language himself. 

By now he had become used to the constant barrage of stares he received from the others of the village, able to ignore them as the elder dragged on. The Sergeant found a soothing calm in the old Elder's voice, found a certain respect for him, especially since he personally ordered for Michael to have the privilege to stay, or at least stick around long enough for the tribe to come to know the human better. 

To see how he adapted to life among the Willher tribe.

Michael still needed to undergo the Willher traditions if he wanted to satisfy Mila and her clan's expectations. He had been blessed by their goddess, voted by slim majority to have potential value for the tribe, vouched for by the Elder, and now he only needed to persuade the whole clan. To do this, he needed to prove that he wasn't weak or useless. Willhers often did this while they were kittens growing up, demonstrating their abilities as efficient hunters or trackers; warriors or diplomats; merchants or village keepers. 

Micheal had stated that he intended to be both a warrior and a hunter, much to the shock of most Willhers. Taking a dual role, especially in these two professions, was only reserved for the physical elite.

To the Willhers, hunting meant going out and chasing down prey with bare claws or a bow, unlike Trackers, who were assigned to a hunter to lay traps for their prey, lead them to game-rich areas, or find patches where edible plants grew. 

For Michael to be both a hunter and warrior meant that only a single day per every five would be reserved for rest, the other days spent either hunting or training. Adopting a single profession would mean alternating days of work and rest.

With his injury in his leg impairing his mobility, Michael wouldn't be able to prove his skills in a physical demonstration for quite some time. Thus, his proving would not be a physical challenge, but rather to impress the tribe by giving a verbal history of his greatest moments, to use words as his tool for acceptance. 

At the same time, the Willher's four Keepers of Age would be listening close; the elder Nekos taking note of every detail. They would also watch Michael for over-embellishment, or any signs that his stories may not be true. Their presence would keep the soldier from lying to the tribe, as they held the right to challenge him at any point on the validity of his words.

In using words, Michael would be obligated to prove them true with action, when the time came.

....................................................

Galen and Celia circled around the village, steering clear of the Nekos as they snuck up on the woodpile behind the bonfire. Several times, Galen asked why Celia was so determined to perform this task as stealthily as possible. As they had gone from street to street, moving in the shadows, Celia explained that, for a Tree Elf, wearing the face of a demon, or any piece of unflattering attire, was almost a crime against their culture. 

Clothes, save for the most revealing or tastefully provocative, were not worn as they hid the gifts nature bestowed upon their bodies, masking their true beauty. The attire Atzlar had bestowed upon Celia did well to show off her body as much as it covered it up, concealing her feminine parts but revealing as much skin as possible. For her to wear a vile-looking mask, even for the sake of staying alive, gave Celia great determination to liberate these spirits as fast as mortally possible. The sooner the mask could come off, the better.

Under the cover of shadow, the two moved in behind a wooden shack not five yards from the wood pile. The tenants to the wood reserve had gone to watch a display in the circle, leaving the store unwatched. Desperate to get the mask off her face, Celia raised a glowing hand toward the stack of logs, chanting, "By my power, under Atzlar's gaze, I release you all from your earthly bonds. Do as Atzlar wills."

The golden glow in her palm reached a new intensity as a trail of white wisps emerged from both the wood store and the Great fire. The column of black smoke from the ceremonious blaze suddenly thinned out, the flames rising even higher than before and the heat becoming more intense. The escaping spirits, though, did not simply vanish as Celia had believed they would. The collection of white wisps pooled on the ground, coming together until every spirit was wound into one fog.

"Celia, what's happening?"

The elf shrugged as she pulled off the mask and passed it back to the soldier. Being curious herself as to what brewed in front of her, she stepped forward and knelt down to inspect the pool of white vapor. As she reached out to touch it, the gathered mass suddenly compressed itself, squishing down until it became a white, steel-like dart. Confused, Celia reached out for the dart, eyes going wide as it suddenly shot forward at lightning speed. 

It pierced clean through her chest.

A scream tried to hurtle out from Galen's throat, but the air in his lungs had turned flat. Something struck him in the ribs, freezing his body solid. Not a muscle could move nor would his mouth open up. His dear Celia was still kneeling where the fog had been, her hands cupped over her chest where the dart had gone through. 

Tears welling up under her eyes, she slowly tilted her head forward to glance down on what had happened to her body, how much damage had been done. Swallowing hard, she removed her hands, expecting to see a hole going straight through her torso and spilling over with her life blood.

Instead, there was nothing.

The skin had not been broken, nor was her breastplate scratched in the slightest. A sense of relief washed over her as she turned to face Galen with a smile on her face, that golden grin disappearing the second she saw that silver dart thrust into his heart. 

Silent agony burned in his face has he tried so desperately to scream, to find some way to unleash his pain. The only thing he managed to do was reach a trembling hand out for Celia, slowly mouthing her name. As she moved to take his hand, the dart plunged the rest of the way into his chest, passing through his uniform as though it was a drop into water. There was a green flash in Galen's eyes, a momentary spark that caused his whole body to jolt in a violent spasm.

"Galen?" Celia tearfully murmured as he stumbled forth, collapsing down to his knees. 

The elf dashed toward him, catching him mid-fall and holding him upright as his body continued to undergo a violent fit.

"Galen?!" she cried, the moment before he froze. 

His ocean blue eyes went to cold, dull, black. As a scream built up in Celia's throat, green light flashed over his pupils, restoring the colour to his irises as well as air to his lungs. Galen's control over his body came back, his breaths hard and shallow as sweat dripped over his brow. The second he realized his arm could move, one hand grasped onto Celia's shoulder while the other clamped down over his heart, a cold shiver racking his body.

"W-what was that?" he gasped, probing the spot where the dart had entered his body without any physical evidence.

"I have no idea," Celia answered. "The spirits... They went inside you. I thought it was going to kill us, but now... are you alright?"

"Cold, but that's because I'm sweating in a breeze. Other than that... I'm alright. I'm a bit sore, and even more drowsy, but I'm alright."

Celia wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing the side of her face against his chest as she whispered, "I'm glad you're okay."

Relief warmed her chest as his arms embraced her, his soft voice whispering, "I can say the same for you. Come on, let's go join the Willhers by the fire. I think you'll be just fine with the spirits being released."

"I think so, too," she agreed.

Taking her usual place hugged against his arm, Celia rested her head against Galen as they joined the outer ranks of the Nekos surrounding the Great Fire. Michael, propped up against his crutch, stood in the middle of the circle, telling a story as Mila and two other Willher males translated his tale for the crowd to hear.

"So here I was, walking down a dirt path in the middle of the forest, trying the find the man who had been shooting at me, when I see this kid, a girl fourteen or so years old," Michael paused, looking around at his rapt audience as his translators caught up. When the age of the girl was clarified, there was a new spark of interest from the Willhers. As Nekos needed a little more than twenty five years to fully mature, and a century to be declared 'elder', a Nekonian fourteen year-old was the equivalent to a human ten year-old.

"This girl, she sees me, my face covered in black paint, weapon in my hands. The look of fear in her eyes made me worry she might scream. Before I can calm her down, she starts running. I, thinking she isn't worth my time, continue on. But after she runs off into the bush, I hear the sudden thunder of other weapons and the forest is suddenly being torn apart. Bang, bang, bang, thunder-sticks rattling off in the same direction that the girl had ran off to. Now, any idiot would have charged into the fight and gotten themselves killed. Not me. I circled around the thunder, coming in behind the Charlies that were waiting in ambush. I crept though the bush, low in the grass with the dew brushing against my face-"

"Uhh, Michael?" Mila interrupted.

"What?"

"What is 'ambush' and 'dew'?"

"Ambush is hiding and waiting for an enemy so you can surprise attack him. Dew is the water that forms on grass in the evening," he clarified. Mila gave a nod and, after relating this to the other two translators, restarted the translation of the story.

"As I was saying; with the thunder of their weapons roaring so loud, I was able to sneak behind them like a ghost-"

"What is 'ghost'?" another translator interrupted. 

With a sigh and roll of the eyes, Michael answered, "A spirit still walking amongst the living, a person who didn't go into the afterlife. Now, AS I was saying..."




Going Feet First Ch. 02



He paused a moment, allowing the Willher intermediaries to get back into the translation groove. 

"Before they even knew I was there, I came up behind one, drawing out my tomahawk and sinking the blade into his skull without pity or mercy," Michael emphasized this scene as he pulled out his tomahawk, raising it high and bringing it down in some unfortunate, imaginary, Viet Cong's head. 

The display earned him several respectable nods from the warriors in the tribe, but others cringed in response.

"When I killed my third Charlie, though, the rest finally spotted me and began turning their weapons on me. First bastard to try and kill me, I threw this axe at him, sinking it into his forehead and then getting my thunder-stick ready."

"And girl? What happen with her?" a Neko female asked, drawing Michael's attention toward her part of the circle.

"She was hit in the shoulder and one of her legs, but she lived. When I killed the last of the Charlies, I carried her a great distance to get her to a healer. Saved her life."

A smile drew across Galen's face as he realized what story Michael was telling. Last week he had sneaked out of the barracks at night to go out on a patrol by himself, determined to get his first kill with his handmade tomahawk he smuggled in from home. What he ended up accomplishing was wiping out a Viet Cong fire team sent in to harass the airbase while saving a teen that had been sent out to fetch some supplies for her village. The Major was left debating between reprimanding him for disobeying orders to stay put, or to give him a metal for his successful patrol.

If Michael had been disciplined more than his slap on the wrist, he may still be in the barracks or on guard duty back at base. Instead he was here, retelling stories of his short life to a tribe of alien feline-creatures on some planet called Raska. From what Galen now saw among their pleased faces, they were quite impressed.

"He is brutal!" Celia blurted out in elvish, having listened to the Nekonian translations.

"Only to his enemies. People that would do no less to us," Galen defended.

"He relishes in his kills! There is proudness for victory, and there is having a lack of sympathy for the dead... but that... it's sadistic."

"Any warrior is that way, no matter who they are. I guarantee any of the warriors here would be the same way." Galen muttered, earning a worried look from his elven companion.

"There are many men like him?"

"Where I come from, there are whole countries a thousand times worse than him. Both now and throughout our history."

"But not you. I saw your memories of when you killed the Ra'zorlichs. You found no joy in their deaths. It's why you passed our trials. It is why I chose you," she concluded this with a giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. It was enough to work a grin out of the Private's grim face. 

With a renewed liveliness, he threw an arm over her shoulder and tugged her in close as Michael finished his last story, the translators finishing moments after.

The Elder took a moment to absorb these new tales, to lock the verbal history into his aged mind. His tired eyes closed as his breathing slowed, his chest hardly moving as though he weren't breathing at all. In a very relaxed, lazy manner, his head nodded twice before his eyes opened once again.

"And you can... show us... how you hunt... when you are well, Michael?" he asked, pausing to take several long breaths.

"Once I'm off this crutch, I'll show you a whole lot more than that," the Sergeant answered with a powerful air of confidence.

On the human's final words, the Elder weakly smiled while his gaze drifted over to Mila. Her tail rigidly swayed behind her as her ears perked up in anticipation. The Elder's gaze continued to drift over the numbers of his village, watching the body language carefully. A growing air of approval graced his senses, lighting up in his eyes as they came back to focus upon Mila. Her eagerness was palpable, her excitement contagious. His chin rose slightly, and then dipped down as he gave her his nod of approval.

That was all she needed.

"Whoa, hey!" Michael blurted out as she grabbed onto his arm, jerking him toward the edge of the circle. He barely managed to catch himself on his crutch as she was bouncing on her feet to get them both out of there. The kitten had caught its toy, now it wanted to play

"Where are we going?" he asked as the crowd parted, allowing them passage into the empty village streets.

"We've finished our part. We may leave as other new couples now must undergo their rituals."

"Leave where?"

"Going somewhere?" Galen butted in, a warmly glowing Celia hanging off his arm. Mila stopped and turned as the young man and his elf broke from the crowd surrounding the Great Fire.

"To my tent, for privacy," Mila answered, glancing over to Michael. 

That sparkling look in her eye matched the one Tanza had when she led Galen to her sheets.

The signs had been obvious to Galen that something had been brewing between Michael and Mila, but it only occurred to him now exactly what. Bowing his head slightly with an understanding grin, he gave a quick chuckle before looking over to Michael. It was now that the Sergeant clued in to Mila's intent, looking over to his girl with that sly look he had when he returned from a successful hunt.

"Is there somewhere Celia and I can spend the night?" Galen asked. "My plan is to head out in the mornin', make my way toward human lands. I wanna learn a bit more about this world, and maybe how to get back to ours."

"You're leaving?" Michael asked with a bit of shock to his tone. "Why?!"

Galen shrugged, "I don't know about you, but I still wanna try and find my way back home, to tell my Mom I'm alright."

"And what of Celia?" Mila cut in.

"I'd come back, of course. Things are simpler here; with no Russians, no Vietnamese, no atom bombs. May gotta fight once in a while but that's what mah rifle's for."

There was a pause as both the Sergeant and Neko swallowed this down. With an understanding look, Mila started, "I don't think you would wish to stay with the sick people in our medicine hut, so... west of the village, in the trees, there's a small cabin. It is unused, and will comfort you both for the night. Come morning, I will point you toward Redding, a human city west of Atzla."

"That's much appreciated. My gear and that pain-in-the-ass rifle I got is in your tent, so I'll grab 'em then head out to the cabin."

The four walked back to Mila's tent in the moonlight, the soft taps of Michael's crutch hitting the dirt echoing in the empty streets of the village. The golden aura about Celia suddenly began to flicker in a very subtle manner. The elf noticed, though the others did not. Very casually, as to not raise any alarm, she began glancing at her surroundings, searching for the object she felt manipulating her energy flow. It had to be close, though she could not tell what.

When they reached Mila's tent, Michael stumbled over to his makeshift bed and collapsed right onto the parachute. He kept his injured right leg stretched out as he drew his left back, propping his upper body onto his arm. The Sergeant watched as Celia waited outside for Galen, who had opened up his pack and organized its contents to accommodate his gasmask inside and do a quick inventory. There were roughly two days' worth of MRE's and water canteens, they would have to last him as Celia showed him what was edible and what wasn't.

"Hey," Michael called as Galen shut his pack, drawing the Private's attention.

"You stay strong out there, kid. I don't want to see you leaving, but, with our recent relocation to this place, I don't figure to have any authority to tell you to stay."

"Is that your way of telling me I'm free?" Galen laughed, bringing a grin to the Sergeant's face.

"Keep tough out there, kid, and don't let anyone push a man of the 101st airborne around for no rea-" Michael stopped as his eyes caught something on Galen's left hand. "What the Hell? What the fuck is that?"

"What?" Galen responded as he lifted up his left hand, noticing a dark shape formed on his palm. Concerned he stepped into the moonlight coming in through the open flap in the tent roof.

It was a leaf. He had the tattoo of a leaf on a vine on his hand. Not just his palm, but on the back of his hand as well, with the vine stretching down the side of his wrist and disappearing under his sleeve. Immediately, Galen began to unbutton his uniform and strip off the jacket and t-shirt.

"What is it?" Mila asked as his shirts hit the ground, suddenly taking in an audible gasp.

"Galen, when did you get ink done?" Michael chuckled.

"Celia!"

"What's wrong, love?" she asked, stepping into the tent. 

The sight of the new designs stretching across the left side of Galen's chest stopped her dead in her tracks. A tattoo of a long vine adorned with dozens of leaves grew out from over his heart. From there, it circled his nipple and ran all the way down his left arm, wrapping around the limb as though it were ivy around a pole.

Celia bolted over to her soldier, the glowing aura around her body suddenly flaring to the point that she lit the entire tent with the intensity of a dozen lanterns. From first sight she was completely fascinated, grabbing onto Galen's limb and examining the images in his skin with a careful eye, scrutinising every detail as she ran her glowing finger over the foliage tattoo, her face stuck in awe.

"What is it?" Galen asked.

"What were the first three magic spells you witnessed me or my sisters perform?!" she asked.

"Wha-?"

"First three spells, Galen, think!"

"Uhh, being able to see your village... healing me up... and making something disappear and reappear, why? What's this all about?"

Celia sighed with a bit of a grin, her hand gently stroking his new tattoo as it flashed a luminescent green. "Elf sight, restoration, and conjuration... Galen, you are lucky."

"Why?"

"I could only ever give elf sight, as Tanza was still waiting for me to mature enough before she would trust me with something so simple as healing. But now, Atzlar has blessed you with more."

"What?"

Celia shut her eyes as she traced her hand over the leaves on Galen's arm. A strange new sensation tingled in his palm as she cupped her hands around his, stroking her thumbs over the leaf's image.

"I've heard only stories about creatures more mortal than elves being blessed with these gifts... The magic here is not to the scale we may use it, as you have no real connection with any true source, but when the tree spirits entered you, they triggered your magic of Atzla forest, something Atzlar gave you in my village. But only the three first witnessed."

"So... what does this mean? I'm magical now?"

Her eyes opened as she took a deep breath, "It means Atzlar liked you more than I thought. I cannot perform so much of my forest magic anymore, but I can show you how to use yours... come I'll show you some now."

Celia took Galen by the hand and pulled him over to Michael, getting him to kneel down beside the Sergeant and press his tattooed palm against the wounded leg.

"Gahhooww, fuck! That hurts! Celia! Galen, what the hell are you two doing?"

Celia muttered in elvish to Galen, prompting him to give several confused responses. Patience wore away as her voice picked up a tone of frustration. She repeated herself, again getting nowhere as Galen stared blankly at her.

Grumbling a bit, she presented a hand in front of Galen's face as she would hold a ball: fingers curled as her palm lit up in a bright glow. But again, the Private shrugged while giving a short, flustered, response.

The elf let out a long sigh, keeping Galen's hand pressed firm against Michael's bandaged wound as she thought for a moment. Her ears suddenly perked up, her aura dying down as she turned back to Galen. She raised three fingers and placed them across the Private's forehead before uttering a few words. At once, his shoulders fell, his body becoming loose and relaxed as fatigue caused Celia's ears to droop. Suddenly, Galen's hand began to glow.

Celia uttered a few more words to Galen before her hand fell away from his forehead. Eyes fluttering, her whole body slumped against him. By the time the Private returned to his consciousness, Celia had slipped from hers, lying limp against him with her hand still pressing his into the Sergeant's leg.

"What. The. Fuck," Michael muttered as he stared at Galen's white glowing hand, the Private still operating on automatic responses.

"Undo the damage done, give health back to whom it was take from," he muttered in elvish, in which it rhymed much better.

"AAHhhhhh! HHHAAaaayeaaaahhh owww... Dammit!" Michael howled as it felt like a blow torch was being pulled across his wounds. The bandage wrapping his thigh came undone, falling away and turning to ash as the gouge in his flesh rapidly sealed shut.

Then Galen pulled his hand away, snapping his fingers to kill the white glow in his palm. His breath was heavy, and chills were arcing across his body, but he stared in amazement at the spot where his friend had been cut open. How where he was once sliced from above the knee to below the hip, only a ragged scar remained. The sides of the Private's mouth curled up as he looked back down at his hand, focusing for a moment to cause it to glow again before turning it dark.

Grinning wildly, Galen looked up at Michael, who sat frozen staring at the Private, his mouth agape. Shrugging innocently he pointed at the elf sleeping in his lap and said, "Her fault. She freed the tree spirits, and because of her, those free spirits did this to me." He gestured to his tattoo.

"Atzlar's grant," Mila murmured. "You were given Atzlar's grant... Our healers would give a life time of favours for that..."

Galen nodded, lifting up a glowing hand, "And now I can do this."

Still in a bit of shock, Michael slowly bent his once-injured leg, finding it free of any sort of discomfort or cramping. Rejecting Mila's offer of help, he lay on his back, kicked his feet up and snapped his body forward to land upright. In the first five seconds of his renewed mobility, he had Mila impressed with an acrobatic display. Flexing out his leg, he began doing several squats and leaping around the tent before landing beside Galen, giving him a hearty slap on the back.

"Galen, you magical son of a bitch! You magnificent bastard!"

"Hey, don't thank me. Thank her when she wakes up," the Private replied, gently rubbing the sleeping Celia's shoulder.

"Better save that energy, Hopper," Mila cooed, earning her a devilish smirk from the rejuvenated Sergeant.

There was a great well of pride flushing Galen's cheeks as his smile remained plastered to his face. He slipped on his T-shirt and buttoned up his jacket, pulling his pack and rifle over his shoulders before scooping Celia up in his arms. "I better get going to leave you two alone. See y'all in the mornin'."

Mila's giggling could be heard the second Galen shut her door flap behind him, her muffled moans coming soon after as he walked down the path toward the front gate. It made him wonder when Celia would come after him for it; she was desperate enough earlier that day. 

The Tree Elf trials had taken place early in the morning, the feast at noon, with the ceremonies immediately after. Dusk was rolling around when they had finally left the Great Tree, with the rest of the day being consumed by their journey to the Willher village. So much in a single day, Galen had yet to recover from it.

The village guards at the front gate gave him respectful looks as he approached, and they pointed him in the direction of the shack of which Mila spoke. The Private gave his thanks and continued on, anxious to get to a bed where he could finally get a good night's sleep...

"Human!" a Neko male called out.

 Galen stopped and turned as two Willher warriors dragged a third Neko between them, her feet dragging along the ground as she hung limp.

"We have a gift," the warrior growled as they held her up before Galen.

"What is this? Who is she?" he asked.

"A Ra'zorlich," the warrior growled with a dark simper, his fangs shining. "She is the one who tripped the fire trap in your metal beast. Papers in her bag have your face drawn upon them. She is an assassin, sent to take your life."

The Private paused for a second, fairly surprised Michael's logic worked.

"So why are you bringing her to me?" he asked, bewildering the two warriors.

"She tried to take your life..." the other warrior repeated. "In her failing to do so, you have to claim hers."

"What?!" Galen firmed his grip on the elf he carried in his arms. "I don't understand!"

"What is not for understanding? She is a Ra'zorlich, -female- Ra'zorlich, who was coming to take your life, to assassinate the one that her warriors could not slay in a fight far into their favor. She failed an honourless murder that accompanied a man's profession, and now her life is forfeit."

"What... what? Are you? You're saying women can't have a profession?" Galen asked, masking both his confusion and disgust.

"You not understand, human! I say a woman does not belong in war, as terrible things happen to any warrior who fails, especially assassins. In all other professions, they are welcome. But the danger and suffering they face in the path of a warrior is not something we wish to see, except in the case of the Ra'zorlichs. Like this one." 

"As our laws dictate, she has failed and has been captured by her enemy. She is now a dead dishonor to her tribe. You being her main target means what becomes of her is your choice, whether you give her death, or shackles."

"Shackles?" Galen repeated.

Nodding, the warrior answered, "Yes. Servitude, her life being taken in place of yours. Only no blood is spilt and she serves you."

The Private thought for a moment as he glanced over the supposed, "assassin." Dried blood settled around what he saw to be the hollow tips of her fingers. It looked as though she had been declawed, and recently, too. Her pitch black fur was singed in places, and she reeked of burnt oil and aviation fuel. But all things considered, her body was quite beautiful. Judging from the slight rise in the warrior's shorts before him, Galen guessed that if he didn't claim her, the Willhers would. If that happened, with them assuming her to be a Ra'zorlich, this woman would likely suffer a long time before being granted death. 

Granted, she was likely trying to kill him, but Galen himself would prefer death over "shackles" or the other fate any day. But what of her? What was her preference? What if she was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time? Galen did not know her, and a wise man knew he must learn the story before he passed judgement.

"Bring her to the cabin in the trees. I'm spending the night there and I'll come to a decision tonight."

"As you wish," the warrior responded, turning to his pack mate. "The human wishes to 'know' the Ra'zorlich before he makes a decision. To the scout cabin!"

The other warrior nodded before lifting the Shadow Stalker up and moving with his partner to follow Galen. "He would not have difficulty coming to a decision if he knew what they have done to us. To our healers who wished nothing more than to offer help. Or to his friend Mila's parents for that matter... Unfortunate that the other assassin was charred right down to a skeleton. We may have been able to enjoy revenge upon her."

"For the many men and women of ours that they have tortured and slaughtered... I can only hope the human rejects this one. If he does, I promise we will spend hours getting our revenge. Perhaps if we break her spirit, we may give her kittens. Redeem her sins with the honor to mother a Willher family."




Going Feet First Ch. 02



Galen pretended not to understand, but he couldn't fight the mental images of watching this girl, this would-be assassin, suffering for countless hours in some harem. Tanza was right; he was one with the light. But if this Ra'zorlich swore to kill him, would he venture into the darkness to end her misery? Or be willing to give her unto the Willhers' pleasure?

He tightened up his grip on the elf sleeping in his arms, holding her close as he awed at her peaceful, breathtaking features. If she could forgive a troll for trying to crush her into paste, he could give this Ra'zorlich a chance.

Dust fell from the ceiling as Galen booted open the door to the scout cabin, the soldier coughing as the smell of aged wood struck his nose. Moonlight seeped through the boards of the shutter covering the window, the light barely enough to give the room any visibility. The furniture was meager: a bed against the far wall, a table and two stumps for stools by the door, and a fire place on the wall to his left. All of this packed into in an eight-by-eight space. Gently as he could, Galen laid his sleeping elf upon the twin-sized bed, pulling the covers over her body before the Willhers unceremoniously tossed the Ra'zorlich inside with a coil of rope.

"It is wise to tie her down, in case she decides to try for your life."

"Thanks, I got it from here," Galen said, waving the Willhers off. 

The two warriors bowed their heads and headed back to the village, leaving Galen alone with the two unconscious females.

The Private glanced around at his surroundings for a moment, using his glowing hand to light the single-room shack. It had obviously been built in a hurry, with terrible a job securing the floor boards together and many gaps in the walls. Only the bed and fireplace were built to any kind standard, with actual tools used to craft them rather than four walls slapped together and given a spaced ceiling.

With few other options, Galen pulled the Ra'zorlich against the bed and lashed her wrists to the one of the legs before binding her feet together. It didn't sit right with him, doing this to her, but he had to ensure his and Celia's safety in case she was a Ra'zorlich, and she did decide to get violent.

......................

Petra's ears twitched to the sound of a crackling fire, her eyes stirring as flames flickered off to her right. A dull ringing noise persisted in her ears, her head sore above her left eye. Both her hands were incredibly numb, just as her vision was blurred. None of her thoughts could organize themselves and a dull, pressure pain plagued the back of her neck. The only thing that could rally her focus was the methodic shick-cling sound that began to register in her ears above the ringing.

A human sat on a wood log facing the fire, flicking the lid of a small metallic object in his hand. He passed a glance her way for a moment, opening the lid of the device and striking a wheel, causing a small flame to ignite. For a moment, the magical device entranced Petra, locking her gaze before he flicked the lid shut and extinguished the flame.

"You were sent to kill me," he said speaking in a slow, calm manner with a solemn tone.

Petra's breathing hastened, her heart rate climbing fast. This was the human Farok had drawn out for her to find and kill.

"You or your partner triggered a trap. Likely your partner, because if it were you, she would be here now, and we'd be discussing your death."

The experienced Shadow Stalker calmed her breathing, shifting her hands in the ropes before she extended her claws. Only they didn't extend. Panic flooded her chest as she felt for her precious claws, her weary mind unable to fathom the situation at hand.

"My claws..." she muttered weakly, eyes drifting about the room. The human glanced over at her, bearing a sorry look to him as he shook his head.

 Galen sighed as he pocketed his lighter. "They'd been... removed. I couldn't have you using them to break free or slit my throat."

"Teirie!" Petra suddenly shrieked, body thrashing about as the memory of the explosion burst back into her mind. "Teirie! She had that metal... THING! I told her to put it down... but then the whole earth shook! I flattened on the dirt... so much fire... my dear Necela!"

Galen took hold of her by the shoulder, giving her a sharp jerk to snap her out of her frenzy. When she froze, he looked her dead in the eye, being as sympathetic as he could when he said, "I'm sorry, miss. Teirie is dead. But you're here. You live."

Petra looked up at the human, chest heaving as a tear traced her cheek. "I'm alive, but so are you. If you are not dead, I can't go home. King Hector would..."

Petra bit her tongue as she tried to clear her mind. Everything in her head was so distorted and fuzzy, her vision so jumbled that she had to look twice to focus on one spot. And then there was that damn ringing in her ears! She desperately tried to shake it out, to rattle her mind and make some sense of her thoughts. His hand gently rubbed her shoulder and her focus snapped straight back to the human as he was now kneeling beside her.

"What you're feelin' is what we call 'shellshock.' It's from the blast. Now calm down, take deep breaths, your head will clear in time."

Eyes locked with the human, Petra sounded almost fearful as she muttered, "You have to die, human. You have to die... Hector will kill me if I fail..."

"He can't kill you if you never go back there," he replied.

"But if I stay, you will kill me!"

The human cocked up an eye brow as he crossed his arms, "If I was going to kill you, wouldn't you be dead? Why waste time talkin' with you?"

Petra opened her mouth to speak, but found herself short on words. Everything was so clouded in her mind at the moment that something so obvious had been able to elude her. This human knew who she was and what her purpose was, why did she still breathe? What reason did he have to spare her? 

To give her final judgement, that's why. For what jumbled thoughts she managed to muster, the price of her failure finally dawned upon her addled mind.

"Why are you wasting time talking with me? Why not kill me?" she growled, turning her head toward the fire.

"Because I don't have a reason to kill you. What's your name, miss?"

Petra held her tongue. She knew what he was trying to do; he wanted to get inside her head. To give her pause in her task and make her turn her back on her clan. She slowly clenched her fists, anger building up before agony shot through every exposed nerve in her empty fingertips. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she fought to hold in her screams, of both physical agony, and mental.

Of all the things any being could have done to her! A Neko would submit to death before they'd have their claws removed! Taking her claws, her precious, lethally sharp bodily tools was the greatest punishment the Ra'zorlich could receive. That any Neko could receive. For a Neko without its claws became less than the scum on one's blade. She wouldn't even be a creature in her tribe's eyes; she had become a thing without honor, or value.

"What's wrong?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"You've ruined EVERYTHING! Col kech pri -RAKNA!" she shrieked, attempting to strike out at him with her legs. Again and again, she tried to hit him, cursing long strings of Nekonian swearwords before breaking down again, crying profusely while thrashing about in her binds.

"Miss, calm down. Please."

Without warning Petra let out a scream, a scream that was as loud as she possibly could make it. Galen covered up his ears, keeping them shut until she ran out of breath. When her voice box had been worn out, she was sobbing again, choking up on her tears with her head hanging low.

"Kill me. Please... I beg you... just kill me..."

"No."

"KILL ME!" Petra squealed, losing her voice.

"Why are you so desperate to die?!"

"Hector... our king... I've failed to kill you... YOU TOOK MY CLAWS!! They'll kill me... they'll ravish my body until seed pours down my legs, and then grind me down to bits to fertilize the crops..."

Oh shit... were the words passing through Galen's mind as he watched her chest heave from both fear and her sobs.

"Can't you just... stay away from there? Not go home? I don't want to see any harm done to you, and I honestly don't care much 'bout what you are or what you were planning to do. You were only following orders." 

"And I've failed them..." she repeated bitterly.

"And according to your customs, your failure means you belong to me?" he probed.

"No! No... you have that wrong," Petra gasped, trying to get her voice back.

Galen shrugged, "Probably, it wasn't explained all that clearly. But please, tell me what I got messed up."

A shameful gloom came over Petra as her gaze met the floor, a tear falling from her chin. "You have the right to sentence me to my fate. I failed to assassinate you, an action that our laws see as a dishonorable way of killing, and..." She paused to blink away a loose tear and swallow the lump in her throat. "And because you removed my claws... I have no value. I cannot hunt. I cannot kill. Were I ever to have young... they would suffer great humiliations for having a declawed mother. Please, human, spare me the pain. Kill me. Just kill me."

Galen stared at the Neko, watching her sorrowed look and how she refused to meet his gaze. Death was what she truly wanted. It was almost tempting for him to give her just that. 

Almost. 

Taking a life in cold blood would never sit right with him, nor could he fight the feeling brewing in his stomach that she needed to live. There was only one way to do that without her going out and wasting herself.

"I have the right to sentence you, and I sentence you to my service."

Petra's gaze shot up from the floor, her eyes wide. "What?!"

There was a serious look in Galen's eyes as he locked stares with the former Shadow Stalker, "Yes, I sentence you to be confined to my service."

There was soft rapping on the door, barely audible enough for Galen to hear but hear it he did. Shock overcame Petra, her jaw going slack as he went for the door. Her heart sank into her chest as she knew what her honor, or whatever remained of her honor, bound her to do. 

Suicide, or setting forth events to bring either her death or her new master's, or even simple disobedience, would give Yariid the right to damn her to the darkest depths of the Nether. If she didn't obey her sentence, she would be without hope of ever reaching the Serene.

Farok was right; her mission was doomed from the start. Hector, in his vain ignorance, had damned her soul...

There was a creak as the Private opened the door to the shack, glancing around to find the immediate area vacant of any life. Then a dim glow lit up in his peripheral, drawing his attention to a flat object stuck to the door shining like a piece of blue, luminescent moon. When Galen reached to grab hold of it, the light suddenly beat a pair of thin, broad wings and fluttered into the cabin. It took him a second to recognize the creature as an oversized, glowing butterfly. 

Fireflies could never light up with much intensity for very long, yet this bug was brighter than a candle. It hovered in the air above Petra before settling in her lap, staring up at her with curious, tiny eyes.

"A Nightwatcher..." she muttered. "But I thought them to be always green..."

The blue Nightwatcher fluttered over to the bed, landing beside the still-sleeping Celia and gently probing her with its antennae. Satisfied, it turned toward Galen, shifting its wings slightly before its glow intensified immensely. The Private shielded his eyes as this bug turned to a tiny star too impossibly bright to look at. A deafening silence hollowed out his ear drums, some force draining the whole cabin of sound before the room finally went dark again, save for a dim blue glow.

"You can look now, Galen," a soft, feminine voice said. 

He slowly lowered his hand, blinking several times as he focused on the figure now seated beside Celia on the bed.

Large, blue butterfly sprouted from the back of a young woman. The tone of her skin matched the blue tinge of the moon above, and she wore not a stich of fabric to cover any part of her anthropomorphic body. Her eyes, though, they were not human. Not nearly. There were no pupils, no whites around her iris, but rather, as if two orbs emulating the infinity of the universe in the night sky had been placed within her sockets. Long, deep purple hair reached down to the bottom of her shoulder blades, touching the base of her translucent wings. From her forehead emerged two antennae that swayed in front of her face, just as they did when she was a butterfly. 

The first description for the woman to come to Galen's mind was a fairy, but Mila had never mentioned such a creature living in Atzla. Whatever she was, she held an air of nobility and joy about her, as well as a sense of calm.

"Who are you?" he asked, completely dumbstruck.

"Galen, to not know me must mean you truly are as new to Raska as Atzlar said you were... Allow me to introduce myself. I am Necela, goddess of life and the night."

The air went deathly silent as both Human and Neko needed time to absorb whose presence was among them. The hairs on Petra's neck began to rise, her throat going dry around her voice box. None of the ancient texts the assassin had read that detailed the beauty and charm of the goddess could match what sat on the bed beside her. Nothing could prepare her for, or help her comprehend, meeting Necela.

Her head swam, her heart skipped, her belly whirled as though a rabble of Nightwatchers fluttered within it. She would be the only one of her tribe in centuries to meet an immortal. No honor could be greater, or redeeming, than an audience with one of the highest goddesses of all of Raska. Especially as this one had only appeared within Atzla three times in the past two millennia.

Hands trembling, Galen kept his posture straight and respectable as he stood before the enchanting deity. Already he had encountered one supernatural figure of worship, meeting a second stole his breath. As his mouth hung open, brain frying itself in an attempt to process something to say, he found his eyes glancing over to Petra. The assassin sat wide eyed and slacked-jawed, her features wrapped in pure-bliss as Necela giggled at their awing faces.

Only Celia's soft snores could break the stand-still, drawing to her both the goddess's attention and Petra's, though the Neko could not turn enough to see her. Necela shifted herself in her seat, bringing her legs together as she noticed the soldier's entranced gaze unconsciously drift toward what lay between them. When his eyes snapped back to her face, Necela smiled pleasantly at him before she turned toward the warm body sleeping beside her. The back of her fingers gently caressed Celia's cheek, making her elongated ear twitch.

"So you passed the trials of the Tree Elves. Congratulations, Galen, not many do," she said, turning back toward the soldier.

Each passing second in her goddess's presence restored Petra's mental clarity, just as the pains in her head and body faded from her senses. The Neko felt as if the goddess was healing her simply by sitting beside her. The goddess of life, preserving her life. 

Still the majestic beauty could not hold Petra's focus long as it quickly shifted to the other body in the room. She had known that there was another body in the shack with them, but she was unable to see who exactly. If it was a Tree Elf, and if "Galen" truly did pass their trials, then she had certainly been sent after an interesting individual. One that her king would be very wrong in killing in the first place, as well as giving her insight into the man she would come to call "master".

"T-t-thank you, ma'am," he stuttered. 

"Please, call me Necela. I wish for no formalities here."

Galen rubbed the back of his scalp as his hand began to tremble with his nervousness. "Yes... Necela. I don't wanna be rude or nothin' but what did I do to earn your attention?"

The goddess crossed her legs over while her wings gave a sudden beat, sprinkling off a bit of silver powder onto Celia. The elf sneezed, but ultimately stayed locked in her slumber as Necela clasped her hands together. 

"To be plain, I need an instrument," she said. "One I can trust to do what must be done. While there are many who may be able to do the task, you are... uniquely equipped with your tools to quell threats that would otherwise prove fatal to any warrior Atzla has to offer. Will you help me?"

Being asked a favor by an immortal, a goddess at that, Galen could only imagine the good coming from the favor she would owe in return. Without a moments delay, he answered, "Of course."

"Good. It is well that you spared Petra, because you may need her... lethal abilities."

The last words struck him the wrong way, triggering several alarms within his head. "Wait, I'm going to be... You want me to kill? Aren't you a goddess of life?"

That soft look about Necela quickly changed into a deep-set frown, almost as sneer. Immediately Galen was taken aback by the dark cloud that loomed over the deity, biting his tongue to keep any more comments from slipping out. 

The cheer in her voice became rage, both her feet planting firmly on the floor as she leaned forward toward Galen. Her nostrils flared as she growled, "Galen. I am the Goddess of Life on Raska. Do not think I lack a reason when I ask of you a task that will bring about the end of several men. The crimes committed by these monsters have destroyed many lives over many years and, as of late, they have become bold. Since the start of last winter, two Atzla villages have been destroyed, and a third settlement has been targeted for the morning after tomorrow. I have sought them out, I have warned them. They have not heeded me. Now, I need you."

"Why not end their lives yourself, ka goltrai?" Petra asked.

Necela waved a dismissive gesture in the Neko's direction, though the ropes around her wrists suddenly came undone. A cautious look shot from Galen to Petra as she brought her hands around and rubbed the marks in her fur. She sucked in her lower lip at the sight of her empty finger tips, quickly shoving them under her thighs to keep them out of sight. 

"I do not end their lives because I want them to undergo judgement," Necela explained. "They believe themselves above my rule, that they can never be cast to the Nether no matter how terrible their sins. Galen, and you, Petra Dihyor, will show them otherwise."

Without warning, the goddess rose to her feet and waved her hand above her head, showering herself in the silver dust as her body lost its biological form. Her skin turned to silver as her flesh dried out and turned to ash within. A ghostly spirit stepped forth from the shining shell, its spectral wings spreading wide as the corpse behind it eroded into dust.

All logic and half Galen's trust in physics were thrown from his mind as he witnessed this transformation. Had his eyes gone any wider, they would have popped out of his head.

"Yariid has them slated for twenty millennia in the hands of Olair, master of suffering," Necela continued, speaking as if nothing unusual had happened. "If I was to sweep these monsters from this world, they would not go through an afterlife. My powers do not allow me to destroy a mortal body without destroying its soul as well. Their minds, their bodies, their spirits, all would be purged from existence. And for the suffering they have caused, I would not grant them such a courtesy until after they have served their time in the Nether."

The Private's hand was trembling terribly now as the goddess's starry-night eyes burned up like a red dawn. How prone she was to such vengeful acts, he did not know as he had little knowledge about the deity. One thing he did know is that whoever these people were, they probably done something terrible to earn her wrath.




Going Feet First Ch. 03



Author's note: this story continues my tale, 'Going feet First', and follows Galen, a soldier once in Vietnam, now on an interesting journey into a medieval fantasy world filled with Elves, Magic, and all kinds of interesting creatures.

I will say now that this story is longer and much more detailed than both of my previous chapters. This chapter does not contain any sex scenes, but I will make up for that later.

Any point where there is a line of dots it is a scene-change. A three-dot break is only a change of perspective within the same scene.

Now, without further ado...

Welcome to Raska.

....................................

Going Feet First

Chapter 3: Unto the Breach

.....................................

The weight of a well-fed deer hung over a Neko's left shoulder while a heavily muscled boar lay limp over the right. With a long string of squirrels hanging off his belt, the stocky male groaned with the weight of his catch as he staggered out into the open clearing around the Willher village.

Sweat dripped down from his cropped mane of mud-brown hair and fur; the salty beads ran along discolored patches of grey in his coat wrought by old scars. Down his right arm lay an entire strip of silver hair a finger-width wide where he had been sliced by a Ra'zorlich blade. Where injuries like this had gone deeper, his fur never had recovered its natural shade. The skin, muscles, and bone healed; the hair never did. All over his body, his torso and arms especially, lay the patches of grey or silver in varying sizes.

These marks from battle were looked upon by some with disdain, though he showed them off with pride as they were his trophies from years of fighting, and winning.

As the Hunter stood staring at the village across the clearing, his perspiration began seeping into the cuts on his leather armor and over the open wounds in his skin. He winced, biting down on the scar that ran over his lip and down the chin of his otherwise fair, if not handsome face.

So close now, then I'll give that lazy disgrace a lesson not soon forgotten. I'll tear her claws out for this... he swore in his mind.

The first glimpse of daylight was emerging over the horizon; it would not be long until the sun's rays will cast down onto her bed to wake her. As the male Neko learned from previous mornings watching her, she always struggled with the waking hours, overcome with drowsiness and the wish to return to the dreaming world. It would be during this time of stupor that he would take action. No second thoughts this time, no inhibitions of morality, he would finally go through with it.

A year he had pressed her for this; a year she had been his tracker, a year she had always pushed him away. No longer. This morning he would have her purity and she would have his kittens whether she wanted to or not. With everything he had done for the tribe, the bandits he had slain and the bounties of meat he had claimed to feed their numbers in excess, none would stop his courting of her or punish him for his act. She belonged to him.

Shoulders aching and legs nearly dead from exhaustion, the Neko hunter made started across the clearing toward his village. Even in the early dawn light, the two guards standing watch at the entrance immediately took notice of his presence. Hands moving to their weapons, they took a defensive stance and stood prepared to defend at a moment's notice.

The fire in the braziers beside them had inadvertently hindered their night vision, the breeze blowing at their back carrying the new comer's scent away from their post. Both guards could only wait to see who the visitor was. When the hulking figure drew near the guards began to move forward to greet him. The second they made out his face however, their hands quickly parted from their swords.

"Emiel?" the one guard said in shock. "Where have you been?!"

"Bandits," the discolored Neko answered, wincing as another bead of sweat slipped into his wounds. "Take these to the butcher for me; I have business to tend to."

Before either guard could probe him further, the hunter tossed both his deer and boar into the arms of the guards and dropped his squirrels at their feet. While they stumbled with the sudden and unexpected burdens, Emiel yawned and pressed on into the camp.

Free of his gathered game, he straightened up his back and stretched out his arms, sighing in sweet relief as his spine cracked and popped into alignment. With a growing smile, he pulled a chip of medicinally impregnated wood from a pouch on his belt, the last of three from his semi-annual limit, and placed it in his mouth.

It took time for the medicine to act, for his saliva to moisturize the dried medicine in the wood as he bit down on it, but soon pains all over his body melted away from his muscles with the comforting warmth sweeping over his skin and insides. Relief and pleasure were audible in his sigh; he felt as though he had stepped into a steamy hot spring on a cold winter night.

He knew the concentrated herbs boiled into the wood wouldn't heal him, but the lack of pain and restored vigor would still serve him well. After three days in the forest, two of which were spent driving a pack of human bandits from the Willher territory after his tracker disappeared, he needed the relief, and release greater than the addictive lure of Kultren medicine.

The sky above had grown a bit brighter as Emiel stalked the streets of the village, dirt and rocks crunching under his bare toes. He didn't care for the stones jabbing into the pads of his feet though, as they were too numb from both his walk and his medicine.

By the time the last ache in his muscles had been suppressed, he'd come into sight of her home. Looking around at the barren streets of the village, he inwardly grinned as there was not a single waking creature in sight. None would disturb him, this time was his.

At this moment, she would be sleeping soundly in her bed, enjoying her day of rest between her days of tracking. Emiel did hope she forgotten that this day was his time of rest as well. If she did, then she would not expect or be prepared for what he had in store.

Claws emerging from his fingers, Emiel approached her tent and smoothly pulled the canvas door flap aside. Right then the first thing that struck his senses was the smell. Sweat, a female a few weeks shy of going into heat and... human? Little mind to the human, alarms went off in Emiel's mind as he wondered, Why does it reek of sex?!

His emotions, already broiling, had his body vibrating as he took notice of the vast change her quarters had undergone. She was there, sleeping belly down on the floor, but wrapped up in a giant sheet the likes of which he had never seen. There were several green, wooden boxes on the far side of the tent as well, and some sort of pack beside them that was completely alien to the veteran hunter.

"Michael?" she mumbled, her head lifting up from some sort of green pillow or shirt.

She yawned as she turned her head back toward Emiel, eyes out of focus in her morning stupor. "You rise too early, come back to bed..."

Emiel's seethed in anger; his eyes could glow red as a silent, savage snarl revealed his teeth.

Why are you speaking human?! Is that who you have mated?! A year you reject my advances, and in three days you find a mate?! I've killed for you, you errant whore!

Drops of blood escaped his clenched fists as his claws pushed into his palm. Pain numbed by the medicine being crushed in his jaws, Emiel stepped further into Mila's tent, looming over the woman with his tail lashing between his legs. His leather shorts became too small and snug with the stiffening erection beneath, the scent of her body enticing him to pounce right there.

At the same time, though, the stench of her quarters brought up the image in his head of the human that had been between her thighs, flooding her with his despicable seed. It sickened the warrior to take air in through his nose; she was absolutely coated with the stench. If he did not move quickly, it would be half-breeds growing in her belly, not full-blooded Nekos destined for strength and ferocity. The former simply would not do.

In her usual fatigued manner, Mila rolled over onto her back to better face the man standing at her feet. Chest exposed and tail playfully flicking about, her eyes opened just enough to focus on the figure before her then widened as she finally recognized it.

"You disgraceful waste of fur," Emiel growled in a low voice.

Before a single sound could escape her mouth, the Hunter pounced down upon her, his hands clamping down on her throat. Instinct made her take hold of his wrists to try and pull them away from her windpipe, but then his claws depressed her skin.

"Make a noise and I shall crush your throat. Fight me and I shall snap your neck."

Short, fearful breaths struggled past Mila's constricted airway, her eyes widely focused on his enraged face as she made feeble attempts to remove his hands.

Bringing his eyes just a breath away from hers, he whispered, "You have betrayed me, again. Now I am done with forgiveness, this time you will pay me back with kitt-"

WHACK.

Emiel slumped forward, his hands limp around Mila's neck and body motionless on top of her chest. A drop of blood and patch of fur stained the butt of the pistol in Michael's hand as he stood over them. Heavy, controlled breaths escaped the pursed lips of his rage-twisted face and flexing chest. With a throaty roar, he slammed his boot into Emiel's side to throw him off of his mate.

Heart pounding in her chest, Mila shoved the unconscious body away and sat speechless as she stared at it. When she looked over at Michael, he had his weapon holstered and was already coming to her side, wrapping his arms protectively around her and pulling her close against his chest.

"He was going to..." she mumbled.

"Then I would have blown his goddamn brains out," Michael interrupted just as heavy footsteps started approaching from outside.

First were concerned-sounding words and angered growls, the sound of metal sliding against leather, the rapid crunch of dirt underfoot. Within seconds, three armed Nekos came running up to the door flap, weapons drawn.

"Mila! What was that roar-"

The warrior cut himself off as he saw her wrapped in Michael's embrace, the Tracker's former hunting partner unconscious beside her bed.

"Whoever this fucker is," Michael started, voice flaring up again in anger. "He tried to force himself on Mila. Either you take care of him, or I will liberate his brain from his fucking skull."

The Willher warriors stared in awe at Michael for a moment, wondering how he had claimed victory of Emiel without as much as a scratch to show for it. Yet they did not spend much time deliberating the moment before they moved into the tent. With a grunt they seized the unconscious Hunter by the ankles and dragged him away from Mila and out the door of the tent. After waiting for the other two to go out of earshot, the remaining warrior leaned in close to the shaken couple sitting at his feet.

"You are lucky to have your heart in your chest, Michael," the warrior stated. "Emiel has professions like you, both hunter and warrior. And he is very skilled at both."

"Am I supposed to care?" the Sergeant asked. "He laid a hand on my woman; nobody touches my family and lives."

"I understand," the warrior stated. "Emiel will be caged and elders will convene to judge him tonight. Until then, good luck on your trial."

........................

It's not happening... It's not happening!

Celia didn't want to watch, but she wasn't able to turn away. The Elf's teeth sank into the knotted rag used to gag her, the coarse linen damp with her tears and spent screams. The twine wrapped tight around her wrists and ankles burned her skin any time she struggled against them, a method her captor had used to bring a swift end to any attempts at escape.

Not that she could escape anyway, even if she wasn't bound around the ankles. Not with the Lycan guarding her.

Celia couldn't remove the image of the bipedal canine from her mind. His wolf-like head- from the elongated snout and pointed ears, to the powerful eyes and long, canine tongue- shadowed over her as she cried out for her soldier. She could sense his body, completely covered in thick, white fur, dense with muscle, standing so close behind her. As was typical to his race, she knew the Lycan wore nothing over his chest. The only modesty that the males of his race had was seen in the pants they wore.

Both the Lycan's hands and feet were all identical to other humanoids, though Celia could feel the thick, un-retractable claws in his fingers cinched around her hair. Had he been standing in front of her, she would have that curled, canine tail jutting out from his black, felt pants slapping her in the face.

It may have ben that having a tail in her face would be the preferable alternative to her current position; forced her on her knees and her hair grasped in an iron grip to keep her head facing forward. The Lycan wanted to make her to watch with watering eyes as three men in plate armor moved in toward her Galen.

The young soldier was hardly moving as he lay on the ground, roughly fifty paces upstream from the Elf between the river bank and the tree line. Petra was kneeling at his side, hovering over him, screaming and crying to unleash her emotions as she deliberately beat on his chest with closed fists. Fresh blood staining the Neko's hands came off onto the breast of Galen's jacket, though thankfully that blood was not his.

The man who had thrown a knife into the soldier's stomach, he had not lasted a second after trying for his life. Petra had pounced on him in an instant, tearing open his throat and ripping out vocal organs in less time than it took to blink one's eye. It was his blood that now stained her hands; his blood that she now smeared over Galen's chest as she tried to keep the Private from following his attacker into the Nether.

Petra now pressured his wound after removing the blade in his belly to allow him a chance to perform his healing magic. She even coaxed his hand into keeping its glow for as long as possible though, in the end, it proved futile. His face paled as the white glow died from his palm, his grip going weak in hers.

As Petra watched the strength fade from his ocean-blue eyes, she felt a quivering tear in her gut that she had sworn long ago to never acknowledge or allow again.

Fear.

Fear that she couldn't rightly explain as it took the place of the joy that she thought she should feel. The life to which she was bound to serve is ending. The collar around her neck was loosening, about to fall off. In Galen's passing, she would be free.

Why did this fact scare her? Her mind couldn't wrap around it. His life was fading and her heart was quivering. She desperately kept his magic hand pressed to his belly, urging him to finish the chant to complete the healing spell. But it was an effort wasted.

Teeth digging into her lower lip, Petra brought her fist down and slammed it onto Galen's ribcage to cause a surge of blood to erupt from his mouth. His whole body gave a violent spasm before his head rolled off to the side. Red drool rolled off his lips as his eyes landed on Celia, taking in her image for the last time before they finally slid shut.

...

No... No... the Elf thought, trying to shake her head free from the hand that held her in place.

She wanted to cry out for him through her gag, but it was no use. The Lycan holding onto her had full dominance over her body. Only her thoughts were her own as she kept thinking, I'll wake up... we'll be in the cave... this is all a nightmare... he'll be okay... this is not happening!

...

When her master finally went still, a horrified Petra leaned down over him, pressing an ear over his heart. Her tail flicked upward as she listened for several moments; a single tear ran her cheek as she looked to the Knights approaching her with their hands on the hilts of their swords.

From the looks on their faces, she knew they were coming for Galen. Her focus momentarily shifted back to the soldier, claws inching out from her fingertips as she finally let go of his hand.

Before their blades could leave the Knights' sheaths, Petra had grabbed the soldier's rifle and gear and broke for the tree line. One of the Knights raised a bow, notching an arrow and firing at the Neko. With a feline grace, she tilted her head to the side and allowed the projectile to pass by without so much as grazing her hair.

When the slaver went to pursue, Pretayus caught his soldier by the collar. "We are shorthanded as it is. Forget the fur-ball."

"Yes, Pretayus," the man responded, returning to his place at his boss's side.

The slave master didn't delay further; he sauntered up to Galen with a touch of joy about him. He circled around the body of the soldier, jabbing his sabaton into his side and waiting for a reaction. Receiving none, he furrowed his brow and thought back for a moment, remembering how the young warrior had pressed his glowing hand over the knife wound in his gut.

Rubbing the scraggly stubble on his chin, Pretayus's dark eyes narrowed as he came down to one knee beside Galen. Gently, with the remaining two fingers on his right hand, the index and middle, he opened up the blood-stained hole in the belly of the Private's olive drab uniform while placing his other hand on the boy's chest over his heart.

"This does well for my spirits, boy... We have a score to settle..." he snickered as he eyed the partly healed wound in the Private's belly and felt the struggling beats of his heart.

Joy and rage burning in his chest, Pretayus raised his mutilated hand up high and slammed it down into Galen's gut. A crimson glob burst from the soldier's mouth as the blood cleared from his airway. With the bile that had been suffocating him gone, Galen began sucking in each breath as though it were his last.

His maniacal simper growing larger, Pretayus grabbed Galen by the collar and lifted him up with his left arm. The soldier's pack slid off his arms, falling to the ground as his aggressor drew his free hand back into a two-fingered fist.

"Good thing you're alive, boy! I like to look men in the eye before I turn their life into a living Nether!"

Galen's eyes lolled off to the side for a moment, his mind incoherently grasping what was happening besides the immense agony in his midsection. At the last second, he pulled together enough to brace himself as a fist slammed into his face, sending his vision into a flurry of stars.

Every inch of his face screamed in pain, his mind slipping even further away from coherent thoughts before his cheek turned to an icy field of numb. Whatever mental strength he had managed to recover after his near suffocation was replaced by the most intense migraine of his life.

"Nothing to say boy?! HUH?! Answer me, dammit!" Pretayus thundered, yanking Galen forward to bring his face within inches of his own.

"He looks out of it, sir. I'd say you knocked the brains right outta his head."

For a moment, Pretayus studied Galen's eyes, taking in the sheer emptiness inside them and the lame movements of his body. This sight amused the slaver as the soldier blinked several times, blood trickling down from his nose and his gaze beginning to drift again.

"Such a whelp," the slave master chortled. He hocked up the phlegm from the base of his throat and spat in Galen's face before tossing him to the ground.

Squaring his shoulders, Pretayus turned to his two men and ordered, "Strip his jacket."




Going Feet First Ch. 03



"Celia..." Galen muttered as the two men came and knelt down on either side of him. Heaving together the two managed to flip him over onto his back. His entire right side began aching in pain from his landing and blood, again, begun to pool out from his wound. With all his pain, there was neither strength nor ability within the Private to fight the two men robbing him of his gear.

After a struggle with the buckle of the webbing and the buttons of the jacket, the two men managed to open up Galen's uniform. Carefully as to not damage the Private or his possessions any further, they removed the jacket and cast his other gear aside. In their haste to satisfy Pretayus' impatience, the leather holster hanging off his belt slipped beneath their notice.

"Give me that," Pretayus ordered, snatching the green jacket away from his subordinate and holding it up before him.

He gently rubbed the fabric with his mutilated hand, testing its texture and strength. An impressed look quickly came about the slaver as he touched it to his face to sample its softness.

With an approving nod, he started to go through the jacket pockets. First one he searched revealed folded piece of paper, though Pretayus only took a few seconds to analyze the writing before he shrugged and tossed it aside. None of the characters made any sense to him, thus they weren't of any interest to him. The other breast pocket proved more bountiful. From it the slaver fished out a small silver locket, opening it up and to reveal two color photos inside.

"The artist who painted these portraits must be the finest on all of Raska, putting such detail into something so small."

Pretayus inspected the tiny photo of a brunette woman, smiling with a puzzled-looking baby in her lap. A taller, more muscular man stood behind them, his arms placed upon his wife's shoulders as he smiled at the camera. Interestingly enough, Galen was near identical to this man in most every way. The only real difference was the man's gruff, hard look and blonde hair as opposed to Galen's brown.

The locket's second photo depicted the same man, only now standing alone dressed up in a strange, dark-green costume of clean-cut lines and refined appearance. Several colored ribbons and decorative, metal studs attached to the chest fascinated Pretayus, though he did not recognize the land or people from which it might come. The whole attire of the pictured man proved quite admirable and desirable to the slave master, especially the bronze star and gold heart hanging off a purple ribbon.

Closing the locket and tossing it to the ground, Pretayus smugly asked, "Tell me, were those paints of your parents? I must find them someday; put their heads upon pikes and burn their home to the ground for spawning such a bastard child."

"I'll... kill you," Galen muttered, finally able to focus on something more than his pain. Lying sprawled out in the dirt, he tried to pick himself up, only to have a heavy mithril boot brought down upon his chest.

"Stay down, boy. I'm still enjoying this moment," Pretayus growled.

The slaver posed for a few moments, taking in the sweet air of victory over the Private at his feet. There was a smile on his face as he took in the sun, a slight breeze picking up to blow his back his long black hair.

Filled with a glorious feeling, Pretayus then cast his shredded robe aside, the expensive silk collapsing at his feet as to reveal his shining, mithril, plate armor. Every piece fit tight against his muscular body, almost becoming a second skin as it did little to constrict his movements. A fine, gold-handle, longsword hung at his side in a hard, leather sheath decorated with silver inlay. He swung the jacket around and fed his arms through the sleeves, snugging it up over his armor and checking the fit.

"Aside from your filthy blood staining the belly and the long length of the sleeves, I say this looks much better on me. It's not soft like silk, but it's tougher, it's rather unique, hehe, and it's yours." He chuckled. "Whatever you have made this from, I find myself quite an admirer of the material."

Galen glared at Pretayus as he swept his mop of black hair out from under the collar and began doing up the buttons. When the Private seemed to be getting too comfortable, Pretayus pressed his boot harder onto his chest and swept a bit of sand off the jacket's shoulder boards. "So what do you call this? Where do I find it?"

"Go to Hell," Galen wheezed.

Pretayus crossed his arms, one hand stroking his chin while the other patted the screaming eagle patch on his shoulder. "I do not know if this 'Hell' is where I find this material or some unpleasant place of suffering you wish me to be. Bah, it does not matter; I will get what I want eventually. Somebody in these damned woods will know where this material came from."

He kicked off from the Private, turning to his two men who had begun looking over his webbing and toying with the locket and pistol magazines. "Leave those things and pick this bastard up. I have something special in mind for him."

Not wanting to leave the curious objects behind, the two men stuffed the items into their pockets and took hold of Galen's arms. The Private had not the strength to fight them as they pulled his arms over their shoulders. Praying for Celia's safety, he let his feet drag along the ground as the two men hauled him off to god-knows where.

...............................

A whole strip of bark had been torn from a tree's body as a sharp claws dug right down to the outer layers of the phloem tissue. Petra's throat rumbled with deep growls as she sneered at the two men hauling her master away in an unceremonious manner. Every man in the group, from the Lycans to the leader had their face locked into her impeccable memory, where it would stay for as long as she drew breath.

The assassin watched as the Pretayus and his human followers met up with their Lycan friend holding onto Celia downstream, stopping so the wolfman could unbind the Elf's feet. He then pulled a long chain from his belt, wrapping it around his waist and hooking it onto a collar around her neck. With his catch on a short leash, he proceeded to lift up the large treasure chest on which he had been sitting and rest it upon his shoulder.

Brandishing an amused smirk, Pretayus inspected the features of the Elf. Her face, her breasts, her body, he analysed and undressed the entirety of her with his eyes. Then he suddenly made a motion with his hand while talking aloud. His men forced Galen to lie on the ground with both hands brought together over his wound.

Forcing herself to be calm, Petra sat idly by as the Lycan snapped his jaws at Celia's face in a threatening manner, likely to silence her as it appeared she broke down into tears once more. Not that she could be blamed. Something was happening in front of her, and though the assassin couldn't see what exactly, she did catch Pretayus fiddle with something hanging around his neck.

The slave master struggled with his necklace, and then whatever he fidgeted with came apart. A pulse of magic burst through the air, rustling the trees and making Petra waver in her stance as she felt a rush of energy course through her veins.

What in Necela's name was that? she wondered as Pretayus turned to Galen, yelling for him to do something.

It was then that Galen's fingers began to glow with his gifted magic, his mouth moving to begin a chant. The soldier's pained cry scattered several birds to the winds; the collar around Petra's neck snugging up against her skin. When the Soldier moved his hands away from his belly, the gouge left by the knife was gone, color returning to his paled skin.

They want him alive, Petra thought, watching as Pretayus pieced his necklace back together.

After speaking a bit more, and spiting a hateful reaction from Galen, the slave master's men forced open the Private's jaw. Laughing, Pretayus pulled a vial from his girdle and poured a yellow elixir into the soldier's mouth.

Nothing visible happened to him at first, but Galen's physical resistance came to an end; his body stiff as a board. An order was issued, the slavers picked him up off the ground, and the group continued on downstream.

Not long after that did the second Tree Elf, the brainwashed slave of Pretayus, came out from the bush with a bounty of greens in her arms. Wearing nothing but one of Celia's roses in her hair, she happily greeted the slavers and began offering up her gatherings. When the party all finished taking their shares, she hugged onto the arm of her master and hand-fed him the rest of her greens.

Tapping her claws against the trunk of the tree, Petra began plotting her next move in this twisted situation. She knew what she faced, and she doubted the slavers truly knew who they were dealing with, having let her flee as they did. Perhaps they underestimated her strength, and if so, they would soon pay dearly for it.

All I have to do is get Galen his thunder-stick and pull Celia away from the Lycan. Pretayus will die, and our goddess will be pleased, she thought.

If she figured out how to operate the rifle herself, she may have been able to use it. The one time she had the opportunity to learn how Galen wielded it, she had been too frightened by the deafening blasts. All she did know was that she would have to learn how to ignore it as it began to weep at her side, a sorry sound resonating from the moss and carrying on to the trees.

"Do not fear, weapon. We will have our master back," she assured, looking over to the pack and combat webbing lying on the ground where Galen had fallen.

Her few words gave the weapon a devious hum, the moss body massaging her palms as she returned to the river.

Pretayus and his kind had gone downstream and were nearly out of sight when Petra emerged from the bush. Both the belt filled with gold and the pack full of ammunition were hanging over her shoulder just as the rifle and shotgun were both slung across her back. Despite already being weighed down so heavily, she was still capable of pulling on Galen's webbing and main pack. However a problem quickly surfaced. The magazines in the bag rattled constantly against each other, and the two weapons she carried tended to slap around on her back.

Stealth will be a significant challenge... she thought, adjusting the many straps over her shoulders. But I will survive.

Careful to see without being seen, Petra returned to the shadowed comfort of the forest and moved in pursuit of the slavers. She was sure to maintain a visual on all of Pretayus' men at all times while keeping them out of earshot of the rattling ammo. This proved no challenge as they moved along the river bank in the open; the rushing water covering her own sounds as she moved through the bush not far behind them.

.................................

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Mila asked Michael, bracing a hand on his shoulder as she pulled her leg back to press her heel against the back of her thigh.

Standing at the edge of the clearing around the Willher village, with the eyes of several prominent hunters upon him, Michael answered, "I am, but are you? After what happened this morning?"

For a second the Neko paused, but then ultimately gave an assured nod. "I am still overcoming it, but I will be fine."

A smile grew from Michael's admiration of her strength, the Sergeant planting a kiss upon her cheek. It was a simple gesture that brought a brighter mood to her rattled nerves and a playful flick to her tail.

Despite the morning's events, the Sergeant was completely ready for the task ahead. A touch of lingering anger hung over him, but it only served to make him even more determined to complete his trial so he could finally confront Emiel face-to-face. Besides, he did not waste an entire day readying his body and preparing to prove his hunting prowess just to back out when it came time to deliver.

The Willhers had given him a home, a woman, and new, soft leather pants. That pair had his holster stitched into the side and various pockets and loops for both his bayonet knife and tomahawk. The hunters even outfitted him with a bow and quiver for his first hunt, though he still carried his rifle as well- A preference that did not go unnoticed by the Huntmaster.

Right from the start Michael could sense the doubt the Willher hunters had in his abilities. The bipedal felines were hard-pressed to believe a human could keep up to their demands: two deer or an equivalent amount of meat every time he went out on a hunt.

Most Nekos could fill such and order before the noon if they found the ever-changing, game-rich areas, and then would often spend the rest of the day how they wished. None could believe a human could have the strength to meet the quota. After the miraculous recovery Galen bestowed upon him two nights prior, Michael did not only plan defy their expectations and meet the quota, he meant to exceed it.

Every card was going out onto the table; he had nothing to either hide or hold back.

As Mila finished her stretches, Michael began pulling on the drawstring of his bow, testing its tension as the hunters waited patiently for them to finish their preparations. The Neko males watched with a distinct curiosity as their eager human recruit fired a practice shot into a nearby tree.

The first arrow struck the tree, the stone tip sinking into the bark. The successive two arrows fell into a tight group around it, less than a four inch deviation between the shots. A childhood spent out in the country where ammo was scarce made the soldier quite proficient with this ancient means of hunting, though he needed to blow the dust off that part of his brain and resurrect his long idle talent.

Showing no sign of being impressed, Huntmaster Hail broke from the standing crowd of hunters and approached Michael. With a hard edge to his tone, he stated, "You will have until nightfall to bring back what we ask of you. Any longer, and you shall not be accepted into the hunters."

"I understand," Michael answered as he crossed his arms, a smirk growing under his powerful green eyes. "But tell me, where should I hit the deer? In the heart, or in the eye?"

Hail scoffed at the remark, sticking his nose higher into the air as he said in a casual manner, "My hunters aim for the hearts to drop it quickly. They use only one arrow to save skin for leather work."

"Heart it is, then," Michael answered. "Come on, Mila, let's do this."

"Of course," she answered.

Retrieving his practice shots from the tree, Michael returned two to his quiver and kept a third on the drawstring. He gave the hunters his best regards, as well as taking a moment to lock eyes with Hail. In that single moment, the Huntmaster's eyes narrowed under a furrowed brow, Michael responded with a respectful nod before following Mila into the wild.

Not long after they had ventured into the trees did the village disappear from sight, leaving only the seemingly endless expanse of forest around the couple. Finally being away from that last touch of "civilization" left only the wonders of nature to beckon for Michael's attention.

All around him, he could hear flocks of birds chirp at each other, listen to wild canines barking over territory, see rodents of all kinds scurrying about the dirt and tree roots. The sweet smell of morning dew floated on a warm, gentle breeze, as well as the scents of a flower patch coming to bloom somewhere nearby.

The relative solitude allowed Michael to calm his nerves and focus on the senses he had honed all his life. It was for the first time since he was sucked out the side of the C-130 that he could pause and fully take in his surroundings, to completely meld with the nature he loved so much.

"Something wrong?" Mila asked.

Smiling as he shook his head, Michael answered, "Nothing. Just letting it all sink in."

"Sink in?"

"Allowing myself a chance to look at this place, without being crippled or dealing with some task. This is the first time I've had a chance to actually come out here and just... stop. Take it all in and admire it."

"I see. Shall I move ahead? Perhaps find some game?"

Michael thought about it a moment, then shook his head as he began moving again. "No, let's stick together for now. We have all day to hunt and I want to see what's left of the Hercules."

"Alright," Mila responded before drifting over to a tree.

She crouched down a bit, bracing her legs before leaping several feet up onto the side of the tree. Her claws sunk into the bark, her muscles flexing to support her body as she quickly scaled the conifer right up to the top branches. A broad smile crossed Michaels face as he flattened his hand over his eyes, blocking the sun to watch her take a perch.

"What are you doing up there?" he called, watching her crouch low and leap to the next tree.

"Watching for game and exercising my legs," she answered, swinging off one branch and landing perfectly upon another.

Michael laughed silently to himself as she prowled the foliage of the trees above. Her position definitely gave her a better view of the area and made tracking deer that much easier if they were close by.

As she moved within the treetops, Mila did not once let her soldier leave her sight. Ever vigilant the Neko remained on the lookout for some of Atzla's more dangerous predators: Creegers, the large, forest cats that had twin tails equipped with natural bone-blades that often raided the Willher pasture for food; Wargs, the vicious, feral wolves said to be a cousin species of Lycans. As well there were bears, jackalope, snakes, and a dozen other creatures that could harm or even kill a person, each one of the creatures on Mila's watch list as she doubted Michael knew the threat most of them posed.

A mile later into the wild, a bush rustled ahead of Michael, bringing both him and Mila to full alert. Bow taut in his hands, claws ready in hers, they stopped and waited for the creature to appear.

Out from under the branches and the leaves, a small hare poked its head out. Its nose wiggled and cringed as it sniffed about, its small, brown eyes staring at the human before it. For a second it paused, taking in the sight and cocking its head at the foreign-looking human.

At first the Sergeant laughed, but his Tracker did not. The hare crawled out from under its bush, shaking out its body and stretching its tiny feet. Even from her perch high in the tree, Mila could see the two antlers growing out from in between the creature's long ears.

"Michael, get away from that!" she snapped.

The Sergeant glanced up to her, one brow cocked as he formed an amused grin. "What? It's a hare with antlers."

"That's a jackalope! They're dangerous!" she retorted.

"Are you kidding? It's just a hare-"

A deep growl made Michael's eyes widen, then sink back down. The white, fluffy hare was standing on its hind legs at his boots, staring up at him with its teeth flashing in a mean snarl. Past its pair of big buckteeth, it had a mouth full of sharp canines in front and molars in back, a dentistry perfect for chewing both ferns, and flesh.

"Back away slowly, don't make any sudden movements," Mila ordered.

Slightly unnerved by the tiny beast, Michael backed up and popped the snap on his holster. This didn't even faze the jackalope as it came down onto all fours, drool dripping from its mouth as it snarled.

"Screw it," Michael muttered as he drew his pistol and shot the jackalope right between the eyes.

The ACP round slammed into the hare's skull, tearing open the fur but not piercing the bone. The creature flattened on the forest floor, still breathing but completely knocked from its senses with its eyes spinning in its sockets.




Going Feet First Ch. 03



"What the fuck?" Michael swore.

"You may wish to run, Michael," Mila said. "A jackalope's bones are stronger than iron. Once it wakes, it will kill you."

The Sergeant rolled his eyes as he brought his rifle around, readying to blow the head off the jackalope before another growl caught his ear.

Slowly looking up at the bush from which the first jackalope had come, three more antlered hares crawled out, their teeth flashing as they readied their stance like a bulls to charge.

"Michael," Mila called, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Run through the bushes. Jackalope are clumsy with their antlers, they will get stuck."

The first jackalope charged, the Sergeant turning on his heel and running full tilt through the bush, saying, "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," over and over again as an angered trio of carnivorous hares chased after him. He ducked a tree branch and jumped over a rock, running as fast as he could with the demonic bunnies in hot pursuit.

"Shiiittt!!"

................

Giving a full effort not to wince, Michael clenched his teeth as Mila wrapped a wool bandage around a bite mark in his arm. The Neko shook her head as she finished tying the knot of the bandage, ignoring the tooth lodged in the side of his boot and the three dead jackalope on the ground beside them.

"I told you to run," she said.

"Yeah, I know. Fucking jackalope are strong, but still couldn't survive a 7.62 or a knife in the side," he said as he tightened his grip on his rifle.

"No, they could not. I'm sure your victory here will impress Hail very much. He hates jackalope. Now let's gather these bodies and get to finding more game that your thunder has not scared off."

For the next hour, the couple moved silently through the forest, creeping up on anything that may prove edible. Soon two, black squirrels and a three-foot-long snake were claimed, all fat with meat. Twice did Michael spot a deer, but both times the creatures quickly fled when something scared it.

"How long has it been since you last hunted game?" Mila asked from her perch.

"Too long it seems. Used to bag one of these all the time when I was a teen."

"Give it time. As you have said, we have all day."

Sighing and easing off the drawstring of his bow, Michael stopped and grabbed his canteen off his webbing. Seconds after Mila came crawling down the tree, springing off the bark and landing beside him. She stretched her arms and legs, moving up against Michael as he finished taking a drink. When he nearly screwed the lid back onto his canteen, her lips pressed in against his, her hand stealing the metal flask away.

"So where did you go this morning, before I woke?" she asked, fumbling with the container until she managed to remove the lid.

"For a morning walk," he started. "To cool my head off after the huge explosion we heard last night. I don't know why, but I have this feeling that Galen might be in trouble, and I just wanted some air to settle my mind."

"I'm sure he is fine. He felled a troll and has a Tree Elf with him. With your world's weapons, and his skill, only the fools would dare threaten him."

"Yeah. Fools like that... what was his name? Emiel?"

Mila sighed as the name came up, taking a gulp of water and returning the canteen. Michael fit the container back into his webbing and leaned back on his rear foot, one hand firmly grasping his bow while the other gripped the sling of his rifle.

"Mila, who was that son of a bitch?"

The Neko paused a moment, hanging her head down as she shut her eyes. "He has been my hunting partner, and me his tracker, for the past year. We split up that day when your Hercules fell from the sky. He went after several deer that were running from the crash; I stayed behind to watch your metal beast. We were supposed to meet up later but... well, you and Galen happened."

"But why was in your tent, hands on your neck?"

Again, a shamed look came about her. "Because I was not happy with my pairing with him. Never have I been. Our elders paired us because we are both good at our professions, but they refused to accept the dangers of placing a female under the command of one like Emiel. His impulses were so bad I used to leave him during hunts to try to find better areas to hunt or gather. This and I... I often ran when we came across bandits or Ra'zorlichs. I'm good at running, hiding, tracking, but not fighting. I can barely kill deer, for Necela's sake!"

Mila's voice was climbing now, her tone going higher as a tear escaped her eye. "And Emiel wanted me to help him fight when we encountered people with swords! Swords, of all things! The one time I stood and fought, I had nearly lost my head! Had I not gotten a lucky strike in with my claws, I would have been killed!"

"So Emiel is reckless," Michael inferred, patiently crossing his arms while she continued to vent.

Letting out a tense breath, Mila began to rack her brain for anything she could, rubbing her forehead with her palm. "Emiel is... Oh, what is the word... He cannot control himself when he becomes angry. He was so controlling and demanding of me; his words make your own curses seem kind! Many times he threatened, and even tried to hit me! I always forgave him... but it became so hard to do so. Then, at the end of each day, he would try to mate me! Use soft words and caresses, trying to talk me into joining him so he could 'explore my body.' All after yelling at me for my failings! Like... worse than you when we met..."

Mila stopped for a moment, pressing her hand firmly into her forehead as she tried to compose herself. In some ways, Michael was a lot like Emiel. Foul mouthed, violent, both had at one point threatened her, and both were bloodthirsty and battle-ready. The two men would kill at a moment's notice for any justified reason and would do so without hesitation.

But at the same time, neither of them was alike. Emiel was unstable, a walking disaster that cared only for his own gain and prestige. Michael lived for others, cared for her. Where Emiel had tried to bypass the rituals and ceremonies and tried to mate her so many times, Michael respected her and appeased her wishes the very first time. He showed her a loving heart.

Then there was the Nightwatchers, who had flashed a red negative when Mila had given Emiel a chance at the ritual to sleep together under Necela's moon. It had sent him into a rage, nearly tearing the poor butterfly apart before it managed to flutter away. A complete contrast from Michael, who they had sprinkled the silver dust upon him in approval. That alone had put all of Mila's initial fears to rest, and marked the beginning of a new stage of her life.

As her many thoughts of days yet to come traced her mind, she felt a warm presence move up behind her, hands snaking around her belly as lips pressed into the crook of her neck.

"I hate myself for some of the actions I took then, after I thought Galen had died. But know that from the moment I saw you, I fell for you. And never would I ever have done any harm to you, or let any harm come to you. You can forget about people like Emiel, because as long as I'm breathing, I won't let anyone hurt you."

A hot spring pumped out from her heart at that moment as he smooched up the side of her neck. Arousal stirred within her, heating up her sex until she could almost feel it slicken.

"Come on, let's get moving. We can finish this tonight," he whispered, much to her disappointment.

With one last kiss, Mila took back to the tree tops and Michael brought his rifle to the ready. In a swift manner, they ventured through the forest toward the direction of the crash site and whatever remained of the plane.

Not long after, the smell of burnt oil began sticking to the trees, the smoke still not completely dissipated in places where small birds and animals were found lying dead on the ground reeking of oil. One deciduous tree was impaled by a hunk of aluminum buried several inches into the bark. Steadily, more and more trees were missing leaves, some even missing entire branches.

"One Hell of a blast..." Michael muttered.

Mila crawled down to the ground beside him as the treetops had become too thin to climb through. When the couple laid eyes on the crash site, neither of them could quite fully fathom the destruction around it. The wing that had contained the fuel was gone, a black crater left in its place. The plane itself was missing its top half and now lay rolled over onto its right side, much of its fuselage deformed from the intense heat.

The body of the craft had directed most of the shockwave to the left of the plane, where several trees were leveled or burnt to cinders. All of the crosses Galen had setup were knocked over, though another, more Nekonian body had joined the dead.  

"This is the power of your world?" Mila murmured.

Sighing, Michael nodded. "Yeah. But if you think this is bad, you should see an atom bomb. It's half the size of your tent but could do a thousand times more damage than any of this. In fact, it would flatten this entire forest in a flash, kill thousands of people in the blink of an eye... part of the reason I don't want to go back to my world."

"Part of the reason?" the Neko echoed, unable to wrap her mind around such a device.

"Let's get those crosses back up and take a look at the body."

He pressed on toward the graves, ignoring the quizzical look from his companion. One by one he straightened out the crosses and made sure the dog tags were on straight. After packing down the dirt so the markers wouldn't tip over in a stiff breeze, Michael paid his respects and moved on toward the new body lying beside the plane.

Not much was left of the corpse, as it was charred all over and missing an arm. What was left of its mammary glands proved it was a female, and its tail proved it to be a Neko, something that gave Mila a cause of concern. Little else provided any evidence or clues to the woman's identity as nothing remained of her clothes or anything she may have had with her. No affects, no necklaces, rings, anything. She was just a charred mass of fused flesh.

"Michael," Mila called.

"Yes?"

He turned to see Mila standing over an emptied satchel near the tree line. The seared leather bag looked as though someone had already torn it open, pulling out the contents then casting it aside like garbage. A dozen papers, possibly from that same satchel, had been scattered about the brush, some burnt from the heat of the blast. In fact, as Michael figured, they had to have been in the satchel or they would have been incinerated when the plane went up.

"Come look at this," his Tracker called.

Wasting no time, Michael stepped over the charred corpse and walked over to the edge of the clearing to where Mila stood by the brush line. Right away she handed him a piece of paper while going over the rest of the Nekonian-script documents. When the Sergeant looked at the paper he had been given, his heart jumped. In his hands he held a near-perfect charcoal drawing of Galen's face, complete with a picture of his rifle and the eagle patch on his shoulder.

Whoever had drawn this had to have remarkable memory, and a Hell of an eye for detail, the soldier thought.

The only detail about the picture that worried Michael was the red claw painted in the corner of the page, the same symbol of the tribe to the south.

"What are these?" he asked, folding the picture and stuffing in the breast pocket of his uniform.

"Assassin documents. Detailing Galen's face, body, many things written here are about him and in great detail. Look, here it talks of a wounded friend with the black hedge hair that also must die."

"Me," Michael said, grinning.

"Yes. That body must be their assassin. I suppose the second must have been burned to ash in your trap."

"What makes you think there was two?" Michael asked as she went over the papers.

"It says here both assassins must be able to prove the death of both targets," Mila answered, showing him a document he couldn't read. "And here there is one body. Had the second survived, it would be trying to kill us."

"And if you have not encountered her, then it is as I have feared," a third, disheartened voice declared.

Both Michael and Mila spun around, the Neko readying her claws as Michael drew his sidearm. The couple froze as they faced a familiar, intimidating Neko male standing with his arms crossed over the polished plates of his armor. A shift in his stance reflected a beam of sunlight off the silver bands of his spaulders and cast a glow off his brilliant, golden-blonde fur and brushed-back hair.

The black lines of fur running down under his eyes came over his neutral face as he sighed, shoulders dropping a bit. His saddened, orange eyes stared at the corpse by the plane, then at the plane itself before they closed for second as he gave another sigh. When his eyes reopened, they were fixed upon Michael.

"Lower your weapon, human. I am not here for a fight."

"You're that bastard I saw facing down Galen," Michael stated, "The razor-lick."

"My name is Farok, human, and it is pronounced Rah-zhor-lick. Ra'zorlich. Do not insult my clan with an incompetent tongue."

"I don't care how to say your name. You tried to kill us," Michael growled.

"For invading our lands, human. But we are not in my territory anymore; there is no fight to make here. So lower your weapon."

The Sergeant eyed the sword on Farok's hip, the red claw painted on his breast plate. He thought back to when he first woke up in this world, stuck in his parachute as it was caught in the forest canopy. There had been a Ra'zorlich warrior waiting below him, blade at the ready as he spoke aloud of all the malicious things he was going to do to the paratrooper.

Then Michael recalled the viciousness with which Farok had pursued him with as Mila had carried him out of the Ra'zorlich's territory on her back. How close he came to ending their lives.

There was not a chance in Hell the Sergeant was going to trust a single member of the Ra'zorlich tribe. His finger remained wrapped around the trigger, his thumb reaching up to cock the pistol as he kept the barrel aimed directly at Farok's head.  

The Neko sighed, lowering his hands to his sides, "Fine. So be it."

A split second was all it took for the warrior to act. A pellet flew from Farok's hands and exploded in Michael's face as a round fired from his pistol. Excess powder from the pellet splashed into Mila's eyes, causing her to cry out in pain and reel back, trying to rub the powder out. At the same time, the Sergeant was knocked off his feet in a blinded daze, Farok stumbling back from the force of the bullet striking his breastplate.

When Mila cleared enough of the stinging substance from her eyes, enough to reopen them once more, the Ra'zorlich had already regained his footing. Just as her claws came back out, he pulled his blade from his sheath and swung it around, the tip stopping a hair's width from her throat.

Swallowing hard, the Willher kept as still as possible with the steel tip of the sword chilling the skin over her jugular. Her eyes drifted to the new dent in Farok's polished armor, holding her breath as she then fearfully looked up to meet his emotionless gaze.

"I did not come for blood this day, Willher, I came for answers. Answers which you have granted. Your human will recover in a few zets, by which time I will be on my way back to my lands. You will not follow; you will turn back and remember what we do to trespassers, and you will be grateful that I do not take your lives today."

Growling by the end of his speech, Farok pulled his blade back, flourishing it around and returning it to its sheath. Passing one last glance at the corpse and the piles of ashes around the plane, Farok turned away to begin the long walk back to his clan's territory.

Mila released her breath, panting heavily as she tried to calm her heavy lungs. Her vision blurred with the initial drops of tears as the armored warrior disappeared into the mutilated swath of trees without even looking back behind him.

When Mila's breathing settle, her ears caught Michael's groaning at her feet.

"Michael!" she squeaked, mentally chastising herself for her delay as she dashed to his side, brushing the last traces of the pellet's powder off his face. A sense of relief surged over her as his eyes reopened, the lack of redness showing that the powder had gone inert.

"What the fuck..." he grumbled as his muscles regained their strength.

"Shock powder. It freezes the body and dazes the mind for a short time. It loses its effect not long after being broken from its pellet, so you will be all fine in a few zets," she assured.

"I meant, what the fuck just happened with that Ra'zorlich?"

"I don't know," Mila answered, taking Michael's hand. "But we are alive and unharmed. And right now, that is what matters."

"Yeah... Fucker was quick, I never saw that thing leave his hand," Michael grumbled as she pulled him up to his feet.

"It happened, but it does not matter." She leaned in, wrapping her arms around him while planting a kiss on his lips. "He did not kill us."

Michael warmly returned her embrace as he looked off in Farok's direction. He couldn't help but dwell on that short meeting. Why had he spared him? Michael was one of the specific targets ordered for the Ra'zorlich assassins to kill. Both him and Mila were vulnerable, there would have been no difficulty in snuffing out their lives, yet Farok spared them.

A thousand questions floated about Michael's mind, as well as the note that pistol rounds couldn't punch through Ra'zorlich armor like a rifle could. A mistake the Sergeant didn't intend to make twice. After all, it almost cost him something too important to lose.

Pulling her tight against his chest, mouth against one of the feline ears atop her head, he whispered, "You weren't hurt. To me, that's the most important thing."

...........................

There was a lack of feeling in Galen's body as he numbly marched along the river bank, the sweat dampening the back of his T-shirt in the relentless late-morning sun. The elixir he had been given had cut off all feeling in his body, and the supernatural tingle that had been coursing through his veins had vanished. Fatigue didn't plague him and pain couldn't cripple him, as the elixir had shut down the nerves that helped him sense either impairment. Whether those changes were permanent he could not yet tell.

A rope was tied around the Private's neck and fed to the belt of the man in front of him while another leash was held by the one marching behind him. Any attempt to speed up or slowdown was met by an abrupt jerk of the collar by either man to adjust his pace.

Since control was restored to his body after the elixir petrified him, Galen never took his eyes off Celia or the leash around her neck. Every second passing by, he held onto the image of ripping that bind from her body, embracing her in his arms as Pretayus swung from a tree, hanging until the buzzards picked his bones clean.

If his hands weren't tied together, he might've drawn the pistol on his hip and gunned them all down right there. Blown their brains out before they could draw their swords. But his sidearm was the one ace left up his sleeve, and he wasn't about to lay it on the table until he knew it would do him good.

For now, he had to wait until his chance came. Not that he didn't get his kicks in, of course. Blood stained his elbow from when he shattered the nose of the slaver behind him. His helmet had been confiscated after he had delivered a head-butt to Pretayus and left a dark purple mark on his brow. Then they had gagged him after he spat in the Lycan's eye when they had stopped to get a drink.

Only when Celia's well-being was directly threatened did he quit wreaking havoc upon his captors, finding a bit of joy in their restrained anger. At this point, he only counted down the time until they left him alone for the two seconds he needed to get his gun out. The thoughts of plugging Pretayus full of lead went rampant in the Private's mind, keeping him calm until the time he could carry them out.




Going Feet First Ch. 03



Then there was Val, the Tree Elf that clung to Pretayus just as Celia had clung to Galen. Hatred burned in the Soldier's core for this girl. So easily did she shrug off Celia's pain and happily watch as her sister was marched off to a life of suffering.

When Celia's cloak had been torn off, Val was quick to snatch it up, wrapping it around her like some noble woman from ancient Greece. When the Lycan holding Celia's chain jerked her forward, Val merely smiled and urged her to keep pace. When Celia was snarled at for trying to look back upon Galen, Val giggled and said in elvish, "Eyes forward, Celia."

For the green-haired Tree Elf, it may as have been a knife in the back.

"The camp should be close now," the Lycan declared. "Hopefully they understood why their comrades are dead. And they have not killed Therin for bearing ill news."

"They better not have," Pretayus growled. "It is in their best interest to be good friends to us, especially when they learn we have their lord's dream girl in our possession."

You won't live to see that sale, Galen thought as he sneered at the slaver.

The group continued around a bend in the river, to where several pup tents had been set up along the treeline. Eight large horses stood tied to a tree, heads equipped with feedbags filled with grain. A pair of Knights, each wearing combinations of mail and leather armor, stood waiting along the river bank with a Lycan beside them. That dark grey wolfman was one of the men Galen remembered fleeing Pretayus' camp with his tail between his legs as the soldier had cut them down with the .50 caliber machineguns.

How quickly things had changed, as they now had the Private at their mercy, or so they believed they did.

Before they entered the camp, Pretayus and Galen's two handlers stopped, letting Celia's escort drag her by the hair in among the circle of pup tents. Her leash was tied to a thick root protruding from the ground, the two Lycan slavers watching over her with the two Knights that were tending the camp. Seconds after, another two warriors came out from separate tents, approaching the Pretayus and his men flanking Galen on either side.

"Sir!" a young man addressed as he came up to Pretayus, averting his brown eyes from the loosely robed Elf hanging off the slaver's arm. He nervously smoothed out his short, jet black hair and adjusted his leather vest, the mail covering the jerkin softly clinking against itself as he straightened his posture.

"My name is Marshall Tin, are you Pretayus?"

"I am."

"Sir, I am sorry to hear about the loss of your friends. My lord will be disappointed at the failure of his request, but I believe he will sympathize after hearing what happened."

"Thank you, Mr. Tin, your words do much to help in this trying time. You and your comrades have our sympathies as well, your Captain and his lieutenants fought and died with courage and honor."

At once it looked as though the world came off of Tin's shoulders, his posture shifting as he came to ease. "Thank you, sir, your words are of comfort as well, to know they died with dignity."

They died as crushed paste splattered under a stone wall, Galen corrected mentally.

"Is the elven servant destined to my lord?" Tin continued.

"Yes. She is yet to be broken, but we can take care of that when we meet your lord in Redding. I think it will be most enjoyable for you to learn that she is the love of the demon that killed your brethren. The demon my men have tied up behind me."

Tin took a second to glance over at Galen, a frown arching down his eyebrows as he examined the soldier's unchanging glare. Without warning though, a large hand grabbed hold of Tin's shoulder, nearly severing several links in his mail as he was tossed aside.

A towering, bald beast of a man with a broad chest thick with hair and muscle stormed past Tin. Veins bulged in his throbbing, red neck as he stormed up to Galen in a fit of rage. The handle of the two-hand bastard sword on the angered giant's back provoked a drop of sweat to run down the Private's brow as he imagined the immense strength one would need to wield such a thing, and the ease of which it could tear his body asunder.

Before any harm was done, though, Pretayus's men put themselves between this man and the soldier, blades ready to keep the giant at bay as his hate-filled eyes burned holes in Galen's head.

"He's teh demon?!" the giant roared.

"Harin, settle!" Tin cried out.

"That he is," Pretayus answered. "But stow your rage, sir Knight. We are taking him to cavern four down in the Sundered trench. The Drider there will make him pay for each life he has claimed."

At once, both of the slaver's at Galen's sides grinned, one of them chuckling, "I like the sound o' that."

Drider? Galen thought. What the Hell is a Drider?

After picking himself off the ground, Tin stepped toward Pretayus with his mouth open to question the sentence, but then he paused. His train of thought cringed at the brutality of Galen's proposed fate, but then he glanced at the soldier standing, wrists bound with a rag drawn across his face. He thought of the dangers Galen posed, the damage he had done, and then shuttered at the image of the creature awaiting him.

Had Tin been in Galen's boots, he would be scared right out of his mortal shell. Yet for some odd reason, the "man" before him did not project such an emotion. Not a trace of fear crossed him even as his most gruesome and terrifying death had been announced.

He must be a demon posing as a human, he has to be! Tin thought as he watched Galen stand in silence, eyes aglow with hate as they fixed on Pretayus.

For the Tamer of Gods to lose an ear and half a hand in the capture of Galen and the Elf, at the additional cost of over two dozen lives including Tin's own commander, the young Knight knew the demon was dangerous. Anything with the power to eliminate a camp of heavily armed warriors could not be allowed to walk Raska freely, and should be exterminated when possible.

"So wha' we gon' do 'til 'e is dead?" Harin, the monstrous warrior, asked.

"What are we going to do?" Pretayus repeated.

At first, he rubbed his chin and turned to Galen, who stood sneering at him with a deep-set frown. This expression made Pretayus chuckle and shake his head. "I'm sure we can find some entertainment before sending him on his way."

He turned to Harin, tilting his head back to look him in the face. "Would you care to help my men escort Galen to the Drider's nest? I want the demon as far away from his pet Elf as possible."

There was a gleam in his eyes as he glanced over to Galen, a rotted, partly toothless grin forming as he said, "I 'ould love ta."

"Good," Pretayus grinned before turning to Galen. "I want to know every detail of his demise the next time we meet."

Galen shifted his glare between the two men before him, mentally shaking his head at the slaver's grievous look while refusing to show fear in the face of the giant looming over him. At the same time though, a touch of anticipation stirred within him. The moment they took him away from Celia, where they couldn't use her against him, would be the moment he would strike.

"So this is where I say goodbye, Galen, but before you go," Pretayus announced as he took a step closer toward the Private, leaning in until their faces were a hand-width apart. "You want to know the perks of what I do?"

After rolling his eyes, Galen cocked an eyebrow as if to ask "what?"

"Watching these girls, so strong at first, slowly breakdown with what I do to them. Tree Elves especially. I've never so much fun in my life than with the last batch. It only took four days for the first one to break, but the rest soon followed. But Celia? With her I shall take my time..."

Blood pounded in Galen's ears as his breathing became hard and his knuckles white. Both men on either side of him tightened their grips on the leashes they held, unsure whether or not they could hold their demon back.

"By the time I am done with your Elf, Galen, she will be a new image of Val. Obedient, blissful, broken. And all you will be is an image in her memory. I'll have her hating you before long, how you failed to protect her, to keep her safe. And from that I will turn her love for you unto me, have you gone from her memory within a month. After that, she won't even know you ever existed."

When the Private was shaking in rage, body on the brink of immolating rage, Pretayus pressed even further. "You know, I am curious about one thing. Did you fornicate with her already?"

For a moment, Galen's eyes drifted to the side, thinking back to the night before. And only then did his eyes widen in the wake of realizing the steps he did not take. The seed he may have planted her belly. A low growl built up deep in his throat as his fists clenched, a reaction that only made Pretayus smile.

"You know, if she's pregnant with an Elven girl, especially one made by you, I'm sure I could get quite the bonus for her, seeming how her mother is spoiled anyway. It does mean that I will have to delay her breaking for a little while, to see if she is carrying a child, but if she is... hehe..."

Pretayus tilted his head forward, half his eyes covered in his arching brow and his smile stretching ear-to-ear.

"Of course, my men and Celia's future master would have to wait a until the child is born before we could properly enjoy Celia, and then we would have to hold off several more years for the child to mature, but in the end, we would reap sweet, sweet revenge on your daughter for all the lives you took from us. One night after another."

The last words sunk into Galen's mind like a blade severing his last piece of self-control. Tears welled up in his eyes, teeth clenching down as he choked out suppressed sobs. Blood filled his vision as he rammed his elbow into the chest of the man to his right, knocking him right off his feet. Before Pretayus or either of the two other men could react, Galen pulled off his gag and bashed his shoulder into the other slaver beside him, snatching his sword from his sheath.

"I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!" he screamed as he swung at Pretayus with the blade. The Slave Master took a step back, defensively lifting a mithril-plated arm to meet the incoming steel. The blade sliced through the airborne jacket, opening up a wide hole in the forearm of the sleeve before it clashed with the metal underneath. Sparks jumped and the arm retracted, though the sword had deflected harmlessly off the armor.

Before Galen could come in for a second strike, a two-fingered fist slammed into the bridge of his nose. Swirls of dancing stars spun around his vision as he hit the ground, red streams gushing from his nasal cavity and flowing over his cheeks.

"That was the reaction I wanted. It never gets old. I expected more from you, Galen. A spell, perhaps, to sunder me into tiny bits just as you did to Bjorn. Disappointing," Pretayus chastised before he began to stroke on the pendants hanging around his neck. "Though, I do have means to keep that from happening."

The blade was removed from Galen's hand, his angered escorts grabbing onto him and hauling him up off the ground. He tried to resist, but a punch to the gut emptied his lungs of air as a stick struck yet another blow across the side of his head.

Voices rung in his ears, his helmet was placed back onto his head and jokingly patted into place. Someone made the comment of how "the stupid should wear helmets to protect themselves." If Galen's head wasn't so foggy, he may have gotten angry at those words. Then again, if his hands weren't bound, none of them would be alive to joke about him.

Though most of the voices around him were unintelligible with the his ringing ears, what Galen could make out was Pretayus's voice as his mouth hovered right beside his ear, whispering, "I would have loved to break you, but she will be even better."

The words pulled a stopper out from the Private's gut. Everything that pulsed in his chest, fear, hate, anger, despair, he felt as if they all swirled about his chest, stabbing and freezing all they touched before sinking down into oblivion. Now all he could only feel was a vacuum where his heart once lay, the hollowness where his emotions once dogged him and the warmth of tears where his eyes watered.

............

It was against Celia's deepest instincts and desire to obey as she was led away from Galen into the camp. Terrible shaking racked her body just as the tears streamed her face, but the gravity of her situation was finally settling into her mind in full. She could see now that the path she had chosen so blindly was now betraying her to a fate most cruel.

When her leash was anchored to the root protruding from the ground in the center of a circle of pup tents, her first choice of action was to try to use her magic to make the root shrivel up and crumble, only to find her spell inert. Something around her prevented her energy from bringing her glow to her hand, as if the magic was frozen in her body.

The Elf's best guess was Pretayus and one of his many pendants. She had watched through Tanza's cauldron what happened when anyone tried to use magic against him. As soon as they came within thirty paces of him, their magic would die and their casted spells would fail or go awry. It's what saved him from the Tree Elf's Searing Light when he had captured his first. Had he been without his magical protection, that spell would have burned him from the inside out and turned his body into ash.

All Celia needed was for him to put a little distance between herself and him, and she would unleash her magic upon the Lycans that guarded over her. The root holding her down would wither away, but she would quickly regrow it and have it wrap around the ankles of the wolfmen to trap them as she ran. There would be nothing to fear from the humans, as she could easily outrun any of them.

Perhaps if she broke free, Galen could use his thunder magic and keep them back as they fled. If the slavers gave pursuit, Celia would manipulate as many trees and plants as she could to slow them down so she and Galen could make the run back home to the Tree Elves and Great Tree.

If the couple made it there, the grove would shroud them in the concealing magic, hide them until the time came that the slavers were gone. Not even Val would be able to find them, as when it was seen through the cauldron that her mind had been broken, Celia participated in the ritual Tanza made in order to cast a spell on their lost sister. The spell had erased not only the memories of their home from Val's mind, but her clan connection and ability to cast Elven Sight as well.

It had been difficult for the clan, but necessary. Even so, after that ritual Celia had cried many days for Val, for Xia, for Naipee and Rolsn, the four Tree Elves that had fallen into Pretayus's hands ten years back. Her heart still ached for Val and her two other sisters that had been with her since birth, and now she could feel the long suppressed pain she held for the fourth, the one that had brought her into this world, begin to tear out her heart all over again.

Celia...

The Elf's teary eyes pulled away from the giant man who had stormed up to Galen as a distinctly feminine voice echoed in her ears. Her hysteria prevented her from homing in on the source of the voice, but she definitely heard it.

Blinking rapidly to rid the tears from her eyes, she looked around to the two Lycans standing at her back. At the sight of the frightened Elf, the two wolf men began smacking their lips with their long canine tongues as they eyed her body so greedily.

Don't look around, I'm speaking through your mind... the voice spoke again, Celia's eyes widening as they recognized its source.

Tanza? she thought.

Yes, sister. Tanza. Relax your mind for me, please. Let slip your anxiety and fear for Galen. I only have so long before I tire, and there is much for me to do.

Taking one last look at her love, who still stood strong and proud even with his hands in binds, she closed her eyelids. Heart rate slowing down, she began taking deep breaths while pushing the world out from her mind. It felt as if she was sinking into a pool of cold water, feet going numb, then her knees, waist, belly, chest, finally her head sank into the chilling abyss.

When Celia's eyes reopened, she stood unbound in the vast, white void of her mind. In front of her lay a sight that almost had her in tears, a sight she did not think she would see again for a long time.

"Tanza!" she cried, leaping into the arms of her elder, nuzzling her face into the soft folds of her black robe. "Tanza, me and Galen are in trouble! You have to help! Summon Atzlar! Beg him to bring Calia! Please, help us!"

Sighing as she returned her young sister's embrace, Tanza shook her head. "We are doing everything we can. The necklace Pretayus wears, it makes it difficult to act upon him, and even more difficult to communicate with you now."

Celia pulled her face from Tanza's robe, confusion dominating in her expression, "Then how are you connecting with me?"

"Atzlar's heart bleeds for you, Celia, and thus he is now at my body with the rest of the clan, taking in their magic, adding his own, and channeling it into me to amplify my power while there is still distance between you and Pretayus. This is why we cannot speak long; the spell is taking its toll on all of us."

"Of course, Elder. Let's not waste time." Celia released Tanza and took a step back, looking up into the elder's eyes. "Please, start."

Tanza nodded, a saddened look coming over her. "When Galen passed his trials, I began to receive visions of his future, and yours as well. I do not find comfort in what is next to come, nor do I wish it to happen, but both terrible things and tremendous feats are coming to you and him. Your strength will be pushed to its utmost limits, and you will be hurt."

A phantom tear traced Tanza's cheek as she turned away. A terrified, shaking Celia began to tear up, swallowing hard as she thought of exactly what was coming her way.

"It's difficult to tell you this... it's breaking my heart to say this to a sister, but you must endure them, Celia. But not for a second should you doubt Galen's love for you or his resolve to be at your side. Time will pass, but he will never stop coming for you."

"Will we be alright? In the end?" Celia asked.

On that question, Tanza turned back to Celia, reaching out and caressing with the back of her fingers on the side of the young Elf's face to calm her fear-induced shakes. Images began to pass her vision, some horrifying, others assuring, others enough to make her blush. When the slideshow came to an end, one final image froze in front of Celia, making her mouth slowly curve up into a glowing gold smile as a tear traced her cheek.

"I understand, elder. Thank you."

At that moment, the entire void shuttered, a wave of vertigo slamming Celia's mind and bringing Tanza to her knees. A drop of blood began to run from the elder's nose as she tried to shake out her head.

"The spell is fading, we must finish, quickly!" she said, staggering back to her feet.

"What is there to finish?" Celia asked, recovering from her momentary blackout.

Stepping close to her young sister, Tanza placed both hands on her head while her palms began lighting up in a magnificent, white glow. Celia's body petrified, limbs stiff and body rigid save for her eyes, which were slowly rolling back into her skull. Memories from her elder flooded her mind, bringing with them knowledge of spells of which she had never seen.




Going Feet First Ch. 03



This gift brought about a heavy fatigue to ravage Tanza's face, but still she did not falter in her spell. As the power of their clan back home began to fade, the elder desperately pressed the last bits of her gifted spells into Celia's mind.

"I will... always... watch out for you... Celia... And Galen... will never stop... until you are... safe... Until then... be strong, my sister."

Celia's eyes shot open, heart pounding and lungs heavy as she laid eyes upon Galen hanging limp between two slavers, tracks being carved out in the sand as they carried him away.

...

The Private was in a fight to stay awake, his eyes sliding closed for a moment before they shot back open to find he was now being dragged across the grass with a group of horses just a few feet away. Some deal must have been worked out for the stallions, because the two men heaved and threw Galen into one of the saddles, tying his legs to the stirrups and retying his hands behind his back.

"Alright, everyone pack up," Sir Marshall Tin ordered. "Our lord wants us back home by nightfall, we need to get the camp together and move out."

Sudden agonizing pains swept through the Private's skull as a tingly feeling began to surge through his veins again. The elixir Pretayus had given him was wearing off, and everything it stopped was coming in tenfold, like somebody had struck him with a baseball bat over and over again.

"AHHHhhhh Damnmmmmnn!" he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to fight back the agony.

"Looks like the suspension drink is wearin' off," one slaver laughed.

"After the blows he took, I'm surprised he isn't out already."

"Fix that."

Galen lifted his head up, resisting his urges to cry out in pain in front of Celia. He had to stay strong. His eyes, dazed as they were, drifted over toward her to find her gaze already locked upon him. Mustering his strength to give her a smile, he mouthed in elvish, "I'm coming for you."

Her ears perked up, but not in the joy he anticipated. Horror widened her eyes as a club lined up with the back of Galen's head. Her scream of warning came too late as it swung up under the helmet, striking the knockout blow to his skull.

...................

You evil Rakna, Petra thought as she watched Pretayus approach Celia, speaking to the Elf with a cruel simper upon his face. Whatever he was saying, it had to be in elvish, because Celia was responding to every word with tears in her eyes.

Had Petra been accompanied by Teirie, Farok, or even just two Ra'zorlich warriors, she could easily bring an end to every man in that camp. Even Pretayus with his mithril, reinforcements, and chest full of bravado would be slain with ease. But unfortunately the Shadow Stalker did not have that luxury of backup; she had only Galen and his weapons, neither of which were of use at the moment.

All the assassin could do was circle around them using the trees for cover, ensuring what she carried did not give her away with unwanted clacking or rattling. Celia would have to wait until she caught up to Galen and set him free before he left the forest.

She could understand now why Necela had ordered Pretayus's death, why the goddess who was the pinnacle of peace and bringer of life wanted him to lose his so badly. His business was evil, his humor despicable, and his cruelty without end. Ra'zorlichs would never go so far as taking a man to a Drider for the purpose of execution. Half of the tribe didn't believe in such a terrible creature in the first place, but most understood the legends and wouldn't give even the worst of their foes such a fate.

A nervous quiver racked Petra's body as she thought of the legend of the Driders; a half spider, half Dark Elf monstrosity. It was said that the Dark Elves punish the worst of their criminals by turning them into said beasts and using them to their own ends. Protection is rumored to be the most prominent use, but it was also whispered that Driders have been deployed in their war against Redding.

It was amazing how much news and rumors the Ra'zorlichs heard during their deals with slave traders and from scouts poking about the woods.

According to legend, a Drider would trap its victims by petrifying them with its cry. Afterwards it would spool them up in a web, inject them with venom to paralyze their muscles. When the victim was incapable of even batting its eyelashes, the Drider would suck out its blood while it was still alive; fully aware, and fully feeling everything that what was happening. Should Galen make it to the Drider, he would die slowly and painfully, and he would not go to either the Serene or the Nether.

The goddess of the underground caverns running all over Raska has her own special afterlife for those who dwell in her domain, and for those who visit and die there as well. Petra did not know much more about the world beneath the surface, only that it was far more treacherous than the one above.

One of the mines her tribe had excavated broke through to the undertunnels once. An expedition of a twenty, battle hardened warriors were sent into them, but they soon returned with a third of their numbers missing and another fifth losing their sanity.

Taking from the reports of those who hadn't lost their minds, the danger began when men complained of voices in their head, telling them to turn around and leave. When they did not, warriors began to go mad, attacking each other and screaming for the rest to get out. The force retreated, and the then-king Kulak ordered the tunnel to be collapsed, decreeing that the Ra'zorlichs would never dig their mines so deep ever again.

Yet the fate of those warriors paled compared to what awaited Galen now. The thoughts of the Drider execution stirred torrents of anger and pain within the assassin's gut, her chest heaving on each breath until she could finally force the image from her mind. To not give herself away, she had to remain calm and maintain her pursuit of Galen and his captors.

...

It took a little more than a fifth of a zetran before Petra spotted Galen beginning to stir in the saddle of his mount. At first his hands twitched, then his shoulders shifted, then his head -still lying in the horse's mane- turned toward her with both eyes struggling to open. The assassin let out a relieved sigh as she saw him return to the waking world.

The slavers were laughing at him as he tried to pull his head off the back of the horse's neck, mocking him on his face full of greasy hair. When the soldier began to come around, still barely keeping himself from nodding off, one of the slavers said something to him. So few words, yet so effective in striking life back into the soldier.

Right away Galen tried to jump from the saddle, only to nearly topple over as his feet were lashed to the stirrups. Desperately he fought the ropes holding him in place until one of the slavers rode up beside him and put a blade to his neck.

Words were exchanged, the horse Galen rode on calmed down. Though seconds later came the Private's roar, "YOU... YOU EVIL FUCKS! YOU'RE ALL FUCKING DEAD!"

There was an eruption of laughter.

Hold on, Galen. I will be there soon, Petra thought.

Then came a deep battle cry unleashed from somewhere deep in the forest. The assassin hit the ground as the slavers turned their attention to the direction of the vicious sound as well. A group of warriors in the dark cloaks and yellowish armor dashed through the trees, coming toward both the river and slavers in full sprint.

This group was a fair distance off, but they were at a swift pace. Petra dared to raise her head enough to take a look, watching as they tore through the bushes with little regard for stealth or subtlety. A second later she could see why.

More than a dozen, mounted cavalry men tore through the brush after them, swords or lances at the ready. One of the runner's feet caught on something, the cloaked figure tripping and slamming onto the ground. Before he could get up and continue to flee, a horseman came down upon the person, spearing his head with his lance.

"Those are Reddin's colors," one of the slavers announced. "See them yellow and red bars on their breastplates? Th' horsemen are from Reddin'."

"Oi, big man, what's yer name?"

"Harin," the giant Knight leading Galen's horse answered.

"Harin, think ya could convince our friends on th' ponies to give one up? Way you walk, it'll take a day to make it to the Drider."

"Hrmmph, yeah. Maybe if we kill teh ones they is afta, somethin' could be worked out," the giant answered.

"Alright then, let's give the riders a hand."

The slavers dismounted, drawing their weapons as the thunder of hooves drew nearer. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Petra removed all the gear she had been carrying, setting it all aside save for Galen's rifle. On her belly, she silently crawled through the thicket toward the clearing along the river. The approaching the rattle of metal armor and rumble of hooves was within a hundred paces of them now.

"Stop right there!" one slaver roared.

There came the sound of blades leaving sheathes; the mystery warriors charged right into the line made by Galen's three escorts. Blades clashed, but both parties remained unscathed as the cloaked fighters broke through the feeble line and dashed toward the river bank. There the warriors spun on their heels and came together to form an arrowhead formation. Right then Petra realized these were no ordinary fighters.

They had moved with extreme dexterity, their agility unhindered even with the burden of their great cloaks. Their stature was shorter than that of the slavers, the tallest of them being roughly a hand-width shorter than Galen.

Lastly were their tactics. Backing themselves against the river was no mistake as having that water-body roaring at their backs kept the horsemen from charging them, lest their steeds get washed away by the current.

As Petra began to admire the cloaked warriors, the fifteen cavalrymen rode out from the brush line; forming a semicircle around the cloaked warriors before dismounting. Galen watched silently from his own steed as the Knights readied their weapons but did not press their attack. Instead they maintained a noose around their prey with shields up and swords pointed forward.

The Captain of the riders, a man wearing a full plate suit with gold trim, dismounted his armored horse. The mail underneath his shell of steel rattled as he squared off with the leader of the cloaked warriors, sidestepping toward the three men surrounding Galen.

"You with us?" the commanding Knight asked, eyes fixed on his opposing leader with great intensity.

"Yeah, we're with you," the slaver answered.

"Who's the sod on the horse?" the Captain asked, motioning to Galen.

"A demon, a dangerous one at that. We're taking him away to ensure he gets a proper execution. Who are these blots?"

"Damned Sun-Kissed," the Captain responded, glaring at the cloaked figures his men surrounded. "Spyin' on some Redding troops that were supposed to be upriver before stealin' some sensitive documents from an outpost. We're here to put 'em down."

"You shall try, but today you die, human," a voice interrupted.

A spark of interest drew Galen's attention toward the person who had snapped at the cavalry Captain. It came from the head of the cloaked warriors, and it sounded like a woman was hiding under that dark hood and black shemagh.

Before Galen could dwell further on the subject, a faint groan barely caught his ear. He snapped his head to the bushes behind him, heart picking up in his chest as he spotted the dark outline of a familiar assassin. He managed a momentary smile, but then quickly turned his head back to the Knights ahead of him.

The steel-wrapped soldiers began to move in on the "Sun-Kissed." They did not outright rush them; the Knights merely began to tighten the noose while the slavers joined their ranks. If Galen ever had an opportunity, it was now. He looked toward the waiting assassin, giving her a definitive nod.

The first blades clashed together, another feminine voice giving a shrill battle cry, and then the fight started. Steel weapons stabbed and parried, blades slapped against breast plates, angered warriors gave their vicious cries as they engaged the other. Despite being outnumbered, the cloaked warriors continually changed positions while holding formation, protecting and covering each other from the attacks of the steel-clad horsemen.

Galen's horse whinnied as Petra hopped onto the back, her claws tearing through the Private's wrist binds before she tackled the ropes that lashed his ankles to the stirrups.

At that moment, one of the slavers received a boot to the chest, knocking him flat on his backside. Swearing, he scrambled to pick himself up off the ground, taking moment to glance in Galen's direction. The young man's eyes went wide as he froze at the sight of the demon's hands going free, mouth forming a smile as he reached for his holster.

For Celia, Galen thought as he drew his pistol, flicking off the safety, taking aim.

The initial gunshot silenced the forest. Birds scattered from trees, the horses whinnied in fear, the Knights and the Sun-Kissed paused mid-combat to watch as the slaver hit the ground with a gaping hole in the center of his head. A thin trail of smoke poured out from Galen's pistol as he breathed unsteadily with teary eyes. The ropes binding him to the horse's saddle came undone, and the Private did not hesitate to hop off from the mount.

Being strapped to the horse for so long left a stiff ache in his loins and thighs. Galen struggled to keep himself upright as he hit the ground, reaching out with one hand to grasp the horse's saddle and steady himself while still keeping his pistol aimed at the group in front of him.

From how their bodies shifted away from the aim of the weapon, he knew they were aware of the threat his Colt .45 posed. Every eye was upon him, every blade sat idle but ready as the warriors watched Galen draw Harin into the sights of his pistol.

"Wha' sorcery is dis?" the Knight muttered, body petrified with fear.

A tear running his cheek, Galen began to smile, chuckle even. He offered no answer as he pulled the trigger, the bullet tearing through the mail on Harin's knee and knocking the giant to the ground. The pistol cracked off again, and again. One by one, the rounds destroyed the Knight's limbs: both kneecaps, elbows, shoulders, a bullet penetrated each joint until the pistol's slide finally locked back to signal an empty magazine. However, the pistol continued to click as Galen tried to pull the trigger again and again.

Both the Knights of Redding and the mysterious Sun-Kissed stood still as Galen finally realized his weapon was dry. Another tear running his cheek, he pushed down on the slide lock, snapping it forward as he dropped the spent magazine and returned the weapon to its holster.

Still holding the attention of the two clashing forces, the soldier held out his hand toward Petra, who stood patiently at his side.

"My rifle, please."

The M-14 gave a cheerful squeal as it came into Galen's hands again, the moss soothing his palms as he pulled the bolt to check the chamber. Grinning, he looked over to the last slaver, who had backed off from the Sun-Kissed he had been fighting.  

A dead-serious expression on his face, the Private said, "You have to the count of three to run."

The man's eyes went wide as he took a step in retreat, mouth moving as though to question what Galen meant. When he shouldered his rifle and counted "one," the slaver got the message. In a flash of mail and leather, he turned on his heel and ran for his horse.

"Two," the Private counted after a few seconds pause, drawing a beat on the slaver as he hopped into the saddle.

"Three."

The trigger was squeezed, the internal hammer of the rifle moving forth to strike the firing pin. The primer punched, a spark cast onto the powder inside the bullet, igniting a rapid burn that sent a rush of superheated gasses forward behind a 7.62mm round to propel it down the barrel. A fraction of a second before the round left the muzzle; gasses entered the gas trap of the weapon, filling a chamber to push the operating which in turn thrust the bolt backward. The shell casing was pulled and ejected from the chamber, twirling high into the air as the rolling bolt reached the end of the receiver and bounced forward again, catching and chambering the next round to fire.

Traveling at twenty-eight hundred feet-per-second, a full-metal jacket round went forth along its trajectory, finding its home in less than a hundredth of a second.

Metal and bone burst from the slaver's shoulder as the round tore through, his voice going high as he screamed in pain. A second bullet tore through his back, bits of ribs and lung exploding from his chest before the third trigger pull was made from Galen's M-14.

The last round met the base of the slaver's skull, taking the head along with it as it passed through. The horse he rode gave a terrified whinny as it broke into a gallop. The decapitated corpse fell from the saddle with its feet still caught in the stirrups, a hand still grasping the reins and refusing to let go. As the horse took off into the forest, the body hung off its side and left a bloody trail behind it.

Hand trembling on the front of his weapon, Galen turned to the warriors who had been watching him in both shock and awe. He focussed intently on the leader of the Sun-Kissed, the woman who had sworn that the Knights would die this day. The Private could not see her eyes hidden under her hood, nor her face covered up by her black mask, but his situation alone gave him a sense of trust for his timely distraction.

Unlike his cloaked adversaries, the Captain of the cavalry did not lower his head; he locked eyes with Galen while struggling to suppress the fear attempting to breach his gruff exterior. His grip remained firm on his blade, his nerves settling from their shaken state.

"Galen," Petra whispered with her mouth close to his ear. "These men have horses we could use to catch up to Celia, and I have no doubt they are friends of Pretayus."

"Pretayus?" the Captain challenged. "You know Pretayus the Tamer?"

Galen's posture shifted, becoming a bit more relaxed as he said, "Yes, I do. He's a friend of mine that I was just going to meet when these men got in the way." He smiled as he motioned to the corpse before him and the wounded Harin.

The Captain grinned, "If you help us with these knife-ears, I can help you meet him, Demon. We used to catch merchandise together, he is a friend. Just point that magic of yours at the knife-ears, and we can all get along."

The smile on Galen's face turned to a sneer, his rifle barrel rising to be flush with the Captain's head. "No, we can't. The 'merchandise' Pretayus has is my girl, my Celia, and he's going to..." His breathing became heavy as he swallowed the lump growing in his throat, his rifle whimpering as his hands clamped down onto the body. "I'll kill him. Him, his men, and everything he's ever built."

The Private glanced over to the Sun-Kissed, making eye contact with several of them as he said, "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." He turned back to the steadfast Captain. "And the friend of my enemy is my enemy."

The meaning of the phrase took a moment to register in the Captain's mind, the pieces just clicking together as Galen squeezed the trigger. Faster than one thought possible, the armored Knight dove forward, tackling the Private to the ground. A shot fired off from his rifle as his back hit the dirt; Petra barely managing to dodge out of the way. The Neko's heart skipped as she felt the bullet graze her shoulder, taking hairs off her fur right beside her main artery.




Going Feet First Ch. 04



Author's note: this story continues my tale, 'Going feet First', and follows Galen, a soldier once in Vietnam, now on a journey into a medieval fantasy world filled with Elves, Magic, and all kinds of fantastical creatures.

Welcome to Raska.

..................

Going Feet first

Chapter 4: Crossing the line

..................

The sun had begun to set over the waving yellow fields that covered the vast plains of the province commonly known as the Rock Lands. Stones of all sizes littered the region, from pebbles smaller than mice to boulders larger than elephants. They appeared everywhere, in every direction, but were more concentrated around the half-mile wide trench that cracked open the surface of the world and stretched with the flowing fields into the west, far beyond what the eye could see.

There was little variety in vegetation or color aside from the sea of golden grass, which reached out in both the west and northern directions. To the south lay a line of mountains running east-to-west, with rolling foothills before them that formed the southern border of the Rock lands. On the eastern border lay a thick, lush forest that went from the edge of the foothills to somewhere beyond the horizon in the north.

At the edge of the forest, a single blue butterfly laid hiding in the shadow of a fair-sized boulder. Its broad wings twitched back and forth, lacking the strength to properly beat as its antennae drooped down to its feet. Its body, normally blinding in its radiant blue glow, now only flickered as though it were a candle surviving on its final drops of wax. For this winged insect, time was running short.

On the opposite side of its rock, the sun was sinking low into the western sky, the pale blue moon peeking out from in between the mountains in the south to take its place. Just as the natural satellite cast its light upon the butterfly, the bug's antennae sprang up as new life breathed into its body.

All over its exoskeleton a fierce aqua light flared. Its insect wings retracted into its back while its two fore legs expanded several times over in both thickness and in size before taking on a broader, flat shape. These new wings emerged from the light as the rest of the body fattened and feathered over, settling into the form of a vertebrate creature.

Where an insect had once lain, there was now a sparrow with a wingspan as wide as one's hand was long, with pale blue feathers matching the color of the moon above. Two long, solitary feathers replaced the antennae jutting out from its forehead, only now they curled back like two small horns above its light-blue eyes and dark, black beak.

With a degree of caution, the blue sparrow peered around the rock it hid behind to look into the western sky. The sun was nearly set, with its last quarter barely above the horizon, but the shape shifting creature could not wait any longer.

In a flurry of feathers, it leapt out from behind the boulder, its body cast wholly into both sunlight and moonlight at once. From the second the last lights of the dying day touched its feathers, the creature felt as though its strength and power was being sapped from its core, its very life-force draining from its veins into that sinking, red star. Only the direct gaze of the moon at its back kept the bird in flight, feeding it energy as fast as it was drained away.

Despite this constant power-shift in its body, the sparrow soared high above the land, reaching magnificent speeds unobtainable by any natural beast. Then the very winds across the region shifted, changing their direction to keep at the bird's back before swiftly picking up in its wake. In the distance was its destination, and with another beat of its wings it flew off toward the mighty crack in Raska's crust.

All who knew of this open gap in the world called it by one name: the Sundered Trench.

Those with vision of a magical nature could see the arcane power bleeding out of the depths of the divide into the world above. Hunters and gatherers could grow fat from the bounty of resources offered by the forest growing on its floor. Masons could go wild with the endless supply of granite that made up the walls. To any who held control over it, the Trench was a resource fit to build a nation, even an empire, a fact that turned two certain groups to bloodshed.

Flying a great distance above the ground, the bird cast its eyes upon a certain spot in this worldly divide that was still more than a league away. With a power as supernatural as its other abilities the sparrow's vision zoomed in on a place where the natural demeanor of the Trench came to an end.

A stone wall, too thick for any normal weapon to break down, spanned the breadth of the divide. Artillery pieces of ballistae and catapults stood primed and ready on the battlements with archers scanning the area for any sign of movement. There were only two ways past this wall. The first was using the road along a cliff's edge, and the second was through the large tunnel at the base, made for the river to pass through. Unfortunately for would-be intruders, there was an iron grate built specifically to stop anything larger than a fish from passing through.

Atop the cliff, where the Trench met the plains above, the ruined stone base that once supported a scout tower was still burning with residual fire magic. The rest the building and its soldiers had collapsed into the divide and smashed into the jagged cliffs, becoming nothing more than a pile of rubble and bodies.

In the immediate area around the tower's remains, a hundred men in metal armor were swarming about in a frenzy, most of them moving along the cliff road. Some of these Knights carried bodies or helped to clear the tower's rubble while others barked orders. The rest remained on guard, weapons held as though a battle were imminent.

Closing its eyes for a moment, the sparrow retreated into its mind, paralyzing its muscles to keep itself in a glide over the plains. Then its consciousness severed connections to the body and fell free of its physical host before shooting out ahead in the form of a white wisp.

A new, sentient mind was sought out by this spiritual being, one free of will or lacking the reluctance to surrender control of its body to another. Within seconds one was possessed by the bird. The former host spirit was pushed aside to make room for the invading wisp in a second as it rushed to claim the creature's vision. When it did, it was greeted by the sight of an armored men titan before it.

Paying little mind to the size of the human it observed, the bird's consciousness looked to the faces of both the knight and them man he held a conversation with. Lacking any hearing organs the bird began to read their lips as they spoke, utilizing the compound eyes of its new body to read both their lips at once.

Soon it became clear the men were discussing demons and Dark Elves and a revenge that must be reaped. They openly wondered if the attack was done by an enemy scouting group, taking out a guard tower so their main army could move undetected or was simply done in the name of harassing them. Little did these men notice the small ant at their feet whose eyes had begun to glow blue while it crawled onto their leader's sabaton and up his leg plates.

Not a moment later, a man in leather armor came riding in upon a horse. At once the ant turned to see he was shouting his report of Dark Elves nearing a cavern entrance that was not too far away, and that they had a human captive with them. At that second, the blue glow died away from the ant's eyes and the tiny insect mindlessly returning to its food-gathering task with little wonder as to what had just occurred.

Back in the distance, the blue sparrow's eyes flared as they opened and pulsed in reaction to its consciousness rejoining its body. It banked hard right toward a specific location in the Sundered Trench and began to dive. There was only one place where the Dark Elves would be taking their prisoner and if the bird's guess was correct, it already knew who that prisoner was.

A trail of blue light arced across the sky behind the bird as it sailed toward the ground. Any other creature would break apart at this speed, yet this mystical being remained whole and undeterred. Though it was still half a league away, sparrow could use its impossible vision to see the large group moving through the forest of the trench. Not fifty paces ahead of them was the cave to which they were headed; a dark tunnel barely high enough for a horse and rider to enter.

You will not take him down there! the bird screamed mentally, its body erupting into blue flames as its shot like lighting toward the Elves.

...

A tarantula sat on the ceiling of a tunnel entrance, its many eyes watching in every direction at once as the day turned to twilight. The trees of the Trench Forest swayed gently in the passing breeze, small bats coming out to feed on insects as bees moved away from the flowers blooming among the tall blades of grass.

A sudden rustling brought the upside-down spider's attention to its left, the arachnid crawling further out its cave to determine its source. As it reached the threshold of the tunnel it stopped, watching as a large group of cloaked humanoids came running toward it with two equine beasts, one carrying an unconscious rider, in tow.

"What is that blue fire?! A catapult?!" one voice asked in a worried manner.

"I don't know, but do not stop! Dreek will not show mercy if we lose her new pet!"

Pet, you say? the spider thought, glancing to the man on the horse as the group drew closer.

He was human, there was no doubting that, but he emitted a strange aura of magical energy from his body, a type which the arachnid had never seen. In his sleep he began to shiver slightly, which made sense with his distinct lack of warm clothes. All he had upon him was an odd pot upon his head and a thin shirt and pants, all green in color, with strange belts and pouches strapped across his torso.

Though the tarantula could not explain it, it sensed a certain... spiritual aura about the human, giving off sensation it could not properly describe. Interest, perhaps? There were many interesting things about the human but that was not it. There was something else... there was a calming effect to his presence, and a warming feeling. A safe feeling. But there was still something more to it.

Whatever it was exactly, it was definitely something new to the spider. It was so foreign and it toyed with the arachnid's emotions in ways it never experienced, becoming something it couldn't decide on whether to enjoy or hate.

The blue flame arching in from the sky, however, was not so foreign and did not require any deliberation on a course of action.

The body of the spider exploded into black smoke that retreated back into the depths of the cave. There, more dark wisps emerged from the shadows and walls, twisting about one another, reshaping and contorting until they had taken a recognizable form.

A shadowy ghost, humanoid in appearance, stepped forth from the shadows back toward the mouth of the cave. The Dark Elf group was closing fast, the bird shrouded in blue flame a few moments away from coming upon them.

The Shade raised its hand, the air rippling around the mouth of the cave as though it were the surface of water. The Elves failed to notice this trick of the light as they crossed the threshold, the human and horses with them passing through unaffected as well.

But just as the last of the Elves' numbers entered the cave, the bird slammed into the barrier set by the ghost, pancaking out on its transparent surface before falling to the ground, extinguished of its flame.

For a moment the Elves stopped and looked back at the sparrow, puzzled by what they saw.

"Spirit bird?" one asked.

"Forget it, it's not our mission."

The group pressed on into the tunnel, the ghost remaining unnoticed as it waltzed toward the blue, glowing sparrow.

When the Elves were out of sight, the fleshless form of the ghost began to solidify. The wisps came together to form a skeleton, with skin rolling over the bones like an empty sack until flesh formed underneath. Hair black as coal rolled off the newly formed scalp until it reached the pelvic bones of the creature. Blazing, red eyes formed in the sockets as fair-sized breasts took shape on its chest. When the lungs finally took shape, she drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as the smoke melted off her newly-formed body.

To the mortal eye she appeared to be a Drow, smiling broadly in the nude as she approached the bird lying at the entrance of her cavern. Her hips hypnotically swayed with each step of her sashay, the smoke shifting about her legs reforming into a dark fabric that wound about her form.

Cloth rolled over her calves, then glided up her thighs and over her torso. Broad sleeves stretched down and out over her arms until they surpassed the length of the limbs, hanging loose as she joined her hands behind her back. Just as the final shape of her robe came to be, the mystical Drow arrived at the sparrow lying on the ground at the entrance to her tunnel.

"Necela, it has been too long," she smiled.

With a clear sign of pain and fatigue, the bird began to pick itself off up off the ground, stumbling about on its feet before shaking out its feathers. With renewed vigor and balance, the avian creature lit up into a blinding light and morphed once again.

The sparrow's wings became arms while the scrawny legs stretched out and thickened to a more humanoid shape. Both the protruding feathers on its forehead became antennae as the beak retracted into a mouth and nose. Feathers turned to skin, hair descended half-way down the being's back where two glassy wings had sprouted.

When the primary transformation had finished, the size of the creature increased ten-fold, until it matched the height of the average human. Then the light died off to reveal Necela standing with fists clenched at her sides, glaring at the Drow before her. Subtle blue flames were burning over her skin as her eyes glowed like the red dawn.

"I have not time nor patience for you, Viekirra. Where is your mistress?" the goddess of life growled.

The Drow crossed her arms over her chest, still laughing mentally at the image of the bird splatting against her barrier.

"The mistress is in her web where not even I may contact her. You will have to come again in a moon cycle," Viekirra said with a taunting tone to her voice that set Necela's eyes ablaze.

"You will let this puppet into your underworld at once!"

"No," the dark deity answered. "The whole of the underground is my dwelling when the mistress is away, and you are not welcome. Leave."

Watching Necela's body turn violet with her rage nearly made Viekirra giggle. She found it amusing how her antennae twitched and jaw clenched so tightly she could crush her own teeth. This only served to escalate Necela's anger further than she would normally dare allow it.

"If I myself must come down to this wretched scar on my world, then I shall summon my sister to join me. And you know that she would not give you quarter for wasting her time."

That demonic smile melted off of Viekirra's face, her jaw going slack as her eyelids lifted. Realizing her tell, she reset her calm composure and reasserted her strength in her stance, but the goddess before her could still sense the traces of fear hidden within the Drow's expression. That, and the increase of energy being invested into the barrier was no subtle act either.

"I cannot allow you past, Necela," Viekirra began, her voice stern. "You would be an unwanted influence on my mistress's followers and she cannot be contacted no matter what effort is given."

She was careful to mask what fear dwelled within her, but the thoughts of the goddess of life's other half would send even Driders into hiding.

"I have no interest in her followers, only what they have taken from the surface. In any case, your mistress still owes me a favor. Unfortunately, seeing how she is absent, I cannot use it. Thus I must handle my situation myself. So you will step aside or I will come down here myself!"

Viekirra held the other goddess's gaze a moment before the Drow's glowing red eyes pulled away. "I will step aside only if I accompany you through the tunnels. If my mistress's will is not safeguarded in her absence, you and your sister would be the lesser fate to choose."

After several moments of deliberation, the flames settled over Necela's body, her eyes returning to the impression of the starry-night sky. Her once threatening scowl settled as she once again took a calming, friendly posture. "We are agreed. Take down this shield and assume your spectral form, I have no time to waste."

With a nod, Viekirra released the magical barrier and exploded into a cloud of black wisps. Showering herself in silver dust, the spiritual form of Necela stepped forth from her body as the flesh of her physical being turned to ash and collapsed.

"Do not test my patience with such things again if you wish to be on my good side, 'goddess,'" Necela warned as she followed Viekirra into the darkness. "Next time I will not send one of my puppets, and for the inconvenience, you will suffer."

............................................................

"Wake up!" Pretayus snapped as he gave Celia a violent shake.

The Tree Elf thrust back into consciousness, her head turning every direction as her eyes darted all around. It took a moment for everything to fully register in her senses, the horse's saddle grinding against her thighs as it trotted along, the slaver's mithril armor pressed against her back as he kept a grip on the back of her breastplate. Behind her she heard the trotting of the others in their posse, and all around she saw the moonlit fields and took in the lush smells of the nighttime oasis world on the Trench's floor as it passed her by. Soon it all quickly fell into place inside her head and her memory reminded her of where she was.

The horse suddenly jerked to the left, and she nearly fell from the saddle before Pretayus grabbed the back of her breastplate and yanked her back into his lap.

"Slip again and I shall strike you. Now, eyes forward and stay on the horse," Pretayus ordered.

Celia shrunk forward a bit into the horse's mane, only for him to pull her back against his chest. Turning her eyes forward, she saw the trench stole right again a fair distance down the road. It was when they rounded that corner that Celia remembered how the divide looked from afar, how it split the earth as lightning would the sky. A zig-zag pattern that stretched on forever.

To think, she had witnessed that view the previous night in total freedom, arms locked with her love while they undertook a quest she thought would be over by the morn. But when her Galen had set out to slay Pretayus, something had run afoul, the slaver survived, and now she was his product. A slave.

But what cut her deepest was not the life in chains that she faced, but the forceful removal from her homeland and all that followed. The torture Pretayus induced at both the psychological and physical levels, Petra's sudden disappearance, the fact that she didn't know where her Galen was at the moment. Her only comfort was knowing that he was alive. She knew that, but where he was or who he was with, she had no clue.

The last sight she had of him was his body crushed under the corpse of a horse, and all she knew of the future were the partial visions given to her by Tanza. But clouds distorting her memory and fear plaguing her thoughts made it impossible to recall detail from those.




Going Feet First Ch. 04



The horror of leaving the forest in which she had dwelled all her life was what had put her mind into a jumbled, frenzied mess. Only a gift from Tanza offered any reprieve, offered any sort of asylum from the Nether that had become her life. That gift was a magical spell, unimpeded by Pretayus's magic-freezing pendent and any other kind of magic that one could think of. This one spell had been granted for the sole purpose of helping her survive the coming weeks.

This magic, coupled with the home-like comfort of the world hidden on the floor of the Trench, helped Celia keep a right mind in the wake of leaving Atzla behind. The lush forest that bloomed in the first stretch was more pleasing and homey to her than the bland yellow plains above. There, the treeless expanses only made her want to spawn an oasis and hide from the endless world beyond.

From the beginning of her journey with Galen, she expected to leave the forest with him and venture out into the world beyond. What she also expected was to be with him when she did so, and for him to give her time to get accustomed with what was outside the borders of the forest. When she was forced out into it in Pretayus's lap with no chance to turn back, she nearly broke down right then.

She had known the world to be a big place, but then she discovered "big" was not a strong enough word. Endless fit better but somehow that did not even seem right to her. Trying to put the sheer size of it all into perspective made the Elf feel insignificant, like a fly on the back of a Troll, begging to be squashed.

Just after leaving the forest, she had cast her spell to slip her mind out of her body and into her own realm. Within this place she wrapped herself in the arms of Galen's mirage and prayed for his safety, remaining there until her exhausted body drew her back to reality.

The last thing she remembered before passing out was riding past the great stone wall in the trench, turning onto a path that descended the cliff side and joined a new road on the floor of the divide.

Now that she had woken, still fatigued and frightened, there was little more she wanted than to make what she had lived in her realm reality. Though she knew escaping to accomplish this was impossible, as Tanza's vision had shown, she still wished for it as they came upon the final turn before they reached what Val called, "the lands of civility."

To her left was the wall of the trench, lined with stones and boulders overgrown with rugged looking trees with roots thick enough to crack the stones they grew from. A little less than a half-mile off to her right, across a grassy field split by a river, was the other side of the trench that was, again, lined with the impossibly strong-rooted trees.

Ahead of Celia was a village, one made of stone protected by a wall that stood higher than a horse. Past the partially open gate were houses and streets patrolled by men wearing steel armor and carrying torches to light their way in the night.

Though it took her fatigued mind some time to see it, Celia realized that none of the village civilians were outside their homes. Only the "knights" and guards of the town were out on the streets, men who had strength in every step and lethal ambition in their eyes as they glanced toward the Tree Elf.

When the squad standing just outside the settlement waved Pretayus's group towards them, the warmth leeched out from the Elf's veins, her stomach knotting up into bows. Something about these men was making her shiver, and sent panicked waves through her nerves.

"I want Galen back," she said, tears beginning to run her cheeks. "I want to go home."

"Shut up," Pretayus growled as he pulled the horse's reins to one side to guide the mount toward the guards.

All his words managed to do was provoke her into breaking down into sobs, which in turn pulled in more attention in the group's direction. Archers standing guard on the ledges of the cliffs above notched arrows on their bows and prepared to draw. Knights in full plate armor began to move into positions along pathways and roads around Pretayus's group as though they were preparing to stop an escape attempt.

Looking about at the men surrounding him, Pretayus spotted the red and yellow bars painted vertically down their breastplates, glowing in the light of their torches. The other men standing beside them were wearing either leather or mail armors with tabards overtop that displayed the same colors as the knights.

Pretayus pulled the horse's reins back to bring his mount to a halt a few paces away from the Knights standing at entry gate to the town. Tin pulled up right after, followed by his two other Knights and the Lycan, Gark. For a few moments, the head of the guard examined the slavers, his face hidden underneath his full-helm.

"You will learn to shut up, or you will die," Pretayus whispered in Celia's ear as the blade of a hidden knife pressed against her belly. At once she reeled in her sobs, squeezing her eyes shut and fighting to keep herself under control as the steel further depressed her skin.

"All free Elves are banned from Redding's territory, by order of King Jermaine," the guard leader declared. "And all other nonhuman races must be registered. Present the Lycan's registration and explain the Elves. Failing to do so will have the Lycan jailed and the knife-ears executed."

Pretayus raised an eyebrow in a questioning manner. "Gark isn't registered, but I will seek to have that corrected. These Elves on my horse are slaves, one is mine while the other is being delivered to her buyer."

The lead Knight paused a moment as one of his men removed a note pad and quill from his pack, quickly scribbling something down on paper before his commander continued. "Who is the Elf's buyer?"

"Lord Fretheim," Tin cut in. "I am one of his soldiers and his current representative."

"Ahh, Lord Fretheim," the Knight said before chuckling. "Odd fellow, him. Tell me, boy, where is Captain Jorgen? I thought I saw him ride out a few days back, which I now presume was with you."

A saddened look came over Tin at the mention of the name, his eyes drifting to the ground as he answered, "He was killed, last night. A demon slew him and over two dozen of the slaver's men."

At once the whole area around Pretayus went deathly quiet, the head guard's shoulders dropping a bit. Only Celia's sniffles broke the air, but those were quickly suppressed.

"You did kill it, I hope?" a guard probed.

"I believe so," Pretayus answered. "But one can't tell with their kind sometimes. The Elf I have in my lap was a creature he became infatuated with, and I will seek my justice upon him through her."

Several different expressions were traded amongst the guards before their leader said, "As one could only expect with such a fiend. May his spirit suffer in the Nether, or wherever his kind goes when they die."

The Knight turned to the man with the paper and quill. "Curtis, write these men up the papers they'll need for the Lycan and Elves then send them on their way."

"Of course, sir," Curtis responded.

The commander motioned to his troops and marched off toward a nearby building, his squad falling in behind him in formation. The rest eased off from their imposing stances and removed their hands from the hilts of their blades. Once Curtis finished the documents, he tore the page out from his note pad and handed it to Pretayus, "You have my sympathies, sir."

"Thank you. I wish you better fortunes than I," Pretayus responded before turning to Tin and the rest of the group. "Let's get moving."

In a welcoming manner, the gate to the town opened up, and the horse between Celia's legs whinnied as mithril boots spurred its sides. The slavers rode through the town streets with only the street lamps to light their path. Sounds of hooves clopping against the cobblestones echoed through the rows of houses as Celia took in the change of scenery.

The buildings were made of stone held together by some light-grey material; their roofs were of wooden planks cut cleaner than anything the elf had ever seen before. For these engineering marvels, there was a trade-off. No trees grew along the walkways, no plants spawned between houses. Weeds did not even sprout up from in between the cracks in the stone. The odd flower hung from windows and there was a garden every so often, but the lack of any true, natural floral decor appalled the Tree Elf.

They live without out nature... no, worse than that. They exterminate it... she thought as she spotted a dirtied young boy in tattered clothes with a handful of pulled weeds, combing the street for more under the watchful eyes of a Knight in leather armor.

Queasy shivers in her belly began to overturn Celia's stomach as the boy brought the weeds to a brazier and tossed them in. The rising smoke dispersing into the air brought a faint scream that echoed in the back of her mind.

Then a certain odor hanging in the air crossed the Elf's nose, making her gag further. It reeked of the pile her clan dumped their refuse and waste into, and the further she rode into the town, the more potent the stench became.

"Now I remember why I did not miss civil lands," Gark grumbled, pinching his nose. "They throw their shit into the streets instead of burying it."

"Until the sewers are completed," Pretayus added. "Redding is very passionate about keeping their drinking water clean, anything that risks contamination would be fixed or destroyed."

With a hand over her nose, Celia racked her brain to figure out what the slavers were saying. The temptation to ask Val for a translation was there, but she doubted her former clan-mate would be so kind. She knew the empty husk that rode behind Pretayus was no longer the one she called "sister," but a broken puppet that was now called, "pet."

How far you've fallen, Val, Celia thought. If only you didn't approach him then. If only we had the time to save you. You wouldn't be his. You wouldn't be trapped in this stinky cesspool.

She looked around at her slaver escorts and shivered against the breastplate pressing against her back. There was no escape from them or the stomach churning fetor. Any Elf in a right mind would leave a disgusting place such as this, especially in the daytime when the sun shined and winds picked up. How one could actually live in such conditions, surrounded by their own filth without so much as a meadow to stave off the stench was beyond her.

Then she had to remember that she wasn't even in the "city" yet, where apparently thousands of people lived in tightly packed houses, having to "buy" their food and work themselves to the bone for "precious" metals. No hope for happiness, no chance at rising out of "poverty," stuck in a life with the only purpose of achieving greater happiness in the Serene.

Tanza had shown her disgust at these ideals when she explained it to the clan, and now Celia wondered what she would bear witness to in such a place.

Closing her eyes as tightly as possible, struggling to hold back the bursting dam of tears, she pleaded under her breath, "Galen, please, hurry."

Her words had gone unheard by Pretayus as they rode further into the town, passing into the central square. All around were closed stalls and covered wagons loaded with locked goods. Guards kept constant watch over these, moving with overlapping patrols and keeping the area well lit with lamps and torches.

More Knights maintained a stationary guard over the shops that made up nearly every building around the square, never leaving them alone for an instant. In the center of the square sat a three tiered fountain decorated with a bronze statue of a man in heavy armor with a cape hanging off his back, standing proudly with a blade on his hip and a crown on his head.

Celia had little time to ponder on this idol's identity as her horse rode on past the square and back into the streets. Several times they were stopped by guards and questioned, but Pretayus flashed his paper and they were waved on through. Before long they were out of the town, moving along a road that was flanked on either side by stretches of farmland that were dotted with small houses and barns spaced out between tilled fields and fenced-in pastures filled with herds of livestock.

What they do not gather, they grow in great numbers. Can this trench even support such a thing? Do they even know how to keep a balance? Celia wondered. Does Galen come from a land like this?

After passing a dozen fields and rounding two more bends in the trench, she set eyes on a sight more imposing than the height of the Great Tree. One that had her jaw dropping and chest reeling all at once.

A stone wall higher than the walls of the trench itself was built across the breadth of the divide. Hundreds of windows and balconies, none lower than the height of two trees above the ground, were built in many neatly organized rows and columns down the wall's face. Some were glowing from candle or firelight, but many others were dark.

On larger alcoves spread evenly throughout the wall, artillery pieces similar to giant crossbows watched over the trench while archers stepped out onto some of the balconies. A pair of massive double doors at the base of the wall opened up, permitting a group of knights to leave before they shut with a thunderous boom.

"Ahh, Redding," Pretayus started before sucking in a deep yawn. "It has been a while."

"Good to be home," Tin added.

"What is this place?" Celia asked with a quiver.

"This is the entrance to Redding: your new home," Val answered.

..................

Wrapped up in his wool blankets with the warm glow of a fireplace at his back, Elder Misn of the Willher tribe sat comfortably in his chair at the end of the long table in the village's Elder's hall. To the aged Neko's left sat Hunt Master Hail and Lady Akal, to his right: Lady Teak and Warrior Leader Sayn.

At the far end of the table was a gathering of various members of the tribe, as well as a pack of six warriors, all watching and waiting upon the Elder's words. Their anticipation was palpable, but the tension of the room was paramount. It rattled Misn's nerves and hung in the air like the humidity that followed a thunderstorm, primarily around the human sitting on Sayn's right.

Face twisted with controlled anger, Michael kept both his eyes locked on the partially rusted cage that was set atop the table before him. Within the confines of the iron bars, sat the one creature after whom he lusted for blood, who he wanted most to see disembowelled and purged from this new world: Emiel.

It was only out of respect for tribal traditions that the Sergeant kept himself calm and collected with his sidearm idle in its holster. He had one arm draped over Mila, who sat pressed up against his right side with both her hands sandwiched in between her thighs. Her eyes shifted around the room, watching the faces of both Hail and Akal as they kept their attention fixed on Emiel.

The battle-scarred Neko kept staring at the floor of his cage, not daring to make eye contact with any of his tribe. Especially Mila and her human. Not out of shame, but in an attempt to keep his boiling blood from spilling over into visible rage. With so much on the line, he couldn't afford to lose his cool.

It did not help him that an uncomfortable feeling constantly raked the underside of his skin like a pair of twirling blades as the human continued to glare at him. That dark hedge-hair casted long shadows in the fire light; his head was tilted slightly forward as to make his eyebrows arch down lower over his eyes. It was clear the human was good at intimidating even without opening his mouth, as his expression was enough to make Emiel's skin crawl even more than it was already.

The source of this uncomfortable shift in his body was the subtle, yet recognizable scent Emiel smelled that was coming off the human, one he doubted any other in the tribe would recognize. It was a powerful, aggressive smell that was carried by very few humans the Neko had slain in the past.

One of his hands began to drift toward the grey line over his belly, where a scar had formed from a wound that nearly killed him. A human who carried this scent had done this to him, and now another of the kind was here to see him dead, or worse.

With more of the scent flooding his senses, the claws in Emiel's hands poked out from their slits, digging into the palms of his fists. It was provoking his more primal instincts, primarily his desire for Mila's womb and the demands for human's death. Were it not for the bars between them and the warriors who would obviously intervene, the Neko hunter would come down upon this "Michael" and rip his skull from its base.

"We are gathered this evening..." Elder Misn started, taking in a yawn as Mila began to whisper a translation to Michael. "To pass judgement upon Emiel Calker Verd Vidderye... for his crimes against Nekonian law... *yawn* and betrayal of tribal trust."

Emiel's eyes came up to meet the Elder's, locking with them for only a second before swiftly retreating back to the floor of his cage. His teeth began to grind in his mouth.

"Here we decide... whether to judge the crimes as one... or have him pay for each as they are counted," Misn wheezed and broke into a minor coughing fit before recomposing himself.

After Mila finished relaying the Elder's words unto him, Michael intensified his glare on Emiel, praying for the death penalty.

"I ask for them to be judged as one. Make an example of him for all who would dare harm one of my trackers," Lady Akal declared, crossing her arms.

"I concur, let our human addition see that none are beyond punishment," Teak added.

"I ask for mercy to be taken upon the hunter, that his crimes be seen separately and punished accordingly," Hail appealed.

After taking in a deep yawn and pulling the blankets over his feet, Misn looked over to Sayn, nearly dozing off as he asked, "What of you... Warrior Leader?"

"I am undecided, Elder."

Emiel's eyes snapped to his superior, narrowing as a hostile snarl curled up on his lips. The caged Neko's breathing became unsteady as muscles all over his body tensed. His palms, already bloody from digging in his claws, now streamed with the crimson life as he thought, You dare abandon me, Sayn? After all my years of killing for you?! For you and these... ungrateful Racknar?!

"So you are... any reason for you to share... as to why you are conflicted?" Misn questioned.

Sayn glanced over to Emiel, then to Michael, going deep into thought to come up with an answer. "Emiel is a warrior of repute and strength. While I stand firm with our ways and our laws, I must also consider the good he has done and the effect my decision may have upon my men. It makes a conclusion difficult."

The Elder nodded in agreement before glancing over to Mila. "What do you say, child? It was you who was wronged... You had been with him more than any the past four seasons... what have you to say?

Moving one hand up to her shoulder to join her hand with the one Michael draped across her back, Mila turned her gaze down to the floor. "I have faced many undo hardships because of him, Elder. He led me into danger, abused me with both his words and hands-"

She jumped back in her seat as Emiel slammed against the side of his cage closest to her, hands wrapped around the bars with his claws exposed.

"THAT'S A LIE, YOU ERRENT WHORE!" he snapped.

Just as the words were leaving the Neko's mouth, Michael rose from his chair to put himself between Emiel and his mate. In one smooth action he drew his sidearm, cocking it and lining it up with the caged hunter's skull. At once the warriors in the hall came to arms, readying their weapons just before Sayn waved them off. Confusion spreading among them, the warriors backed off as Michael and Emiel locked horns.




Going Feet First Ch. 04



"You shut the fuck up!" Michael ordered. "I may not fucking understand, but you raise your voice to Mila again and I'll rip out your tongue and ram it right back down your throat! You mangy-ass piece of shit!"

"Warriors! Stay civil!" Teak ordered.

The entire cabin fell quiet as Emiel glared at Michael, the Neko growling as his fists struggled with the cage, as if he were trying to pull apart the bars. His human adversary's knuckles were stark-white around the grip of his pistol. It took all the self-control the soldier had to not pull the trigger right then and there.

"Give me one solid excuse to kill you," Michael muttered. "Come on, tempt me."

"Michael," Teak said with a thundering tone.

"It is a fight to the death you want?" Emiel asked, one of his eye brows lifting as something gleamed in his eye. He smugly glanced over to Elder Misn, then to Mila, then back to the human.

"Michael-" Mila tried to butt in.

"You want to try me?" Michael growled. "I'll gut you, motherfucker."

Warrior Leader Sayn stood up from his chair, crossing his arms over his thick chest and raising his chin up. A smile crossed Hail's face just as a look of absolute horror came over Mila. Breathing a sorrowful sigh, Elder Misn closed his eyes and spoke.

"A challenge of blood is made, and accepted."

"What about our judgement?" Lady Teak asked. "We had convened here for a civil solution, not this feral dissent!"

Sayn turned to the tribe's Merchant leader, "The challenge of blood is sacred, it overrules all."

"Challenge of blood? Does that mean I get to kill him?" Michael asked aloud, meeting Emiel's smiling face with his own deathly grin.

"It is the challenge of blood, Michael!" Mila squeaked. "It is an honor duel to the death! Fighting! You could be killed!"

"Then get a coffin ready for Emiel," the Sergeant mused.

"I look forward to tearing out your insides." Emiel chuckled.

"Michael!" Mila panicked.

"Enough, tracker!" Sayn thundered. "He accept the challenge. Honor bind him to it."

"If we must degrade ourselves to feral ways," Teak again interrupted. "Then will we set rules? Terms for victory? We have agreed before to adopt new ways, allow us to uphold them."

"Lady Teak... is right," Misn announced. "Emiel, you issued the challenge... state your terms."

The caged warrior was still trading glares with his human counterpart as he said, "I win, I go free. No punishment for this morning."

Michael immediately glanced back at Mila, seeing the sheer horror in her eyes at the proposal. Glancing over to the elders, he saw their withdraw, Sayn giving his head a subtle nod, as though to say, "your choice."

"Only if you never go near Mila again. Never speak to her, never lay a hand on her," the Sergeant growled. "If you win."

Emiel snarled, Michael raising his pistol to point the barrel right between the Neko's eyes. Behind him, Mila relaxed in the slightest at her mate's determination to keep her safe, but at the same time was scared to think of losing him for her own protection.

With little else for protest, Emiel grumbled, "agreed."

"Good. When I win, I want Emiel buried in an unmarked grave out in the middle of the woods. Somewhere that is far out of my way."

"No, I would have my body burned with honor!"

"Then your ashes buried in an unmarked grave, where I'll never have to think about your dumb-ass again."

There was a deep growl in the Warrior's throat as he again muttered, "Agreed. If you win, which you will not."

Sayn spoke again in his halting Human. "Terms set. Michael, go outside. Ready self for fight. No time waste."

"Weapons?" the Sergeant inquired.

"Knife if you wish, I have my claws," Emiel stated.

"So be it."

The soldier passed off his pistol to Mila after ensuring the safety was on. Before she could offer any more words of protest, he pressed a finger to her lips with a dead-set look in his eye. His tone was calm, if a little forceful as he told her, "You stop worrying. I'll be fine. And no matter what, you will be, too."

"You shall be fine with entrails spread across the dirt as I tear out your heart," Emiel added, bringing Michael's attention back toward him.

"You know, that tongue of yours," the Sergeant started, pulling his knife from its sheath and lifting it up to the Neko's face. "When you are on the ground, clinging to life. I will tear it out of your mouth, and I will shove it down your throat."

Unfazed by the blade sitting just inches from his mouth, Emiel retorted, "Tongue, tongue, tongue. You say again how you shall 'rip out my tongue.' If you fight like you speak, it will be I who shall tear yours out through your gut when you use a same move two times."

"You wouldn't be the first one to try," was all Michael would say before sheathing his blade and blowing off the Neko's comment as he turned for the door.

Mila swiftly ran after him as a trio of warriors came to unlock Emiel's cage. As soon as the lock clicked open and the door swung wide, the Neko stepped free of the iron confinement and stood up straight to stretch out his back. His spine popped and cracked as the muscles in his legs partially cramped and knotted from being idle for so long. When those painful contractions loosened up, he descended down onto all fours and stretched out the whole of his legs and shook out his body.

The tribe leaders rose from their seats and began to head outside with the other members of the tribe. Elder Misn remained, still sitting in his chair wrapped up in blankets as his warriors watched over their prisoner. When they tired of watching the battle-scarred Neko stretch his body, they escorted him out of the building.

Yawning deeply, the Elder slouched in his seat and waited for the door to shut at the other end of the hall. When he was truly alone, his eyelids lowered shut to allow him to slip quietly into a dream.

...

In the final hour of daylight, as the sun was swallowed by the horizon, the people of the Willher tribe came to gather in a circle in the village center. Around the pit where their Great Fire was held, they formed a ring thirty feet across for the two men who had come to fight. On one side stood Emiel, hunched over, snarling with his claws out while Michael held position on the other side, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

Behind him in the crowd was Mila, a look of fear and dread locked in her eyes as she pressed his tomahawk and pistol against her chest. Flanking her on either side was a pair of warriors and their leader Sayn, all apparently standing by in the event that the fight drew too close to the crowd. Though she knew they were there to keep Emiel away from her in the event that he won the duel.

"Anything I should expect from him?" Michael asked, turning his head slightly toward his mate.

"He is not subtle or agile," Mila started. "He fights with strength and speed and throws himself openly at-"

"Begin!" Sayn roared.

Michael immediately broke off the conversation and began walking toward Emiel, raising his open hands like a boxer as the Neko began taking small steps toward him. In these initial moments, the two circled around each other, feeling the other's presence and steeling their nerves.

Without warning the bipedal feline pounced forward with a thunderous roar, diving at Michael's face with his claws primed for the kill. In a swift, fluid motion, Michael grabbed the Cat-man's wrists while dropping and rolling backwards. His boots planted on Emiel's chest and then kicked upward to throw the Neko several feet behind him before he completed his roll and was standing once again.

Instead of crashing into the dirt, however, Emiel twisted his body mid-flight to land on all fours with no sign of injury. In a second he leapt back at Michael before the soldier was even turned to face him. When his claws were about to tear into the flesh on the human's back, an elbow came in toward his face, Michael's whole body spinning as one to put the entirety of his mass behind the blow.

Stars flashed in Emiel's eyes as Michael's elbow struck across the jaw, a high-pitched tone ringing in his ears. He crashed to the ground on his belly with his face grinding into the cold dirt. When he stopped sliding and he came back to his senses, the blood turned to magma in his veins, his claws tore into the ground, his mouth seethed with hot drool and his arms flexed as he forced himself back to his feet.

Then a shining flash caught his eye.

A knife flew into the back of his right shoulder and sunk in deep. He let out a scream as his left hand immediately shot for the joint to feel the blade plunged nearly the length of his thumb into the joint. A hurricane began to whirl about his chest, his lungs suddenly weak and raspy as foreign, salty droplets somehow worked their way into his eyes.

He turned toward Michael with these new detrimental feelings plaguing his body. His knotted belly began to retreat deeper into his gut with this terrible feeling coursing through his nerves. Whatever it was, he hated it, he hated the human, he hated the tribe for betraying him, and he hated the droplets running from his eyes.

Where did he learn to fight? This... This... This rackna cannot beat me! I have killed a hundred like him! I won't die to one now! I can't! I won't let him kill me! No human can kill me!

He had never seen such dexterity in a human, nor had he ever been in a fight with one that lasted more than ten counts. By now he expected victory, not a blade in the shoulder and his opponent being no worse-for-wear.

The Neko roared as he dashed toward his foe, his left arm raised high to strike as the other hung limp. The blind, savage swipe became a near-miss as the Sergeant stepped back and leaned off to the side. Seeing the chance presenting itself, Michael darted in with a right hook to Emiel's kidney as his other hand slugged the shoulder impaled with the knife.

With the shot to his gut alone, the Neko howled in agony as his insides felt as though his organs were cast in immolating flames. The pain tearing through his shoulder echoed in his ear-shattering scream. In spite of this torment, Emiel swiftly drew his clawed-hand back in a back-hand faster than his human opponent could dodge.

"AAARGHH- FUCK!" Michael screamed as he was slashed across the face, stumbling back with both his hands darting for his cheek.

Feeling hot fluids run down the left side of his jaw, the Sergeant moved his hands away from his face to see his palms slick with blood. He could feel four painful lines drawn across his lower left cheek around the jaw line and the crimson life that began to run down his neck.

"You cocksucker... YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER!" Michael roared as he turned to Emiel, who just ripped the knife out of his shoulder and tossed it behind him, away from the Sergeant.

With the Neko's immense pain visible in his features and the weak, struggling movements in his right arm, Michael knew he had damaged Emiel's shoulder severely. In his rage, the shredded joint instantly became his target. He squared his shoulders and hunched over, gritting his teeth and clenching his bloody fists at his sides.

"What happened to your face?" Emiel said with a breath of a chuckle.

Now Michael's blood was boiling in his veins, the sweat nearly steaming on his brow. He stalked toward his foe, drawing his fists back slightly at his hips. When he stepped within range of Emiel's claws, the feline lashed out to stab him with his one good arm.

Stepping to the side, Michael knocked the incoming claw away and came in with his fist for the Neko's shoulder. The punch connected with the wounded joint and sent Emiel into a wail though he came back in quickly in with his one good claw for the human's head.

Just before the claw struck his neck, Michael raised his free arm to catch Emiel's, entwining their limbs together as so neither could make use of them. Tightening his grip on the Neko's wounded shoulder, the Sergeant drew his head back, then jerked Emiel forward as he brought his own forehead in, successfully connecting with the Neko's mouth.

"RRAAAKK!" he screamed as he felt two of his teeth slip down his throat, his lips completely numb as a tide of blood flood over them and down his chin.

Sporting a tooth-shaped depression on his brow, Michael released Emiel's good arm to draw his free hand back. Without giving the Neko a chance, he drove his fist into his maw, once, twice, thrice. Again and again, the Sergeant fed his foe a string of bloody punches until his knuckles bled and Emiel brought his good arm up to try and block the strikes.

It was then that Michael released the Warrior's wounded shoulder while grabbing his other arm, pulling it to the side and stepping forward. The soldier deftly moved in behind his opponent and twisted the captured limb around to pin it behind his back. When Emiel tried to escape the hold, Michael grabbed his wounded shoulder again and squeezed.

A hair-raising howl escaped the Neko's throat as the Sergeant then hiked the pinned arm up higher, consciously ignoring the looks of shock, horror, and amazement he received from the watching crowd. With a final bestial scream, he jerked the Emiel's limb up higher, until he heard the bones in the shoulder snap like dry twigs.

The following scream from the Sergeant's foe made several of the tribe wince and cover their ears. Michael's knee then came up between Emiel's legs into the crotch of his leather shorts, halting the feline's screams as he felt both his testicles pass through his lungs and into his throat.

With this temporary reprieve, Michael stepped away from Emiel as he fell to his knees, arms hanging limp at his sides and unable to grasp his agonized groin as he starved for breath.

Not wasting a single second, the Sergeant walked over to where his knife lay, picking the blade up off the ground and wiping it off on his pant leg. With the crowd watching, he returned to Emiel, grabbing him by the scalp and drawing his head back to look him in the eye. In that moment, Michael could feel everything that was coming off of the Neko. The shock, the fear, the pain, all of it registered in one final, pleading look from his horrified, feline eyes.

It was a look that had no effect on the soldier, who only leaned in and whispered, "You should've left her alone."

He brought his knife to Emiel's throat, just under the chin, and plunged it into the flesh. He stabbed through the tissue and pushed deeper until the whole of the blade disappeared under the skin. For the final move, Michael tore his knife across and out of the fleshy sheath to slice the neck half open. A tide of crimson poured over Emiel's chest as his face went gaunt, mouth moving as though it were trying to swallow air.

At the side lines, both of Mila's hands came to her neck, her whole body cringing as she watched the execution. And how little Michael was disturbed by it. At the same time, she remembered the image of Emiel on top of her, claws pressed to her throat. A tingle then coursed through her cheek where she had felt his backhand not many weeks ago.

Even as she recalled the things she endured at the hands of Emiel, Mila trembled though she still watched her mate. As much as she was abhorred, she couldn't fight the satisfaction of watching him end her tormentor's life.

In Emiel's final seconds, the Sergeant forced his hand inside Neko's maw and grabbed hold of the pink organ inside. With a roar he ripped the tongue free, raising it up so all of the tribe could watch as he closed his fist around it.

Emiel's eyes strained to lift upward to see what Michael held in his hand, although he already knew what it was. The hollowness inside his throat told him what it was. Darkness swallowed his vision as Michael thrust his fist into the Neko's mouth to send the tongue back home, shoving it half way down the his throat before drawing back his empty, blood-smeared hand.

Eyes rolling back into his skull, Emiel gave a choked gurgle and collapsed forward onto the ground, a red pool spreading out from his sliced neck as the last of his struggles came to an end.

Hands and jacket soaked with blood, Michael stood over the body of his opponent with his knife still held within his white-knuckle grasp. He was breathing heavily, he could feel his heart pounding in his ears and the open wounds in his left cheek begin to sting. Running off muscle memory, he brought his blade to the sleeve of his jacket, wiping it off before sliding it back into its sheath.

It was then he felt a certain pain coursing through his hand. He looked down at the appendage, spotting the two long scratches on the back of it from Emiel's teeth. Whereas one scratch was negligible, the other gouge was deep enough to definitely need treatment, along with the skin over his knuckles that had been shredded by his beating of the Neko's face.

"Michael," Mila's voice called, bringing his focus away from the body and toward the observing crowd.

At once he took in how the whole tribe stood wide-eyed with their jaws dropped. Half of them couldn't believe what they had seen, the other half trying to figure out how it had happened. For a few seconds, even Sayn looked to be surprised, even impressed, but it took only a moment for him to settle into a more neutral, yet still powerful expression. He gave Michael a single nod then motioned his men forward.

A pair of warriors emerged from the crowd, flanking Sayn on either side as he approached the human.

"You win."

"Is that a surprise to you?" Michael asked in a dead serious manner, leaving the Warrior Leader to pause a second as he translated words within his head.

"Yes. Emiel kill many human, but now your skill see I... err, I see your skill. Learn Neko speak, Michael, you now my Warrior."

Those words hit the Sergeant like a bucket of ice water, taking him back a step as he quickly realized what had just been said. As soon as he did though, a smile spread from ear to ear as his new commander turned to the crowd, his voice raised as he declared, "Emiel has lost his life in an honorable challenge of blood. Victory is in Michael's name! From here on, the human is a warrior of the Willher tribe!"

Initially the crowd was quiet, still stuck in their bewilderment at what had just occurred. Several moments passed in the silence before someone at last said aloud, "Gaklan, Michael, cye rinta."

"Gaklan, cye rinta," the tribe repeated in unison, tipping their heads and pressing closed fists over their hearts before a pair of warriors broke from their ranks. The two Nekos took hold of Emiel's body and dragged it away, the crowd parting for them before breaking off and beginning to disperse.

For a moment, the Sergeant wondered what they had just said, but that thought was short-lived as a hand grabbed his shoulder and forcefully spun him around. He found his face cupped in Mila's hands as she inspected the claw marks on his face. Tears welled up in her eyes, her lips pursing as one ran down her cheek. Immediately she jerked him forward into her arms, her body squeezing against him while her claws dug into his back.

"You're hurting me," Michael said in a low voice as he felt the air being pressed from his lungs.

At once she relaxed her grip, claws retreating into the slits on her fingers. She still, however, remained latched onto him, unwilling to let go. He didn't resist, but when he heard her sniffle he immediately knew she was crying.

"Mila?"

"You're hurt. You got hurt and you killed him," she muttered.

"It's only as scratch, and I told you I would," he said, placing a hand behind her head and another on her back. "Nobody hurts my family and lives."

"Nobody?" she asked, face still buried in the breast of his jacket.

"Nobody."




Going Feet First Ch. 04



For a few moments, she remained silent in her mate's embrace. Twice her fingers curled up and her brow furrowed, but they soon relaxed. The feline ears atop her head twitched when she tightened up her grip around his chest and whispered, "Thank you, and gaklan."

"What does gaklan mean? And 'cye rinta?'"

Mila released his chest and took his hand as she wiped her eyes. After pausing another second to think, she began to lead her mate into the crowd toward the healer's part of the village.

"Gaklan is a word we have..." she explained, pausing in order to think about her words. "When one does something thought beyond their skill, or is very honorable or gracious, or something... amazing and is given praise or a word meaning 'well done'. That praising word is gaklan. I know the human word for gaklan, I just can't remember..."

"Congratulations?" Michael probed as they shuffled with the crowd toward one of the streets leaving the village center.

"Yes, that word. It's the closest human word for it, but 'gaklan' sounds better to my ears."

"Of course. But what about 'cye rinta?'"

"Rinta doesn't translate well to human... I guess... best I could say is 'tribe family member,' so what was said was, 'Congratulations, Michael, our tribe family member.' Is that understandable?"

"Yeah, it means I'm fully one of you now. A Willher."

"Yes, Hopper, you are."

She stopped in her tracks and started coming in for the kiss when a loud horn blew over the village, causing the whole crowd to stop and turn toward the direction of the village gate. Mila was instantly petrified, clinging to Michael's side with her claws threatening to erupt from her fingers.

Before the Sergeant could ask what was wrong, someone screeched, "Ra'zorlichs!"

"Ra'zorlichs?!" Michael snapped. "What the fuck are they doing out here? Aren't they supposed to stay in their territory?"

"They- they never left their home! Why- maybe- just- I don't know!" Mila's tone was frantic, her heart pounding hard enough that Michael could almost feel it in his chest.

Panic quickly flooded through the streets of the village, but not to the point of complete chaos. The tribals rushed to form ranks, parted ways for those moving the opposite direction, all while maintaining a brisk pace back for their homes.

All the hunters and warriors began forcing their way through the crowd as the people rushed to clear the streets. Michael pulled on Mila's hand and began plowing his way through the crowd while forcing down the pain he felt in his left cheek. The sweat that was dripping down into the gouges on his face was only making worse, yet he kept his mind focused on his immediate course of action.

"We have to get to your tent, my scratches can wait."

"But those cuts can get sickly... I mean infected, and you're a warrior now, Sayn will call you to the defense."

"I know, but remember my weapons. If they have armor and numbers, we'll need more than sticks and rocks to keep the village safe."

................

Michael, with the M60 machinegun in his hands and Mila following behind him carrying his rifle, ran toward the village entrance. The sun had disappeared from the sky, but the world was still in twilight. At this time the last of the villagers had made it home, leaving the streets barren so the couple could make short time in getting to the three dozen Willher hunters and warriors gathered just outside the village to prepare a defense.

Most of the warriors were equipped with leather armor and iron or steel weapons, the hunters carrying bows or knives. Only a select few had metal armor: pieces of ripped mail or poorly fitting breastplates that appeared to have been scavenged from fallen foes. All of this added to Michael's realization of how ill-equipped they were against their technologically superior neighbors.

Sayn, who was speaking to both Huntmaster Hail and a lone scout, immediately took notice of the approaching Michael and the piece of steel in his hands. At once the Warrior leader shot his newest recruit a curious look and directed a question to him through Mila, who in turn spoke to her mate.

"Sayn is curious about what you carry."

Staring right at his new commander, Michael gave his weapon a pat and in a proud voice explained, "What I have here is known as an M60 general purpose light machine gun. It's fully-automatic, firing a 7.62 millimetre NATO round at over five hundred rounds a minute. This weapon will cut anyone in half at five hundred yards without a problem."

The warriors and hunters simply stared at him dumbfounded.

"A thunder weapon that will slaughter the Ra'zorlichs," Mila explained.

"I hope so, human," the scout beside Sayn responded. "I saw what I thought to be fifty Ra'zorlichs coming from their territory in full battle gear. They will be here in less than five Zetras."

"Fifty?" Michael repeated, glancing down at the ammo belt plugged into his weapon. "Well then I will just have to be a bit conservative. Which way are they coming from?"

The scout pointed to a section of forest opposite the main gate, and Michael nodded in response. "Come on, Mila."

"You stay to defend village!" Sayn ordered.

"I am, Sir," Michael responded as he only went a few yards over to a tree stump that was as a little higher than knee-height. "I'm just getting ready."

As soon as Michael set the weapon up on the stump, ensuring the bipod was dug in to the crudely cut wood, something moving in the forest caught his eye. He shouldered his M60, training his sights on the woods just as he spotted more movement. A lot more movement.

A figure draped in a brown cloak came bolting through the trees, a sword in his hand and satchel flopping at his side. Three more figures in black armor were hot on his trail with a sizable force following not more than a hundred yards behind.

The pursuers were roaring and cursing as they tried to keep up with the cloaked man, constantly slashing him with their blades whenever he came within range. Just as Michael flicked the safety off and readied to open up, the runner stopped and spun around, bringing his sword up into a defensive position.

One Ra'zorlich rushed in too fast, his wild swing of the sword easily parried before a claw latched onto his throat and tore it out from his neck. The second and third red-claw warrior moved together to strike at the same time, only to miss as their target leapt back. Before either could recover, the cloaked Neko charged back in, ramming his shoulder into one and stabbing his sword perfectly into the small armor gap under the armpit of the other. The tip of the blade emerged out the side of the Ra'zorlich's neck, blood pouring out his mouth before the blade was ripped back out from his body.

The final Ra'zorlich warrior glanced behind him to see the approaching army less than thirty paces away. This momentary distraction cost him everything as the cloaked Neko swung his blade at his knee, taking out the joint and forcing him to kneel.

Just as the Ra'zorlich warrior began to wail in pain, he blindly swung his sword only for a flash of steel to cut his hand off at the wrist. The cloaked Neko then grabbed him by the collar of his breastplate, jerking him forward and plunging his blade down his throat into his belly.

...

Michael watched as the cloaked warrior gave his blade a twist to ensure he destroyed the Ra'zorlich's every organ before pulling his sword out and booting the body over. He turned toward the Willher clearing, sheathed his weapon and bolted for the village at full speed.

After witnessing his display of steel against the warriors of the hostile tribe, Michael pulled his aim away from the cloaked figure crossing the clearing. The soldier motioned for him to move toward the warriors behind him, who had by now formed a defensive line at his flanks and around the entrance of the village.

Oddly enough, the stranger side-stepped Michael's field of fire on his approach, as though he was aware of the business end of the soldier's machinegun. The Sergeant noted this, but then ultimately pushed aside as he set his sights on the platoon of warriors emerging from the depths of Atzla.

First guesstimate had Michael arriving at a number of about fifty or sixty Ra'zorlich warriors before him, spread evenly apart in dozen groups varying in numbers from three and six. Each one of them was ready for a fight, fully dressed in scaled, plate armor, sporting short swords, long swords, rapiers, claymores, a few even had bucklers or kite-shields.

In the center of this force was a team of five powerful looking warriors in a fuller set of plate armor, forming a protective guard around one important-looking Neko. This specific feline had a body covered in blood-red fur and black plate armor accented with gold and red trim. His bushy black hair was combed back and held in place by an iron crown which sported a single sapphire above his dark-brown eyes.

At once the kingly Neko began to yell, making Michael glance over to Mila expectantly. She paused as the man finished, her jaw gaping and her eyes wide.

"What did he say?" Michael inquired as he trained his sights on that shiny gem embedded in the crown.

"He said... he said he's Hector, king of the Ra'zorlichs. That he will wipeout our village if we don't turn over their traitor."

The Sergeant cocked an eyebrow as a smug grin crossed his face, "Is that all?"

A sudden yell from the Ra'zorlich lines brought his attention back to their king. Michael immediately noticed how several of the red claw warriors were pointing at him, screaming something he couldn't understand. "Hector" then pointed at the Sergeant, yelling something that made Mila begin to tremble.

"What did that bastard say?"

Mila swallowed a lump in her throat, "He says he wants the humans too, your weapons, and the female that pulled the wounded one from their territory."

"Oh, fuck him!" Michael snapped before turning to Sayn, who had motioned a few men forth to apprehend the cloaked stranger. "Warrior Leader!"

"Yes?" Sayn responded.

"Tell them they can't have their traitor, that I'll kill every last one of them if they try to do a fucking thing about it."

"Your strength is enough?" Sayn questioned with no mask over his doubt.

"More than enough, Sir."

"Warrior Leader," one of the other warriors cut in. "His weapons slay trolls, I believe these Ra'zorlichs will be nothing."

A hard look came over Sayn as he stared off at the armored Nekos beginning to encircle the village, gearing up to attack. The cloaked stranger offered no resistance as his warriors seized him by the arms, but under his hood, in those bright orange eyes, was a pleading look enough to sway the Warrior Leader. Something in those eyes brought up the experiences Sayn had with the Ra'zorlichs, the gruesome and terrible things he had seen them do.

"Believe me, Sir," Michael stated with a distinguished confidence in his tone. "They don't stand a snowball's chance in Hell."

Sayn growled deep in his throat, squaring his shoulders as he rested a hand upon his blade. With a frightening tone to his voice, he roared out to Hector, "One step to our village shall be your end, Racknar!"

Upon hearing the Nekonian insult, Michael chuckled and rested his cheek against the butt-stock of his weapon. He fought back the pain in his right hand, wiping some of the blood from his palm onto his jacket before peering down the gun sights. Letting out his breath to calm his heart rate, he made sure he was completely ready as the Neko with the blood-red fur roared and motioned his men forward.

Five groups of Ra'zorlichs, amounting to approximately twenty warriors, charged at once. Eyes narrowing, grin wider than the breadth of the forest, Michael drew the first group into his sights, allowing Mila a second to plug her ears before he squeezed the trigger.

Sayn jumped as his newest warrior's weapon erupted with jets of fire and thunder, a Ra'zorlich warrior pack not twenty paces away instantly torn apart by an unseen force. Both their flesh and armor were punctured as though they were soft felt stabbed by an invisible blade. Blood erupted from their bodies while both limbs and appendages were severed from their torsos.

As the last of the warriors of the first wave were slaughtered under the might of Michael's weapon, he began to turn it upon the Ra'zorlichs still waiting within the treeline. Many hit the ground for cover, though several were not so swift to react. As a half dozen more warriors of the red claw were cut down, the sights of the M60 began homing in on their king, aiming to turn more than his fur blood-red.

...

Hector's fury had flared like the fanned flames of the forge when the Willher war had roared both a challenge and an insult at him. The initial idea he had entertained, of perhaps sparing the village if they surrendered, had fled, replaced by the desire to wipe it away completely. None could insult the Ra'zorlich king's honor and live, and none should ever dare to deface him in front of his warriors.

Thoughts of the old tales of glorious war leaders sending their men to battle had crossed Hector's mind, a simple grin growing on his face as he had foreseen himself standing atop the ruins of the Willher home, bearing a Ra'zorlich banner in his hands as his men slaughtered the last of their resistance. It had been a beautiful image.

Then the crack of thunder had snapped him from his trance, the proximity of the repeating blasts causing fear to tear down his spine like a cold crack of lightning. Details that had been relayed unto him by both Farok and some nameless pack leader about a powerful, god-like weapon then returned to him as the first wave was torn apart like corpses to the grinder.

A thousand fears then bolted through Hector's mind then as he tried to decide what to do. Retreat would mean dishonor and shame to his name. That could not happen. He would not let that happen. The handful of magical Nekos that had been born into his tribe had been barely able to produce even weak spells, and even then not for a prolonged amount of time. The human had to run dry eventually.

If it meant he had to sacrifice lives to drain him, then Hector would sacrifice them. Retreat was not an option as he now thirsted for blood and hungered for this human's heart. Most of all, he wanted the human's weapon. With his voice betraying him, cracking with the pitch of his terror, the king had ordered the next attack.

The men he had kept in reserve were suddenly panicking, many dropping to the dirt while those who stayed upright were ripped open by an invisible force. From nowhere, his honor guard began screeching in pain as they too were thrown to the dirt with blood erupting from their shattered breastplates.

What in Necela's name?! Their armor-?!

Something tore through Hector's leg, sending him howling to the ground with a piece of flesh the size of one's fist missing from his thigh. One of his warriors came rushing to his aid, only for his head to explode as the human's weapon came upon him.

...

When the red Neko hit the ground with a bullet in his leg, Michael put another burst into the group that had started to help their leader. After that, he didn't waste a moment.

"I'm going after him! Mila, watch my back!" he yelled while coming to his feet and lifting his M60 up to his shoulder in a shooting position. With controlled, sporadic bursts of precise fire, the Sergeant kept the Ra'zorlichs suppressed as he pressed forward toward their line. Mila, not completely sure of what her mate meant, kept his rifle close to her side and stayed right behind him while watching for any who might try and come up behind him.

Any time a Neko stood up from behind a bush, Michael stopped to fire at their legs to take them back down to the ground. He didn't want any surprises when he finally reached the treeline to capture his objective. Suddenly four Ra'zorlichs darted from the bush thirty yards to his left, swords raised and voices screaming as they charged toward him. Michael reacted in a second.

He snapped his machine gun in their direction, but the Nekos split up, two breaking left while the other two went right. Just before Michael turned to fire at the leftmost pair, they fell into line with the village walls. His finger came off the trigger and he pulled his weapon away; he couldn't risk a stray bullet punching through the defensive walls and striking someone from his tribe.

Thinking fast, he swiftly turned the gun on the Ra'zorlichs to his right, unleashing a five-shot burst into them that successfully tore the leg off one and punched a hole through the chest of the other. Pulling his M60 to his hip and supporting it with one hand, he tore a grenade off his webbing, hooking the pin with his teeth and tossing it at the Ra'zorlichs now twenty yards off on his left.

"CATCH!"

This caught the bipedal felines by surprise as the small, metal rock struck one in the face and landed in his hands. Cursing in his own tongue, he drew his arm back to throw the rock back before it exploded, severing his arm and riddling him and his partner with a lethal wave of shrapnel.

"MICHAEL!" Mila shrieked.

As the initial four Ra'zorlichs had leapt out from the bush, another five had come in from behind him, and now they were no more than ten yards away when the Sergeant had begun to turn. Mila was leaping out of the way as the M60 came around, Michael's finger readying to squeeze the trigger. From nowhere, though, a volley of arrows rained in on the Ra'zorlichs, striking their unprotected heads or necks and taking them to the ground.

In a split second, Michael glanced back to Sayn, Hail, and the rest of the Willher defenders fighting off a less prominent force of Ra'zorlichs that had come in from the flanks to attack the gate. Despite being more poorly equipped and trained, they managed to hold back the numerically inferior red-claw warriors. It was the archers who, in the middle of their defense, had taken the split second out to shoot down the squad that had nearly claimed the Sergeant before refocusing on their fight.

Thankful for their overwatch, Michael spotted the cloaked warrior with his back against the wall of the village, fighting off three Ra'zorlichs at once. He narrowly dodged their rapid strikes, their swords grazing his body and piercing his cloak more than once.

"Mila, rifle!" Michael snapped, desperate to act.

She didn't hesitate to pass him his M14 as he handed her the M60. In a second he had drawn his sights on one of the warriors about to swing at the cloaked Neko and pulled the trigger.

Both the Ra'zorlichs turned in shock as their comrade's chest burst open with a spray of gore, but they were even more surprised as the cloaked Neko they had been fighting immediately swung his blade to part their heads from their shoulders.

Wiping the blood from his face, the cloaked fighter immediately turned to assist a pair of warriors struggling to fend off a single Ra'zorlich, not once glancing in Michael's direction as his attention shifted elsewhere. 

The Sergeant himself turned toward the spot where the Ra'zorlich king lay. He knew he had hit the blood-red bastard, and he was not going to pass up the opportunity to gain leverage over his annoyance of a tribe.

Fixing his bayonet to the end of his rifle he darted for the treeline with Mila close behind, running awkwardly with the LMG in her hands. He crashed through a small thicket to find five heavily armored, muscular Nekos lying on the ground. Four were dead; one was moaning and writhing in pain, clawing at the bullet holes in his breastplate. Their King was crying out on the ground, his face strewn with tears as he tried to drag himself away with one hand clasped over the hole in his thigh.




Going Feet First Ch. 04



"King Hector, is it?" Michael asked as he approached.

The Neko nearly jumped as he flipped over to face the human, his eyes wide with shock.

"Get away from me, demon! Get away! WARRIORS! I NEED HELP!"

"SHUT UP!" Michael snapped as he smashed the end of his rifle into the king's face.

Hector's head slammed into the ground, his hand going limp against his leg. Seeing the Neko's eyes closing and jaw hanging open, Michael gave an annoyed sigh whereas a horrified look came over Mila.

"Ahhhh shit... don't tell me..." the Sergeant grumbled as he knelt at the Neko's side, pressing two fingers against his neck. He instantly perked up.

"Nope, never mind. He's alive," he declared, turning to Mila with a touch of relief in his tone.

Her tense posture relaxed, a soft sigh escaping her lungs, "Whew, if you killed him then the Ra'zorlichs would come for revenge."

"Yeah, I know. Come on, let's get this shit-rag to the healers and see what exactly brought these pricks to our neck of the woods."

...

With his ears still ringing from the thunder of Michael's weapons, Sayn ripped his sword out from the last Ra'zorlich left from the force that had tried to circle around them. Before he had even given the word, his men lit the iron braziers beside the village gate and began to strip the red-claw warriors of their weapons and armor.

The horn sounding the "all clear" rang out after several scouts came in saying it was so. The bodies of their fallen comrades were gathered and carried into the village, while other men sorted through the salvaged armor to see what was still intact and who fit it. Somewhat shameful did some of the Willher find the act of looting, but ultimately necessary in a world that was advancing past leather armors and stone-headed axes.

Turning down the offer of an "only slightly scratched" long sword, Sayn made his way over to the cloaked stranger who had been the triggering factor of the battle. The Neko was wiping blood off of his blade with a large rag that he afterward he used to wipe his armor. Spots of red were spattered over the golden-blonde fur on his hands, with more specks lying across the natural black streaks running down from under his glowing, orange eyes.

"Tell me, friend," Sayn started, drawing the stranger's attention. "What's your name?"

The Neko only glanced at the Warrior Leader, then in Michael's direction. The Sergeant was at the treeline, struggling to lift the Ra'zorlich king off the ground into a fireman's carry while his mate held onto his weapons.

"Farok," the stranger answered. "Former Hunt Commander of the Ra'zorlich tribe."

Nearly every Willher warrior stopped at once and turned toward him. Their face clearly projected their confusion, then anger as they then had to decid whether or not to pull their swords. Sayn himself took a step back, hand coming to the hilt of his weapon.

"Do not fear, Willher," Farok stated, moving both his hands behind his back and away from his weapon. "I am no longer one of my tribe, and I hold no ill will towards yours."

Both of Sayn's eyes narrowed, several of his men moving to encircle the former officer. "Only because I have seen you cut down your former tribesmen shall I believe you. But I must have you seized and imprisoned-"

Two Willher warriors grabbed Farok by the arms at once while another stripped him of his personal affects. "-Until a council decides whether or not you can live. Traitor or no, you are a Ra'zorlich Commander, the leader of the scum who has ordered the injustices done to our own."

The ex-Hunt Commander offered no resistance as his gear was removed and armor stripped until he stood in nothing but black, leather pants and a loose, grey, felt shirt. He could sense the hatred quickly spawning among the Nekos around him, accepting the fact that it was not misplaced.

"What the fuck?" an angered voice snarled.

Farok glanced over to see Michael standing less than fifteen paces away, muscles trembling under the weight of Hector's armored body.

"Somebody take this royal fuck off my shoulders so I can kill that motherfucker!" he snapped, trying to find somebody willing to accept his burden.

A warrior quickly offered himself up, pulling the Ra'zorlich king over his shoulders. The second the weight was off of Michael, he had his sidearm drawn and was storming up to Farok. The ex-Hunt Commander stood passively as the Sergeant took him by the collar and pressed the barrel of his pistol into the under-side of his jaw.

"Give me one solid excuse not to kill you, you Razor-lick fuck!"

In a passive tone, with both eyes locked with Michael's, Farok answered, "Because I have spared you once, and taking my life now would be a waste after you saved it twice."

It took a few seconds for Michael to process, but his face perked up when it finally dawned upon him. "You were the traitor in the cloak?!"

"Your kind is not so dull-minded as I thought."

"We risked our village over you?!"

"And I am grateful for it."

Michael's finger squeezed up on the trigger of his Colt .45, the temptation to complete the pull nagging on him to the extreme. A low growl echoed in his throat, his breath becoming forced as he cycled it through his nose.

"Fuck it," he said in a more neutral tone.

He decocked his pistol and pulled it away from Farok's head, sliding it into his holster. As much as he was tempted to shoot the golden Neko, he was still curious as to why he had spared him at the crash site, and why his own clan was trying to kill him.

"I'm going to want to have a talk with him later, if that's alright," Michael said stealing a glance at Sayn before going over to Mila and taking the M60 off her hands. While passing through the village entrance into the streets, he commented offhandedly, "There's something more behind this, and I'm awfully tired of being left in the dark."

A slightly guilty look came over Sayn and several warriors as they glanced in Michael's direction, but the Warrior Leader collected himself and ordered, "Take Farok to the elder's hall and throw him in the cage. And take the 'king' to the medicine hut for his wound to be treated and then tie him up in the elder's hall as well."

The warriors handling the two Ra'zorlich leaders gave affirmative nods and took them away. With Hail having already gone to join his hunters in the village, Sayn began to order his men to drag the bodies of the Ra'zorlichs to the middle of the clearing. More warriors began to strip the dead of their weapons and armor, gathering what was still of use while discarding the rest.

Several wounded Ra'zorlichs were soon discovered in the treeline; those who were not too badly wounded were bound and dragged away to the medicine hut. Those who suffered mortal wounds were put out of their misery and added to the growing pile in the clearing.

..................

Having stored his weapons safely away, Michael held hands with Mila as she guided him through the village toward the medicine hut. By now the blood had stopped dripping out from the scratches on his face, and most of the mess had been cleaned from his chest and neck. However, Michael was shirtless at the moment as his jacket and army T-shirt were hanging up in the tent to dry after they had been washed clean.

The medicine hut, a wooden longhouse with a Nekonian-script sign above the door, had a good number of the Willher warriors and hunters guarding over the half dozen or so wounded Ra'zorlichs awaiting treatment in a line outside the entrance. Upon seeing Michael and his mate, the Warriors immediately waved them in past the line while ignoring the grumblings of their prisoners of war.

Inside, Michael found the place to be in chaos. Both male and female Nekos were rushing about, running herbs and slaves between the rows of beds while healers tried to work on screaming, resistant Ra'zorlichs. The healers, confused about their ailments and unaware of the effect of a gun, only continued to do their best while fighting to restrain their patients.

The product of their efforts hung in the air over the two bodies of the red-claw warriors lying in the corner, dead.

One Willher warrior was lying on a stretcher near the door. There was a deathly, gaunt look to his face, the healers beside him shaking their heads despairingly. With his arm struggling to support itself, he took hold of one of the healer's hands and whispered something to him. When he finished, the healer nodded, and said something to a pair of nearby warriors. Before the wounded Neko was carried outside, the healer poured a bit of salve into the hole in his belly where a sword had sliced him open and slipped a piece of wood into his mouth.

As the Sergeant wondered about the young man, a young Neko male dressed in a white, blood-stained, wool robe approached him. "Michael?"

"What?" the Sergeant responded, attention shifting to the two healers struggling to hold a Ra'zorlich down as they poured a salve into the hole in his gut. The following screech made several around the room wince.

"Your magic caused this damage, do you know how to help repair it?"

"Yeah," the Sergeant started. "But why should I be bothered to help save their lives? They wanted to kill us."

"Because we are better than them," the healer answered without missing a beat, as though that had been a question he had heard before. "And by Nekonian law, we can sentence them to servitude for capturing them."

"What?" Michael responded. "Sentence them to what, now?"

"I'll explain that later," Mila interjected. "I will say that it would be good for the tribe if you saved these Ra'zorlichs from death."

Sighing a bit in frustration while shooting a questioning look to his mate, Michael finally caved. "Fine. I need a long, skinny knife, or a pair of tweezers or something."

After overcoming the Willher healer's not knowing what some basic medicinal instruments were, Michael finally got a hold of a pair of knives that fit his needs. One by one, he went around to the Ra'zorlichs that he had shot, extracting bullets from their bodies and allowing the healers to do their jobs properly.

Another Ra'zorlich had died during one extraction, to the dismay of the healers, but the other nine survived, and the seven waiting outside could finally be tended -once Michael's hand and scratches had been properly cleaned, bandaged, and had a medicinal balm applied to it, of course.

Despite it being the middle of the night, the Willher Village was bustling when the Soldier and his Tracker stepped out into the streets. With the many voices buzzing about, and none of them speaking English, Michael quickly felt like he was lost in a storm. There were so many Nekos glancing in his direction, some pointing and smiling.

Mila picked up on his dazed-look right away, pulling him in as she said, "There's talk of having a tribe gathering tomorrow night. And many a much impressed by you."

"Now I know why they're all staring at me," he mumbled, spotting another Neko staring at him while pressing a fist over his heart.

"Come, let's go to the Elder's hall."

Nodding in agreement, Michael followed her through the crowd to the village center, finding the tribe's members gathering and piling logs into the pit of the great fire. It was a preparation, Mila clarified, to be meant for the next night.

A scream erupted from within the crowd, many faces turning toward an elderly Neko woman on her knees just outside the Elder's hall. She broke down into tears as she called out to the young man in her lap: the warrior Michael had seen being carried out of the medical hut. Despite the woman's pleading, his body went limp on his improvised stretcher; his eyes slipped shut and he finally succumbed to the gaping wound in his belly.

A dozen Willhers immediately came to the woman, kneeling at her side and wrapping her in their group embrace. She continued to cry, but in the wake of her child's passing, she was given comfort. A somber tone came over Michael as watched the scene unfold and continued on at Mila's side. He didn't ignore the mother and son, but he did not dwell upon them either.

"Michael?" his mate addressed.

"What?"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

"There's a tear in your eye."

He quickly wiped it away, "I just hate what the families are going through. How much they're hurting."

"There would be a lot more families hurt were it not for you."

Michael gave no answer to that, he only delved deeper into thought as they entered the Elder's hall. There he and Mila found the village leaders already gathered at the end of the table, just as they had earlier, with Farok sitting bound on the table top, facing the elders with several warriors at his sides. Surprisingly enough, Hector was already there as well, sitting unconscious in the cage with a bandage wound around his thigh.

"This is a judging! Elders only!" Hail immediately declared when he noticed the two new arrivals.

At once the whole room turned toward Michael, then began passing questioning looks toward Hail. Farok casually glanced over his shoulder toward the human, then turned back toward the elders.

"Relax, Huntmaster..." Elder Misn mumbled, seemingly less tired than when Michael had last saw him. "He is a hero at the moment, a champion... And I believe he may assist us... in coming to a decision."

Grumbling under his breath, Hail composed himself and turned to the Elder. With a bit of venom to his sarcasm, he asked, "Should we speak human as well? Convenience our new addition until he learns our tongue?"

"Not a terrible idea, Huntmaster," Misn said. "Do any object to Hail's idea?"

Hail's ears perked up as his eye brows shot up over his widened eyes. Frustration flushed through his face; he and Lady Akal offered a token protest that was short lived as the Elder motioned for them both to silence, followed by the request for the Sergeant and his Tracker to join them at the table.

When they had sat down next to Sayn, the tired old Neko spoke again, "Warrior Michael... you met Farok before... and they say you wished to speak with him... If you still wish so, the time is now."

"What about-" Sayn started before Misn raised an open hand.

"Thank you, Elder," Michael responded before turning to Farok, who had already shifted around to face the human. The Sergeant's first question to the ex-Hunt Commander: "Why were you at the wreck of the 'metal beast' earlier?"

"To see if my assassins had killed you," the ex-Hunt Commander answered. "But, when I saw you sifting through their papers, speaking about the corpse of my first assassin and the absence of the second, I knew they were dead."

Sayn stole a look to a pair of warriors guarding over Farok, the pair who had escorted that second assassin right into Galen's hands.

"Then why did you let me go? You had the chance to kill me."

Farok shrugged. "To have killed you then would only provoke the other of your kind. The one with the green helm. After what happened this evening, I am glad I chose to spare you."

Michael cocked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because my king wanted both of you dead with both your hearts to feast upon. If I could not accomplish this, I was to be executed. Sparing you would be my way out, only what happened this night was better than I hoped."

"How could this be... a good outcome for you, Ra'zorlich?" Misn interrupted.

Farok turned to the Elder, answering, "The king out to end my life is captured, an entire war-group of pathetic fighters has been ridden from the forest, I have discovered men in my tribe hold me in higher respect than royalty, and I am still alive."

"I can fix you being alive," Sayn stated.

"And I can stop your village from being destroyed under the force of two-hundred Ra'zorlich warriors."

This brought Sayn up in his seat and the entire room to a state of alarm. Michael mentally began to review how much ammunition he still had for his M60 and M14, wondering how conservative he would have to be with his weapons to kill two hundred Nekos. An idea suddenly occurred to him, Could I train Mila in using firearms?

As the Sergeant pondered this thought, Sayn erupted with anger burning in his voice as he snapped, "What did you say?!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Farok spotted Hector stirring in the cage. Those dark brown eyes opened up slightly to focus intently upon the ex-Hunt Commander, who simply continued to speak.

"There are two hundred men left of the Ra'zorlich warriors, not counting the men we have that are not currently serving as warriors. If the king does not return, or if I do not return, they will seek out what had become of us. If Hector returns, he will no doubt gather all our men and attack your village, and I doubt Michael has the strength to stop them all."

"Unless we attack first," Sayn retorted. "With Michael leading an assault, I doubt the men of your villages would last long."

Spotting the rising fear in Hector's eyes as he remembered the slaughter that had become of his men, Farok smiled. "No, I doubt they would."

He suddenly turned toward the king, almost growling as he said, "It would be wise if you walked away from this, Hector, as there are warriors who would plan an assassination on you if you pursued me further after this or sent them into a massacre like tonight. With the only warriors truly loyal to you dead, you have no choice."

"So he's awake," Michael chimed, rising from his seat.

The Ra'zorlich king's eyes were instantly upon the Sergeant as he leaned in on the table, the expression on his face causing the royal Neko to reel back in his cage. When Hail moved to interrupt, Sayn motioned him down, turning toward the human to listen to what he had to say.

"Listen here, you red-furred son of a bitch. There are a lot of good men lying dead out there, lives wasted for some bullshit reason. And bullshit reasons really piss me off. So, before you get sent back to your village, or home, or whatever, I am going to make some things perfectly fucking clear in terms of what you're going to be doing from now on. You with me so far?"

Hector only nodded as everyone else around the table sat silently and observed.

"You and your fucking tribe are never going to leave your territory again. You are never going to harm a Willher ever again. If one comes into your territory, you will tell them to leave and that will be it. Never harm, nor kill any of my tribe ever again. Got it? Those are my two rules. You break them, and I will grab my weapon and load it up with enough thunder to slaughter every man, woman, AND child in your territory. I will spare no one. Am I understood?"

"Never," Hector said, feigning his strength even as his voice betrayed him. "I will see your whole clan dead for this. This village burned to the ground with everyone's' head upon sticks."

Cocking an eyebrow, Michael shrugged and drew his pistol.

"Cover your ears!" Mila snapped.

Everyone save for the Ra'zorlich king had time to react, clamping their hands atop their heads over their feline ears before the shot was fired. Hector screamed as a bullet tore into his already wounded leg. Adjusting his grip on the sidearm, Michael asked again, "Am I understood?! Or do I put the next one through your skull?!"

"YES!" Hector howled, clutching his calf where the bullet had gone in.

"Will you do as I say?"

"YES!"

"And what did I say?"

"Never leave our lands!... Never harm Willhers! AARRGGHHHH, RAK!"

Michael holstered his pistol, ignoring Hector's cries of pain as he faced Misn. There was disgust upon the Elder's face, but also a hint of understanding. It was not a course of action he would've taken, but of learning of the personality of the king just now, he knew something had to be done that nobody was willing to do, except Michael.




Going Feet First Ch. 05



Author's note: this story continues my tale, 'Going feet First', and follows Galen, a soldier once in Vietnam, now on a journey into a medieval fantasy world filled with Elves, Magic, and all kinds of fantastical creatures.

Welcome to Raska.

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Going Feet First

Chapter 5: Before the storm

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The sweat still glistened off of Felyn's skin in the wake of her rut with the surfacer. Not a single article of clothing covered her body as she stood in the Commandants' study, holding a defensive stance as changes began to take place in the space around her. Tides of magic washed through the stonework walls and disrupted the radiating energy that allowed her to see without light.

Her darkvision worked the same as the rest of her race, using the energy coming off all solid objects just as "normal" eyes would use light. Anything, whether it was animate or lifeless, was defined in their shape by this energy, though without the vividness of color and not for a limitless distance. Through this perception of the energy flowing in the room, Felyn could see "cracks" of arcane magic spread over the stone of the floor of the study while more crept over the ceiling like water down a pane of glass.

When the raw power of the disruptive magic peaked in the room, magnificent whips of cyan energy were cast out from the floor by an unseen force. With sharp snaps and cracks they coiled and lashed out at the space around her and the human with the force to send the air into a torrent. Books were tossed from their shelves and documents that had been so neatly stacked on the desks were scattered across the room by the wind, all while the light coming from the arcane cracks in the floor continued to grow brighter in Felyn's darkvision.

Several of the tentacle-like strings of energy then encircled her body. From instinct she slapped her hand at one that drew too close but it only provoked it and every other around her to latch onto her limbs. The Empath tried to cry for help, only for an electric sensation to ripple over her skin and numb her from throat to lungs. Now struggling to draw breath, she found herself failing to keep control over her body as the cyan ropes coiled tighter around her arms and legs. A brisk frost suddenly pierced her chest, her torso shaking in response as the cyan magic sunk into her flesh. Then oddly enough, all she could feel was a mild tingle.

She managed to catch her breath when the feeling rapidly returned to her numbed throat as a new heat burned in her core to restore the warmth in her chest. In her belly she felt as though a feather was brushing over her insides and in her arms she felt her blood pulsing through her veins with a peculiar throb. But aside from these minor discomforts, no damage had occurred. No marks were left in her skin from... whatever had happened.

Disconcerted by this ordeal, Felyn glanced about the Commandant's study to check for further changes. Papers were scattered across the floor, the cracks in the floor and ceiling continued to spread, and new strings of energy had stopped appearing although the ones that had spawned had all vanished into her flesh.

A sudden flare of magic burned through Felyn's core, making the Drow warrior's vision flash as her guts felt as though something was shifting inside. Her lungs prickled with short, stabbing pains, her limbs growing tense as though something slid along inside her veins.

What in Lolth's name is happening? she thought, clenching her teeth.

Without warning it all faded off again, just a moment after it started. Whatever had stirred within her had gone and been replaced by nothing more than a tingle in her belly.

"I feel... warm..." muttered a voice beneath her.

The Empath looked down on the male laying down beside her feet. Galen was there on his back, stripped of all his clothes and gear. An eerie, white glow consumed his entire left arm. As glowing cracks in the floor spread to the walls, the light began to consume more and more of his body.

It was then that the door to the office barged open, Dreek storming in wearing her full battle armor with Keetle in tow.

"Commandant-" Felyn started.

"Silence. Get your armor on and prepare the Human. The pillar has awoken, and I can feel something has gone wrong."

As the last word slipped from Dreek's mouth, the arcane cracks in the floor finally consumed the whole of the room. With an earthy burst of scent and a crackling sound, several vines erupted from the jagged lines of magic in the middle of the floor and headed straight for the ceiling. When the green stems met the stone overhead, they spread out and draped down, forming a cloud of leaves and flowers sprouting from rapidly forming buds.

Then the vines began to change. Their green skin turned rough and jagged; frail stems grew thicker as bark replaced its outer layers. Tendrils became branches, the central vine became a trunk as thick as one's body, and right before the eyes of the watching Drow, a tree took its final form.

Standing with two daggers drawn, Dreek watched as the floral spawning came to an end within her shared study. Her entire ceiling had become overgrown with the canopy of a deciduous tree, while her floors remained unaltered aside from the now-dimly glowing cracks of cyan energy. In the wake of this transformation, even she could not hide her awe.

"Lolth's tits, how is this possible?" Keetle muttered as she gazed about at the transformation.

"There is something very wrong with this cavern," Dreek said, her mouth slightly agape.

Without warning the cyan glow over the floor intensified, the Commandant taking a defensive stance once again with her daggers as she felt a force pull her body toward the ceiling. All the papers and books that had been scattered after the first initial pulse of energy lifted off the floor and floated to waist height.

Galen, who had been in a drowsy state on the floor, began to rise above the ground. His eyes fluttered, his head lolling as he rolled to the side. He reached out to the empty space beside him trying to find his jacket or a blanket, but instead he only groped at the air. It was then he realized he was no longer grounded and his eyes shot open.

"Holy shit!" he cried out as he came back to his senses. He began flailing around as he continued to rise slowly upward. "The Hell is goin' on?!"

"Keetle, is this your doing?" Dreek hissed, turning to the aid.

Holding one hand to the ceiling and the other toward the Commandant and Felyn, the force-mage shook her head and answered, "No, I am the one keeping us on the ground."

The Commandant scowled as she turned to see the entire left side of the soldier's chest glow a bright white along with his left arm. As he kicked about in the weightless environment attempting to right himself, his nude body turned more toward Dreek. Right when he had spun to completely face her, the glow of his arm lighting up his entire physique, his cheeks flushed red and both hands moved over his crotch. His glowing extremity merely added more detail.

With the view she had been given, Dreek raised an eyebrow at Galen with a hint of a grin. When his whole face flustered, she rolled her eyes. Before either soldier or Commandant could say anything on the matter, the gravity in the room shifted once again. Each book returned to its place on the shelves, every thrown paper or object was pulled right back to their stacks on the Commandants' desks.

Still wrapping her mind around the new tree in her office, Dreek was near speechless that there was no mess to clean up.

"Keetle..." she whispered.

When she looked back, the only thing her aid did was continue to awe at the sight and shake her head as she responded, "This isn't my doing."

A sudden burden fell upon Dreek's shoulders and sent her to her knees as the sudden reintroduction to gravity caught her off guard. Beside her both Galen and Felyn dropped to the floor, the former landing with the audible smack of bare flesh meeting stone while the latter dropped to all fours.

"If not your magic, then whose?" the Empath questioned under her breath as she ignored Galen's groans of pain and recovered her stance.

Back on her feet she turned to face Dreek, immediately taking notice of the increasingly concerned look upon her Commandant's face just as her Empathy detected her urgency. Before she could dig further, however, the Commandant's emotional aura cut off, a barrier shutting out the Empath's power. But in those final moments of her connection with the elder, Felyn could have sworn she felt Dreek worry.

"Get your armor on," the Commandant ordered.

Without a moment's hesitation Felyn nodded and quickly moved as per her elder's order.

"Galen," Dreek addressed as she watched for anymore occurrences with the cyan energy.

"Arrghh, damn... Yeah?" the Private mumbled, rubbing his hand over his still-stinging belly while pushing himself over onto his back and sitting up.

For a moment Dreek remained silent, waiting for something else to happen as Galen winced at his red mid-section, his glowing arm finally dimming to a candle-like glow. From her best judgement of what she sensed, the flow of arcane power in the stone around her and how it had stabilized at last. It was more potent than before but compared to the sporadic mess it had been just moments ago, it was calm. While giving a breath of relief she returned her daggers to the sheaths at the hips of her yellow armor.

"Get dressed and get your battle gear on," she ordered, looking to Galen. "Do this now, there is a... 'situation.'"

With a nod, he mumbled his response, "Yes, Ma'a- I mean Dreek."

Keeping at least one hand over his privates Galen began to feel around for his clothes which were scattered around him. With only the light coming off his arm to guide him, he had to primarily feel around in the dark and as he did the Commandant watched and waited. Had the situation been different, she would have found the Human's struggle to gather his clothes while hiding his genitals amusing, but she was not in the mood to entertain a joke.

"Keetle," she called out.

The aid nodded before an order was given. With a wave of her hand all of Galen's clothes and gear came flying toward to him. His rifle hissed as it skidded across the floor in his direction.

"Woah, thanks," he said as his pants struck him in the chest.

He moved to get ready as fast as he could, standing up as soon as he got some underwear on so he could fight with his pants. In his haste, however, his foot caught in one pant leg, and as he hopped on the other to keep balance, he tripped over on the sling of his rifle.

"Oh shi-" he swore as he toppled over, his shoulder slamming against the side of the tree in the middle of the room.

"Oww, what the Hell?"

With the glow in his left hand growing brighter, Galen brought his illuminated appendage to touch it. At first he saw the bark, and looking down he found cracks in the stone floor from where it had grown. Then he looked up, his arm illuminating the foliage above him just enough for him to see. The Private blinked several times over, rubbed his eyes, then looked again.

"Where the Hell-?"

"If you have an idea, do tell, Galen," Dreek said aloud.

Shaking his head with his jaw slacking off, all he could answer was, "I ain't got the foggiest idea."

"Unfortunate," she responded, crossing her arms. "Get dressed."

He continued to stare at the tree a second, then nodded and collected his affects. In the timeliest possible manner, the Private got the last of his clothes on, tied up his boots, pulled on his jacket, and then put on his webbing. Upon picking up his rifle, he fished a magazine out of one of his pouches and pushed it into the receiver, racking the bolt and turning on the safety.

Beside him he heard Felyn say something aloud in Drow, followed by Dreek's response, which was then followed by Keetle's. The door to the office opened up and the light of the main living area of the Sun-Kissed's base poured inside. Right away Galen could see a similar transformation had come to the main hall of the base.

Vines had grown out from the floor around the couches circling the table in the middle of the room. Oddly enough, clusters of grapes were already reaching a ripe size from its stems and hung conveniently around the couches' arms rests. In each corner of the room a new tree had grown and spread its branches out across the ceiling well above head-height. A plant bearing gold-colored leaves sprouted from the floor and grew into a border around the painting of the three Drow nobles.

"This wasn't here moments ago..." Dreek mumbled aloud as she observed the changes to the room. "And I am not sure as to whether or not these growths are for the better or worse."

A new scent crossed Galen's nose then, a potent one that brought his attention to the spot in the wall below the painting. Red roses bloomed in full in seconds as he watched; roses with golden leaves growing off their green stems. The Private stared at this for a second and one name came to mind.

Celia.

As he stared at those flowers, his mind didn't wander off to think of her capture; The danger that surrounded her didn't enter his thoughts. For that moment, all he could think about was that smile on her face when she buried herself into the roses she had summoned that morning. His sweet elf in her beautiful roses. The image had his heart glowing inside him bright enough to bring an unexpected euphoria to Felyn's mood when she glanced back into his eyes.

This mood shattered when the stairwell door at the far end of the room swung open with enough force to slam into the wall behind it with a thunderous clap. Unconsciously, the Private's grip on his weapon tightened as Jrastra, wearing her complete yellow, plate battle armor entered the room followed by her aids.

The first Commandant paused a moment to observe the botanical changes to the living area before uttering a Drow curse and heading for the doors leading to the exit tunnel. A second later the second Commandant, Aufryn'uit, and three squads of Sun-Kissed warriors in full combat armor emerged from the stairwell and formed loose rows behind their leaders.

"With me," Dreek ordered as she moved to join up with the others.

Flexing his finger in its position overtop his rifle's trigger guard, Galen promptly nodded and stuck close behind her while Keetle and Felyn trailed behind him. The three Commandants came together at the door leading to the exit, stopping to exchange querying looks with each other. Jrastra cocked an eyebrow at Dreek, who in turn looked to Aufryn'uit.

It seemed to Galen they were wordlessly asking each other the question, "Are you ready?"

He assumed this inference to be correct as the three Drow gave a synchronized nod to one another and shifted their focus toward the two dozen warriors behind them.

Several more Sun-kissed then came out from the stairwell, one still doing up the last of the binds to her armor before falling into line with her sisters. While some of the Dark Elves paused a moment to look over the changes to their base, they quickly moved to join ranks with the rest of their sisters.

Looking over the number of her warriors lining up, roughly thirty of the forty-six she expected, Jrastra finally gave her order. "Everyone, move out! Those who are late will pay for it when they catch up."

"Follow," Dreek commanded to Galen as she and the other Commandants began to move down the exit tunnel.

In one organized, uniform movement, the rows of Sun-Kissed warriors filed into the tunnel into three columns, each column lining up behind their respective Commandant. Galen, being blind in the tunnel, used the glow off his arm to provide just enough light to keep himself from bumping into Dreek. With the number of battle-ready Sun-Kissed around, he didn't want to run the risk of one of them confusing clumsiness for some hostile action.

"So what's with the battle rattle?" he asked.

"Battle rattle-? Oh, the battle armor. The pillar in the middle of the city," Dreek started. "It released a wave of energy and its light has grown brighter. Surface vegetation had only begun to grow throughout the cavern when I last saw it just a few zetras ago and an uproar had begun in the market district. On top of this, several of our servants in the village outside experienced... outbursts with magic, even if they had no skill with the arcane to begin with."

"Chaos. Plain and simple," Jrastra declared. "It has erupted, and now we must take action."

There was a pulse through the air, and the door at the end of the tunnel opened up. Galen squinted as the bright light flooded into the darkness and he raised a hand to block it from his eyes. Every Drow save for Dreek did the same, some even winced or gave near-silent whimpers of pain. Yet as the Dark Elves stepped out onto the top landing of the stairway that lead up into their home, many of them had already adjusted to the more intense brightness of the central pillar.

When Galen looked out over Faerssune, the first words to slip from his mouth were, "What the Hell?"

"What in the Goddess-damned..." Jrastra mumbled.

Across the stone floor of the cavern, between the city districts and over the empty expanses between them yet to be developed spawned either dense forest or rolling fields of grass speckled with clusters of trees and random oases. Colorful flora and deciduous plant life crawled around the buildings and fortresses that encompassed the cavern and continued to do so as Galen saw an impossibly large willow grow and wilt over a pond that had appeared around a solitary hut located in the empty field between two sectors of the city.

The entire circumference of the cavern's walls had become overgrown with even more trees and tides of ivy that swallowed the stone whole. The only places left untouched, or at the very least minimally affected by the growth, were the fortresses, districts, and the roads and paths that connected them.

Behind Galen several of the Drow women began whispering to each other, just as the Commandants did amongst themselves. The Private, unable to understand a word, kept looking out to the city and analyzing the changes that had, and continued to, take place.

"Move," a voice hissed.

Without warning an armored shoulder smacked into Galen's, making him stumble aside.

"Hey!" he snapped, only to pause when he recognized who had bumped into him.

"Sapril, forget him and get up front, now," Aufryn'uit ordered.

The second Commandant's aid, Sapril, glared at Galen, an eyebrow barely arching down over her swollen left eye. Galen was tempted to use his healing magic on her, considering it was his head-butt that had given her that shiner, but he would expect her to cut his hand off should he present it to her. So in an awkward silence he merely turned away from the aid as she gave a huff and moved to Aufryn'uit's side. Only before he relaxed another hand brushed him aside and the Commandant's second aid moved past him in silence to join her elder.

In a very loud, commanding voice, Jrastra began speaking out in Drow, pointing off to her right. Galen only assumed she was giving orders as Dreek and some of the Elves behind him gave an affirmative response the moment she finished. Jrastra then pointed to the Central pillar, giving more orders which were then confirmed by Aufryn'uit and her followers. She topped this all off with giving a last set of orders which were answered by another set of troops which Galen assumed belonged to her.

The groups started moving, Jrastra and Aufryn'uit leading their squads down the steps and heading their own ways. Only Dreek and the dozen members of her squad she'd gathered remained on the landing. The Commandant turned to Felyn and a pair of Sun-kissed behind Galen and gave an order to which they nodded. The trio then immediately returned to the base to do whatever task the Commandant had given them.




Going Feet First Ch. 05



When they had disappeared into the tunnel, Dreek gave another order to the rest of her sisters, and at once they came to the stance of attention, their eyes forward as their Commandant finally turned to Galen. "We are to sweep the city and get a grasp on what has happened. Be wary, you're going to see the main Drow population and are likely going be confronted by our kind. Remember what I have said before about dealing with males and females, but if you see red leather, remain at my side."

"Or Red Sisters have their way before you disappear," Keetle added.

"Red Sisters?" the Private repeated, glancing back at Keetle and then to Dreek in confusion.

"The other... 'elite' group of Drow," the Commandant answered, Galen's previous adjective bringing a smile to her face. "Where we serve the Val'sharess upon the surface, they serve her in the underground. They are far less accommodating to your kind than the Sun-Kissed, though they will be of little threat if you remain with me."

Galen's shoulders slumped as he lowered his head and sighed. "Is there any goddamn place in this cave that I could safely go without bein' beside ya?" in a quieter voice he added, "Even with your sisters?..."

Hearing this, Dreek glanced toward Keetle, a frown arching down over her brow before she looked back at Galen. His statement was only a slip of the tongue, but it was not facetious in the slightest. Something had to have happened...

"You weren't protected when you were with Keetle and Jrastra?" she asked, her tone concerning.

It did not slip the Commandant's notice that Galen's knuckles changed shade as his grip tightened around his weapon. The way his brow furrowed and his lower lip stiffened told her of a pained anger brewing within him.

"I wasn't protected against Jrastra's empathy... mind... crap," he growled with a sneer.

Dreek's frown quickly turned to a glower focused directly upon the human in front of her, her growing anger causing the Drow women of her squad to waiver in their stances. "What did she do?"

"Ain't what she did, aside from making me go through an emotional tornado. She tried to get me to... to force myself on Keetle and Felyn, and when that failed she fuckin' looped their minds and..."

Galen paused mid-sentence and took a breath, turning away from Dreek slightly with his head down. Right then he glanced at Keetle, who stared indifferently at him, and then to the Commandant as the other Drow in the squad silently watched and listened.

"Jrastra made us fuck," the aid bluntly explained, making Galen stiffen up in surprise as both he and Dreek looked over to her. "Jrastra's empathy made my body want, and, with much effort from her, made him willing."

"So you finally fucked a surfacer, Keetle," the Commandant stated, her anger fading off as she crossed her arms and turned to Galen. "And our human warrior tasted Drow courtesy?"

The Commandant chuckled under her breath as his head snapped toward her, a confused look about him as he repeated, "Courtesy? Had Jrastra not used her power-"

"Then you would've not have fucked each other and Keetle would still be in the same rut she was in when I made her my aid. I was wondering why she had become less aggressive in your presence," Dreek surmised, leaving Galen speechless.

When the Private appeared to on the verge of formulating a reply, the third Commandant continued, "Aside from the emotional suffering you clearly experienced, I fail to see anything negative of this adventure of yours. From the aftermath I have witnessed, I am sure both my aids enjoyed wonderful sex, and you too seemed quite content when I had entered the room."

Behind Galen there were a few snickers before Dreek continued, "Now what has happened, happened. You may not like our methods, but we use what means necessary to reach our goals. You may dwell on it, or you may come to the conclusion that nothing negative has come of this and drop your anger. It does nothing to help your position with us and it will only hamper your journey back to Celia."

Galen could've broken the stock of his rifle then, his breathing growing more unsteady as Dreek dismissed his "emotional suffering" the same as she would dismiss any physical ailment, but at the mention of the name, Galen's grip on his rifle loosened off.

Celia. His Tree Elf: the one in this new world that he felt closest to, that his heart yearned to meet again, that he swore to protect no matter what. As much as he was beginning to regret it, he needed the Sun-Kissed to keep that promise. He doubted he could escape the underground alive without them, and even if he did, there were people on the surface that were going to kill him if he tried to rescue Celia by himself.

It did not escape his attention now how the Drow were manipulating him, how Dreek twisted his own goal to use him how they would, even to "train" their own warriors in ways he would've never considered before. But the fact didn't change that he couldn't easily get out of this right now. In that respect, Dreek was right.

Giving a deep sigh, Galen completely relaxed his grip on his weapon. As he looked out over the Sun-Kissed compound, he slung the rifle over his shoulder and spotted Jrastra's squad marching through the streets. The first Commandant and her squad were combing through the buildings of their base, the Empathic elder issuing orders to anyone who wasn't already caught up in some other task.

"Just gotta let it go and carry on. Dwellin' on it won't help me none," he said aloud.

"Exactly," Dreek responded before turning to the awaiting members of her squad. "Everyone, move to the stables and find your mounts. Once Felyn, Lualara, and Zyrtwi gather the rest of the squad, we ride on."

..............................

"Feels kinda like Vietnam now..." Galen muttered, shifting in his spot atop the back of Dreek's mount.

"What did you say?" the Commandant asked from her seat.

"Nothing, just talkin' to myself," he responded.

With a shrug Dreek adjusted her grip on the reigns of her riding spider and kept her eyes on the forested path ahead. She and Galen were flanked on all sides by the eighteen members of Siks squad. Some rode upon lizards, armored from head to tail, or spiders considerably smaller than Dreek's tank-sized arachnid but still large enough to support a rider with equipment, or horses that had been brought down from the previous raid upon the surface. Despite having this protection, however, Galen couldn't fight off a bad feeling he had circulating in his gut.

They rode down a stone path through a newly spawned forest, and Galen didn't know if there were Drow bandits of some sort taking advantage of the new cover or if there was any wildlife to come with the new environment. Either way, he kept his rifle at the ready and a close watch on his surroundings. No more surprises.

An increase in the pace of a nearby lizard made Galen turn in his seat toward the approaching rider. The subtle sense of calm that washed over him as he made eye contact told him at once it was Felyn.

When she was riding parallel with the Private, she asked, "I sense your uneasiness. What is wrong?"

As he switched his rifle to safe, the Private gave a shrug and turned his head forward. "This place kinda reminds me of Atzla, and the place I was in before Atzla."

"Hmm," was Felyn's response. "And where were you before Atzla?"

Gritting his teeth Galen breathed out slowly through his nose, thinking back to his first, botched combat jump. He could swear he could hear the flak again... feel the air whip around him as the machineguns had torn into the plane. With these images in his mind he unwittingly looked over to Felyn, who immediately sucked in a harsh breath and turned away from him with her eyes clamped shut.

"Do not answer," she hissed. "And turn away from me!"

Realizing his error, Galen's averted his eyes and turned guiltily back to face the path ahead. Mentally he cursed at himself for forgetting her sensitivity to his emotions, how easily he could do serious damage to both himself and her if he wasn't careful.

He opened his mouth to apologize to her, but remembering Dreek's words from before, on not showing a weak side, made him clamp shut. Even if he was with the Sun-Kissed, people who wanted to keep him for some grand scheme, he couldn't take a chance with falling out of their favor.

Caught between a rock and a hard place... he thought with a sigh.

Not far ahead, a hundred yards at most, the forest came to an end as it joined with the stone streets of the first city district. To Galen's surprise, the floral spawn that had swept across the cavern hadn't intruded upon the urban areas. At least not entirely.

Among the houses and shops made of metal and shaped rock, many of which were inlayed with spectrums of different glowing metals lighting up with a variety of colors. Only a few trees grew in between the stone buildings while some hedges grew in front. Ivy had scaled the faces of several buildings and fruit bearing vines had spawned around others, but aside from these minor growths, nothing else had occurred.

A Drow riding beside Galen suddenly spoke out in her own tongue, and before the soldier knew it, the squad that had been tight-lipped for most of the ride had now broken out into conversation. Still unable to make out even a single word they said, Galen kept watch on their surroundings, especially since the city's population had taken to the streets to investigate the green tide that had washed over their home.

Right away one woman on the edge of the built-up district had spotted the Sun-Kissed entourage and the human that accompanied them. She began speaking with other Drow around her, and slowly the focus of the civilians came to Dreek and her passenger. This didn't faze the Commandant, as she began giving orders to her soldiers. The squad was quickly split up into groups of three, with Dreek, Keetle, Felyn and Galen forming their own team.

They strolled down the most densely populated street, buzzing with dozens if not hundreds of Drow who all had to make way for Dreek's riding spider. From the gap made in the gathered populace by the Commandant, both Felyn and Keetle were able to ride side-by-side behind her and keep close watch on the surroundings.

"Be on your guard, Galen," Dreek ordered.

"What for? Plenty to keep eyes peeled for here," he replied, ignoring a deathly glare he was receiving from one of the Drow women as they rode by.

"Then 'keep eyes peeled' for anything. More than the cavern changed with the crystal's awakening."

The Private raised an eyebrow at the Commandant and flicked off the safety to his rifle. "What do you mean?"

Dreek slowed the pace of her mount as she eyed a second floor window, where a child watched them through the glass. "When that pulse came through, the assistant to our... erhm... blacksmith-"

Her attention shifted to a pair of girls as they ran out from a house and darted into an alleyway where an oak tree had grown. "- who had never been able to cast a spell in her life..."

After passing that alley, Dreek turned her focus back to the road ahead. "After that arcane burst, the smith assistant's hands had suddenly erupted with fire magic. Powerful magic. Along with her, two other women in our compound who had never known magical talent now suddenly have abilities with the arcane. Going off of this occurrence, I can only assume the same has happened elsewhere."

"And this is an issue..." Galen started, thinking on the subject as that bad feeling only grew worse inside him.

Bearing a slightly disappointed look, Dreek turned in her saddle to look back at Galen. "This is an issue because if a person without any comprehension on the power of magic suddenly possesses it and uses it, it will no doubt go out of control-"

A building a half-block up erupted with a blinding flash and the commandant spun back around. A monstrous bolt of electrical power tore a whole wall out of the home while setting the newly grown weeds in the street aflame.

Screams in Drow tongue soon flooded in past the ringing echoing through Galen's ears. With this sudden outcry came also the distinct sound of blades leaving their sheathes; Galen's hand beginning to quake as he heard Keetle and Felyn move their mounts directly onto the Commandant's flanks.

Dreek, however, merely closed her eyes and let out a sigh. "-Just as it has done right behind me."

Sparks were still zapping in the air around the newly carved entryway to the stone building. Both of Galen's eyes widened as a Drow male stepped forth from the rubble, arcs of electricity jumping across the skin on his arms and between his fingers as he stepped away from the home he had destroyed.

With each step, more electricity arced around his body with increasing frequency. The fibers of his ragged cloth pants began to fry against his skin as the white hairs on his head stood on end. Even from his fair distance away Galen could see the fire boiling in his bloodshot eyes, how he forced each breath through a seething jaw. Even with something as obvious as a twenty foot arachnid approaching him from the side, his scowl stayed locked on the body in front of him.

At the feet of the living bug-zapper, lying on her back in the middle of the street was another Drow: a woman in a charred cloak and seared combination of leather and mail armor. The skin on her face had been cracked and split open, her hair singed to her scalp. Her belly had been torched open through her armor, and from the arcing, sunburst formation of her wound, Galen knew it had been caused by a lightning strike.

One of her hands struggled for something on her belt of tools, but the electrified male stomped down on her arm as it crossed over her belly. In a hollow, growling voice, he cursed something to her in Drow and lifted a sparking hand to her face.

"Galen," Dreek said in a calm tone, pulling her reins to bring her spider to a stop. "The male. Down, but alive."

"Yes, Dreek," the Private acknowledged, shouldering his rifle and taking aim. Just as the Drow male swore aloud in Drow, a gunshot thundered through the cavern, followed by his cry of agony.

"Good hit. Now dismount and follow." Dreek climbed off her saddle.

After slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Galen slid off the spider's back and followed the Commandant to the two wounded bodies in the street. Felyn and Keetle moved up on their lizards to form a perimeter around their elder. While one aid guarded the Commandant's mount, the other rode down the street past the ruined building to guard the other direction and keep the watching civilians back.

Seeing her aids take defensive positions, Dreek approached the male who cast the lightning so recklessly and clenched her fist. The cooling magic of her enchanted armor came to life as her skin warmed along her arms and her fingers prickled with magic. For any spell in the Commandant's arsenal that needed to be cast, she was ready.

Coming up on the gunshot Drow, she took in more of the scene he created and the damage done. Several windows in nearby houses had shattered, with one wall bearing an incredible scorch mark where the lightning had struck. Cracks had formed in the street at other points of impact, and not one bit of newly grown flora remained untouched by the intense heat.

Aside from the woman he had electrocuted on purpose, two other Drow women lay unconscious on the street in front of the smoking husk that had been a house. One of them still sizzled as her clothes smoldered.

Pointing to these women, the Commandant looked back at Galen ordered, "Heal them."

"On it," he replied, his hands lighting up in a glow as he slung his rifle over his back.

Dreek gave him a respectful nod and turned her attention to the male. The air around him was still empowered by his magic as each step the Sun-Kissed leader took toward him provoked more hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. It was fortunate that he was too occupied with trying to crawl away with a hand clamped down over the bloodied spot on his thigh than to turn his attention to her. No doubt a point blank attack would push even her defensive power to its utmost limit and if she could avoid having to exert herself, she would.

Only when the Commandant was standing over his feet did he look back at her. And only then did he finally roll onto his back and hold out his free hand as it arced with lightning.

"DIE YOU-"

What arcs of current that had been sparking over his skin came to an end when Dreek grasped onto his fingers. The spell she cast invoked an immediate and shrill scream from his gaping mouth. In the immediate area around the two Drow, the arcane flow in both the air and stone shifted, enough for even Galen to notice and turn his head to see what was happening. What the human took in from this display was beneath the Commandant's capacity to care as she only continued to sneer at the male below her, squeezing his fingers tighter and tighter.

"You've been given a new gift and instead of proving yourself useful, you squander it and your life in this petty attack."

The male's mouth opened up, though he couldn't even make a sound beyond the words, "can't... breathe."

"Because I am draining your mana. And when I finish..."

Hearing Dreek cut off the end of her remark, the male's eyes widened as his heart began to thunder in his chest. With whatever strength he had he snapped his jaws and attempted to swallow back one single breath to revive his blurring vision. He went as far as to pull his hand off the wound on his thigh to grab onto Dreek's throat, only for her to grin and easily peel it off.

The electrical tingle that had been in his hand completely numbed to the point where he could not even sense a dull buzz. Through fading nerves he sensed every drop of his magic being sapped from his body and feasted upon by the woman standing over him. And he was powerless to stop it. All that was left for him to do was lay his head back and wait for when he would finally suffocate.

Broadening the grin across her face, Dreek relished at the sight of the male accepting his fate. Submitting to what he could not fight. It was only when his eyes began to slide shut that she finally released his hand from her clutches. The breath he sucked in sounded like the howl of a mountain wind before he broke out in violent coughs. Dreek chuckled as he continued to suffocate as his untameable hacking denied him another breath.

Only when some stability returned to his airways did he look to Dreek again. Despite the total vacancy of the electrical feeling he had felt empowering his flesh, the male still managed to bring one more chuckle from Dreek when he lifted his hand and pointed his fingers at the Sun-Kissed leader. In a voice hoarse from his persisting cough, he cursed out in Drow as he called upon his power and focused upon her. But not one spark cast from his fingertips.

"Save your attempts. They're useless."

The Commandant turned her back to the injured male, ignoring his curses as she looked to the his original target, the armored Drow woman that was currently undergoing Galen's healing magic. Though the damage done by the lightning had healed and her skin had almost recovered, she still lacked any hair on her face, and whatever hair she had that wasn't covered by the hood of her cloak was gone.

When the glow in the Human's hands faded, she let out an ear-splitting shriek. Her body writhed beneath his palms as he pressed down on her shoulders to keep her pinned to the ground. Every single one of her nerves screamed out at her as though a rusted blade plunged deep into her navel and tore her open up to her ribs before being seared with fire. This agony, the after-effect of Galen's rapid healing of such monumental damage to her body, dragged on for several seconds and only served to make Galen wince as a sharp ache started to throb in his head.




Going Feet First Ch. 05



Her screams stopped the instant her pain subsided, those harsh moments of suffering bringing a pleasured sigh from her when the ended. After taking a few relaxed breaths and enjoying the feeling of a refreshed body, the cloaked woman opened her eyes and looked to her healer as he stood up. Upon realizing his race, however, she frowned.

"A human?" she whispered aloud in Drow, beginning to sit up and reach into her belt.

"Yes, my human, and off limits to you, guardswoman."

The authoritative voice drew her attention away from the surfacer and over to an approaching figure. Right away, the city guard recognized the distinctive yellow plate armor of the Sun-Kissed and pulled her hand away from the weapon. She doubted if pulling one would've been a wise choice in the first place seeing how the human carried one of his own across his back.

When the surfacer stepped aside to make way for the Sun-Kissed, the guard quickly pushed herself off from the ground to get onto her feet. Right on standing though, her mid-section cramped up and a harsh, tearing pain struck her hard enough to make her squeal and double over with a tear running loose from her eye. Out of the corner of her peripheral she saw the human's feet step toward her, but she moved a hand to the hilt of her sword and he immediately backed off.

Sucking in a breath and gritting her teeth, she relaxed her freshly healed core muscles and once again tried to stand up straight, being able to only to come up to a crippled hunch to face the Sun-Kissed now within arm's reach. Surface words were exchanged between the armored warrior and the human, and the surfacer quickly nodded and acknowledged her words. After passing the guardswoman a surprisingly respectful nod, he jogged over to another wounded Drow on the side of the street, his arms lighting up with a white glow.

With no marks or unique insignia showing on the woman's yellow battle-wear to clearly identify her, the guardswoman politely bowed her head to ask, "What is your rank, sister?"

"Third Commandant," Dreek responded. "And if you try to harm that human, you will be executed."

A confused look passed over the guardswoman's face as she passed a glance at the human performing his magic on one of the other recipients of the escaped slave's lightning magic. Within moments the boiled skin on the woman's body smoothed over and healed completely, though immediately after she let out several whimpers of pain as her whole body shifted with discomfort.

"Of course, Commandant," she responded, eyeing the human carefully. "I won't touch him."

"Good, make sure the rest of the Faerssune guard are informed as well. And know, too, that the male that attacked you is both wounded and powerless at the moment, I leave him for you to deal with."

The guard looked over to the male who sat watching her, clutching his leg as his face cringed in a visual show of pain. Despite his wound, he did not wipe that look of contempt from his face. If anything, he only showed more disgust for the one who had one who had been giving him chase since the market district in the center of the city.

"My thanks, Commandant," the guardswoman declared, once again bowing her head to the Sun-Kissed leader.

"You are welcome," Dreek replied before looking over to her pet. "Galen, finish your task and then mount onto the spider."

"Yes, Dreek," he responded, his attention still focused on the Drow he was healing.

His regenerative magic was just restoring the skin and bone to the scorched section of her ribcage. When two splintered ribs became one again, her ashen face cringed and she let out a soft whimper. A raw unshaped growth of flesh began to bubble up from the exposed meat on her ribs.

This growth continued to expand until it had covered the red, throbbing meat in a swell of dark grey skin. Then like an emptying water bladder, the growth deflated and smoothed over the raw flesh, with excess skin simply folding over and molding in as though it was dough being shaped in the hands of a master chef. When the glow of Galen's hands faded, all that remained to evidence the wound was the lighter tone of the healed skin.

With the damage undone, Galen braced himself as the Drow's eyes shot open and she let out a sharp scream. Just as the aftereffect lashed out at her nerves, she immediately lashed out at the bringer of her pain with her sharp nails; the Private was barely able to scramble back in time to dodge her clawed strike. In the following moment, the Drow collapsed onto her side, wrapping her arms around her chest and taking deep breaths as she shivered in the aftershock of that agonizing pain.

Letting out a long, deep breath, Galen pushed himself up off the floor and extinguished the lingering glow in his hands. When his "patient" glanced up at him, suppressing a weak cough and rubbing a hand over where her wound had been, he gave her a respectful nod and turned for Dreek's mount. He could feel the gaze of many watchful eyes as the civilians held back by Keetle and Felyn continued stare at him. Some seemed hostile, others curious, but nearly all of them kept whispering and pointing, their faces disturbing the calm in the Private's stomach..

I'm a strange foreigner in a reclusive world doin' things they ain't never seen before. All of them are gonna stare so just suck it up and move on.

When he climbed onto the back of Dreek's spider, the giant tarantula's hair rippled between his legs and its mandibles clicked as though to grumble about an unwanted burden. Seeing her passenger settled and ready, Dreek gave a command and the arachnid started moving. Keetle and Felyn rode to defensive positions in front and behind the beast, and the crowd that had gathered to investigate the lightning dispersed to make room for the Commandant's entourage.

After riding only a few blocks away from the scene of the attack, Galen looked back to see several lizard mounts converge on the smoldering stretch of street. The riders, armored and cloaked just like the first Drow woman he had healed, dismounted. They set out to secure the area, forming a perimeter around the ruined building and motioning forth civilians that caught their attention.

The Private could hear the people there speaking to the guards, followed by someone swearing in the Drow language. A trio of the riders then turned to the male with the lightning, readying their weapons as he lifted his hands in a defensive manner. He began to cry out, to scream and try to crawl away, but the guards did not hesitate in coming down upon him with the business ends of their blades.

Before he bore witness to what came next, Galen turned back to the path ahead and unslung his rifle. As he shouldered his weapon and took to observing his surroundings, he wondered, Just what the hell else am I gonna find down here?

"You are performing well, Galen," Dreek announced, Keetle suddenly perking up and glancing back over her shoulder toward him.

The statement took him by surprise at first; the Private had to think about her compliment to realize that she had actually given him one.

"I'm only doin' what I'm told," he replied.

"Which is doing you good. Others before you tried to rebel or escape at this point... or found themselves incapable of doing what was asked of them."

"'Others?'" Galen inquired, having to think for a moment to catch on. "How many men have you brought down here to be trained as a pet?"

Dreek looked to her hand and counted off her fingers while mouthing Drow words. After extending all five digits on one hand, she carried on to the other, driving a sick feeling in Galen's stomach.

"Six, maybe seven. None of them showed your promise and all of them are now dead," she said in a cold manner. "Keep as you are, Galen, and you will receive the full benefits of the Sun-Kissed."

Nodding while holding back the surprise he felt, the Private returned his attention to his surroundings. Six... they tried six times to find someone willing to cooperate? I guess I can understand why... with how... evil they can be... fuck, so long as I get Celia freed, I don't care what I have do.

..................

Concealed within the shadows of an alleyway, the dark ghost of Viekirra and the faint silhouette of a spectral Necela stood observing the street and its Dark Elf populace. So many of the obsidian-skinned elves were still in wonder or confusion with the sudden transformation of their home cavern. They still awed over all the plant life growing between the buildings of their city district. Some were already seeking out uses for the plants that had spawned, others working to destroy them en masse. None of these people held the attention of the watching ethereal beings as they merely waited for their true interest to arrive.

It did not take long for the somewhat crowded street to begin to clear. As the general buzz of conversation calmed to be replaced with whispers. The Drow then parted to form a path for a small entourage of riders to pace their way through. The lead Drow riding on a giant lizard watched over civilians as well as the large arachnid following behind her, while the rider of the spider herself kept her eyes forward and held an authoritative pose.

Both the watching deities could feel this Drow woman's magic reaching out to the surrounding area. Without any indication to alert those around her, her abilities kept "feeling" the auras of the bodies around her and gauge their strength in the arcane. It was a grand display of her power and strength, to be able to perform such a sweep with little physical show of her doing so.

Yet despite the spectacle of this woman's ability to perform magical arts, she soon fell beneath notice of the two goddesses. Instead they both focused upon the human riding atop the spider's silk sack, their eyes locking on to him while they looked into his aura. A warm smile immediately grew across Necela's ghostly face.

You're alright, Galen. I'm glad to see it.

When the entourage continued on down the street, Necela glanced over at Viekirra, who glared back at her with a questioning look. The goddess of life gave a nod, and the underground deity crossed her arms while shaking her head.

"I saw him when the Sun-Kissed first dragged him down," she stated in a low voice. "Had I been aware of his importance, I would have stopped him from entering the underground. But now I cannot interfere."

"Why is that?" Necela questioned, watching as the Galen's group rode further away.

Without warning, the young man suddenly sat up straight and scanned all around as though he was alarmed with something. After checking his surroundings he turned in his seat to look in Necela's direction, his eyes narrowing upon her general area. Though she knew he couldn't see her, she didn't rule out him sensing her presence. After all, she had granted him arcane power, and that did require giving unto him a piece of herself...

Tilting her head forward and glancing off to the side, her ghostly appearance quivering like smoke in the wind, Viekirra answered the question posed by her counter-part. "The Mistress's followers worship her and her alone. Some may know of you and your sisters and the other little figures across the surface, but their faith still lies with Lolth. If I try to act out of her interests in her absence... I don't even know what fate she would give me, what agonizing eternity to which she would damn me."

A vine suddenly sprouted up the side of the building beside the two goddesses, several red roses blooming along its length until it finally reached the top of the alley where it then arced over and descended down the other side. With a hissing sound echoing in her throat, Viekirra pressed her smoky hand to her forehead just as the vine settled on the ground and spawned one last rose from a bud at her feet.

"By the abyss, I doubt I shall remain in one piece when she discovers what has become of this cavern."

When the Drow deity clenched her jaw at the thoughts of her future, Necela placed a spectral hand upon her shoulder. "I will be taking the blame for this, Viekirra, do not worry yourself."

"I do worry myself because I know it will not be so simple," she growled as she looked back at Necela.

"No, but I will take care of your Mistress when the time comes. And until then, assist me with Galen."

A malicious glow lit up Viekirra's spectral red eyes as she shirked the hand off her shoulder and turned to the goddess. "Tell me, Necela, what is the importance of that human? What great value does some surface whelp have that could have provoked you into coming down into Lolth's underground and perverting it as you have?"

Folding her arms with a disappointed look, Necela answered in a calm tone, "I have invested much into this human, and he has done well in his service to me. But because of my negligence he is down here and his love is in the hands of the very evil I had sent him out to stop."

"Well, congratulations, Necela," Viekirra hissed, the line making the life goddess cringe with a tear appearing in one of her eyes. "But it should not be of any care of yours what happens to a single being when you have an entire world to watch over. In the broad spectrum of your influence, he does not matter."

"This one does matter!" Necela snapped, trying to repress any more the phantom tears from building in her eyes. "Just as he should be a care of yours so long as he is in the underground! For as long as he remains down here. So. Shall. I."

Despite the sneer she received from the dark Deity in front of her, Necela didn't budge from this decision and held a firm look about her. She knew her puppet stood no chance against the Drow goddess, but if were something to happen to her puppet at this point, she would be paying a more personal visit to the world beneath the surface.

And not even Lolth would be able to stop her.

A low hiss echoed in Viekirra's throat before she managed to growl a question. "If you intend to make this such a personal quest, tell me, is there a plan to remove him from the Underdark?"

Still not calmed from her outburst, Necela gave a nod, "Yes... I have one."

"Then speak up and let us get it over with."

Necela frowned, but ultimately huffed before she explained, "My shard has brought surface life to this cavern, changing the land and stone itself. If such a magnificent change has been possible on such a scale, could a Drow woman have been significantly changed as well?"

Viekirra's eyes narrowed at the surface goddess. "You will pose as such a woman?"

"Yes. And you will help make them believe while ensuring your mistress' interests are safe guarded."

"Putting me at your side." Viekirra had suspicion in both her eyes and tone.

"Only until I have freed Galen from those who hold onto him, so do not think I wish to take you away from your duties," Necela added.

For several long moments, the Drow goddess stared into Necela's starry night eyes. Her stance was steady, her fists tense. Both her eyes flared with a blood red glow as she glanced again in the direction Galen had gone, but soon her gaze returned to the surface power in front of her.

"Do you swear to preserve the will of my mistress?" she finally hissed.

"I swear. I have no interest apart from Galen."

Still scowling, the underground goddess breathed out, her fist squeezing one last time before it relaxed and her deathly glare broke away. Her ghostly body scattered like smoke into dozens of wisps that hovered over the alley just as Necela's form shrunk and morphed into a spectral butterfly.

"Explain the rest of your plan on the way," Viekirra's voice echoed. "No more wasted time."

......................

What the hell was that?

The question dogged Galen's mind as he tried to keep a watch over his surroundings for any threats. His focus, however, kept drifting away from the Commandant's safety and back to what he had felt just moments ago.

If only for a second, he could have sworn he had felt a familiar presence that rang welcome in his chest. In that moment with it he felt calm, comfort, healing, all wash over him in a warm wave that had him shrugging off all the pain in the world. It had made him feel at ease and forgetful of the cruel nature of the Drow that surrounded him. If only for a second.

He couldn't figure out where he knew the presence from, or how he knew it, he just recognized it. And now that it was gone, he just felt a dark hollow inside. In many ways, what he felt reminded him of Celia, but it wasn't exactly like her, just... his mind associated the sensation he had received with her, but that made the question echo deeper in his mind, What brought it on?

"Galen, eyes ahead, now," Dreek ordered.

"What is it?" he asked, shaking his head out and trying to push the question aside.

"Look."

Right on cue, Keetle pulled her reigns back to slow her riding lizard down and come to Dreek's side to give the Commandant an unobstructed view of the path ahead. The local populace had gathered around in a circle surrounding something or someone. There was a pulsing blue light from the middle of the crowd, as well as waves of arcane power potent enough for even Galen to sense.

And there it was again.

Galen's eyes narrowed as he felt that presence once more. Calm took over his mind, the bite mark Keetle left in his lip during their rutting, as well as the scratches Felyn left in his back, both rapidly healed over with a gloriously soothing feeling. His tense muscles felt like they were being ironed out, his hollow chest being flooded with warmth once again.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught Felyn glancing his way, the Empath suddenly relaxing in her saddle as everything he was feeling was channeled into her. Though Galen was unsure she was aware of it, she even cracked a smile. A real, warming, smile.

When Dreek turned in her saddle to look back upon her pet, a deep frown arched over her eyes and at once Galen knew she was angry... or perhaps simply annoyed at something. She turned toward the crowd and began yelling in Drow, and they quickly started to move away from the source of this wondrous feeling coursing through his body.

"Dismount!"

The order registered in Galen's mind instantly. In one smooth action he swung his rifle over his shoulder and climbed off the side of the spider. With an energized hop to his step, he readied his rifle and jogged up to Dreek who was ordering the civilians to clear out and allow her to reach the middle of the circle. For some odd reason, he found himself overly eager to see what had caused this occurrence in the street.

As Keetle caught up to her Commandant, she gave an abrupt wave of her hand and the air pulsed in front of Dreek with her magic. That invisible force shoved several women aside and opened up the circle to allow the Sun-kissed leader through. In that instant, both the Private and the Commandant laid eyes upon what the surfacer could only describe as an enchanting sight.

A Drow woman, clothed in only a most simple, white dress, sat huddled with her knees against her chest in the middle of the circle. Her brilliant, light-blue hair flowed freely over her body, descending half-way down her back as well as draping over her face as she rested her cheek against her knees.

With bright, solid blue eyes she met Dreek's powerful gaze in a way that had the Commandant immediately take a step back with a hand coming to the hilt of one of her daggers. When tension seemed to stir, the calming atmosphere pressed itself further upon the watching Drow to keep them all under its power.

Dreek's eyes narrowed as this broad influence came upon her, prodding at the gates of her mind. At once her defenses went up as she reached out with her magic to feel for her aids. Only her senses caught something awry.




Going Feet First Ch. 05



The Commandant prepared to draw a weapon as she turned to check on her followers. Both her aids stood with glazed looks in their eyes as they stared blankly ahead. Felyn, whose empathy was constantly probing at every being she could see, wasn't even reaching out with her ability. Even Galen had become enthralled by whatever magic was at work. Not that she expected him to have any form resistance.

Just as Dreek was ready to part her daggers from their sheaths, another powerful force bore down on her mind to bring her focus back to the woman. Though the Sun-Kissed leader tried to turn away, the sweet smile of this mystery Drow quickly became an intoxicating feature on her already divine face. She seemed to revel in this attention, though at the same time she had a humbled look about her joined with an invading influence over the Commandant's mind.

Able to block even Jrastra's level of empathy, Dreek scowled and tried to dig her nails into her hands to fight back this impossible power invading her core. Her shields couldn't stand, her mental walls crumbled as her body began to relax. In moments calm had begun to claim her. Her muscles were melting as though they were being graced by the fingers of a master masseur. Even as she called upon her every resource to hold back these feelings, all it took for this mighty leader of the Sun-Kissed to fall under the spell was for this magnificent creature before her to give one final bat of the lashes.

Holding a simper on her lips, the woman then rose to her feet, her smooth legs lifting her perfectly curved body up from the stone street until she stood straight. Careful not to damage the fabric of the dress she wore, she dusted off her bottom and stretched out her arms above her head, showing off the perky tips of her breasts poking out through her attire. She then lowered her arms back down and drew them behind her back, smiling at how deeply enthralled the Drow leader had become.

In slow, purposeful strides, she sashayed up to the Commandant, her pale blue lips sparkling with a fine silver dust as she took her face in her hands and leaned in. Dreek's eyes fluttered as their lips met, her tongue coming forth to touch with the woman's only to reel back as a light zap sparked her teeth and sent a wave of fatigue through her body.

In a peaceful, drowsy manner, Dreek's eyes slipped shut, her body soon collapsing into the arms of this divine woman, smile and all. Yet even the weight of a Drow warrior dressed in armor plating and a heavy cloak proved no issue for the enchanting beauty as she easily handled the Commandant's body as if she weighed nothing at all.

"There, there," she whispered while gently laying Dreek upon the ground. "You can sleep now. Rest peacefully and wake refreshed."

With her main obstacle cleared from her path, the woman turned to Galen, placing a hand on the side of his cheek and touching her fingers to his temple. "Hello, Galen."

"Hello..." he responded, his mind still numb from her magic.

"Would you like to rescue Celia now?"

At once his stance straightened up, his rifle coming to the ready as he nodded to the empty space in front of him. "Yes, ma'am."

The woman giggled and ran her hand down his face and over his shoulder, hooking it around his arm and taking a place at his side. "Come with me, then. We shall leave this cave and seek her out."

The Private remained silent as she began to nudge him forward, encouraging him to take a step with her toward a nearby alley. But the soldier wouldn't move.

"Galen, please, come with me."

"I gave my word..." he mumbled, making the woman give him a curious look as she gazed into his eyes.

A familiar tingle rattled his head as his mind shifted around, memories and thoughts being extracted from his consciousness in a way he recognized all too well. It was like when he initially attacked Pretayus' camp, in the back of the B-25 when Necela dug into his head to learn how to revive the machine guns...

Necela...

"Necela," Galen whispered as his last thought clicked into place, the numb feeling suddenly purging itself from his mind.

The Private immediately looked to the ground to see a passed-out Dreek. Behind her both Keetle and Felyn were stuck in a trance and staring blankly at the spot where their Commandant once stood without any sign of noticing either Galen or the goddess beside him. They were numbed in the head just as he had been, perhaps even more so now that he had been freed.

Having taken in the situation with clear thoughts, Galen took a step back from the Goddess, looking her up and down with a very confused look to his face. "Is it really you, Necela? Or one of your puppet... thingy, whatevers?"

An amused smile grew on the goddess' face, and she gave a single nod. "A puppet it may be, Galen, but it is still me. I have taken on this Drow form to help me- Eep!"

She gave the sudden shriek as Galen pulled her into his embrace, a tear suddenly running his cheek and his rifle hissing as it hit the ground. "Thank God and sweet Jesus Christ! You don't know how good it is to see you! After that whole goddamn..."

Necela's height subtly shifted to a greater stature as she wrapped her arms around the Private, the top of her head reaching his cheek as she rubbed his back. "Shhh, Galen, I know, I know. Everything that has happened on the surface between you and that evil spawn, Pretayus, I know. We will finish the task of ending him together, the both of us, and with the Dark Elves that have promised their aid. You gave your word to help them, as they gave theirs to help you, I shall see this through."

Sniffling and swallowing the small lump in his throat, Galen nodded and stepped back from the Goddess. "Thank you, Necela."

"You are welcome, Galen," she said with a polite bow of her head before her body shrank back down to a "normal" Drow height. "Now, let us wake the Drow Commandant and return to their base. Do play along with what comes next, and please be quiet as to my true identity."

"Not revealin' yourself down here?" Galen asked as he knelt down to pick up his rifle, the weapon giving a low grumble for having dropped it.

Shaking her head in the negative, Necela snapped of her fingers and the crowd of civilians began to clear the street, blindly walking back to what Galen assumed to be their homes and shops. It amazed him how she manipulated so many so easily.

"No, this is not my domain and the goddess who rules down here wishes me not to impinge upon her influence."

"Oh... okay... Then would you mind... doing some magic trick or somethin' to help me out? Felyn here," he pointed to the dazed Drow standing beside the sleeping Commandant. "She's got this trick they call 'empathy' and so does one of the other Sun-Kissed Commandants..."

"And you worry she might pull the information from you using her ability," Necela finished as she looked over at the aid with a curious expression.

"Yeah, especially Jrastra. If there's something-" He paused as he felt his thoughts quickly scramble around in his head, then quickly pull back together.

"You won't need to worry about that anymore unless you allow it," the goddess assured before waving her hand over Dreek and flicking her fingers at the two aids, showering them all in the sparkling silver dust.

Felyn blinked rapidly before she rubbed out her eyes; Keetle ran her hand over her face and gave her head a shake. With a yawn and a drained look about her, Dreek sat up from the ground, glancing around at her surroundings before a deep frown arched over her brow.

The crowd she had remembered being in this very spot had gone, and both her aids appeared as though they were just waking from a nap. Galen, however, was completely refreshed and active, even lively compared to how he had been during the rest of the patrol.

And then there was a new woman standing beside him... wrapped around his arm... The same woman that had been the center of the crowd's attention... Dreek remembered losing control over herself, her mind numbing and surrendering its control as she was made to kiss this... powerful being.

Just what was she doing with her surfacer?

As her aids finally came to their senses, Dreek drew a dagger from its sheath, taking an offensive stance and pointing the tip of her blade to the woman's throat. The soldier came to a state of alarm, unsure if he should draw his rifle to take to the goddess' defence or leave her to her own devices. He needed to make a decision fast, as both Keetle and Felyn, initially bewildered to their Commandant's actions, drew their daggers and quickly moved to flank Galen and Necela.

"Galen, step away from this creature, now," Dreek ordered.

"Dreek-" he started before Necela placed a hand over his mouth.

"There is no need for violence, Commandant," she said aloud in Drow, pulling away from Galen and stepping toward the Sun-kissed leader, who in turn took a step back. "Put your weapons away, please. No one need be hurt."

"What. Are. You?" Dreek hissed, remembering how easily she was taken under this woman's spell.

Giggling, Necela lifted a hand in front of her face, observing her obsidian flesh as though it were some new spectacle recently brought before her. "To tell the truth, I do not rightly know. All I remember... is the pulse of the pillar... and then there I was, flesh and body."

For a good minute Dreek glared at Necela, her blade holding steady over a precious artery where she need only flick her wrist to inflict a fatal wound. Yet this peculiar Drow merely batted her lashes over those solid blue, glowing eyes. She didn't show fear or aggression despite being defenseless and surrounded, and that was what Dreek found the most concerning.

"What were you doing to me and my aids moments ago?"

A light blue glow illuminated Necela's fingers, the disguised deity clenching them into a fist, and then opening her palm to release a pulse of silver dust into the air. "I was pacifying everyone. So many were so hostile, so much deceit and anger..." she turned to Galen. "Except in him."

Dreek eyes shifted over to her surfacer, then back to Necela. "So you cling to him like a male to his first mate and inflict magic upon him. Subtle magic, but enough for me to sense. Tell me, what did you do, and what do you want with him?"

With a disturbingly bright smile, Necela tilted her head to the side. "I hear the whispers of the divine. They tell me many things... and they say he must return to the surface. The moon goddess commands it, and Lolth, too, wishes him expelled from the underground."

"Lolth?!" Keetle hissed.

"The Spider Queen?" Dreek questioned, both her aids suddenly uneasy in their stances.

"What's wrong?" Galen interjected, only for Necela to cast a look back at him that told him to stop.

"The very same one you worship, Commandant." Necela stated in a pleasant tone as she faced the Drow leader again. "I hear her whispers just as I hear those of the goddess who had created that shard around which your city is built."

Again, Dreek only narrowed her eyes upon this woman. I do not know if she has a broken mind, or if she truly is a messenger of the gods. But her magic... it puts mine to shame.

Clenching her teeth and tightening her grip on her blade, Dreek declared, "I need that surfacer, he cannot leave until he is ready for our mission to the surface."

In that moment, Necela's magic tore into Dreek's mind, the Commandant's eye twitching as her consciousness was pillaged for the active thoughts floating within it. Her plans for the surface, her intentions and goals for Galen, everything. But before Dreek could question the shifting of her mind, the memory of that feeling slipped from her focus, then from her memory altogether.

As if it had never happened.

"After which mission, you intend to leave him on the surface, I presume?" Necela probed.

"He will have filled his purpose," Dreek answered, blinking several times before shaking the clouded feeling from her mind.

"Then he will stay to undergo your training and preparations for your mission. But I am to remain with him, and offer what aid I can to the Sun-Kissed as well."

"And if we reject you?" Dreek questioned.

"You won't," Necela stated matter-of-factly. "Because there is not a force you have that could stop me from taking this surfacer away from here. Consider it a gift that he now remains down below."

To cement her words in the Commandant's mind, Necela released a pulse of magic, strong enough to kick clouds of dust up of the street and flare up the glowing inlays that decorated the Drow architecture. This move did little more than earn her a scowl from Dreek as she hesitantly returned her blade to its sheath. With only one look to her aids, she made them do the same, and with this stand-off coming to a close, the tense feeling racking Galen's nerves settled enough for him to let out a relieved sigh.

"So what do we call you, creature?" Dreek asked aloud. "I'm sure you would appreciate some formality."

Pressing a hand to her chin, Necela looked to the central pillar of the city, the crystal shard that housed a fragment of her true power.

"Zer'tath," she declared, looking back to Dreek. "You will call me Zer'tath."

The Commandant cocked an eyebrow, looking Necela up and down with an inquisitive look. "Very well, Zer'tath. If you wish to remain with my surfacer, then come with me. We are returning to base. Keetle, Felyn!"

"Yes, Commandant!" the two aids responded in unison.

"Spread word to the rest of the squad. Coritika is to assume command and finish the city sweep. I will return to base with Galen and Crystal and..." she glanced toward Zer'tath, "discuss this situation with the first Commandant."

"Understood," Keetle responded while Felyn nodded an affirmative.

The two aids turned away and jogged to their riding lizards, climbing aboard and riding off into alleyways on opposite sides of the street. Just as the foot patter and clinking of the aid's mounts faded off, Dreek gave a hand gesture to her riding spider and the monstrous tarantula pattered over to her side.

"Get on," she ordered aloud while looking to Necela, her tone harsh enough to put a hup-two in Galen's step.

While the Commandant and Private scaled up the side of the eight-legged steed, Necela turned toward a shadowed alley in between two shops, focusing in on the dim, red glowing eyes staring out at her from the darkness. A pair of spectral hands appeared before her, forming words of Silent Tongue, the Drow sign language.

You changed your plan.

Necela nodded and with her hands held close to her belly and out of Dreek's line of sight, she replied, Yes, aiding your mistress's followers in a way that aids myself.

How so?

That is my own concern. You are invited to observe or intervene still, if you so desire. I do thank you for your help in the manipulation of the minds of all on this street.

Before she could receive another response, Necela turned back for Dreek's mount and approached the spider. While paying little attention to the hatred plainly shown in the Commandant's sneer, she climbed onto the beast's silk sack and cozied up at Galen's back. When the arachnid kicked into motion, she looked back to the alley in which Viekirra resided, passing the Underdark goddess one last smile before looking forward to the path ahead.

...................

A purple hue crept forward to replace the retreating scarlet as it followed the sun down into the horizon. The once-vibrant crowds flocking the streets of Redding steadily flowed away from the markets and back to the comforts of their homes. One by one the shops closed their doors and the stalls packed up their goods under the glow of lanterns being lit by the city guards.

Daytime archers retired when their nighttime counterparts came to relieve them. Cavalrymen, no longer having to contend with dense crowds, rode out into the streets for their nightly patrol. Guards took postings every few blocks while more kept on the move in set patrol routes. When the presence of the local law enforcement reached its peak, a thunderous clap rung from the east end of the city as the massive steel gate was drawn shut.

"You're stuck here for the night, now," Dee said in a low voice, hiding her mouth under the collar of her black coat as she looked to the covered Neko beside her.

Glancing in the general direction of the entry gate, Petra flexed her claws and drew the hood of her cloak further down over her face. The sidewalk was lined with shops and businesses, all locked up with the shutters drawn shut. Had the hour been midday, Petra would've browsed these shops and perhaps purchased some of their goods to hide her true interest in this section of the city: the monster of a house across the street.

Built with its back to the southern wall of the Sundered trench, hidden in its shadow and standing taller than most any building the assassin had seen thus far, was a grand home unfit for anyone but a lord. Fine greystone in perfectly square slabs formed the walkway around the granite privacy wall surrounding the grounds. The walls of the house itself were of red brick, laid with care and sealed with white mortar that sparkled ever so faintly in the moonlight. On the roof was a cap of pure, white metal sheeting trimmed with black eaves and hanging flags on each corner.

Along the front of this "manor," as Dee had called it, bushes blooming with flowers and vines of ivy stretched up the white, marble pillars supporting the balcony over the front door. Wealth and status of the master of this domain was clear, as it had been made clear that he also lorded over this part of the city. Only a man with everything could call such a place his own, though Petra doubted he knew that "everything" included a mark on his heart where she intended to drive her claws.

A man named Fretheim.

What delayed her intent was what she saw roaming around his property. An intimidating amount of guardsman patrolled perpetually with a clear presence and display of force. Full suits of plate armor, men with lances on horses, an archer stationed on the balcony above the manor's front entrance. Enough security covered this estate to keep what little foot traffic that did traverse the street at this time to the opposite sidewalk and away from the watching eyes of knights and their waiting blades. Even for the training and prowess of a Shadow Stalker, this was enough to make her wish to stay beneath their notice.

Aiming to evade the eye of the guards without arousing suspicion, the assassin took her accomplice's hand and pulled her down a side street away from Fretheim's home.

"What are you-"

"Silence," Petra hissed in a hushed voice.

The Neko was careful to watch the rooftop opposite the street from her, more specifically the archer sitting down on the peak of the building roof. When his attention shifted elsewhere, Petra pulled her accomplice into an alleyway, still watching to see if she had attracted any attention.

"Who-" Dee started before Petra clasped a hand over her mouth.

"The man with the bow," the Neko started, purposely making a clear show of looking in the archer's direction. "And I doubt we evaded notice of Fretheim's guard..."

Within moments of those few words, the subtle clinks of chainmail caught the ears of both the women, prompting Dee's breath to hasten as she looked to her friend. Neither of them had done anything wrong, but she did not want a guard remembering either of their faces.

Ensuring she was completely covered by her cloak, Petra took Dee by the hips and pressed their bodies together against the alley wall. When the courtesan went to object, the Neko silenced her by forcing their lips together, moving one hand under her shirt and the other down the back of her pants.




Going Feet First Ch. 05



"What are you-" Dee gasped as she started pushing the assassin away.

"Proposition me," Petra whispered, her longer arm dipping deeper in the hybrid's cleft as soon as she felt the tail rise just a little bit.

"What?" Dee's nervousness was clear in her voice as she squeaked.

"The guard is coming, you're a harlot, proposition me as you would a male. Be loud."

The hybrid blinked at Petra, but imagining her as a male groping her this way at least helped make the connection in her mind.

"Five silvers for a stroke, twenty if you want to get personal," she declared in voice audible enough to bring the attention of the archer across the street.

That bowman looked to the cloaked figure roaming Dee's body with his hands and cracked a smile. Shaking his head he stood up and dusted off the back of his leather pants while working some life into his legs. After adjusting the quiver on his back, he turned and climbed down the other side of the roof, a heavy whump sounding as he jumped to the next building over. At the same time, the clinking armor that had been approaching stopped and began moving away as the guard returned to whatever he had been doing before.

The two women waited for a bit longer, listening for any sign of movement other than the few people still walking the street alongside Fretheim's estate. When no suspicious footfall or clatter of metal caught their ear, Petra withdrew her hands from Dee's body and took a step back, paying little mind to the dampness on her fingers, though the musky scent was nice.

"We should be clear now," she whispered.

With a subtle red tint to her cheeks, Dee gave a nod and fixed the waistline of her pants. She followed as Petra ventured deeper into the alleyway until it came to a "T" intersection where the Neko turned left back in the direction of Fretheim's estate.

"So, umm, w-why didn't we just come here straight off?" Dee asked. "I-I mean and avoid... you know... the whole, you rubbing your hand around my pussy."

With a sly grin, Petra dropped her cloak and came to the edge of the shadows concealing the alleyway where she had a full view of Fretheim's manor. In the darkness with her pitch-black fur, she doubted any human would be able to see her and so long as her company stayed far enough back, she, too, would remain out of sight.

"They were suspicious enough of us entering the other passage," Petra answered, again in a whisper. "Entering this path so close to a place well-guarded would bring company regardless of whether you were sucking some man's horn or not."

"Oh... I guess so... you're the expert with this..."

Glancing back on Dee and seeing how she kept her eyes down with a shamed looked hovering over her, Petra had to stifle her chuckle. "First time a woman touched you like that?"

Pausing a moment while still not making eye contact, Dee eventually nodded.

"I've... kissed women, but they always back off when I tell them I charge extra... it just... felt weird. I'm not sure I like it at all."

Now smiling uncontrollably, Petra looked back at Fretheim's manor and focused on the routes his guards took as they patrolled the grounds.

"You are so much like my underling when I had begun training her in the arts of the Shadow Stalker. She was uncomfortable with my touch at first, but it took only one ravishing night to break her of that inhibition."

"Only one-? Wait, Shadow-!" Dee's voice threatened to crack and she immediately clasped both hands over her mouth.

Petra's eyes widened at the realization of the error she had just made.

Her claws peeked out from her fingertips and prepared to erupt from her fingers at a moment's notice. She slowly turned to face her possible problem with her leg muscles flexing and ready to pounce. Provided she covered the body well, the guards shouldn't find it at least until morning, and even then she would just be another dead body in a city. With what she said for the guards to hear, few of them would likely care.

"Shadow Stalkers? You are one of them?" the Hybrid muttered in a low voice, her hands still covering her mouth. "But they're... they're..."

"Ra'zorlichs?" the assassin finished in a voiceless whisper.

Nodding, Dee continued, "You said you weren't..."

Rolling her fingers to crack her knuckles, Petra answered, "I am not. By way of Nekonian law I was sentenced to servitude after I was captured while on a mission of assassination. All my connection to my old clan died then. As my master was an ally of the Willher and accepted among their tribe, my allegiance became sealed to them by his association. Do you see this collar burdening my neck?"

Seeing the harlot's eyes glance down a moment before returning to meet her gaze, Petra continued. "This is the sealing bind. It is a fabric cast from pure magic that cannot be cut, burned, torn, or removed in anyway. It is the symbol of the sentence binding me to my master that was wound around my neck by Necela herself. I am no Ra'zorlich. In their eyes: I am dead. In my eyes: they are my master's foes. They are no more my clan than they are yours, half-breed."

For the longest time Dee stood and stared at that collar with a bewildered look. It had seemed to the assassin that she had become lost in thought, or shock, considering what she had just been told. Whether or not a there would be a corpse in this alley come sunrise was now in her own hands as Petra would not hesitate to defend her anonymity.

"I should've known..." Dee finally whispered lowering her hands from her mouth, provoking Petra's claws from her fingertips. "You look just like what they tell in the stories. A Shadow Stalker: black death coming from the night, ruthless in your task, determined to meet your ends with any means..."

"With claws sharper than blades and hearts as cold and hard as the steel band that binds our hair," Petra finished, her tail unconsciously batting at the steel ring holding her hair braid together. "It was our own spies that spread those tales, to spread fear of the league that I no longer lead."

No longer lead...? Dee repeated in her head.

Her knees were shaky as she faced off with the legendary assassin. Images of what mangled corpse she could end up as were running rampant through her mind as Petra made a clear show of flexing her clawed hands. Whatever words left her mouth now would determine whether or not she would live in the next few moments.

Biting down on the side of her cheek, Dee glanced back at Fretheim's manor across the street behind the Shadow Stalker. Her thoughts dwelled over the man inside. The evil contained within the red brick walls and the common goal he became between her with the dark terror of Atzla before her.

One evil, or another. Both could end her on a whim or find a way to destroy her life. But only one of them had any inclination to help her and answer the prayer she had whispered to herself for so long. If they were still allies.

"Are you going to kill me?" Dee asked.

With a scowl Petra answered, "If I had reason to, I would have already. Why? Do you intend to betray me to your city?"

Remembering the swiftness of the assassin's actions when she caught Zuriel spying on them earlier that eve, the Hybrid swallowed a lump in her throat and shook her head. "No."

"Then nothing has changed." The Shadow Stalker drew in her claws. "We continue on as we were. We can sort out these new details when we return to your home."

Dee just blinked as Petra turned around to face Fretheim's manor, folding her arms as her tail shifted semi-rigidly between her legs. The assassin didn't take a second look at the Hybrid she had considered a threat moments ago as her thoughts focused on the guards on the perimeter. Though she could sense the uneasiness of her half-blood assistant, the probable questions on her mind, they had spoken enough. Even with them taking the precaution of keeping their voices low, it was a wonder no guard had heard their words.

If one had, she would have had the opportunity to let off some steam and show Dee how she had made the right choice.

...

The moon was high and the last of the civilian population had cleared the street, though Petra still watched her target's estate from her shadowed alley. Behind her she could hear Dee's light breathing as the Hybrid napped while leaning against the side of a barrel. She disappointed Petra in her failure to stay awake, but at least she didn't snore or make any noise when asleep.

Around the walls of Fretheim's home the guardsman also seemed to tire. Several of the men at stationary posts along the front wall often shook out their heads or extremities, or performed some random exercise in order to stave off their fatigue. The pair of cavalrymen patrolling the perimeter yawned as they paced their horses and continued once again around the grounds. Only the archer in his position above the manor's front doors seemed to stay alert, though Petra often saw him disappear inside the house and come back out with food or drink.

The three foot patrols supplementing the mounted patrol slowed in their walk around the grounds. Single guards posted at each corner of the privacy wall leaned up against the barrier at their backs or took a seat on the sidewalk.

Sloppy and undisciplined, I like it, Petra thought.

Given all she had observed for the past few zetrans, the former Shadow Stalker spied the opportunities presented by the watching guards. She saw several holes in their route in which, provided she could remain undetected, could allow her to slip onto the grounds and approach the house. But not tonight.

Holding in her own yawn, she turned to Dee behind her, crouching down and placing a hand on her shoulder and the other over her mouth. She gave her a sudden jerk and the Hybrid snapped awake, both her hands coming to the one clasped over her mouth as panic had her heart pounding inside her chest.

When her eyes came to focus on Petra's face, she froze.

"We are leaving now," the assassin whispered.

The clawed hand was pulled from her face and the full-blood Neko grabbed her cloak off the ground as she stood up. Dee could still feel her face throb with each beat of her heart and did her best to settle her heavy breathing. With shaky hands she braced herself on the barrel and clambered to her feet.

"You get a- a," she sucked in a deep yawn as Petra fixed her hood over her head. "You get an idea of the guards' routes?"

"Yes. A few more nights, and I will have a way of entry."

With a nod, the Hybrid rubbed her eye with one hand while stretching out her other arm, "Great. I'm sorry for passing out."

The assassin shrugged, but then froze as the hairs on her back suddenly stood out on end. Frowning deeply, she turned around to face Fretheim's manor.

"It's nothing to worry yourself over..." she replied, her attention focusing elsewhere. "You are not used to scouting..."

"Something wrong?" Dee asked.

Petra's answer was silence as she scanned over the windows of the manor; her eyes narrow and her mouth quirked. Lights were going out all over the house while some guards were replaced by soldiers clearly fresh from a good nap. But two rooms remained lit as the rest went dark. One of them was the large room or hall on left side of the house on the first floor, and the other a small room on the third floor. Coincidently, this smaller room was the only one with its curtains open, and somebody just opened up the window.

In the blue-tinted moonlight, Petra couldn't rightly tell who was in the window, leaning out over the frame, but it looked female. And she seemed... familiar. Her hair was long, her skin a light color. Then, as dim as it was, the Shadow Stalker spotted it. The one thing she had kept in her mind the entire night.

A dim golden aura glowed off of the skin of the woman in that third floor window. Only one person Petra knew perpetually gave off this light, and the sight of her pulled a burden off the Neko's shoulder. At least until the Elf drew the attention of the cavalry men as they passed Petra's alleyway.

"Should we tell the lord the new Elf has her window open again?" she heard one of the horsemen say.

"Let her get some air. Poor knife-ear is locked up there all day, gotta let her have some comfort."

"Hmph, comfort. She is a knife-ear, we should be gettin' comfortable with her up in..." the horsemen rode out of range of Petra's ears before she could hear the rest.

Clenching her fists, Petra spun on her heel and stormed past Dee, grabbing the Hybrid's wrist and pulling her along.

"Ow- Petra?"

"We are leaving. If I stay here any longer, somebody will die and I will not make it clean."

........................

The cool night air was a welcome feeling on Celia's face as she knelt on the floor in front of her window. This one touch of freedom was something she knew to be short-lived before they came again to toss her back in her bed and close her window. Without any lock on the shutters she wondered how they expected her to not do this again. When they left she merely opened the window again and gazed out over Redding.

Laying her head in her arms on the window frame, she stared at the city beyond the walls of her prison. As terrifying as the impossible mess of wood, stone, and steel out there was, she found herself longing for the chance to explore it in the moonlight at a time when the masses hadn't turned the streets into a chaotic river of people. Few of which had bothered to look up and take notice of the Tree Elf sulking in her room on the top floor of the building.

A whole day she has been locked in this room, just watching, waiting, listening. Granted she had been well fed and given the chance to relieve herself, she still could not bear her social isolation. No one had come to her room to speak with her, they had only come in to shut her window and yell unintelligible words at her before leaving again. And they locked the door behind them every time. They even tried jiggling the knob to ensure it was secure.

Galen... where are you? Celia wondered, a tear tracing her cheek.

He couldn't still be under that horse which had fallen on him, could he? No, he is stronger than that, and Petra is with him. They would've pushed that poor beast aside... maybe Galen healed it if it was still alive. Then he would ride out the gates of this city and... and what would he do?

She saw the guards, the men in armor, the men with bows. They were everywhere at night just as the people where everywhere in the day. Galen would never blend in enough to be ignored. Just how was he going to get her out of here?

Celia let out a sigh and pulled herself away from the window, shutting it and flipping the little latch that kept them shut. She desperately wished to sleep, to fall into the depths of slumber and never return lest she did so in Galen's embrace. But whenever she laid her head upon her pillow, sleep became the wild hare she chased through the forest. It bounded and leaped from her grasp whenever she had come so close to catching it and falling into a slumber.

The Tree Elf unclasped her breast plate and let it fall to the floor, followed by her loin cloth and cloak. When she sat down on her bed, she shed her boots and crawled under her blanket. Even though her bed was soft and her blanket warm, she could only think of how much warmer it could be with her Galen in here with her. Or even Petra. She doubted the Neko would deny female companionship for a night.

Pulling her knees to her bare chest, a red-gold tint warmed Celia's cheeks as the saw in her mind the image of the three of them together in bed. Bodies curled one another, hands caressing or teasing... perhaps even something more... After all, her soldier seemed to enjoy the fire twins during his time at the Great Tree...

Celia eyes opened as she realized where her hand was. She pulled her fingers out from between her thighs and held them in front of her face to see juices coating her fingers. Out of mere curiosity she rolled onto her back, one hand coasting down her belly back to her slit.

At first touch she sucked in a breath and her pressed thighs together in reaction to that sudden shock surging up through her core. She felt lightning cast through her belly and her eyes peeled back. Goosebumps rippled over her skin with every hair on her bare body standing on end.

The chastising spell is gone, she reminded herself as she tenderly swept her middle finger over her sex. OOoooohh, I can finally feel this now...

Her toes curled when she drew her finger over her clit, stroking over the little nub and holding in her squeal. Nearly ninety years with little play left her womanly flower hungering, starving, for affection. Not even on the night she gave her innocence away did her desire call this heavily upon her for something to sate it.

Galen, forgive me in your absence...

Unwilling to hold back, the Elf pressed her middle and third fingers together and rubbed them over her dripping flower; her legs writhed as she did. Her finger tips moved in playful circles around her private lips, muscles in her backside tensing up every time she touched the pink flesh of her vulva.

Her juices flowed with her sensuous toying, her chest rapidly rising and falling with her hastening breath. She thought of Galen, of their night in that cave, of what she would want to do with him right now. Right at that moment.

He would be leaning over her body as he positioned his hips between her thighs. His young, lightened blue eyes staring enchantingly into her spirit as he brought his face closer to hers... His hot breath blowing against her jaw before he pressed his lips with hers... She could almost taste him on her lips.

Both her fingers plunged into her pussy just as he would push his cock inside her, digits delving deeper inside her as his manhood would in the joining their bodies. It took most of what she had to retain her silence at this point, and she pressed the back of her free hand against her mouth while her hips started to squirm. All to the image of the imaginary cock of her beloved thrusting in between her labia with an animal's ferocity.

Her breasts shifted back and forth on top her chest as she bucked her hips up to meet her plunging fingers. With a determined deftness she sent her fingertips poking her sweet spots while the pads of her hand rubbed against her clit. She had only realized now the advantage to her soft, supple skin, as it easily enveloped her pearl to caress it from every angle.

Whimpering echoed from Celia's throat as she clamped her jaw shut. As her hips writhed in the growing damp spot on her bed, her knees pressed together and her thighs squeezed down on her hands. Lightning tore throughout her body to set her glistening skin ablaze.

Still holding her love's image in her mind she pushed more furiously into her sex, feeling her belly winding up like a clock. With her entire lower body unable to keep still, constantly fidgeting and squirming with her fervent stokes into her pussy, she knew her countdown had begun.

Through her imagination she could see Galen, pumping his organ into her body as though tomorrow would be a day they would never see. Even as her fingers went deep to her core she replaced the feeling of her digits with what she remembered of his physical shape. His filling girth and erotic heat... how it pressed so deeply inside her. She remembered how his hips shifted and his dick grew just before-

Celia's legs seized up and her jaw clamped down as her dams burst open. Her eyes rolled back as the ecstasy of orgasm tore through her body. Doing her best to hold her mouth shut she let out a stifled scream as her hips thrust in to the air and her fingers dripped with her releasing juice. In this position she froze a moment while a twitch took over her torso and her toes curled around her sheets.




Going Feet First Ch. 05



Her muscles stopped convulsing then, and she collapsed right onto the bed with a trickle of her womanly nectar still running over her fingers and down into her bedding. Smiling dumbly, the Tree Elf withdrew her hand from between her thighs and brought it to her face. There she stared at the succus glistening off her fingers before breathing out her satisfaction.

Her desire sated, she wiped her hand off on the side of the bed and rolled over. With the covers pulled up around her long, pointed ears, she only needed to imagine Galen wrapping his arms around her, to imagine him bringing her body close against his as he kissed her good night, in order to, at long last, coax herself to sleep. A wonderful sleep, where she would wish to dream of being beside him once again with her head in his arms and the sound of his heart beating in her ear.

As she descended to her own realm, a blue light fluttered to her windowsill. A Nightwatcher carefully observed her through the glass.

...............

The opening guitar rift of a rock-n-roll song played out from a loudspeaker custom fitted to the side of a UH-1D "Huey" as it cruised fast and low over the jungle. Ahead of it were four more helicopters, all fully loaded with squads of battle-ready troops and additional gunships at both the front and at the rear of the formation.

Tapping his foot against the floor of the helicopter with the loud speaker, a Marine wearing a dirtied combat uniform with torn-off sleeves started strumming the safety of an AK-47. The fingers of his right hand touched down in time with the music on the weapon's forward hand guards in the places where the frets would be on a real guitar.

Not too long before I get to play mine again, he thought, the hint of a grin creeping onto his grizzled face. Just three more weeks of this Hell.

Under the brim of his jungle hat, his deep blue eyes tiredly scanned over the treetops whizzing right past his feet, his position on the right side-seat of the helicopter giving him an unblocked view of the jungle. After undergoing a long patrol through that God-forsaken sea of trees, he still felt as though the leaves themselves were growing eyes to watch his every step. Being up in a helicopter did nothing to calm his heightened awareness, though it did help him feel at ease up until the time he had to hit the ground again.

He adjusted the shoulder strap to the AK-47 bandolier strung across his torso, shifting the loaded magazine pockets to a comfortable position over his dirt and blood-stained equipment. He lacked a rucksack on his back and his issued M-16 with what ammo he had left were all gone, but the Marine could not find a reason to care. His issued gear, or what was left of it, was out there somewhere. All rendered inoperable and rigged with high explosives for some poor bastard to find.

Bits of mud fell off the black stubble growing on his cheeks when he opened his mouth to vocalize the music as it came to a solo. After nearly three weeks of having nothing but the sounds of nature and gun fire fill his ears, it was nice to have a change of audio. He did his best to ignore the fact that this was the second time he had heard the tune in the past hour, and that he only had the next thirty seconds to enjoy it before they were dropped into the two-way gun range rattling off in the distance.

"You seriously think you can get that home, Flak?"

The Marine with the AK still strummed the safety lever of the rifle as he nodded and answered, "Oh yeah."

Curious looks passed around by the eight other Marines on the chopper, one of them smiling before asking, "Whose dick you sucking to get it stateside?"

His thumb jerking downward to set the AK into the full-auto position, Flak looked to the soldier and with a dead serious face responded, "It's not me on my knees. I sweet-talked your mother into fucking some Army brass. Took her a few tries, but it worked when she learned to swallow."

Laughter erupted around the chopper cabin save for the one Marine who now glared at Flak with a searing scowl.

After having a good chuckle himself, Flak looked to the man. "Chill the fuck out, I'll tell you who to talk to back at base if you want to bring back that revolver you nabbed. Right after your sister stops sucking him off."

"Motherfucker!"

"Calm your shit, Marines!" the lieutenant yelled out from his seat behind the pilots. "We're coming up to the drop zone! Charlie is trying to get at a new outpost three clicks south of here and the Army boys need help keeping them back! The LZ is hot so rack it and be ready to roll!"

Even with the one Marine still grumbling and casting a nasty glare at Flak, the men in the chopper checked the magazines in their rifles and pulled the charging handles. The helicopters then broke formation and spread out over a clearing in the jungle. The field of grass over which they hovered was dimpled by craters and well-fortified with dozens of foxholes, sandbag emplacements, and trees that were toppled for cover.

Dozens of American troops were scattered across the area, returning fire on the Vietnamese forces shooting at them from the northern treeline. In the middle of the field, a pair of armored personnel carriers, both with damaged tracks and drive-wheels, were parked among the soldiers. The top gunners of the M113 APCs freely engaged the Vietnamese while their vehicles provided cover for the medics trying to care for their wounded.

On the side-gunner positions of one escorting gunship, the men on the mounted M60 machine guns opened up on targets on the ground while ones of the other gunships unloaded its missiles into the treeline. Firestorms of firepower rained down over the field when the second gunship followed up on the first with its fixed machine guns. For a real moment afterward, the incoming fire from the treeline paused.

At that moment Flak looked to the pintle mounted M60 in front of him, considering the idea of getting behind it and sending his own wall of lead down range. But the army lad who had been standing behind the gun when the Huey came to pick him up learned the hard way that the exposure of the position and the fire it would attract wasn't outweighed by the volume it of fire it could produce. Especially from a static position.

Wiping a bit of the kid's dried blood off his face, Flak was content to keep his distance from the MG.

The choppers carrying the reinforcement Marines came in low to the ground, the grass below them pushed flat by the downward draft of the rotors. When the Huey's landing skids were just a dozen feet off the ground, the Marine passengers rose from their seats and prepared to disembark. Without so much as a quiver of fear for the imminent firefight, Flak readied his AK and rose from his seat, grabbing onto the top of the door frame and turning to the men behind him.

"Come on, you pussies! Let's kill these Godless fucker-"

Blood burst out the back-right side of his ribcage, throwing him back into his seat.

"FLAK!" one of the other Marines shouted as the soldier slumped in his seat clutching the bullet holes in his chest.

When a bullet tore through his windshield, narrowly missing his head, the pilot turned to his passengers and snapped, "We'll CASEVAC him outta here! Rest of you get out now!"

"MOVE IT, MARINES! Corpsman, stay behind and help Flak!" the lieutenant ordered, leading the way off as the helicopter came to a hover less than waist height above the ground.

Though hesitant at first, the soldiers gritted their teeth and jumped out the side of the chopper and hit the ground running into positions. Almost immediately, several men came running out from the APCs toward the helicopter. With them they carried wounded on stretchers, holding IV lines up and trying to keep their heads down while they rushed to fill the Huey's vacancies.

Fatigue plagued Flak's senses as he cussed under his weak breath. The medic had come to his side but he ducked down when a bullet ricocheted off the roof. Knuckles turning white, the Marine unsteadily lifted his rifle and drew a bead on the muzzle flashes in the tree line. He could just make out a helmet outline between a bush and a tree, and when the medic got up to inspect the exit wounds on his back, he lined the target up with his sights.

"Payback... bitch," he growled as he squeezed the trigger.

His rifle kicked as the bullet cleared the muzzle, homing in on its target. With a glorious spray, that head snapped back, and the fire coming from that position ceased.

After nervously checking over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the enemy line, the medic refocused on the now smiling Flak and set to work. He pushed the Marine's captured weapon aside and felt around on his chest and back for the damage done. Finding the wounds with his fingers and provoking a nasty slur of swears from his patient, he leaned the soldier forward to fumble with his gear.

"Two bullets, Flak! Both went through!" the medic yelled as he pulled off the shoulder straps of Flak's kit. With the deftness of a thief he had the Marine stripped down to his bare chest and was already prepping everything he needed to close Flak's wounds.

On the other side of the chopper, a pair of soldiers hoisted a stretcher into the cabin of the Huey, sliding their wounded brother aboard and preparing to climb in themselves. Just as the next stretcher was being loaded however, someone yelled out a word that made everyone's hearts race.

"MORTAR!"

Even with the roar of the helicopter's turbine engine and the chopping sound of its rotors, Flak could hear the whistle of the explosives arcing high above their heads. He sucked in a hard breath as the medic pulled on the knots of the bandage wound around his chest, but immediately sighed as he felt the needle of a morphine syrette puncture his arm. The relief flowed rapidly through his veins, and he soon found himself without a fuck to give as the first mortar shell hit not thirty feet from the helicopter.

"Fuck this!" the co-pilot yelled, turning to the men who had just climbed into the chopper. "Tell the rest that we gotta buzz off!"

Nodding in confirmation, the soldiers in the back of the cabin turned to the next men in line to come aboard crossed their arms in a "X" shape and waved them off. When the immediate area was clear the helicopter tilted forward as the turbine picked up in RPMs, the craft rising up to get clear of the combat zone.

"The fuck is that?!"

Following the corpsman's gaze, Flak looked to the treeline to see a trio of NVA soldiers running forward; a long, tubular device in each of their hands. As the Marine pondered at this possible weapon's purpose, a flame shot out from behind them and a rocket came sailing directly at their chopper.

"HOLY FUCK!" the medic yelled, hitting the deck.

"HOLD ON!" the pilot ordered as he mashed a pedal down to turn the Huey to the right.

The rocket sailed right between the Huey's open doors and right over backs of the two soldiers that were using their bodies to shield their brother on the stretcher. When he saw the rocket arc down and slam harmlessly into a bare patch of ground, the pilot continued his ascent and chuckled a bit while he let the air out of his lungs and relaxed his tense fingers.

Coughing up a bit of blood, Flak grinned at his brush with death and looked down to the battlefield below. Smoke plumed out of the engines of a Helicopter as it belly-flopped onto the ground behind the American line. Within moments of crashing, the pilots bailed out along with the men that had been aboard, all of them scattering like rats for cover. And just as they all cleared the area around the downed bird, another rocket sailed right into the fuel tank.

When the fireball erupted and sent bits of metal every which-way, an inspired volley of gunfire erupted from the treeline. A move Flak figured to be the Vietnamese getting cocky. But a distant roar caught the Marine's ear and pulled his focus toward a welcome sight. One that had him on the verge of chuckling.

Two jets came in fast from the clouds above with their engines roaring as they throttled back and attempted to slow. With what accuracy they could manage at their speed, the planes dove down toward the trees before releasing their payload. The second their ordinance cleared their mounts was the second the jets throttled back up and pulled off.

Enormous balls of fire flared up over the jungle canopy as the bombs hit their mark. Chunks of wood and dirt high flew into the air over the treetops while pieces of metal and equipment went sailing out of the treeline toward the American line. At the successful delivery of air support, the troops on the ground gave a cheer that was barely audible for Flak as more distance was put between his chopper and the battlefield.

When the smoke cleared a minute later, the only thing that was left of the Vietnamese line was four smoking craters.

Despite that air strike, however, Flak just gritted his teeth and kept eyes on the scene as it shrunk away. He knew that fly-by bombing was merely a setback for the Vietnamese and momentary reprieve for the boys still on the ground. In his mind he counted down the seconds before the next assault wave came rushing out from those trees to retry their assault.

Sitting back and relaxing in his seat, forcing each breath out from his burning lungs, Flak listened to the music still playing over the Huey's loudspeaker. The tune made his toe tap his boot, and soon he strummed his AK-47 again.

Get me the fuck out of this country, he thought, closing his eyes and listening to the music.

"Hey, Pilot, what's that there? That the outpost they're building?"

Reopening his eyes, Flak looked to the spot on the ground where the corpsman pointed, spotting a freshly cleared patch of jungle still being bulldozed by several tanks equipped with dirt-plows. In the middle of the new clearing, men were setting up razor wire fences and fortifications around several, massive tents large enough to house two or three tanks each.

Jeeps, trucks, and bulldozers made rounds in the soft dirt to flatten out paths while trucks flowed in to offload troops and supplies. More tents were put up, trenches dug out, artillery pieces and AA guns set in place. At the sight of cement trucks, backhoes, and paving machines, Flak thought they were preparing to build an airstrip or helicopter pad.

"I believe so," the pilot answered. "A C-130 disappeared in this sector a few days back; those guys started setting up shop there before the area was even cleared."

"We were tryin' to track that plane down before we got called in to assist with that shit-storm on the ground back there," Flak added, though he was unsure if anyone heard him with his raspy voice.

"Place looks more like a new base than an outpost, fuck. Did they make sure they completely secured the area since they set up?" the medic asked.

Right as the question left the corpsman's mouth, a jet of fire flared on the ground. Another rocket sailing right for the helicopter.

"You fucking Jinx," Flak grumbled.

"JESUS CHRIST!" the pilot snapped, banking hard left.

Keeping a solid grip on the seat harness and his AK, Flak watched as the rocket spiraled toward him, its smoke trail arcing across the sky. He closed his eyes and let out a breath, waiting for the impact.

A flash of light made him open his eyes again to witness a bolt of lightning arc in sideways from... somewhere, and decide to carve its path through the rocket. From the resulting explosion, several more bolts arced out and traced through the sky. Five of which struck the helicopter.

At first there was a blinding light. Flak's ears rung with high pitch tone and his skull pulsed with pain like he'd been struck upside the head with a rock. The entire area around his chest wounds tingled as though the muscle was hit with pins and needles.

When the light dimmed and he could see once again, Flak found himself short of breath and getting pulled out his seat. His arms snapped like whips to renew his grip onto his harness before he could be thrown out the door of the helicopter now spiraling to the ground. In the front the pilot screamed and fought with the controls, reefing on the stick and mashing a foot into one of the pedals at his feet. Beside him the co-pilot kept flipping several switches while yelling "mayday" into his headset.

Something fired off like a gunshot, the engine suddenly giving a low whirr and picking up speed. Within seconds came another shot, and right then Flak figured exactly where it had come from: the engine. It had died, but was starting up again. Backfiring, but starting.

For a moment, it felt as though the bird began to regain its lift and pull out of the spin. With the G-force low enough for him to finally be able to bring himself back aboard, Flak fell into his seat and strapped in. His teeth and the magazines in his bandoleer were rattling from the chopper vibrations. The landing skids slapped against the tops of the trees and snapped hundreds of branches to leave a long, traceable scar in the forest canopy. When he took glance to the front, he saw the pilot give another pull on the stick, trying his damnedest to save the bird.

The helicopter started to pull up a bit higher and level out, its tail rising up above the tops of the trees. Only then did the skids snag on a tree trunk and send the Huey flipping onto its side. Flak cussed under his breath as he looked up to the heavens above while the bird he rode dove straight into the ground.

..........

Behind the black lenses of a pair of aviators was a narrowing pair of eyes focusing on the spot where a helicopter had been just seconds before. Stomping a boot down on the butt of a cigarette, the man ran a hand over his smooth head to wipe away the sweat. In bold, capital letters, the name "REED" had been stitched above the left breast pocket of his combat fatigues, the same pocket he fished into to dig out another smoke.

All around him men were running all over, yelling, barking orders, grabbing their rifles. All of them moving toward the gunfire that erupted outside the perimeter of the camp. A tank rolled past him and a trio of helicopters flew by overhead but he stood in place still staring at where that Huey had disappeared.

"Did that just happen?" he asked another man beside him.

"Yeah. It was there and now it's... gone."

"Fuck," Reed swore as he put the fresh cigarette in his mouth and struck his lighter. "Get Major Linton on the line and report in."

He brought the flame to the tip and sucked in through the filter to flare up the lit tobacco before he turned to the lower rank. "Tell him to halt air-traffic in this sector and to secure the Goddamn area while I talk to the professors. Considering we just lost another bird, one of them better have gotten a reading on one of them fancy, fucking, machines."

.........

The splash of flowing water down the river High filled the usual quiet of Atzla. Somewhere nearby a group of birds sang the sun away from its peak in the sky whilst a gentle breeze brought a gentle sway to the treetops. A squirrel scrambled up one tree and bees hovered around a newly forming hive in another. All there was to disturb this peaceful existence of nature was the crackle of leaves crunching under Farok's foot as he hiked through the forest.

Juices dripped from his chin when he bit off a piece of his freshly cooked bird. The warmth of the fire-roast did well to settle the grumbling within his belly, if not the chills running up his back. Beyond the understanding of the Neko was what he could only describe as a "buzz" in the air that had his skin crawling under his fur. Had hunger not been grumbling his stomach, he would have had his hands ready to pull his sword in an instant. But he had been walking since the previous night with only a handful of catnaps and no stops for meals since.




Going Feet First Ch. 05



Keeping close to the river High, he had been following the scent left in the path Galen had walked. It was faint at this point but it was there, and it was coupled with the scent of two others: one Farok did not recognize and the heartening grace to his nose that was Petra's essence. All the motivation he needed was in that lingering redolence for it meant she was alive to leave it behind.

Finished with what was left of his meal, Farok tossed the stripped bones aside and wiped his greasy hand off on his cloak. No more than three breaths passed his lungs afterward before the buzz in the air shifted. A wave of energy pulsed through the woods, kicking up dead leaves and causing Farok to turn on a dime as something came in overhead.

A gush of wind whipped through the trees with a roar not entirely unlike that of the beast upon which Galen rode into Atzla. What he thought to be the sound of a hundred axes chopping at a tree in rapid succession roared in the air above him, though once he tuned his ears in to hear the screams, he shifted his attention to the metal monster coming in over his head.

It was whipping its tail around in a circle as it plummeted, the chopping sound dying down as it started to whine with agony. Screaming humans aboard held on to black ropes as they did their best to not get thrown out from its open belly. Something boomed then, thundering with the same bang as Galen's weapon. By pure instinct the hunt Commander knelt into a low couch with one hand firmly planted the hilt of his sword now half-way out of its sheathe. Then that sharp crack thundered again, the miserable whine cutting off immediately as the chopping noise picked up in its place.

Tree branches cracked en mass as whatever beast this was collided with the tree tops. Leaves and bits of broken branches rained down onto Farok's head as it swept the tree bows directly over him. One branch clipped his ear to make him flinch and sneer with a growl rumbling in his throat. He raised his arms over his head to shield himself until the shower of branches finished. When the last of the debris hit the ground, he pushed his blade back into its scabbard and pushed off on one of his knees to stand up.

Still hearing the metal monster power-grooming the forest canopy, he brushed off his cloak and ran in pursuit of it, internally questioning, More of his kind?

All the earth beneath his feet then shook as a tree trunk snapped and that beast slammed into the ground with a crack of snapping steel and shattering glass. Several trees toppled over onto the wreck, two coming down onto the crashed beast to bring one last squeal from it as its metal body twisted under the fallen timber.

Farok gave a breathless chuckle at the crash but retained his harsh scowl, Humans and their metal beasts... cannot stay in the sky, can they?

Coming up onto the wreck, Farok took a good look at the beast that now lay dead before him in a bed of shredded forest. The long tail of the creature had been torn off and sent rolling several paces past its corpse, the blades on its end still spinning.

Shattered glass and mangled metal plating littered the area to make an approach with bare feet like Farok's a difficult idea. Though there were the trees that had fallen around the beast, and a sight that truly caught the Neko's eye. A thunder-ripper exactly like what Michael had used to defend the Willher village hung off the side of the monster on some kind of mount.

Quirking his mouth while frowning at the weapon, Farok entertained a new idea as he mentally muttered, More weapons could be inside its belly with the humans, perhaps even intact...

"Fucking Hell," a weak voice coughed, bringing the ex-Hunt Commander to alert.

One survived?

The golden Neko didn't delay for a second. He skipped over a patch of the glass shards and leapt onto one of the trees lying down on the "chopper," as Farok nicknamed it. With his feline agility he bolted up the rough, rounded surface of the tree and pounced onto the body of the chopper over its open belly.

Inside, lying on his back in a seat beside the thunder ripper, was another human. Breathing, wounded, dressed in a uniform similar in design to Galen's, though it was well worn and lacked both sleeves over his arms. The human himself seemed less child-like than Galen as well, and in several ways had an air about him like Michael, though on his tongue Farok could taste something fiercely different about this human. Whatever the difference may be, the Neko couldn't tell without speaking to him. If the man's wound would even allow him enough consciousness to hold a conversation.

His chest was wrapped in a bandage and smothered in dressings. His breathing was harsh and forced, and blood stained his face around his mouth. Yet he still lived with enough life in him to keep a white-knuckled grip on the weapon in his hands, one that was unlike any the Neko had seen Michael wield.

Right then the human's eyes peeked open to fix on Farok. He seemed dazed at that moment, as he well should be, and immediately coughed out another round of blood before his head lolled off to the side. That grip he held on his weapon faded and it slid down the side of his belly.

"Don't let me die here..." he gasped. "I fought... too hard... too damn long... to die now."

The Hunt Commander stared at the wounded human, his claws leaving his fingers as he looked toward the river High. Every moment wasted was one more moment Petra was out there with Galen, under his will and command. And every moment wasted was one more they were slipping farther and farther away. Perhaps if they stopped in Redding he could track them down in the city, but he couldn't trust his senses if the trail was left for too long as the forest would soon cover and consume it.

But even if he left this human to die as he pursued his assassin, would he even catch up to her? Should Galen go south to the mountains, he would be going into territory unknown to the Ra'zorlichs. But then the territory would be unknown to him as well... he would need to prepare. Ready himself... Redding is already a supposed vast sea of human civilization. He could spend a month there preparing for a journey south. Or he could decide to settle within the walls with his own kind.

It was his wish to see his assassin freed that had him conflicted in this decision. Should he save the human before him now, he would be turning his back on the one he had left to a most futile cause. He would need to take him to the Willhers and Michael for healing across a stretch of deep forest. If he would even survive the trip there...

Or perhaps the Willhers would have to come here. They did have roaming healers, and Michael would likely come to secure the weapons of his world...

And it was not too wild of an idea for Farok to believe that he could take one for himself... Talk Michael into teaching him how to operate it if he could not figure it out himself. The Neko would take every advantage he could in his quest...

Gritting his teeth, Farok looked to the human, preparing to reach into his satchel. But then the wounded warrior had shut his eyes, his breath choked up with blood.

"Were I to encounter you before this day, I would have snuffed you out, human," the Neko growled as he dropped down onto the steel plating behind his seat and rolled the human onto his right side. Pain arced across his face, but the crimson fluid built in his throat poured out his mouth and cleared his airway enough for him to breathe.

Why do they kill themselves riding in beasts that cannot stay in the air? he wondered as he stood up.

He looked to the pair of men hanging limp in their seats at the front of the creature, the one on the right's back bent at an odd angle. Holding his question in his mind to save for Michael, Farok began to climb back out of the belly of the beast, though he stopped mid-way out and looked to the weapon still in the unconscious survivor's hands.

When Farok finally left the crash site, travelling east, upriver, the cumbersome piece of steel was hiding underneath his cloak.

.............

Hairs pricked up at the back of Galen's neck from the tension in the room. Standing at attention in front of the door of the Commandant's study, the Private remained silent as he stared at Necela. The goddess had a graceful smile to her as she sat with her head resting on her knees and sitting against the tree in the middle of the room.

A dim blue light came off of the ashen skin of her Drow form, just enough for the Private to see around the pitch black of the study. Those dazzling, solid blue eyes of hers remained fixed upon him in the most comforting way, but they were still not enough to allow him to completely relax as both Jrastra and Dreek conversed in silent tongue on the other side of the tree. But where the wordless conversing of the two Drow intimidated the human, the Goddess was far less concerned.

From the moment she first met with the "First Commandant" of the Sun-Kissed, Necela had felt the influence Jrastra pressed upon all in her presence. The level of Empathy she possessed was indeed impressive to the Goddess, no doubt capable of overpowering the strongest of hearts should she refine herself beyond what she already has. Yet even with her show of power, the Goddess of Life needed only to place a moderate barrier around her mind to keep it out. When this barrier was toyed with, she pulsed with a wave of magic that forced back the Empath's influence just enough to assert her own dominance and make the Drow understand.

Of course, Jrastra had tried to reach out to Galen then for some purpose, only to find herself for the second time shut out by the Deity. It was that move that made the Commandant uneasy in her new guest's presence, and after which she and Dreek excused themselves behind the tree to speak silently.

No doubt to plan some scheme to move Necela out of the way. From what the Goddess had read from Dreek's thoughts earlier, they considered her a threat to their ends. It was of no interest to hers to disrupt such plans, but one could not expect a Drow to trust her to her word and her word alone.

She would just have to figure out how to earn their trust. Or place them in position in which they had no choice.

Silver dust spawned from Necela's finger tips as she rubbed them against her thumb, her palm soon glittering with the powder. With the flick of her wrist she tossed the handful of enchanted glitter behind her against the tree on which she leaned.

The reaction from the Commandants was instantaneous, their focus shifting to the walls as the flow of magic in the stone shifted in a way similar to what had occurred after the pulse. Even Galen wavered in his stance and looked down at his now-glowing, tattooed arm with a puzzled look before glancing toward Necela. Still smiling in her sweet way, she snapped her fingers.

The tree at her back began to change, starting with the branches that broke apart and crumbled into silver dust. Leaves withered and turned to smoke and a circular ring of blue encompassed the trunk at waist height before a second ring split off and darted upward, evaporating the trunk and leaving nothing but a stump behind.

Giggling at the awe on Dreek's face and assertive stance taken by Jrastra, Necela stood up and faced the tree stump. In a broad sweep, she casted her hand over the remnants of the tree to sprinkle more of her silver dust down. The top of the stump began to broaden and stretch out to become a table-like surface. Roots then sprouted out from the floor on four sides and morphed to take on the shape of stools.

With one last sprinkle of her enchanted essence, Necela summoned a single branch to grow beside the table. In only a few counts did the branch suddenly curl over with the weight of freshly grown apples of a rich red color. All of them ripe for the picking.

Holding her head high, the Goddess kept her movements elegant and deliberate as she took her seat. Without breaking composure she plucked one apple and took a bite while staring directly at Jrastra.

"Well, that's cool," Galen commented.

After swallowing what she had in her mouth, Necela said nonchalantly, "I do hope you two do not mind this change, Commandants. Sitting on a floor against a tree was quite uncomfortable and I thought this would be more suitable for our discussion."

She motioned to the stools opposite the table from her, "Please, sit."

Jrastra ducked her head slightly and squared her shoulders while curling her toes inside her armored boot. It was taking more concentration than she normally bothered with to keep her Empathy from revealing the nerves running through her chest, and this effort was not something she wished to exert today. But she could not afford to lose a single step at any point with this woman, especially in front of the surfacer she needed to keep unquestioning under her command.

At Jrastra's side, face placid, Dreek kept her hands planted on her hips above her blades, eyes moving between Necela and the seat she offered. Galen did not seem intimidated beyond the slight show of worry in his eyes, nor did Dreek see him show signs of concern for her safety when she doubted he would let her come to harm.

Then again, with Zer'tath's influence, she was unsure if even her human could be trusted any longer. If the spirit corrupted his thoughts or twisted him against the Sun-Kissed, he would need to be culled. Though on the flip side of this coin, she did not want to go hunting again and waste even more time when this unexpected surprise showed so much promise, and especially not when their best chance had finally presented itself at last.

Not wanting to lose what control or authoritative figure she or Jrastra may yet hold over this walking well of power, Dreek glanced to her superior, who peered back at her through the corner of her eye. Having the first Commandant's attention, Dreek pointed with her eyes towards the back of the room where their desks were. Jrastra responded with the ever slightest hint of a nod.

The two Drow both turned on their heels and moved to their desks and the arm chairs behind them. When she settled into the padded, high-backed seat, Dreek leaned forward onto her desk, coupling her hands together and holding them before her face with an inquisitive look. Jrastra crossed one leg over the other, leaning down on her right arm and seemingly beginning to relax.

Never losing her graceful smile for a moment, Necela nodded and gripped the apple in her hand. The fruit instantly turned to ash and crumpled into oblivion. She pulled both her hands into her lap and adjusted herself to get more comfortable in her seat. Just as it seemed Jrastra was about to pose a question, the goddess spoke.

"Galen stays with you until the deal you've struck with him is complete," she stated bluntly.

The statement made a frown arch down over Jrastra's eyes. "I have not yet spoken, Crystal."

In the background, Galen quirked an eyebrow as he heard Necela's Drow name "Zer'tath" at the end of the sentence.

"But there is no need for you to waste breath, Commandant. I know what concerns you, and I will assure you these suspicions you have about my presence are misplaced. I wish to see Galen prosper under your training, and for your war with Redding to end."

"Why?" Dreek challenged.

Looking up to the ceiling, stroking her long, pointed, elven ear, Necela answered, "Because more than just Drow suffer because of this war. I will see it end."

"And if we will not have your presence among us?" Jrastra probed. "If we continue our training with the surfacer without you?"

"You can't," Necela said with a shrug. "Nothing you do will rid me. No blade nor spell can. You can ignore my presence, however, and see to it your sisters do the same. I will help Galen in his training, and assist the Sun-Kissed where I feel you could benefit from it."

Unconsciously, Jrastra clenched her left hand and drew it closer to her belly while leaning more heavily onto the arm of her chair. Her venomous, red eyes narrowed on Necela's face, gauging her while she, by pure habit, reached out to her with her empathy. Only when she encountered the deity's barrier did she realize the futile attempt she had made for the second time. Only then something changed.

Giving a simple nod, the defense around Necela's emotions fell and the moment Jrastra realized they had, the disguised Goddess stated with all seriousness, "You may hold me to my word, Commandant. I will help you."

Jrastra blinked as her ability felt its way through the heart of the woman before her. Her Empathy was her tool in sorting out lie from truth, as one's heart could not hide either. No creature she encountered, whether it was Human, Nekonian, Dwarven, or Elven, could hide a lie once her empathy connected. And as it stood at this very moment, she could feel nothing but truth from the power before her.

"Jrastra?" Dreek called.

"You are either very brave, or too powerful to care when you let me in, Crystal," the first Commandant started, tilting her head back and truly showing herself to relax while pausing a few moments to think.

Her eyes shifted to Galen as her empathy dug deeper. The barrier around Dreek's pet was still in place, though he did not seem to sense her probing at it. Meaning it was an act of Crystal that kept him protected from her power.

Noticing Jrastra focusing so intently on him, Galen grinned and stood up a little straighter to press his neck right into the back of his collar. In turn, Jrastra smirked herself.

"...I will trust you to keep your watch over Galen, and to not interfere with the plans Dreek has made. But know that in all matters to which he pertains, in all actions he is to take while under our command, her word is final."

Without another word, Necela nodded. "We are agreed."

The third Commandant had to mask her surprise as Jrastra's words met her ear. One of the most powerful leaders of the Drow Empire had come to terms without changing them. Even handing authority over the arrangement unto herself with Zer'tath accepting it without any reaction.

Alarms in Dreek's mind were going off as her instincts warned against such a simple dealing. For it was just that, simple. No strings, few conditions, it was far too plain when such weight bore down on either side of the scale between the two great powers.

If everything was as it seemed to be, then there was no doubt of the near-limitless potential of the alliance with this being. How she could be persuaded to find ways to augment and enhance the capabilities of the magic users within the Sun-Kissed or refine the bodies of those lacking any arcane talent?

Galen was supposedly already in her sights to be improved upon, and if she could not extend the courtesy to the Drow, then a certain Commandant could attempt to replicate any magic she used...

"What's wrong, Commandant?" Zer'tath asked, making Dreek frown.

Quirking her mouth to the side, eyes narrowing as she quickly glanced to Galen still standing patiently by the door, she responded, "What do you know of body enchantments?"

"Body enchantments?" she repeated.

"Augmenting the body with magic, to gift it with a new power. Galen spoke of having such a thing done to him by other... more powerful beings before. I aim to recreate the process with your assistance in ensuring his well-being."

Fighting very hard to hold in a giggle, Necela responded, "I am sure you would not need my help in your method if you do not seem worried about him using it."




Going Feet First Ch. 06



Author's note: this story continues my tale, 'Going feet First', and follows Galen, a soldier once in Vietnam, now on a journey into a medieval fantasy world filled with Elves, Magic, and all kinds of fantastical creatures. 

Welcome to Raska. 

.................. 

Going Feet First 

Chapter 6: Hellfire 

.................. 

Grey clouds rolled through the sky above Atzla to become the closing curtain over the morning sun, casting the land in a shadowed gloom. Little else aside from the roar of water cascading over the edge of Rock Falls on the river High filled the lifeless silence of the forest. Tree tops rustled in the wind; tiny droplets of rain fell on morning dew and pattered on leaves. The temperature dropped a bit as a sudden, rouge breeze sent chills down the back of a lone Tree Elf as she wandered through the woods. 

Her pale ivory skin was bare to the downturn in weather with neither a coat nor small cloth to cover it, usual for her clan. The only adornment to her delicate body was her long, light golden hair wound into a triplet of braids over her shoulders and back. Lengthy bangs framed her face around silver-speckled, grey eyes, and a green aura illuminated her personal space with an earthy light. She was a beauty to behold if one could see her with the unaided eye. 

Even with her nipples firming up and her limbs becoming less responsive in the cold, she traipsed through the woods and let loose the magic with which she was blessed unto the world around her. A single touch of her fingers healed a savage tear in a tree's bark. A nonchalant wave of her hand bathed a patch of yellow grass in a lively green. Body invisible to all not blessed with Elven Sight, she crept up to a sickly deer whimpering on the ground, chanting a cure to its ailment and helping it back to its feet. 

It was all part of her duties as a Life Giver of the Tree Elves of Atzla. Heal the injured, restore the ill, give strength to the weak, and ensure the health of the forest and its purity for all who dwelled within. 

Not long after the deer went leaping off into the brush with energy it had not known in weeks, the Elf's throat dried and she felt light-headed, as though she were elevated into thinner air. Two signs she was overusing her magic. She had more territory to cover by herself with Celia now gone, and with their numbers already short of the desired fifty, the Mana-Wells which cast their special magic out to the Life Givers just barely conjured enough to keep the majority of their group from tapping into their personal energies. Most of the time. Some still had to dig within to carry on. 

Though a drained feeling weighed down her core and a touch of fatigue drew on her eyelids, the Elf focused on the splashes of flowing water nearby. Her path shifted through the brush and around the trees, her magic silencing her footfalls while holding off the elements that would no doubt endanger her otherwise. After only a short walk the grass underfoot changed to sand and the canopy overhead cleared for the clouded sky over the landmark waterfall. 

Something was wrong. 

Caught in the rocks at the top of the falls, about to disappear from view, was a body. It was one she instantly recognized as a human in odd green pants and a striped shirt of the likes she'd never seen before. No, she had seen clothes like that. In fact, very recently. 

The Elf bolted toward him as the waters were slowly shoving him over the rocks toward the edge. Any fall there would be caught the jagged points of the rocks below and a most certain death. 

Careful not to lose her footing herself, the Elf waded through the moving waters toward him. The moment he was in reach she grabbed the human by his shirt and pulled him along the rocks. The water beat at her claves and tried to force her over, but the Elf shifted her feet to the stones that protruded over the water line and used the dry surface to keep her from slipping to her own demise. 

Necela curse me if I let anyone die today, she thought. 

One foot behind the other, she pulled the human closer to land while trying, and failing, to keep him from knocking himself against every bump on the way. He was nearly too heavy for her to move. It took short, heavy pulls to drag him one pace at a time and the way a rock just jabbed into his back after she braced to yank him along had her thinking of how many kinds of sore he would be when he woke. 

After several frightful moments and with a final tug she pulled him from the current's grasp and onto the shore just enough so it wouldn't pull him back. Panting heavily, the Elf stepped over to his feet and shifted his legs to the side with the water flow, making it seem as though he washed up onto the bank. 

It was when she had him lying in a mostly natural position, that she saw the remnants of a bandage stuck to the bottom of his shirt. And then the blood darkening the garment around his right shoulder. A hacking cough erupted from his lips and spattered blood out of the man's mouth and caused her to bounce back with a yelp. His head shifted, but then he went still again as his breathing settled. 

The Elf calmed when his eyelids didn't even peek open and he appeared to fall asleep again. 

Moving with a degree of caution, she approached him again and knelt down at his side. Her green aura flared slightly as she then brushed her hand over his shoulder, sensing the damage to his right lung and the destroyed a section of ribs and muscle. He would need months to recover without a mortal "surgeon" or healing magic, if he recovered at all. 

A lung with not one, but two holes tearing through it would not allow one to survive long. Though it was curious how this human was wounded in a way not dissimilar from the wounds inflicted upon the Nekos that fought with Celia's human. 

As the Elf pondered the thought of another offworlder among them, she leaned in to inspect this human's clothes, the boots he wore, and even the material it was all made out of. 

Everything he wore was near identical to the things worn by that man that had recently won the grace of the clan's beds. Gavin, if she remembered his name correctly. The material that made up his garments, the color used in dyeing them, the green shirt with black stripes... For the sake of curiosity, she probed into his pockets, feeling the shape of a metal weapon exactly like what Gavin carried himself. 

Even more curious, she reached past the steel tool for the fleshy one beside it. 

Another of your kind... she thought, biting her lower lip with a grin. I hope you come back in ten years' time, human. 

Her hand lit up in a green glow and she chanted low, touching a finger to the wounds in his back. She couldn't heal him completely, lest she give him suspicion of some form of immortality or intervention, but she could heal him enough to survive. Or at least get by without much need for medicine beyond keeping his wounds clean and his arm resting. If he was anything like Gavin... Garen... Galen... that name sounded right... it was the least she could do. 

A voice caught her ear then, old raspy words that were given a response by a younger crisper one. Sighing and whispering a farewell to the human, she took several gulps from the river and ran off into the woods. With a snap of her fingers, the sand shifted and hid the footprints that could've proven she was ever there. 

... 

Yawning as his cart squeaked along the bank of the river High, an old human kicked his feet up on the rests in front of his seat and shut his eyes. That area was safe enough to not worry about attackers, and he had the confidence in his co-driver to let the lad take reigns of the bear that pulled them along. Only a zetran and a half of riding and they would be out of the forest, another seven and they'd be at the first wall in the Trench. After that, one more zetran and they would be at Redding's gate and back in civilization. 

After a long tour around the Atzla forest peddling wares to various tribes and gathering a healthy stock of indigenous goods, there was nothing he wanted more than to get back to the ale and the wife that awaited him alongside a hot meal in his own home. In the morning, he could take to the market and sell off what he had and buy new stocks to start the trade cycle again. 

"Catchin' shut eye?" his co-driver asked. 

The old merchant looked to his assistant, a scraggly boy with unkempt, black hair and a strip of a beard down his chin. He had a witty look about him along with the dull, yellow eyes of a mountain boy of northwestern Astiko. Like other folk of his home, he was built like the mountain he was born on. 

"Yup, wake me only if something comes up," the merchant said, getting comfortable. 

He stroked his grey beard and tipped his thin-brimmed hat down over dark brown eyes. Bundled up in a heavy, wool coat, he settled in and let the rustling leaves and rushing water of the falls downstream fade from his ears. 

"Oi yoi! Don't pass out yet! Something's up ahead!" 

"Oh, let the Three an' Kin damn ya, boy, what is-" 

Even with his old eyes he saw the body lying on the beach ahead. Their bear gave a groan and picked up speed, the cart bouncing a bit as their animal charged ahead to investigate. Right as the beast got to man, it had its nose over his back to take his scent in quick, rapid inhales. Not wasting time, both merchants hopped off their cart and moved to inspect the body as well. 

Taking one deep breath to lock in the man's scent, the bear backed off so its riders could come closer. Both of them saw the blood on the back of his shirt and immediately they looked worried. Hesitantly the old man pressed an ear to the man's back and listened, breathing out his relief as he heard the steady heartbeat. 

Sitting up, he looked to his co-rider and ordered, "Help me get him in the cart, he's fightin' for breath and may not last a day or two if we don't get him to a doctor." 

"Guess we're going to get to Redding on a hightail, yeah?" 

"Yeah, so button up and get his shoulders, and watch that wound of his. Lotta damage been done and I don't wanna watch some bugger die before I retire." 

... 

One hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword as he walked, Farok continued marching along the river High between two tracks left behind in the sand on the shore. Despite the annoyance of a number of human scents crowding his senses, he could still pick out Petra from it all. Her smell was not nearly as fresh as theirs, but still distinguishable from the nature around it and that was all he needed. 

I'll reach Redding by nightfall, given that is the parasite's destination... he thought, unconsciously hastening his pace. I can already hear Rock Falls. 

The roar was faint in his ears past the rushing wind and the buffer provided by the trees, but it was there. It was one reference on his map that marked the closing distance to the end of Atzla and a point where one could see the forest break off into endless plain stretching farther than the eye could see. 

Farok would believe that when he saw it. 

He pressed onward around a river bend. The distance he covered for the time of day was not something he was happy about, but he could only blame himself as he had overslept this morning. Though his body thanked him for it, his conscience did not as his mind constantly wandered to what the human could have had his assassin doing at his bidding. All the things he could have her do. She could be acting as some sex outlet or a servant to wait upon him hand and foot. 

All the rules known to twirl about the collar that came with servitude were set by the goddess Necela herself with the Neko elders of long ago. One didn't dare break them, nor did they leave much for loop holes. If at all. But if Farok ended Galen without Petra's knowing, she wouldn't see punishment. And without a master she would be free. 

But then again, if Galen had other motivations for sentencing her to his service... reasons of honor... the ex-Hunt Commander would maybe accept what he has done. Maybe. His decision couldn't be made until he knew the situation. 

Why did he smell another human? A new smell floated over the air, a familiar one. Frowning as he took it in more deeply, Farok could have sworn it was the scent of the wounded man aboard that crashed chopper... But he had leapt into the river... did his corpse wash up? 

The Neko came to a straight section of river and he, along with his heart, stopped. His eyes locked on the sight of Rock Falls, or rather what lay beyond it. His map was not wrong. 

Over the edge of the drop he could see every twist and turn the river took for entirety of the next expanse of forest, all the way to where the trees gave way to the Rock Lands. And by the great goddess Necela, did the Neko feel tiny. The Sundered Trench, the Rock Lands, the mountains in the south, they stretched for eternity until the world fell below the horizon. No new line of trees, no field of green, just yellow. Yellow for eternity. 

Some unacceptable amount of time passed as Farok fathomed this world beyond the forest. When he began move again, it was as though half his joints had seized as each limb staggered and refused to budge. Somehow he managed to turn to the river and drop to his knees in the water. The stiff shock from the cold against his fur and a splash of water onto his face sent a shiver through every muscle in his body and brought his mind around to what lay ahead. 

It's for Petra, he reminded himself. I betrayed my kind for her... she nearly died because of me. 

Doing his best to keep calm and breathe normally, he stood and took it one step at a time back to dry land and on his trek again. The falls was a stone's throw away when he noticed a change in the wagon tracks he followed. It looked as though both men that had been riding it dismounted and approached a sizable depression in the sand. A depression the size of a small boat, or animal, or... human body. 

Eyeing the tracks and watching how they moved, the way they aligned and moved as one sideways back to the wagon tracks. As though they picked up some weighted object and walked sideways to carry it. Farok could only guess they picked up the body and put it in the back of their cart... 

Mind processing the marks in the sand, he moved to a patch of blood and got down on all fours to take in the scent. 

The human. He's still alive, lucky Rakec Neerik. 

A second goal locked into his sights, Farok stood up and took off in the direction of the cart tracks. Galen was a man of unending loyalty to his comrades, something the ex-Huntmaster witnessed firsthand the day he came to the forest. If Galen had any loyalty to the wounded one that just arrived, then Farok only needed to get a hold of him and wield his wellbeing in a way that could secure Petra's freedom. 

.............. 

Unusually bright moonlight pierced through the window onto Flak's closed eyelids. Grunting and cursing, he pulled his blanket up and rolled over in his bed, immediately screaming out as he put weight down onto his wounded shoulder. In a flurry of fists and kicks to throw the covers off, he sat up with his left hand grabbing onto his shoulder. A slew of swears poured from his mouth intermixed with his howls of pain. 

Hunching over and taking long, deep breaths, he fought back the Hell of agony that was his right-side chest and the ribs beneath them. A tear nearly escaped his eye as he tried to look down at his wound, though the hole in his body was too high up his chest for him to see. 

Across the small room from his bed, a mirror hung on the whitewash wall over a vanity covered with both his shirt and his weapons. Grimacing at the shots of pain constantly tearing through his chest, he stood up and stepped over to the mirror. 

Damn, I need a shave and a haircut, he thought, running his fingers up the lengthening stubble on his cheeks and then into his unkempt mess of black hair. 

Dark blue eyes shifted downward, his attention returning to his wounds. With a gentle touch he traced his hand over the tight wool bandages wrapped around his bare chest and followed the wrappings over his shoulder to the exit wounds. Everything was done right, and looked clean enough, but a deep frown still creased his face. 

He wasn't in any American hospital so that meant he wasn't picked up by his own troops. These bandages weren't the type to be used by any army he knew, even a Vietnamese one in the most desperate of times. Even if they were done right, the knots were sloppy, the gauze was itchy, and it all reeked of hard liquor. His guns were also left in the room. Not that he was complaining, but any smart doctor wouldn't leave a weapon with his patient. 

So that left the question: where in Hell was he? 

Not willing to waste time pondering, he got his KA-BAR sheath strapped to his hip and his M1911 tucked into his waistline. Using his knife he sliced the remaining sleeve of his tiger-stripe shirt so both the sleeves were cut off roughly in the same spot around the elbows. With that torn sleeve, he ripped it into two strips and tied his revolver to his right calf against the scabbard of the knife strapped above his boot. 

With his ammo pocketed he sheathed his KA-BAR and turned to face the door as footsteps were approaching from the hall outside. 

Flak grasped his Colt with his left hand and cocked it as the door opened. 

To his surprise, a white man walked in, his brown hair tied back into a small tail at his nape. There was no doctor coat on his back as the Marine expected. Only a long, black shirt tucked into the waist of his brown pants. He didn't even wear shoes. 

"I didn't think you'd be so lively getting out of bed," he started. "You were out cold and half-drowned when you showed up." 

Flak flexed his fingers and pulled his pistol half way out his waist. 

"Who are you, where the fuck am I, and how long have I been out?" 

The "Doctor" blinked with a surprised look. 

"You were brought in last night, been out all of today... Look, I'm Jorgensen, this is my home. You're safe here, you're in Redding." 

It was Flak's turn to look confused. "Which Redding?... California?" 

Jorgensen cocked his head to the side and shook it, "Uhhh... no?" 

The Marine's eyes narrowed, "Iowa?" 

Again, the Doctor shook his head shook. "No... Rock Lands, west of Atzla forest... North of Astiko..." He trailed off giving a narrowed, questioning look to Flak. 

Taking in a slow, deep breath, and letting it out just the same, Flak asked, "And where on God's green earth are those places? If you don't start making sense, I'll start getting pissed off. And if you piss me off, I'll give you a dirt nap. Now where. The fuck. Am I?" 

The doctor took a step in retreat at the threat. He swallowed and eyed the steel... thing in the man's waist. He hadn't any idea what the potential weapon was, but he did know of those nasty-looking knives he had strapped to his side and to his calf. There was no doubt he was a killer and at this point, Jorgensen was not willing to provoke him to use his skill without the company of the city guardsmen waiting downstairs. 

"I'll be back," he muttered, turning for the door. 

"Hey, I want answers! You're not leaving!" 

Flak dashed forward but the Doctor was quick to retreat and slam the door behind him, dropping a latch on the other side. The Marine slammed into the door with his good shoulder, only to find it too solid to bash through. He stepped back and roared as he drove his boot at the handle only to bounce back and nearly lose his balance. 

Swearing up a storm, he turned to face the room to find an alternative exit; his eyes fell on the window on the far wall. A harsh scowl spawned on his face as he ran to it and threw it open to look outside. One floor up from the ground wasn't that far to fall. 




Going Feet First Ch. 06



Boots started clomping down the hall outside. Flak climbed onto the window sill and swept his feet out. Before the door could open he lowered himself down and kicked off the wall to drop the last seven feet to the ground. 

His boots hit the street and he rolled forward into a couched position, taking an immediate look around. The thumps in his chest picked up, his breathing growing hasty. He was on a cobblestone street, surrounded by buildings ripped right from the renaissance and built in the shadow of a giant canyon. It wasn't Vietnam. No way was he there. In fact, it wasn't anywhere he knew. 

"Where the fuck is this? What in the FUCK is all this?!" he roared, trying to clear his thoughts. 

Flying... over 'Nam... then fucking ZAP, lightning... crash... cat man... cat man... Redding... Rockland... forest... forest.... This ain't Earth... he thought, a bead of sweat running his brow as he swung his head in every direction to take in the buildings around him. "WHERE THE FUCK AM I?!" 

The door to the Doctor's home opened up, two men in armor stepping out and drawing swords. Right away the Marine spun around and examined their defenses: leather armor bolstered by simple steel breast plates and cups over their groins. There were plate coverings on their gauntlets as well but nothing sufficient to hamper an offensive. 

"Hold it right there, whoever you are," the lead... knight ordered. 

"You gonna fuckin' lock me back up in that fucking room?" Flak growled. 

"No, just want to talk," the warrior replied as he stepped in toward the Marine, his partner circling around to cover an escape route. 

"You don't look like you're gonna talk," Flak growled, pulling his KA-BAR and shifting his feet to a defensive stance. 

"Taking precautions. Drop your knife," the lead commanded, now cornering Flak between him and his partner. 

"Make me." 

The first shuffle of boots came from behind him. Flak spun and dodged the sword as it swung down at him. Acting on the knight's forward momentum, he stepped forward and drove a fist into his gut and slammed the pommel of his knife into his temple. 

The iron-clad warrior stumbled from the blow, but quickly came around with a retaliatory right-hook. Flak ducked the strike and swung upward with the bone of his elbow, growling with pleasure at the satisfying crack of a nose shattering. 

A body covered in steel plates crashed to the ground sending a calamitous racket echoing through the street. Yet with only a drop of sweat running the side of his face, the Marine sheathed his blade and turned to the next foe in line. Holding the knight's gaze, Flak turned his head and spat on his partner who still groaned on the ground. 

"You gonna get some, too? Won't even use my knife, C'mon!" Flak taunted, motioning with both hands for the medieval warrior to step in. 

A scream pierced the night as a scorching pain lit up Flak's spine. He dropped to all fours, fists clenching and unclenching while his whole body shook as though he were suffering a seizure. He could feel thousands of tiny knives stabbing into his neck where the spine met the skull and a tornado in his flesh like blenders working his organs. This Hell dragged on for several seconds until Flak finally clamped his jaw down and pounded a fist into the stone street. Still roaring through clenched teeth, he brought one knee up and braced against it to push himself back to his feet. 

His efforts were rewarded by another collapse and an even louder scream as that pain came down on him tenfold. 

A man in red and yellow robes stepped out from the Doctor's house, waving his hands around in front of his chest as he chanted in a low voice. When his words stopped, so did the pain, and a moaning Flak was left sprawled out over the street, barely capable of raising a finger. When the shackles locked around his wrists, he knew he was done. 

"We only wanted to talk," the lead knight patronized. "Now his face is busted and you're going to the stocks." 

"Get your filthy, fuckin' hands off me," Flak growled in a hoarse voice. 

"Still got some fight in you?" He raised a black club. "We'll fix that." 

The Marine still managed a solid "fuck you" before he saw the stars and his vision faded to black. 

............ 

Accepting demeaning glares and violating probes from his own kind was tolerable, but patience was a resource of Farok's that was being tapped dry. Rapidly. The first checkpoint on the narrow, cliff-side path leading to Redding was laced with Petra's scent. It was also guarded by a half dozen men proudly sporting the city's colors on their chests and, as Farok quickly learned, they were not fond of a Neko, or one wearing armor at that, asking for permission to enter their precious country in the early evening. 

A man with a crossbow sat on a cliff above, keying his weapon as he kept an eye on the blond, bipedal feline. Farok noted his position and gauged the distance to wonder if he was within range of a throwing knife or one of his pellets of shock powder. Of course, such an act could easily thwarted by the two men in mail on the Neko's left, the other two on his right, or the man right in front of him in full plate-armor inspecting the kit he carried. 

For all intents and purposes, the ex-Hunt Commander would be better off to kill them here and blame the Dark Elves with whom they warred. But explaining his own survival would prove a headache and how to replicate the signs of an elven incursion was beyond his knowledge. 

He could simply kill them. Ensure none survive to witness his act. That course of action would require him to keep discreet in the Human lands for a few days, then approach the city once their suspicions died down. It would have to be a last resort, one he shouldn't have to use so long as his armor did not come off to reveal the mark seared into him upon his last promotion... 

The fur on his shoulder was still grey where they burned in the image of the claw and the ranking emblem for Hunt Commander. That had been in a time before Hector. Before Farok was in a position to loathe his leader. Even with the position he found himself in now with his tribe, that promotion was still be one of the proudest moments of his life. 

"So you are from the forest, Mr. Salkahn? A mere tribesman?" the commanding knight asked as he used the tip of his sword to shift Farok's cloak aside to view what he carried. 

"I've never left the woods until today," the Neko replied, arms crossing over his chest. 

"Hmm, why is that? Leaving, I mean. Wanted to see the power of ingenuity and civilization?" 

"To find a woman, another Neko that came here several days back." 

There was a chuckle from the guards. 

"I can understand that. You kitties go ass over end when you find 'the one...' What I can't get my head 'round though..." The leader withdrew his sword from Farok's cloak, but didn't sheathe it. "Is why a forest cat is wearing armor. And good stuff at that." 

Farok shrugged, "Bandits and Ra'zorlichs prowl those woods. And the dead have no need for what they once carried." 

There was a mutual hum of approval from the humans. "Kill some them Red-Talon fucks, huh?" 

"Only the ones who lacked the wisdom to leave me in peace." 

Farok had to force himself to withhold a grimace at his own comment, thinking on the weight it carried. It wasn't a lie, exactly, but that wasn't what bothered him. How quickly his own men had turned upon him was what disturbed his thoughts. How they abandoned the warriors bond for an unjust royal. That is what bothered him. 

"Why were they after you?" one of the lessers probed, earning a scowl from Farok. 

Balancing on teetering nerves, the outcast Ra'zorlich was going feral from the scent of his assassin floating in the air. Their questions ebbed on the last strings of his patience when the delays he faced were already bringing him to the end of it. Even if his assassin was in their city, they held no right to block his path to her. 

"Answer him. And don't try to lie to me, I will know and you won't see your woman again," the Commander ordered. 

Farok's eyes drifted to his right, his mind tracing back to the last time he had seen Petra. And Teirie. After they had been given their mission and were getting ready to go out on their hunt. The lead Shadow Stalker had passed their target's picture over to her younger and then turned to him. 

So how did you get such a good look at the humans without being close enough to kill them? she asked. 

He had frowned and hunched over slightly while still trying to maintain his authoritative posture. I had gotten close to them, but the weapons they held proved too much for me to handle and I had to retreat. 

You are a terrible liar, Petra had told him bluntly. 

Couldn't fool one of your own troops even if he were stumbling drunk, Teirie added. 

Fine, Farok admitted. One of the humans had a magic weapon. He threatened to kill us all, including himself if we persisted in our chase. I refused to accept the risk. 

Hmph, Petra coughed, when I kill him I'll bring back his weapons. Then we'll see if you are a commander, or a coward... 

I am no coward, Farok grumbled. A coward knows how to lie. 

He let a growl loose from his throat as he looked up at the human before him and answered, "Very well. They were 'after me' because I failed an impossible task set by our king." 

It seemed his words didn't fully work their way into the heads of these men, as some confusion was stuck over their faces. In moments however, their leader clued in. 

"Failed your king? You were a Red-Talon?! You're talking about the Ra'zorlich king, aren't you?!" 

The Neko shrugged as the men immediately had their hands on their weapons. 

No use holding back now. 

"Speak of him I do, as I was once his Hunt-Commander. A... general, of sorts. He asked me a task and let his pride cloud his vision. I failed, he came for my head, and I became hekarrim, one without a tribe. Fool as he was, King Hector followed me after I fled and I slew men I once called brothers." 

One human drew his weapon from its sheath, but Farok still kept his hands clear of his. It was this lack of action that he hoped the humans recognized. After all, it was their last chance to see he meant no harm, a courtesy that would not be extended a second time. 

"I was one of them before, but no longer," he clarified. "All I have left is what I carry on my back and the woman I seek. I offer you no ultimatum, no intent to remain among your people or do harm. I wish to only collect her, and leave as timely as possible." 

The lead shook his head and gripped his bastard sword with two hands. "Once a Ra'zorlich, always a Ra'zorlich. And all your kind is ordered to die before you foul our home." 

Fools. 

Farok moved back a step and pulled his sword from his sheath with a flourish, hunching over slightly as he took deep, calming breaths. He analyzed the men around him, watching their footing, their posture, how they held their weapons. From their form he could estimate their skill and from there he could decide who to kill first. 

Shifting his feet shoulder-width apart, sliding his lead foot forward a half step, he brought himself to a ready position. His teeth showed as he glowered at the crossbowman above that was taking aim at him. The man wrapped his finger over the trigger and let his shoulders drop as he let out his lungs. 

The arrow launched forth from the drawstring and Farok began his deadly dance. 

With lightning movements he took a step back and raised an arm for the bolt to bounce off the plate over his forearm. When the commander stepped in to take advantage of this retreat, Farok charged forth and deflected the incoming thrust with the flat of his blade. Manipulating the whole of his body mass, he brought his sword up to strike at the joint of the chainmail between his opponent's hand and wrist. 

Blood sprayed Farok's face as the appendage was sundered from the arm, the blade clattering to the ground. Not wasting a moment of opportunity, the Neko's slammed his shoulder into the commander's gut to send him crashing back into his two men on the left. 

The guards to the right fell in Farok's sights next and he stabbed forward with his sword. Steel clashed and sparked as the rightmost guard parried the incoming strike, but that didn't matter as a claw followed up to tear off half his face before digging in on his cheekbones. Ignoring the agonized scream, piercing the night, the Neko's reared up and booted him in the chest to send him over the cliff. 

There was no time to watch his descent as Farok spun and used his weapon to block a slash coming to slice his head in two. A battle cry thundered from the guard's throat he started hacking away at the Ra'zorlich in a blind rage. With each strike the Neko took a step to the rear while blocking and deflecting the attacks with ease. 

Steel rang and sparked several times over before Farok managed to lock their blades together and use the pause as a chance to drive his knee up into the human's gut. The Reddite guard gave a solid "oomph" as he doubled over. His skull gave a sickening crack as the tip of a blade stabbed through his forehead, just as quickly was withdrawn again. Even this small victory offered no chance at rest as the guard was replaced by his comrade charging forward from the left while sweeping his blade low. 

A feral simper curled up Farok's lips. He swung his blade down to block, and with a flourish and a flick of the wrist sent the human's sword flying from his hand. Another redirection of the weapon's momentum, and the ex-Hunt Commander had his longsword buried to the hilt in his enemy's gut. 

"Pathetic," was all the Neko growled, ripping his blade free and letting the corpse fall aside. 

Three men slain, Farok turned to the commander of this group of guards. Wrapped in his cocoon of steel he laid in the arms of his last swordsman, staring at the gushing stump where his right hand once was. At the sound of heavy breathing drawing closer, both of the men looked up at the approaching Neko and started scrambling backward, calling desperately for help. 

On the rocks above, the crossbowman tried to scale the cliff and escape. In moments the screams below turned to gargled groans, then to silence as the golden terror tore into them. The bowman's leather pants soon reeked of urine, his face dripping with fresh tears as he climbed for the top of the trench and away from that monster's bloodshed. 

He took only a moment to look back, and when he did he saw the fur-ball stripping off his cloak and the gear he carried. It took only a few counts and he was down to nothing but clothes and armor. And with this unnecessary weight dropped, he leapt onto the rocks of the cliff and started scaling wall after him. 

"Oh fuck!" the guard yelled, scrambling to get up higher, faster. 

He could hear that steel armor of the cat-man clatter behind him, the Nekonian curses as he dug his claws into the Rock. He was gaining. Fast. 

"I don't want to die, I don't want to die!" 

He threw his hands over the top of the cliff, grabbing onto the solid yellow grass of the plain around the Sundered Trench. With every ounce of strength he had, he forced himself up and over the edge, ready to sprint away to get the distance he needed for his crossbow. 

That was his plan until a claw dug into the back of his leather jerkin and sank into the flesh of his lower back. He tried to get a grip on the dirt and grass as he cried out for help, but his strength was outmatched by the Neko pulling him back.  

"Then you should have let me pass," Farok grumbled before he heaved the guard over the cliff to send him wailing down onto the sharp rocks below. 

Panting heavily after his mad dash up the stone wall, Farok looked out across the Trench and spotted a building not too far down the road with lights burning in the window. Many more of Redding's guardsmen were rushing out the door and to the horses lashed to posts outside. 

Damn, reinforcements... Farok mentally grumbled. 

The climb back down wasn't nearly as swift as his climb up. Every part of his body felt ready to fall to pieces under their own weight after having to propel him so quickly up the cliff in his armor. His foot lost its grip more than once and each time had him one failed grasp away from joining the two he had tossed to their ends. 

When he was back down on the trail, he donned his gear again and set a quick pace away from his slaughter. His map said Redding was perhaps a half-day walk, but Farok didn't have the strength in him for that. He would need what little he had left to avoid the men coming to investigate what had not been a quiet engagement. 

Find shelter, rest, wait. No doubt their alert will rise when they find the bodies, I'll have to wait until it clears. 

It was wait he never anticipated to take so long. 

........... 

A line of torches along the wall lit the hollow interior of the Great Tree with a dim, flickering light as the moon rose to its peak in the night-sky outside. The next night would be the new moon judging by how it waned, and when it came a great darkness would fall across the land. In more ways than one if Tanza's visions rang true. 

The torture of a sleepless night haunted her after Galen's departure with Celia. Horrible flashes of sights that the boy had to suffer and her sister had to endure, sights she wished she never had to hear or see. There was an impossible urge for the elder to leave her sisters and journey out to influence the outcomes herself until Necela finally granted her a new vision. 

One that revealed the light at the end of the couple's dark path. 

As it had come to her, she had brought it to Celia; a gift the youngling no doubt relished as her world seemed to crumble after her capture. But now the time had come to see if Galen had the strength to see it true. If he still lived. The Drow hadn't been a part of Tanza's vision, they never even occurred to her until he met them on the edge of the forest. Now they played the wild card that could sow seeds of victory, or wreak their own destruction upon everything Galen had worked towards. 

With no new vision to assure her of either, the Tree Elf elder waited and gazed through her cauldron to find something to distract her. 

Her magic pot could only show her what happened within the forest, and she mostly watched her Life Givers doing their duties outside and the Mana-Wells, working within the safety of their magic home. But when she desired to do so, she could spy upon Galen's friend, Michael, as he continued to settle in his place among the Willhers. It was distraction enough to keep her mind off her worries. At least until a sudden heat flourished in her belly. 

Tanza blinked as the glow of her white aura over violet skin shimmered and shifted inward to her midriff, then focused around her core. Unnoticed by her, her ultramarine eyes took on a pink glow within her pupils same as the skin below her navel. Fresh tears pooled in her eyes, tracing her cheeks around the broad smile drawing up on her lips. 

Yes... yes... she thought, wrapping her arms over her stomach while on the verge of giggling as more drops of happiness streamed down her cheeks. Necela and sweet Calia, thank you. 

After fifteen days of wondering if she had caught or not, her visions refusing to grant her an answer, her closure had come. The unnerving wait finished and she could feel the rabble of Nightwatchers twirling inside her. Elation steamed her chest as her heart pumped an impossible cheer through her body and the new soul growing within her. 




Going Feet First Ch. 06



As she started to wipe her face, an image formed at the back of her mind and prodded its way into Tanza's sight. But before she could truly see it she forced it back and cast it from her thoughts and memory. When her mind tried to bring it forth she crushed it down again. 

So little had the chance to surprise her in her lifetime, but the one thing she always managed to keep a surprise, to keep her guessing, was what her future daughters were destined to look like. She never knew the appearance beyond the aura of her first two children and that record would not be spoiled on her third. Ten months in the dark always proved a price well paid for the joy of seeing them for the first time the day they came into this world. 

Closing her eyes and finally releasing her giddy giggles, Tanza made mental contact with her other sisters who had enjoyed the human's love and summoned them to her. It did not take long for them to depart from their duties and file into the tree. Together they gathered in a semi-circle around their Elder's throne and were literally glowing with joy at seeing Tanza's glowing midriff. Then, one after another, their auras shifted as well. 

Tanza sucked in a breath and covered her mouth with both hands at the sight, the corners of her eyes creasing as she tried to relax her unrelenting smile. 

Zaky, the young, violet-skinned elf that was once a virgin until Galen had tended to her, summoned a light grey aura to her belly to supplant her sunshine-yellow glow. Bacil, the clan cook with the iron grey hair and pale green skin drew a white aura out from her deep green. The Fire Twin, Imichi, her red aura only flushed an ever-so-slightly darker shade of crimson around her pale white belly, which had both her and her sister giggling as they both rubbed around her belly button. And lastly there was Urit. An Elf with light brown skin and glossy black hair, a pale blue aura and a smile as wide as the forest as her belly was accented with a blue glow darker than her own. 

As Tanza stood up and hugged her sisters, the visions of their children came to her mind. From each of them she saw strong, beautiful, Elves gifted with an unusual magic talent. Especially the younglings growing within Zaky and Imichi. What the Elder Elf witnessed from them surprised even her. 

"Would you like to hear your daughter's gifts?" she asked Zaky. 

"Is she going to be special?" 

"Well, when she grows older... I will be able to step down once I have her in control of her powers of a Blessed." 

Zaki couldn't fight the broad grin creasing the whole of her cheeks. With a squealing cheer she threw her arms around Tanza, and in return the Elder held her close and gave her a soft kiss atop her head. Blesseds like herself were few and far between, coming around only once every half millennia, if then. It would allow her to retire from her role as the Tree Elf Elder and once again find her own path in the world beyond their forest. 

Catching the sideways glance they received as well, the Fire Twins asked in unison, "Will our daughter be special?" 

Chuckling and softly rubbing Zaky's back, Tanza answered, "I see only perfect mirror images of the both of you in both of your daughters." 

There were several unified cries of glee as the new mothers crowded the twins, smothering them with kisses and congratulations. The Twins were the first of their kind in the clan, and now that they caught another pair was something Tanza couldn't even fathom had she not saw it herself. It would be interesting how the rest of the clan took the news as it definitely warranted a celebratory feast. 

Galen, you magical, young man, the Elder thought as she started sending her thoughts out to her sisters. I wish upon you and Celia the great joy you have brought us today. May Necela bless. 

........................... 

Icy water flowed out of a spout in the ceiling and Galen stumbled under the chilling stream in a daze. Crimson tinted the water running through his clothes, turning into a red river which ran toward the drain in the middle of the large shower room. Free of his helmet and gear, the Private stood clothed but barefoot as the aftermath of battle washed away from his attire 

With a distant look on a fatigued face, he lifted his bloodied hands and blinked as the water running off his chin washed more of the red from his palms. When he could see his own skin color again he turned his hands over and washed away the red traces on his knuckles to reveal their partially shredded skin. 

Even as his hands were cleaned of the physical mess, he couldn't shake the feeling like he was still standing in a cloud of filth. His chest echoed with a hollow ache while the images of what he had done and witnessed jumbled around within his head like the scenes of some horror film. And that vigorous tremble returned to his left hand. 

Necela cut down like a common mortal. The bodies scattered across the tunnel floor, both human and Drow... At least four of the dead Elves being some he had gotten personal with, in either training or in bed, during his time in the Underdark. There were the corpses of their fallen foes, all being stripped of everything they had and then getting stacked like garbage at the side of the tunnel. 

Then there were the men from Redding who had survived... though they didn't for very much longer. Jrastra and one of the Red Sister leaders made certain of that after the women of their units had finished whatever revenge they wished to reap. Their actions were something the young soldier did his best to forget in the aftermath of that bloody battle. 

Before Galen even realized it, he had fallen to his knees and lost whatever was left in his stomach. He coughed, and then hurled to let out his guts again. The world spun as he came down onto his hands, and between his heavy breaths he spat out whatever bile still lingered in his mouth. 

As the sickness passed, he remained on all fours, collecting himself as the aftermath fully sank in. That forty Drow were gone. Nine of them part of the Sun-kissed with countless more wounded. He almost retched again as he thought of how he found Felyn, an axe buried into the stomach plate of her armor to an unknown depth. She had begged for him to heal her, and with everything he had he tried. 

His hands didn't, couldn't, light up. The vine and feather tattoos that once decorated his left arm were gone and with their absence, everything Galen had been gifted with from the Elves and Necela was proven taken by the witch just as the princess had been. 

The loss didn't stop Galen from using his last medical kit and doing what he could. With Keetle's help he tore the Empath out of her armor and got the axe out of her belly so he could spring into action. Starting her with a shot of morphine, he had poured sulphonamide powder over the wound before wrapping it up in gauze the best he could. It felt to be the longest minutes of his life as he pressed both hands down onto her belly, keeping pressure on where the axe had gone in. But he wasn't a medic. He only performed what first aid he knew and cursed himself for not being able to do more. 

When she realized what Galen was doing, Keetle used her magic to replace his hands and the Private was able to cinch a wrapping around the Empath's midsection to keep the bandages tight to her body. After that, they could only wait and watch as the aide fought for her life, the Private unable to do a damn thing beyond what he had already done. 

Under the warming water of the shower, he looked to his hands and tried to strike them up into a glow for a hundredth time. He could still feel magic pulsing within him, powering his Dark Vision, but no trick he knew brought the light back to his fingertips. That witch had stolen all of it from him. 

Galen clenched his fists as his nostrils started flaring with forced breaths. He was going to kill her. He was going to make her regret everything she did this day. She was going to wish she never stepped foot into the darkness of the underground. 

Cursing Haru's name Galen let loose a battle cry and slammed his fists into the floor, his tears joining the streams of water running his face. As the women of the Red Sisters, Royal guard, and Sun-Kissed died without him there to heal their wounds, she would die for denying him the power to do so. 

... 

After wringing his clothes dry the best he could and cleaning his gear as much as possible, Galen donned his armor pieces and got his clothes back on. Near the exit to the baths was a small alcove in the wall, barely high enough for him to stand up straight. Its walls were plated in sheets of tanneran and stepping inside he could feel the heat pouring out from the glowing, blue metal. 

An enchantment of some kind was at work in the closet, he guessed, as he thought of how his cuirass could change its temperature to accommodate his current conditions. Such as how it now produced heat to counteract the cold of his damp clothes. 

Heat off the walls was mirrored by heat coming off his chest armor to spawn trails of steam rolling off his clothes in moments. When he felt dry enough to be comfortable, he went for his weapons against the wall beside the exit. Picking up his rifle, he took notice of how the stock had fresh, bare patches in the moss where the original walnut was showing through once more. Given how Haru's beast batted him with a homerun strike, he wasn't entirely surprised. 

In addition, his pistol had a new crack in the right handgrip and a gouge in the slide near the muzzle. Thinking back to how he had thrown it after the witch disappeared, he was lucky those were the only things done to it. A Drow could've taken it, the barrel could've been damaged, something could've been bent... he got off easy considering the alternatives. 

Fully equipped with all his gear, he opened the exit door and stepped into the long hallway of the barracks. Along the walls on both sides of the corridor were the doors of the personal rooms of the Sun-kissed, the closet's worth of space that the Private called his own being among them. 

As he hesitantly paced down the hall, he saw the room next to his being emptied of the last of its previous owner's property. Same with the room five doors down from him. And another down and across the hall from there. Nine rooms total were being stripped of the personal effects of the nine Drow that would never come back to claim them. 

Giving a sigh, Galen carried his somber cloud onward, past the male servants clearing out the rooms and to the door that carried on into the stairwell. When he was cast into darkness with the closing of the door behind him, his eyes buzzed and his Darkvision kicked in to light up a glowing life aura right in front of him. Keetle was leaning against the center pillar that the stairs spiraled up around and twirled a knife in the air with her force magic. 

Upon seeing the surfacer she made a sweeping motion with her head up the steps and started climbing. 

"How's Felyn?" Galen asked, marching up the steps behind the Aide. 

"Fine. Blood stopped and she sleeps." 

His lungs emptied as his shoulders dropped, Thank God. 

"And Zyrtwi?" 

The knife twirling above Keetle's head fell and landed in her open palm to be returned to its sheathe. "Don't know. Sword went in gap in armor under arm. She's sent to Faerdron." 

All done in the first moments of the battle. Once the Drow had gotten themselves collected and focused, the attackers couldn't stand much of a chance. But in those initial seconds when they had surprise and the crippling effect of the flare, the Dark Elves paid a heavy price. Galen could only wonder how much worse it could've been had he not spotted that first man coming out from the ceiling... if he hadn't given a warning. 

A slight trace of a smile appeared as he thought about the lives he saved. All things considered, maybe he should focus on that. 

As they reached the top of the staircase, Keetle waved her hand and the door leading to the main hall opened to let the lights from inside pour out. His vision returning to normal, Galen followed the Aide and joined the gathering encircling the three Commandants who leaned over the round planning-table under the light of the chandelier. Both Dreek and Jrastra looked up and took notice of him, the former motioning him in while the latter spoke out with a raised voice. 

"You have your orders, prepare what you need and review your roles! I want you all able to tell me your objectives backward in a surface tongue by departure time!" 

The Drow in the room acknowledged the first Commandant and made their way to the exits. In a tone that sounded none-too-pleased, Aufryn'uit grumbled lowly to Dreek and cast a nasty glare at Galen. Taking notice, the Private returned the second Commandant's spiteful look as she pushed off and moved for the door leading outside. 

"Galen, come here," Dreek ordered. 

He watched with narrowed eyes as Aufryn'uit disappeared into the exit tunnel before acknowledging the third Commandant. When he approached the table, he looked down at the three large maps spread out over its wooden surface. Several arrows drawn in multiple locations all pointed to the same area of what looked to be city on one map, while the area they pointed to was blown up into a floor plan on another. 

With great interest, Galen peered at the human script at the top of the map. He recognized the characters from before. They meant something he knew but he couldn't quite figure it out. He looked to the first map again, which detailed what looked to be a giant crack in yellow earth... Kind of like the trench that housed a certain place he intended to raid. 

"This is... Redding?" 

"The map of the Sundered Trench, Redding, and the King's castle," Dreek clarified, pointing to each of the layouts as she listed them. "All the pieces fall into place tomorrow night which, by luck, is a new moon. The darkness will be an indispensable ally." 

Scanning over the map of the city, Galen found an area that looked to be taken up by a single, massive house. It was circled in red ink with several notes scrawled over it with arrows and symbols drawn over the rooftops and streets leading to it. Closer inspection had Galen recognizing the symbols as bows, horses, swords... 

"Is this Fretheim's place?" he asked. 

"With guard locations, horse patrols, and plans of attack. Once the main mission is complete, we go after the Princess and your mistress," Jrastra explained. 

The Private's eye twitched at the term used for Celia, but he ignored it as he responded, "Right, what's the plan?" 

Dreek tapped her finger on a large hall in the castle floor plan, "Their King's eldest son has finally returned from a venture in Astiko for the celebration of their princess' reaching the beginning of her second decade. A grand dinner will have both princes, the princess, their generals, top officers, and even heads of ruling houses of the city attending. All the people who refuse to deal in a bloodless end to this petty war will be in one place." 

"You wanna kill 'em," Galen surmised, swallowing hard as he thought of the little girl. 

"Correct, but not all. We intend to spare some royals, and those people that have come around to a bargain: humans that can do well to clean up the mess after we've finished." As Dreek said that, Jrastra stifled a chuckle and let her fellow Commandant continue. "As for the others... We've found more... promising figures in Redding who can take over their positions. We kill those in the way, they step up, and we can finally stop wasting resources holding off their assaults and raids on our borders." 

A low heat radiated from Galen's cuirass as a gloomed look pulled down on his features. As much as he hated it, he knew that no change can come without cost. But just how much more blood is going to spill? Was there a need for it? 

Would the children have to witness? 

"Just what kinda king does Reddin' have? For him to need die?" The words rolled out of his mouth before his mind had a chance to stop them, and he grew acutely aware about how quiet the room was as the two Drow before him looked up from the table. 

Dreek's eyes narrowed on his. He swallowed. 

"Belly growing weak for bloodshed?" the third Commandant questioned. 

Picking up on the shivering chill in Galen's heart, the grinding stone of regret inside, Jrastra rolled her eyes and spoke up, "The King is the kind that likes to watch beheadings and hangings for entertainment. The kind that orders all Elves, of all kinds, to either be exiled or executed in his city unless they're enslaved by a noble family. The kind that demands something they call 'registration' for anything not human that wants to even look at their city. Not to mention the talks of him considering a new assault on Atzla and the swift execution of his critics." 

Dreek had looked over her shoulder to cast a questioning eye upon Jrastra before glancing over to Galen with a raised brow. 

"He's a racist dictator," Galen concluded, his gaze too focused on the maps to notice Dreek's relinquishing glare. 

At the same time, sensing the flames stoked in the Private's belly by her words, Jrastra grinned and answered. "Yes, but there is more. Two Scouts were captured and fell under his personal interest since the war began. The first was some time ago and we... confirmed... her execution when he had her head lobbed at our tunnel guards... The second was caught on Dreek's last surface raid. The day prior to your first meeting, actually. Contacts in the castle say she is being tortured in ways only a male could a female... Sometimes by the King himself behind the Queen's back." 

That fire was turning into a twirling inferno now, and Jrastra confidently decided she needn't say more. She merely had to wait as the gears turned in his head and feel what emotions worked through his chest. 

"Alright," he murmured. "Walk me through it. Getting into the city, how do we do it?" 

Jrastra's grin evolved to a broad smile while she pointed her finger to the front gate of the city. "That is the part of the plan in which we require a... human touch, for there is a bounty upon any and all Sun-kissed, especially a Commandant. And should one of us be captured... you would be granted a royal audience..." 

........... 

A yawn escaped the mouth of an archer as he stood on overwatch, positioned on a flat roof above the road leading to Fretheim's manor. Grunting and clearing his throat, he knelt down while pulling a flint and steel from his pocket. Using a rolled piece of waxed paper, he struck the flint to light a small flame. Before he could lose it, he pulled his pipe from its pouch and used the burning roll to light the tobacco already prepped inside. He sucked in one puff, then two to get the tobacco smoldering, then tossed the paper down to stamp out the flame. 

Content, he breathed out a cloud of smoke and sat cross-legged on his rooftop. Still watching the street, he laid his bow across his lap and hunched over to rest his elbows on his knees and hold his head up in his hands. A sudden, chilling breeze whipped through the air and sent a ripple of goosebumps up his back alongside a shiver. He quickly shrugged off the cold and blinked his watered eyes dry just as a beast strolled right onto his street below from an alleyway. 

He had an arrow pulled from his quiver and planted on the drawstring in an instant. His pipe still in his mouth, he came up on one knee and prepped to fire. In the next moment he realized what was below him and his pipe nearly fell from his lips.  

People in Redding heard of the monsters that roamed the forest to the east. Of all sorts of twisted creatures born within the trees, but the archer never thought he would witness one within Redding. If his readings were accurate, a creeger stalked the street below. A cat the size of a hay wagon with fangs the length of one's hand protruding out of the corners of their mouths. Two wicked tails flayed the air behind them with razor-sharp blades of bone adorning the tips. 




Going Feet First Ch. 06



Their pelts were plenty soft, but trying to claim one was a death wish unless you had twenty men to back you. This one had fur as black as ink and murderous, red eyes... and someone riding on its back. The archer had to look twice, but then the rider, a woman, sat up. Her dark armor almost camouflaged her against the beast's back and had it not been for her white hair, he wouldn't have seen her at all. 

She yawned aloud as she woke and stretched out her arms with a groan before mumbling, "Are we close, Xerivan?" 

The creeger growled and kept moving. 

"Good. I tire of this place already." 

How in the Nether did she domesticate that?! 

The archer was left wondering as he pulled his arrow off his bow and returned it to his quiver. Just to be certain he pulled his pipe out of his mouth and sniffed the contents. Nothing funny that he could smell, but just to be safe he dumped the ashes out and put it away. First thing in the morning, he was going to get a new source of tobacco. 

... 

There was another thud against Haru's boot as Xerivan's belly was struck from the inside. 

"Ooooh, Xerivan, the child's kicking, what will we call her when she's born?" She laughed. 

The shadow beast snarled toward its midsection before something shifted within its insides. There was a muffled scream, but the kicking stopped though the body within still continued to fight against her captor. Gentle fingers suddenly rubbed up along the beast's spine between its shoulder blades before the nails dug in to scratch its back. 

As Xerivan groaned in contentment, its rider using both hands to satisfy itches it wasn't even aware of, the burden within its stomach didn't feel like such a bother anymore. Thoughts of morphing into a small dog and snuggling in its Matron's arms were growing ever more tempting as her fingers continued working up its back. 

"Later, Xerivan," she whispered, as though feeling its intentions. 

"I WILL DESTROY YOU!" screamed a Drow voice from under the demon's skin. 

"Must've got the gag off... Sorry about this, Xervy" Haru whispered in her mount's ear before booting at his belly, getting a yelp of pain out from the woman within. 

"Quiet or the humans here will kill you," the witch hissed. "Your rank means nothing to the people around us and you will suffer a good long time before they even consider killing you." 

There was no response from the Princess trapped within the demon's belly though in the newfound silence the shape shifter huffed with relief before outright groaning with pleasure when Haru scratched behind its ears. 

"We're almost there. Let's go stealthy and see who we're meeting." 

Nodding, Xerivan exploded into a cloud of smoke that was quickly encompassed by a transparent sphere. In the time it took to blink one's eye, the witch, demon and Princess were engulfed in a bubble, invisible to all outside of it. 

Haru clenched her teeth, her body shivering as she fought to bring the spell to full strength. Her creature of shadow kept them hovering just off the ground while his dark tendrils wrapped around the Drow Princess to keep her silent and restrained. It was far less painful to cloak when there was just the two of them, but the third body added a new challenge for the Witch to overcome. 

His smoke-like essence flooding the space within the bubble, Xerivan carried his passengers to a rooftop across the street from the manor that belonged to the issuer of Haru's contract. He touched down on a flat roof and released Haru from his grasp. Before she could make a sound, the creature reshaped his shadowed form into a snake to wrap himself around the Princess's body. 

With a dull white glow lighting up her irises and a flourish of hand motions, Haru stepped to the edge of her cloaking bubble and looked out over the compound across the street. Something was happening in the yard of Fretheim's home to bring a demeaning glare to her deathly, black eyes. 

"Where are we?" Iim'treemay asked as Xerivan's neck pulled off of her mouth, allowing her to look at her surroundings with a wide-eyed look. 

Haru was quick to shush the Drow and kept her focus on maintaining the bubble and watching the events unfold below. "We're in Redding." 

"Redding?!" the Princess snapped, her focus snapping from the foreign world of the surface city straight to her captor. "You fucking surface whelp! If the Sun-Kissed don't flay your hide-" 

"Xerivan." 

There was a hiss and Xerivan's neck extended and wrapped around the Princess's head and force her mouth shut while he kept his gaze on the scene below. Haru's frown deepened as a shirtless man walked out of the front door of the manor onto his front lawn, to where two men held a nude woman's arms behind her back as she wrestled to get free. Mr. No-Shirt came to them and grabbed onto the girl's golden flow of hair and threw her down to the ground before dragging her screaming across the grass. Blood was flowing from stab wounds in his chest, and more steadily trickled from the skin across his stomach where he was sliced open. 

With a furious heave he threw the woman onto a stone path in front of him. When she tried to get up, he didn't hesitate to drive his foot into her face. Haru cringed at the sight, but kept silent as the woman fell flat on the ground with one foot planted on her back to hold her down. The bloodied man kept her like that for a few moments as he ran both hands over his head to smooth his blond hair back and suck in a deep breath. 

"After everything I have done for you," he sighed, touching his fingers to one of his wounds and staring at the blood with a demon's rage in his eyes. "After all the gifts I bestow and the comforts I grant, you do this to me?!" 

"You're... evil," she whimpered, drooling blood. 

"Evil? No no no. No, my dear," he growled, leaning down to speak directly into her ear. "Evil, would be locking you in a cell until I wish your company. Evil would be constantly passing you among my men like a whore. EVIL would TORTURE you for trying to kill your lord!" 

He pulled his foot off her back and knelt down producing a knife from the pocket of his pants. She squealed when he grabbed her by the hair again to peel her head back. When he had her eyes locked with his, he brought his weapon to the underside of her jaw. 

"Evil wouldn't have granted you the luxuries that I gifted you and all my other pieces. Nor would it be as merciful as I. You betrayed my trust. You betrayed your other pieces. All I asked was your loyalty and obedience. By denying me this, you betrayed yourself. And now you will pay the price." 

Before she had to witness the kill, Haru sighed and turned away. In a respectful silence Xerivan lifted their cloaking bubble off the rooftop to bring them back down to the ground. Even the Princess merely just cast a glare upon the witch in the aftermath of what they just witnessed. 

When her feet left a solid surface, Iim'treemay shifted uneasily in the grasp of the foggy demon. Floating some distance in the air, she looked out over the human city, taking it in properly for the first time. 

This is the place Mother wanted me to keep in check beyond Faerssune, she thought. 

With thousands of her kind brewing and scheming on how to keep power to themselves after she arrived, she was also expected to deal with this place? The world underground was difficult enough to handle by itself, let alone with another surface cesspool thrown into the mix. But then again, her mother would not be failed. It wasn't an option. If the Princess Regent wanted her power and the favor of her Val'Sharess, she needed to get a grip on her outbursts. To be able to control her emotions even around the Witch and her demon would be a good testament to her perseverance, something one would need if she ever wanted to make her mother proud. 

"I don't get it," Haru declared when Xerivan brought them to the ground just outside Fretheim's front gate. 

The Witch turned to the Drow Princess and shook her head. "I mean, I get the bastard wants to get a point across, I give my kills a few words before I let them pass on, but why give a whole speech?" 

Xerivan reassumed the shape of a creeger, his tail splitting in two while still wrapped around the Princess to keep her bound. He dipped down to allow Haru to climb onto his back while she continued to rant, "Tell them goodbye, tell them to rest in peace, but don't give a speech to someone who's on Death's doorstep. It's a waste of time and breath. Honestly, on Death's good graces..." 

Haru cast her hands around her and the edge of the bubble around them shuddered. Fretheim had already returned to his house by now to let his men deal with the body in the yard. But he likely couldn't have made it very far from the door. 

Quirking her mouth and frowning, Haru said, "I guess the only exceptions to the rule are the cute ones. But they don't get speeches, only parting gifts. Like the handsome, little soldier of yours I found in the tunnels..." 

The Witch giggled as she looked back at a scowling Iim'treemay seated on the base of Xerivan's tails. "I was so saddened to kill him that I gave him a little kiss goodbye. He could have been a fine sire." 

With a gust of air, the bubble of invisibility shattered around Haru and Xerivan. Every guard in earshot came to alert, every person with a line of sight readying their arms. And under the threat of drawn bows and arrows, the Demon and the Witch waltzed forward to get within arms-reach of Fretheim's front gate. 

"Fretheim! Your men are dead!" Haru yelled. "But I brought my end of the bargain!" 

She sat there on Xerivan's back for several moments, carefully eyeing the guards closing in around her. Given that this client's representative fell victim to the abilities of a Sun-Kissed elder, she didn't expect him to have much trust for her on their first meeting. Not that he had much choice. She had something he wanted, he had something she wanted, and she was taking what she wanted one way or another. 

Haru still made the mental note to meet the client personally before taking contracts next time. No more third-party deals. 

Before long, the front doors of the manor opened up, a quartet stepping out. Right away Haru recognized blond Mr. Shirtless, only now he had a leather coat on over a bandaged torso and two escorts in full plate armor at his back. The fourth man, however, was wearing mithril and kept to blondie's flank. As he drew closer Haru could feel the magic coursing through her go cold. Worse than cold. 

It was going dead. 

Something was very wrong about that man in mithril, but very familiar as well. She just couldn't place it. 

As the four men came to the gate of the manor, Xerivan gave a low growl that brought the two guards to alert. Haru chuckled weakly and stroked her fingers behind the ears of the demon's feline form. 

"Calm, Xerivan. I think this is our customer, Lord Fretheim?" 

She could sense the glower she received from the Princess behind her, paying it no mind as she dismounted. The men stopped at the gate, Shirt-less Blondie coming face-to-face with the Witch and presenting his hand through the bars. 

"You would guess right, love," he announced. "You would be the Skull Wraith, my Magic Mercenary?" 

Haru grinned and took his hand. "In the flesh." 

Her smile was returned by Fretheim who brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. The Mercenary gave a girlish giggle and the lord turned his gaze to the Drow on Xerivan's back. "And this is the fabled Iim'treemay Relynviir, second daughter to the Valsharess?" 

"Don't start," Haru griped. "She's the Queen's daughter, true, but she's a magicless whelp too young to play in Drow court by my opinion. More of a bull's-eye on your back than anything... I'm kind of helping you commit suicide here, when you think about it. Drow don't appreciate their royals being taken for political prisoners or being used as leverage." 

To her surprise, both the lord and the man in the mithril gave her questioning looks, then glanced at each other. First it was Fretheim that started chuckling, then his armored friend joined in as they had themselves quite the reserved chortle. Quirking an eyebrow, Haru glanced back on the coal-skinned elf who still scowled at her with Xerivan's tail still wrapped over her mouth. 

Facing the men again she asked, "What's so funny?" 

Fretheim shook his head and quickly composed himself, "I have no political ambitions for the sweet Princess. I wanted to add more elven blood to my collection of divine beauties and she is the second divinely unique piece of Elven kind that I have had the opportunity to obtain." 

In that moment, Haru's eye twitched. Her smile wavering. "Well... then... if that is the case, then I wish you the best in trying to hold her. I'll take my reward and you can take the Qu'essan. Ending my contract." 

Fretheim nodded and motioned one of the men behind him. Haru shifted her attention to the knight who pulled a bag off his hip and presented it to her through the bars of the gate. She took the small package and opened it up, sifting through the countless gold pieces to a green, metal medallion buried within. Upon touching its smooth surface, the witch shuddered and closed both her eyes while giving a breathless chuckle. 

"So you did have it after all. I shan't ask how." 

She turned to Xerivan and motioned her head to the gate. The demon growled as it suddenly lowered itself to the ground, claws coming out of its paws. In one pounce it sprang clear over the high privacy wall of the estate and slammed into the ground beside Fretheim's group. Both the accompanying guards pulled their swords, but the oversized, twin-tailed tiger merely dropped the Drow onto the grass beside the lord and man in mithril before it exploded into a black cloud. Without solid mass, he passed back through the gate and reformed as a dark horse at Haru's side. 

With a sharp look in her eyes, the witch gave Fretheim a smile and climbed onto her mount's back. The slack-jawed noble couldn't even blink as he awed at Xerivan, his mithril armored friend pulling a medallion out of his armor to inspect it while worriedly glancing at the demon as well. 

"We are done, Lord," Haru declared. "Enjoy your peace." 

Her mount exploded into smoke again and, along with its rider, disappeared into the night. 

........... 

Her sobs were likely heard by everyone on this floor, but Celia didn't care. If the whole house heard her she didn't care. Tears ran down her cheeks from puffy, reddened eyes as they kept locked on the lone window of her room. This was the only time she locked it and shut the curtains herself. 

She didn't want to see the aftermath of what happened. The body that was now undoubtedly being dragged away. 

The body of the girl that had brought her food. That had washed her bedding. Scrubbed what little she had for clothes. Celia remembered how calm she felt at the girl's voice, how soft she was in the words she spoke and how she never showed annoyance for the Elf's linguistic shortfall with human tongue. 

And now she was gone. In the flick of a wrist she was gone. Celia didn't even know why. Sniffling, she pressed the first knuckles of her hands together and joined the tips of her thumbs. It was a traditional pose for her to hold as she prayed to Necela, Calia, and Moitri to keep her safe as she passed to the next life. 

A time later, after her tears had dried and the voices outside went quiet, Celia was wrapped up in her blankets trying for a desperate sleep when there was a rap at her door. The Tree Elf sat up in an instant and drew her knees to her chest, quivering as her mind raced through all the reasons one would come to her at this time of night. 

Nobody ever came to her door after she'd been given dinner. 

The guard on the other side of her door shifted to one side. Steel boots could be heard shuffling across the floor with each movement. Cocooned in her blanket with only her eyes exposed, the Elf swallowed as her door opened and her visitor stepped into her realm. 

"Celia," she was addressed immediately. 

She blinked once. Then twice. Swallowing with a dry throat in a weak voice she asked, "Val?" 

The door closed behind Pretayus' pet as she stepped over to Celia's bed. A dull orange glow, barely noticeable even in the dark, still weakly shone from her olive skin. Her smooth brown hair, once kept in the most elaborate, little braid Celia could wind, was now clipped short and flowing free down to just touch her shoulders. 

And then there were her eyes. In a time before, Celia thought of them like the night: pure black with a twinkle of joy in them like a star above. Now they were just black. The sparkle she knew and the cheer that made it glimmer was gone. Like the last ten years stole away what a hundred had given. 

"You haven't changed at all, have you, Sister?" Val asked, seating herself on the foot of the bed. 

With watering eyes Celia swallowed the first words that had come to her mind. Val hadn't visited her or communicated with her in any significant way since her capture. No conversations, no notes, no explanations. What was the lost sister doing now? Celia tightened the blanket around her and tried to loosen her throat enough to speak. 

"W-w-we are not..." A tear ran Celia's cheek as she quivered with the words on her tongue. "Not sisters. Not anymore. You're... You're gone." 

"Am I?" the enslaved elf questioned with a smirk and incredulous look. 

"Yes!" Celia cried, fresh rivers running her face as she pressed it into her quilt. "I don't know you! What happened to Val?! What happened to my friend?!" 

Her breaths were short and shaky, though Val lifted her eyebrows and quirked her mouth looking none-too-impressed. 

Gasping past her sobs, Celia let it all out into her quilt while she questioned, "Where was my clan-sister when my Galen suffered from Pretayus? Where was she when those brutes locked me away me in this room? Where were YOU when I spent all this time trapped in this prison?!" 

The Elf's chest was heaving as she looked up from her quilt, her red eyes meeting an indifferent stare. Val slouched over, holding her head up with her arm braced against her knee. Then with her eyes unshifting and still locked with Celia's, she grinned. 

"Downstairs, in the company of my master." 

Celia's ears drooped, and she pushed her face back into her blanket before she broke down again. Val kept still and watched in silence as the sobs of the other Elf carried on. 

"For ten years we wanted you back... we cried, we prayed for you..." she pouted. "We tried to sneak all four of you away in the night... We did everything we could..." 

Val shook her head. "Why? Why waste the effort when I was finally set free?" 

Celia hiccupped as her head snapped up, her eyes wide. "F-f-free? You were enslaved!" 

A firm nod preceded the words, "A short chain to the soaring bird is better than the long leash to the grounded tree. Not living under Tanza, not facing the hardships of those primitive ways we lived with in those Goddess-forsaken woods. I got the chance to see unimaginable constructs, monuments of mortals, felt the love of men without having to wait ten turns of winter." 

"You were enslaved..." 

Val huffed a breath of a chuckle. "My dear, I would say rescued. Afterall, If the clan was so great, why did you go with your demon?" 

Celia frowned and sniffled. "He is no demon. He is a gifted human who loves me as I love him." 

"He didn't love you until after the first kiss, am I right? One lip touch and he was bound to you by the charms of our kind." 




Going Feet First Ch. 06



At those words the bundled Elf flinched and cast her eyes guiltily to the side. "He loves me. The Charm wears away in zetrans. He stayed with me long after it would have worn away. He still does." 

"Oh? How do you know?" Val asked, quirking an eyebrow. 

Celia paused, biting her lip. 

"You don't, do you?" Val asked, one brow raised. "Can't accept the fact that he is a corpse now, but he is. Your Neko girl-friend with the black fur confirmed it." 

The green-haired Elf froze with her eyes opened to their fullest. Not even her lungs were moving as her mind registered what she had just heard. That her Galen was gone. 

He wasn't. He couldn't be. She shook her head and suckled on her lower lip where she bit through the skin. 

"You lie," she said flatly, voice teetering on the edge of a pout. "Tanza gave me her visions. I've seen the time when Galen comes for me... Not all of it but... he is. And when he arrives, he will kill the slaver men. Pretayus, Fretheim... Even you, Val." 

"Even me?" she repeated, a touch of surprise to her tone as she sat up straight. 

"He will do anything to protect me. With how you acted at the river, he would attack if you got in his way. He could kill you..." She swallowed a lump in her throat. "You would need to come back, Val. The real you has to come back. The you that belonged with our clan ten years ago. The clan-sister that loved me those nights when the chastity spell lifted from us. Please. I still love you, Val. I still want you safe." 

The other Elf was taken back, blinking in wonder. Her breath fell silent and a shamed look dawned on her face as she said. "I... I am safe... Love... Even if your Galen comes, Pretayus has safe guarded me against things you wouldn't imagine." 

Still curled up in her blanket, Celia probed, "Has he fought back a troll?" 

Val's eyes narrowed as their gazes met again. "Has your Galen?" 

Celia's eyes fell to the floor, a smile somehow creeping its way onto her lips as she thought back to a day only a short time ago. "It was the way we met. I was... out... wandering, and needed a rest and what I thought a rock to sit down upon was actually a troll's thumb. Running only got me so far before I was snatched up in its hands and nearly squished. Galen came then. He showed just in time to fell the troll and save my life." 

An unsure look crossed Val's face as she went into thought while listening to her former clan-sister. "And if Galen is coming for you... Pretayus may not be enough to protect me if I appear a threat to him." 

"Your 'Master' can't, he could get you killed if he puts you between me and Galen. I don't want that to happen. I don't want Galen to hurt you because of me. I want him to trust you; to bring you home to the clan and regain everything you've lost." 

Val pursed her lips and paused as her eyes fell to the floor. Somehow she seemed nervous, her hands fidgeting in a fashion Celia recognized. She was torn between choices. 

"I'll try to keep my distance when Galen comes, then," she finally muttered in a low voice. "But to earn his trust... I think I may know how." 

A hopeful look spawned on Celia's face as she drew her blanket cocoon back from her head. 

"There is a journal that Pretayus keeps. It has the names and locations of all his customers. If I showed Galen where our other captured sisters are, would he trust me?" 

Celia shrugged with an unsure look. "We'd find out on the new moon. I think if I talk to him, he will." 

Again, Val fell into silence as she thought things over. 

"Are you really with his child, truly?" She asked 

"I don't know yet," Celia answered. "The night before all this started was the night he laid with me for the first time, and became my first time." 

"First time with a male," Val quipped, making Celia giggle. 

"With a male," she echoed. "We were so deep in bliss we forgot the potential of our union and he spent himself inside me." 

She shuddered with a euphoric look. "I still feel his heat sometimes, that divine pleasure of him filling me, pressing into my core... his seed erupting into me... I never came with such a rush in my life..." 

Without noticing Celia had brought one hand to her cheek, sighing against it while her other hand pressed between her thighs. When her awareness came about, her bright, white eyes blinking in realization, a red tint heated her cheeks and she quickly looked away to the floor. "Sorry, Val." 

Her sister chuckled in reply. "Don't apologize. Males are what we are born for, and love just makes everything better." 

"It does..." Celia agreed with a longing look before they sat in silence, the two of them staring at their feet. 

"I have to go back downstairs now," Val said as she rose. "They will be expecting me." 

Celia nodded slowly with a sigh and gloom to her face. "May Necela bless, Sister." 

"May Necela bless." 

Val went to the door and gave it two sharp raps. The door opened a hair, the guard peering in before he opened it the rest and permitted Pretayus' Elf to leave. Then the door shut, Celia's ears drooping again as the lock clicked into place. 

Her Sister's footsteps continued on down the hall along with the guard that had been with her. When she couldn't hear them anymore, Celia let out her breath and looked to the window. Alone again. 

She unwrapped herself from her blanket and lay down on her bed, shutting her eyes to sleep. Tomorrow she would find out if she had a child, and what fate awaited her in the future. Her toes curled at the thought of what was to happen should her belly prove empty. 

Please let me carry... I don't want Pretayus to hurt me... I don't want to be like Val... 

Tack tack tack. 

Celia sat up in a flash. Something was tapping at her window. Yet before she could investigate, it threw itself open to permit a black fog to roll into her room. Her mouth opened to scream only for a hand encased in black leather to reach out and grab onto her face. And from there the rest of the body began to appear. 

First was the face of a human woman with hair white like the clouds and eyes black like shadow. Then the leather armor that covered her body formed, the toughened hide stained black to match her eyes. As the last of her limbs formed, so did a solitary finger pressing over her lips. 

"Sshhhhh, quiet girl. I'm not going to hurt you." 

The Tree Elf blinked, her breathing heavy. Even with her extremely limited grasp of the common tongue she was able to understand the words "quiet" and "not hurt you." The latter still didn't help ease her uncontrollable fear sending her body into a quiver. 

The fog pulled away from the intruder, twirling around the room and shutting the window before shrinking down into solid black ball beside her on the bed. From there it changed again, Celia's eyes going wide as it morphed into the shape of wolf pup no bigger than her hand. 

"Do you speak the common tongue around here?" 

Celia had to force herself to look away from the shadow pup beside her so she could engage the woman's stare. 

Speak common tongue... she repeated in her mind, thinking a moment more before she shook her head the best she could considering her mouth was still in the other's grasp. A yelp escaped her when the shapeshifter hopped into her lap, staring up at her with all-too-innocent eyes. 

"Hmm, this is going to be real fun," the woman declared to the pup. She pulled her hand back from Celia's face, slowly, while again pressing the shushing finger to her mouth. 

"Speak," she ordered. 

The Elf was still shaking horribly, but after mentally translating that solitary word, she swallowed and asked in her native tongue, "Do you speak Tree Elf?" 

The leather clad warrior frowned and quirked her mouth, "That sounds like some garbled, backwoods High Elf language, girl. Tell me you speak more than gibberish." 

Celia again held a look of confusion after the woman's short rant. If her native language didn't work, she'd have to try for something more common. 

"Nekonian?" she asked, her hands unconsciously hugging onto the pup. 

"There we go, that's something I speak," her mysterious guest declared with a grin. 

"What do you want?" Celia asked, her voice shrill as she still quivered in fear. 

"Your name, first, then tea and cookies as we talk about the lovely storm that's rolling in." 

A chuckle escaped the woman as Celia looked to the window and back at her just as confused as ever. "What storm?" 

She only giggled again. "My favourite kind. Tell me, what's your name? We can chat while Xerivan fetches the tea and cookies." 

Before the Tree-Elf could question Xerivan's identity, the pup dissolved out of her arms. Forming into a black cloud it slipped away between the floorboards much to Celia's awe. A pair of snapping fingers brought her jaw up off the floor and her attention back to the woman before her. 

"Don't mind him, he's harmless. I asked you your name." 

Blinking, wide-eyed and bewildered, Celia muttered her answer. 

"Nice to meet you, Celia. I'm Haru. Do you know that name?" 

The Tree Elf shook her head in the negative. 

"Huh, well then. I'll have you know I am a devout follower of the orders set by our Goddesses and as I have come here tonight, I find myself disgusted by the state of affairs I have discovered." 

Haru leaned back and fell into a sitting position just as Xerivan's fog erupted from the floor below to catch her. The demon formed a high-backed chair, rippling with demonic thorns up the sides and boasting a carving that mimicked a dragon's skull at the head. 

Two cups of steaming tea emerged from the fog on black plates supported by dark tentacles coming out from behind the chair. The Witch took one of the drinks for herself while the other was offered to Celia. The Elf hesitantly accepted, taking the cup just before a dark plate full of cookies came forward as well. 

Taking a sip from her tea as well as a pastry for herself to nibble on, Haru spoke again, "Despite my disgust, I've decided to poke around first to get some answers before drawing to conclusions. You look the honest type, the door to this room is locked from the outside, so you will be the one to whom I pose my questions. Why are you here?" 

Curiously sniffing the tea before sipping, Celia inhaled sharply and nearly cried as a divinely sweet taste bathed her tongue in glorious succulence she had not tasted in months. 

"Honey!" she gasped. "By Necela's good graces, honey!" 

She didn't hesitate in taking another long drink, sighing in utter bliss at the flavor. Haru gave her a questioning look, then shook her head and gave a low chuckle. 

"Been missing out on the spoils of this wealthy bastard?" 

Smiling with content, Celia nodded and stared down at her cup. "I've been eating bread, water, and boiled greens for the past two weeks. I barely leave this room and I can't use my magic to grow something better because of Pretayus." 

A grumble echoed out of Haru's chair, and the Witch was quick to offer up a cookie. 

"Then here, get it while you can." 

The Elf didn't hesitate to accept it and take a bite. Her whole jaw went slack as she let out a deep breath; the warm, sweet delight sending her into a state of pure bliss. Whatever this pastry was made of, she needed to get the recipe. 

"Thank you. Thank you a hundred times. This is the greatest kindness I've seen in these lands," she said, looking up at Haru. 

Raising a hand dismissively, the Witch grinned and replied, "You need not worry about it. If you wish, pay me back in answers. Like why you are here." 

At once the Elf's gaze fell to her cup, the tips of her long ears sinking downward as she grasped it with both hands and drew it close to her stomach. "Because my kind is unique. I'm a Tree Elf of Atzla and Fretheim... he wanted me to be here as trophy slave I think. I only know what Pretayus told me." 

Haru frowned and rubbed her chin, ignoring the grumble from her seat. "How'd he find you?" 

Celia swallowed and took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. "I was in Atzla when the slaver Pretayus roped me out of the bush. I strayed from my Galen a bit too far and then... Pretayus took me and brought me here. Galen fought to get me back, killed some. But Pretayus cut his horse out from under him and rode off to this city. The belief of me being with child is the only reason he hasn't tried to make me broken." 

Haru's demon chair gave a low rumble as the Witch's eyes narrowed. With a tension drawing on the atmosphere around her she leaned back onto one arm and slouched in the seat, touching a contemplative finger to her chin. 

"I see... And Pretayus... is he the one in the shiny mithril?" 

Celia sipped her tea and nodded. "Yes. He is the slaver that has been roaming Astiko and Atzla for fifteen years. Four other Elves have been forced into his hands, and I make five." 

After taking another sip from her cup, Haru set it aside and leaned in toward the elf. "Thank you for your co-operation, Celia. Before I go, I must ask, do you know if your Galen is still coming for you?" 

Without even a moment's hesitation the Elf nodded. "He is. I've witnessed the visions of my elder and Necela herself set him on a mission to slay Pretayus." 

Haru's eyes widened a bit, thinking back to her battle in the Drow tunnel. To the one human there that wasn't on her side. 

"I know Galen will come here and do what he was set out to do. He isn't the kind that gives up." 

"Indeed..." the Witch muttered, quirking her mouth. "Well, it has been a pleasure, Celia. For now, I must bid you farewell." 

The Witch's chair exploded into a black fog, encompassing her body before darting out the window. The cookies were gone, same with her cup of tea. Any trace of her even being in the room vanished, leaving the Elf in awe. But after a pause to collect herself and close the window behind her mystery guest, Celia returned to bed and once again lay down to sleep. This time finding success. 

............. 

With sucking pop, a fresh bottle of wine was opened and the contents quickly poured into a pair of glasses. A blank, lifeless expression to her young face, the blonde elf set the bottle on a tray along with the filled glasses and picked the whole thing up with both hands. Moving with precise yet mechanical movements she climbed the steep, frigid steps out of the wine cellar and up into the kitchen. The cooks, resting in the corner playing cards, paid her little attention as she carried on through the normally hectic room into the dining room. A guard was there at the table, sitting fast asleep in a chair with his face planted in a half-finished plate of potatoes and sliced meat. 

The Elf ignored him and moved to the open doors at the far end of the room. From there she crossed the hallway and stood at the next set of closed doors and righted her posture. Her movements swift and flawless, she held the tray at hip level with a single hand and knocked three times before retaking a firm grip on her tray. 

In moments a Neko woman opened the door, her nude body on full display, and stepped aside to allow the Elf to carry on into the room. She set her tray down on a table set between two couches, making sure not to cover up the map spread across the table top. When the men had their drinks, she stepped back against the wall to wait until they called on her again. 

"Tonight is going to be quite the tale in my journal entry," Fretheim muttered from his spot on one couch as he leaned in to grab his glass. 

There was a wince that showed on his face, his free hand touching a bandage covering one of his stab wounds. As he sat back, another human woman—a blonde with bright, blue eyes—stepped forward to gently massage her fingers into his shoulders while a pouting look stuck to her face. 

"Such is the result when you don't break in a bitch right," Pretayus growled as he glared at his waiting drink. "Amateurs get good people killed. Turn promise and potential into worthless wastes of flesh." 

"I wouldn't blame her trainer," the nobleman muttered as he relaxed and let the massaging fingers sink into his muscles. "She'd been with me for nearly four years. I had grown complacent around her, relaxed. I let those nasty illusions of what's right and wrong contaminate her mind..." 

He took another sip of his wine and smacked his lips. "No matter. We have a Drow in the locked room, a Tree Elf in the good girl's room, and the last pieces being set into place." 

"So we leave tomorrow, at first light?" Pretayus wondered, motioning to the map. 

The Slavemaster cocked an eyebrow when Fretheim shook his head. "Tomorrow night, as soon as my men get back." 

"Get back?" Pretayus echoed, leaning forward. "From where?" 

After another sip of his drink, Fretheim held his glass up and swished the red liquid around inside. "I was listening when you were talking to your Lycan friend after you got back earlier this eve. Something about the Demon's pet Neko being hauled off by the city guard for being a Ra'zorlich?" 

"One that I know would not be easily broken," the Slavemaster challenged as he leaned in, squaring up his shoulders. "If you sent your men after her they are going to die. If she comes here, whether under their guard or not, I guarantee you will die!" 

Looking up from his swirling glass, Fretheim asked, "Are you certain?" 

"Short of chaining her to a wall and torturing her head until its hollow, you won't break her. I could, but that would require us not moving her to some mountain fortress for several weeks. The risks during transport are too high." 

"But you could break her?" 

Pretayus frowned. "I've brought many hearts and minds to heel, Cael, but hers would not crack so easily. I lost my first advantage when the guards took her away. Even if you succeed in getting her here, warriors like her do not break easy and the one assassin I've snapped before wound up taking the fast way down from a bell tower first chance she got." 

"Then torture her head hollow. Cinisus is pleasurable enough," Fretheim stated casually motioning to the elven woman in the corner. 

"If that's not done right, she has a chance of bouncing back," Pretayus grumbled. "And if I have to spend that much time and effort on Celia, the Drow, and the fur ball, then I will be asking for something more than the promised sum." 

"Even if the money is there, you won't have the time." 

Both men turned as Val closed the door to the room behind her. Pretayus' brow arched down as he looked at her, his eyes critically gazing over her. Despite this face he gave her, the Elf cane right to him, wrapping her arms around his chest and holding tight. 

Trying to take the surprise out of his expression, the slaver returned the embrace as he asked, "I suspect Celia spoke of troubles." 

"She's as naïve as ever," Val declared as her hands fell to his hips and she leaned back to look into his eyes. "But she knows what's happening next. My old clan leader could see the future, and the future said Galen isn't dead. You are. Celia slipped and mentioned waiting until the new moon and that is tomorrow night..." 

With a sudden sniffle and a tear starting to glisten in the well of her eye, she swallowed and finished, "It wasn't a maybe about you dying..." 




Going Feet First Ch. 06



"No, he won't," Fretheim declared, finishing his glass. "I have the money and manpower to send a wall of troops and bounty hunters against any threat." 

"You may as well pull every stop because he kills you, too!" Val snapped. 

Silence hung in the air as the men stared at the Elf who simply rested her head against her master's chest, trying not to weep. A dark cloud hung over Pretayus as he hugged onto his pet. His hand clenching around his empty glass, Fretheim let out his lungs and set it on the table. 

"I'm not a man of faith," he declared correcting his posture. "Nor am I one to be bound by fate or destiny." 

He leaned forward and gazed at the map on the table before him. "I will send my men out to secure the Neko. I want her, and I will have her. If I am unable to claim her, they'll kill her so that demon can't. Then, we will move to my new home. It's far enough into the mountains that he will never find us. Anyone who may know of it is either already there or dead." 

"He will follow," Pretayus warned. "If he is determined enough to pursue me still, he'll follow." 

Fretheim chuckled. "Let me worry about that." 

.............. 

Claws skittered across stone as two men dragged Petra down a stone hallway with their arms hooked under her shoulders. Her hands were locked in solid casts of iron that encased her appendages completely. Even her feet were bound together with rope from ankle to knee. What they didn't cover however, were her eyes and ears. 

The guards brought her to a room three floors underground into the bowels of Redding's castle. As impressed as she had been with the stone work of the castle exterior, with the towers, spires, and massive constructions of stone and wood, she was careful take every mental note possible about every nook, cranny, corner, and loose timber she saw inside. Nothing escaped her nor slipped her memory. She wanted every detail for her escape. 

Nineteen full paces she counted from the open stairwell to a door, eighth in the lineup down the sparsely lit hallway. Past the door was nothing but a round table with two chairs on opposing sides. Five candles hung in a makeshift chandelier above, with a strong scent of dust clinging to the air. 

This place looks to have been empty for quite some time... Disuse means few are brought down here... she scowled. Great. 

From the door the guards dragged Petra to one of the chairs and forcibly sat her down. All the Neko did in protest was cock an eyebrow as though asking "Is that all?" Even in the low light this look did not escape her escorts and other than a disappointed grunt, they left without a word. 

The door shut and the lock clacking into place, the assassin waited for their footsteps to fade, then she stood up and reseated herself on the tabletop. With relative ease she brought her feet up and rested them to her side while bending her body over toward them. After adjusting her legs twice to avoid a cramp, she managed to arch her head down far enough to get her mouth to the knot binding the rope around her feet. 

Using her tongue to feel the path of the rope, she eventually tugged the lead string backward through the main knot and let the binds loosen up enough for her to wiggle her feet around enough for the cord to fall off. 

Next she stood back up and blew out four of the candles in the chandelier above. It left just enough light for her to see, though not enough for a human to spot her as she backed up into a dark corner, shrouding herself in shadow. 

She stood there for what could easily have been a half zetran without so much as twitching her ears. Nobody came to her room. Nobody knocked. Nobody even walked by from what she could hear. 

No matter. Her patience was far from running out. 

When the boots finally did come marching down the hall some time later, she tensed, though quickly forced her breathing into a pattern to drop her heart rate. 

Calm, focused, prepared, she thought, settling her nerves and clearing her thoughts. 

Every muscle in her body ready to spring into attack, the assassin let her ears take the point of her senses. Only one person was approaching her cell that she could hear. That meant either there were some very quiet men already posted outside, or they were too confident in their binds. 

The metal boots stopped outside her door. Petra bent her legs to pounce. With a soft thunk, the lock opened, then the door. In an instant she recognized the knight captain in the doorway and paused. He hadn't changed out of his full plate armor from when he had arrested her, its silver trimming glittering in the candle light though his purple kilt looked almost grey. Aside from trying to snap his neck, she couldn't see a way to kill him quickly and quietly while still slipping away before anyone noticed. 

Rak. You men and your armor. 

A sigh escaped the human as he walked into the room carrying a pitcher of water and two mugs in his hands. He set them down and took a seat in the chair opposite of the one Petra had been placed in. Then he just leaned back and got comfortable; his expression hidden under his helm. 

"I understand you are a patient woman, and a trained killer," he announced. "But the mages that overlook the stairwell would kill you long before you make any escape. And if you intend to still dig your claws into Fretheim's chest, I suggest you take a seat." 

In the shadows, the Stalker's eyes narrowed. 

"Or take your chances, it doesn't matter. Dee wouldn't be happy if you were killed. Afterall, she doesn't have much for friends or family left in this world." 

The Captain leaned forward to grab the pitcher and fill both mugs with water. There were no weapons on his person that Petra could see, only the keys he carried. Still, with a degree of caution the Neko stepped forward from her corner, the Captain's head instantly turning toward her. 

"Your fur truly is darker than the night. I wasn't sure if I was talking to an empty room." 

"What has Dee told you?" Petra growled. 

The captain leaned back and joined his hands over his stomach, his head tipping back to reveal the mail that protected his neck below the chin. "A bit, actually. You're name is Petra, family name unknown. You come from Atzla, a Shadow Stalker of the Ra'zorlichs, got caught in the service of a powerful being and are working to free an Elf from the hands of that cretin Cael Fretheim for your master. Aside from your heritage, you are in trouble for overstaying your temporary registration papers, breaking the curfew ordered on those papers, attacking Redding guards, assaulting private militia, espionage, and intimidating Redding citizens." 

I will slit your throat, Dee, Petra cursed. 

The knight captain kicked one foot up and rested it on his knee. "It's a long list of crimes, but I'll admit only your clan ties and the espionage is worth hanging one over, but that'd have to be on the crown's judgement." 

A low growl escaped the assassin's throat. The captain touched the tips of his fingers together in front of his helm and she could have sworn she sensed a grin under that layer of steel. 

"But, all of that isn't on your record. Not even the arrest that brought you here tonight. It sort of got lost in the paperwork and records I am tasked to keep. My office is so very messy with that horseshit. I might find the time to log it, I might not. If the guardsmen check and they don't know why you're in the cell, they won't waste time feeding you and just toss you outside the city gates. Or send you on your way inside the city if you had proper paperwork. The kind I have the authority to have printed." 

Everything that spewed from his mouth rubbed Petra the wrong way. Twice did prickles trace over her back and press her nerves. Both her ears suddenly twitched as padded feet shifted on the other side of the door. 

So he wasn't alone, that was why he came unarmed. A game was being played here, but she didn't know what. 

"What are you trying for?" she asked, scowling. 

"To help you avoid the headsman's axe," he answered with all seriousness. 

There was a stifled chuckle outside then, and Petra turned her head toward it. 

"Obviously something is funny about you desiring that," she said in a voice loud enough to travel. 

The Captain paused, interlocked hands shifting to below his chin with his index fingers tapping against one another. His chair flew back when he erupted to his feet. Armor squeaking and boots storming down onto the stone floor with a terrible racket, he rushed to the door. The wooden frame nearly came out of the wall when he threw it open. Behind it two men in guardsmen armor were waiting on the other side. Without delay the Captain rammed his steel-plated fist into the face of the first, sending him across the hall before he backhanded the other. 

"GET OUT OF HERE, YOU WEASLES! Tell Rigor to keep his fucking nose away from my duties or I will slice it off!" 

He stood in the door way, an imposing mass of muscle and metal as the two men whined and scrambled off. Petra couldn't help but giggle. 

Then the captain turned to the right. "You as well. She is my responsibility and you fucks are interrupting!" 

"But we were ordered-" 

The captain's fist swung again at the man Petra could not see, but could hear hit the floor. 

His voice low, and quiet, with a tone threatening enough to invite a sadistic grin to the Assassin's face, he ordered again, "Leave. Now. Or you will find my blade so far up your ass, I could put the tip on one stick, the pommel on another, and spit roast you like the pig you are. Am. I. Clear?" 

Leather and mail scratched on stone as the guard scrambled to his feet and bolted off down the hall. The captain stood and waited, ensuring the hallway was clear before he shut the door and stormed back to his chair. Petra chuckled. 

"They've been outside since the start of our conversation," he said, collapsing into his seat. "I had to make it sound good for when they return to the other Knight-Captain. I'm under enough suspicion as it is." 

"Oh?" Petra asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

"Long story, that. Back to business, Dee said you wanted to kill Fretheim and a slaver that he's sheltering. After what happened to her mother, I'm not surprised she was eager to help you. And now that we've met, I am as well." 

Petra frowned. "What interest of yours is this affair?" 

The Captain gave a stiff hmph, then reached up to undo the chin strap of his helmet and pull it off. He set the armor piece on the table in front of him and set his eyes on Petra. He had messy black hair long enough to reach his brow, eyes of a color impossible to identify in the low light. But he had a familiar look about him... A streak of blond along his trimmed sideburns... a natural radiance to a not-overly-handsome face. 

But then his scent hit her. She did not spend an eve rutting with him in a bed, but the scent coming off of him was recognizable in an instant. From there, everything clicked into place. It brought a chuckle to the Neko before she shook her head and leaned back. 

"You're related to Dee," she accused. "Half-brother? Same father?" 

An impressed look came over the Captain. "You are still fresh from the forest, and I'd guess the tribe as well, so you wouldn't know the degrees different races mix and pass their traits on to their children. How broadly it varies." 

"I have observed that when a human fucks a Neko, she births a human with Neko ears and tail." 

His eye twitched as he lost his amused look. "Or sometimes she would birth a seemingly full blood human, only with a few Nekonian strengths... It's all about whose traits prove stronger in the womb." 

Both of Petra's eyebrows rose at this. She carefully eyed him up and down, taking an extra whiff with her nose. She leaned forward and tried inhaling more deeply a second time, but her mouth quirked and she frowned shaking her head. 

"I do not see nor scent Neko in or on you. You lie." 

At once his nostrils flared and he slowly breathed out. 

"You've been sleeping in my sister's bed. Recently, and after she finished, ahem, 'working' as her more... intimate scent clings to your fur. That or you were the one she was working with, but I know her well, and she wouldn't with another woman." 

Petra fought with every ounce of strength she had to keep from grinning at that, it was something she had to hide behind an impressed look as he added, "You haven't bathed in at least two days, no more than four, and give it two or three moons and you'll be going into heat. Do not doubt what I know about myself, Petra. Dee got the appearance, I got the rest." 

"And while she has to take a cock every night to survive, you live in a comfortable position once held by your father?" the Assassin questioned, crossing her arms and provoking a sigh from the apparent hybrid across from her. 

She could see his teeth grind in his mouth, his eyes narrow slightly before he reclaimed his composure from these subtle tells or irritation. He leaned in, resting his elbows on the table and joining his hands. 

"There are reasons why she is in that position. And while I can take blame for much of her hardships, it all traces back to Fretheim and Dee's own choice to stay where she is." 

Brows arching down, Petra leaned back with her tail lightly lashing the air behind her, "Hmm, I wondered why she hated him so much, care to enlighten me upon the reason?" 

Dee's brother, whose name was still unknown to Petra, quirked his mouth and rubbed his forehead. "It's a wonder she hadn't told you... considering you were going to kill him for her." 

Petra shrugged. "I hadn't pried, though I did ask. That answer I was given was 'reasons.'" 

He nodded slowly. "That's fair. It can be a sensitive issue for her." 

"But now that it's brought up, care to share?" 

He sighed, his gaze drifting downward. "I guess that it isn't exactly a secret. You already know our mother was Neko..." 

"And an escapee from my tribe," Petra added. 

"Escapee," he repeated. "makes her sound like a criminal." 

"Tyrants do that to the innocent," the Assassin retorted. 

"Indeed. She was living in the city in secret with our father, and despite what my sister thinks, the two were in love. Madly, one could say. But due to the laws our current king imposed in regards to the Ra'zorlichs, he had to create false papers for her for registration. It worked for several years, but... a few months after I turned seven, one young brat named Cael Fretheim somehow laid his eyes upon her. He had a following of maids back then, who all waited on him hand and foot, and when he saw our mother... He decided he wanted her to be a 'maid' as well." 

"He kidnapped her," Petra surmised, getting a nod in response. 

"The Fretheim family is a line of nobles, with a lot of connections. When Mother never came home that night, Father went out looking. But with her history, and their relationship a secret, he couldn't openly hunt her." Dee's brother bit his lip while taking a deep breath to steady himself. "Two weeks later, Father got a request from the elder Fretheim to register an apparent assassin for slavery after she tried to kill him in the night." 

Her claws poking out against the steel encasements around her hands, Petra growled, "Your mother." 

Staring coldly at the table, the Captain muttered, "She was tortured, bound, and broken. Father said she was still alive, her body mostly untouched, but if he looked in her eyes... all he saw was just..." 

"Nothing. A corpse that still drew breath." 

"She may as well have been. Father knew of a brand she had on her shoulder... of the Ra'zorlich symbol and after he 'found' it, he acted under the authority of the king's decree, at the protest of a young Fretheim, to put her out of her misery..." 

Petra's eye twitched as he pursed his lips and let out his lungs. 

"There was no way to free her without risking his life and yours and Dee's lives," she said in a low voice. "He ended her suffering, done by Fretheim after he stole her from you." 

Once again, he nodded. "I knew that, but Dee was only three. She had cried for weeks before she stopped. Then Fretheim started acting on the grudge he held for the killing of his potential slave. His men began poking around our home, watching it from the street, working to get father removed from his position as guard captain. Eventually Father got scared of us getting connected to our mother. Since she was executed for being a Ra'zorlich, we would've suffered a fate no different. Child half-bloods or not, we were just more Red Talons in the eyes of the King." 

A dark scowl drew down over the Assassin's eyes. "This city is disgusting." 

"Don't I know it," he agreed with a grumble. 

"Doesn't explain why Dee hates your father, however, or why she takes a cock or three a night to get by." 

His face soured at that comment, his lips pursed as he stared angrily at the table in front of him. "Lies were told to keep her from seeking father out, and she's in her position by her own accord. Believe me when I say that was something I tried to change." 

It was Petra's turn to scowl again, though she left the questions on her mind unasked. 

"I have a feeling you do not plan to keep me shackled forever," she surmised instead. "We both want Fretheim dead." 

He shook his head and looked to her. "There is a plan already, and I'll get you out when the time is right. But for now I have to put you in the stocks below. It won't be long, I assure you." 

Grumbling mentally at the thought of some cold, stone-floored cell, the Neko gritted her teeth and nodded. 

"I understand, Captain..." she hummed off the last syllable, eyeing him questioningly until his eyes widened in realization. 

"I never did a proper introduction, did I?" 

She shook her head and he stood up and bowed at the waist, sweeping his right arm under him and bringing his fist to his heart. "Fourth Knight-Captain Devon Sactau, at your service. If you would follow me, I'll show you to your temporary placement. I hope you don't mind the company." 

... 

Three floors below the interrogation rooms, standing before the steel bars of a prison cell, Petra idly stood as the escorting guards removed the casements from her hands. The men had to fumble with at least two keys trying to find the correct one for the cell door before they dealt with the lock that spent a few too many years without getting properly greased. 

In all honesty, she could have easily killed them both even if her hands had still been bound. She may even have been able to escape. But Devon had requested her to accept this "terrible inconvenience" until the next night, a time that obviously held some significance as he had an anxious scent to him when he spoke of it. And the only explanation Petra got was that if he didn't release her by the morning following, she was on her own. 

A comforting thought, she commented mentally as the lock gave a solid clank. 

"Got it," a guard murmured as he pulled the iron-bar door open. 

Moving with the arm pushing on her back, the Neko stepped into her new "quarters" and stared into the shadows cast from the single torch outside her cell. 

"Get comfy, could be up to a week before we get around to lobbing off your head." 

With narrowed eyes she glared over her shoulder at the guard who'd made the comment as he and his partner closed the cell and turned for the exit door out of the larger room on the outside of the bars. After the solid thud and clack of the lock to her only way out closing and locking, she listened as the guards turned right in the hallway outside toward the stairwell, and recounted their paces by habit. 




Going Feet First Ch. 06



From her expectations of how the "civilized lands" were supposed to be, this level of the prison, which consisted of a main hallway with fifteen doors on either side and one barred door on the end, was a let-down. Her room, which she suspected to be like all the others, had two rusting and unkempt cells on opposite sides of each other with a decrepit table in between and a torch on the wall beside the door. Too few guards, too little intimidation factors, and poor handling of prisoners. She could have killed the guards that were supposed to escort her many times over from all the little slip ups they had made hauling her down here. 

Pathetic. 

"'Lobbing' off your head? Just what the Hell did you do to earn that? Kick his ass at fucking soccer or did you fuck up his face so bad that he can't say 'lop?'" a gruff voice asked in an almost amused tone 

The Assassin clenched her fists and readied her claws as she looked back to the shadowed corner of the cell. She could make out the silhouette of a person, human by the scent, male by the voice, sitting in the corner with his head resting against the wall as if to sleep. No details could be made out until her eyes adjusted, but something had already struck her as odd. 

She had her claws emerging from her fingers and she braced her legs to pounce. 

"Neither," she replied, still trying to make sense of his apparent joke, "my crime was being born Ra'zorlich." 

"Wha-" the man wondered as his head suddenly pulled away from the wall. "A woman...? Wait, what the fuck kinda creature are you?" 

Petra frowned as he fumbled around and brought himself up onto his feet. The way his body shifted, how his silhouette moved in the torch light, he was not like other humans around her. There was mass to his muscles, but precision to his movements. This put her on the defensive instantly. Powerful or not, one false step and she'll be using his corpse as a pillow. 

"Well? It looks like we're stuck in this shithole together, may as well get familiar. I want to start with what the Hell you are." 

"I'm a Neko. Haven't seen my kind before?" 

He shook his head, and leaned back against the wall, wincing as his right shoulder made contact with the stone. "No. Lions, tigers, cats, yes. But no felines prowling on two feet where I come from." 

Her claws slowly retracting, Petra moved to the wall to her left and took a seat on the floor against it. "And where do you come from?" 

"Iowa," he answered. "The Hawkeye State of America, as if anyone here would know where that is... Where you come from, Kitten?" 

America? Petra wondered, thinking back to Galen's words the day they met the Drow. 

I'm an American demon, he had said. 

Americans hail from America? 

"Atzla forest, east of this city," she answered. "What crime brought you down here?" 

She heard the distinct huff of a stifled chuckle. "Smashing a grunt's nose, knocking out a voodoo fucker that cast a hurt spell on me, brawling with more guards when they brought me down here... knocking out at least two of them..." 

It was Petra's turn to chuckle. "A fighter. I like you already. What is your name?" 

"Staff Sergeant Flaxen, but call me Flak." 

"Petra Dihyor. First Claw of the Ra'zorlich Shadow Stalkers." 

"First Claw? Sounds important." 

"As does Staff Sergeant. Is it a higher rank than 'Private?'" 

Flak's posture stiffened up; he pushed off the wall and squared up his shoulders as he fully faced the Neko. She couldn't make out his face in the dark, but she could guess there was a frown on it or at least a look of confusion. 

"Where do you know that rank from?" 

A grin curled up on Petra's lips. 

"You are not the first American to come to Atzla. You are one of the few still alive, but not the first. The one I know bears the rank of Private, and I was curious if that rank was of any significance." 

His chin lifted, he possibly smiled. "Private is more than a few ranks below me, it's just one step up from recruit. The Private you know got a name?" 

"Galen." 

His mouth opened, then closed, then he nodded with what sounded to be a relieved sigh. "Galen Martin, I know the name." 

It was Petra's turn to be surprised. "You do?" 

He nodded. "He was on the roster for the plane that went MIA. A plane I was supposed to find before I wound up here. You know where he is or how to find him?" 

At that point Petra shrugged, locking eyes with her potential ally. "I have an idea." 

............... 

Twilight fell before the night and surrendered the last of its day's-end glow to the encroaching tide of stars. The cool breeze, the fresh air, the cricket singing someplace on the cliffs above, it was all a welcome change of atmosphere for the young Private sitting in the driver's seat of a prison box-wagon. His darkvision was active as they kept drifting up toward the infinite expanse of starry sky above. An unconscious smile pulled on the corners of his mouth as he admired what he saw. 

Even if he was in the Sundered Trench with Redding not too far down the road, he was on the surface again. He was out from the stone-entombed world below in the fresh air and open sky. And once he fulfilled his promise to the Sun-Kissed, he would be free. Free to find Celia. Free to restart his journey in finding some way back home. Free to hunt Pretayus and Fretheim down and put them both in the ground. With that last thought, his fingers tensed and his body grew slightly more aware of the pistol on his hip. 

The two horses pulling his wagon, acquired from slain knights of Redding's forces, followed the road of the bottom of the Trench without any input from their driver. With only a small lantern just bright enough to light the road ahead to guide them, their familiarity did well to ease the tense edge on the Private's nerves that he hid within. They made it appear as though this were a normal route for him, like he belonged here. Attention avoided meant he could get his prison wagon to his destination without interference. 

He hoped nobody in the city could sense the level of magic wielded by two Commandants riding in the back. 

If there are two Commandants brought in, the eagerness of their King would have us all brought to him straight off, Jrastra had reasoned back at the planning table. 

And we could both keep track of the situation from the tip of the spear, Dreek had agreed. 

Here's to hoping to God and Necela that this plan works, Galen thought as his cart was pulled onward to another turn in the jagged, zig-zag pattern of this split in planet the humans here called home. 

"Relax," Jrastra ordered from the back, her Empathy drawing a sense of relief over the Private like a warm blanket. 

His eyes moved towards the back of the wagon for a moment, then returned to the front as he cycled his lungs, breathing out slowly as he rolled his fingers over the reins of his horses. A new city ahead, matching the description of something he would find in a history textbook if he looked up the days following the medieval age. Knights on horseback, foot soldiers wearing chainmail and carrying swords or longbows. Streets paved with stone and long rows of densely packed buildings filled with his "kind." 

Back among humanity again... he thought, leaning back into his seat and adjusting the helmet on his head. Here comes the next step in this great adventure. The next step to get her back. 

The horses followed the road straight again and Galen kept scanning the area ahead to the furthest distance he could see. After a few minutes, the glow of life appeared as the edge of his dark-sight. Then came the stone base of a building, then a massive door at least twenty feet wide and forty high in the side of it. His horses drew him closer, and more of the building came into view until he realized where he was. 

"Redding. The main gate," he said aloud, staring up at the wall taller than the reach of his altered dark-vision. 

He looked back to the group of well-armored men stepping forward from their posts in front of the gate. Four moved to his right, three to his left, while three more approached him directly with lanterns in hand. Breathing slowly and calmly, he pulled back on the reins of his horses to slow them to a near snail's pace. 

"Show time," he muttered breathlessly. 

The wagon shifted then, a slight rock that was almost too subtle to notice if one of the wheels didn't start creaking while one of the horses grunted as though taking on a new burden. Galen's eyes narrowed as he reached out with his senses. A third hum of life rode along just below him, clinging to the bottom of his wagon. 

"We got a guest..." he cursed in a harsh whisper as the gap between him and the Redding guards closed. 

"I feel him," Jrastra hissed back. "Redding rats are too close. I'll keep their focus off of him, but he dies inside the wall." 

Fuck! If he gets caught we are screwed! the Private cursed mentally. 

As his wagon rolled up on the trio of knights that came forward to meet him, Galen pulled on the reins and gave a firm "Whoa" to bring them to a stop. His darkvision gave way to his natural eyes in the lantern light and the red and yellow bars painted down the center of their chest pieces came into view. Gritting his teeth, Galen adjusted himself in his seat and looked out into the darkness on his left and right toward the life signs that he felt. 

"Kind of late to be approaching the city gates, stranger," announced one guard as he walked up alongside Galen's horses, eyeing the beasts up and down. 

"Not for what I carry," Galen replied, his voice low and growling. 

He knew no man in this place saw any Wild West film and doubted any would catch him emulating the mean cowboy act. He hunched his shoulders with the best look of "pissed-off" he could manage. A corner of his mouth drew up in a snarl while he pushed out a lower lip to emulate it holding a wad of chewing tobacco; his brow wrinkling as though smeared with a permanent frown. He glared at the guardsman and inwardly smiled when the men hesitated in his step toward him. 

"Oh yeah?" he swallowed. "What kind of load do you carry that warrants coming up on the city in the early eve?" 

Shifting in his seat, Galen leaned back and glared at the archers positioned on balconies above the gate. "I heard about a rich bounty on some Drow, the ones that wear yellow armor. I came to collect on it." 

"You don't have Sun-kissed in the back of your wagon," the guard stated, immediately moving that way. 

"Get too close and the spell won't protect you," Galen warned, glancing at the bewildered looks of the other two men in front of his horses. 

The crunching of gravel underfoot continued and the Private tipped his head down and shook it slowly. Through his senses he knew the man was coming to the door at the back of the wagon, that the two groups which had circled around his flanks were now positioned to the left and right of his transport. And whoever was holding on to the bottom of his cart was holding their breath. 

When that knight stepped up to the small window in the iron-backed door of the cart to look inside, the last words he spoke were, "Galaeus' holy wrath he does." 

His screams shattered the peace of the night. He hit the ground flailing while the others went into panic, but Galen relaxed in his seat. He shut his eyes and breathed as he waited until those screams turned to gurgles, then to silence. In moments the life that he could feel at the back of the cart finally went dark. 

There were whispers all around and in response the Private audibly sighed. 

"I warned him," he declared. "I want inside the city, and I want my bounty. I got two Commandants in back and unless you want me to 'accidently' drop the keys to their shackles into the wagon there, I want my money." 

Boots shifted as the knights surrounding the cart took steps in retreat. Another guard approached Galen, giving the wagon a wide berth as he moved to the Private's side. 

"You said two Commandants?" he asked, and Galen nodded. 

"What I heard when my men and I killed off their squads." Galen shrugged. "Word is they were more valuable, so if one wasn't nice enough, I got two. Now where do I get paid?" 

The guard's jaw sagged as he struggled to get himself together. Turning toward the city gate he nodded, his feet barely able to keep him upright as he stumbled along. One of the other men had to approach him and take his arm over his shoulder in order to keep him from falling flat or fainting outright. 

At the gate the guard being carried gave the steel portal two quick raps and, following a short pause, a final heavy smack. Chains rattled, gears started clicking, and with surprisingly few squeaks, the double-door entrance into the city swung open. Every guard then moved aside to allow Galen though, enabling him to breathe easy before he clicked his mouth to get his two horses moving forward. 

First objective accomplished, he thought, riding past the mighty gate into the heart of the wall. 

Two men in plate armor immediately approached Galen's wagon, but were intercepted by the light-headed guard that had ordered the gate open. Whispers were passed between the three, and following a look of shock and awe, the two knights hesitantly nodded and approached Galen while the gate guard headed back to his post. 

"We're to escort you to the castle," one of the men stated. "With what you got back there, the King is going to want to see to this personally." 

"He better give me the damn reward himself, too," Galen growled. "Let's go. Mind your spacing with the cart." 

He snapped the reins to his horses and the two animals started moving forward. His escorts took immediate positions on his flanks, though still holding a distance between themselves and the wagon as ordered. Their distance, along with their reluctance to even glance in the direction of the wagon, was yet another calming factor for the Private as they moved forward onto what he guessed to be Redding's main street. 

Either side of the road was lined with locked up shops and closed down stalls. On the rooftops one could spot the silhouettes of several bowmen standing at the ready with their weapons out, though with their arrows still sitting in the quiver. Cavalry patrols could be heard roaming the adjacent streets, and there were stationary guard posts evenly spaced out across the city blocks. So many eyes were watching, and there was still that somebody riding along the belly of Galen's wagon. 

A lot of people are going to die if he gets caught... the soldier griped to himself. Where is Dreek's contact? 

He had to meet up with the Commandant's surface friends eventually. If he kept to the path he was made to memorize from the map, he would encounter them at some point. Hopefully... 

The entourage continued along the lamp-lit street for a good five or six minutes before it came to what Galen figured to be a main square. A trio of knights on horseback held position in the middle of the area, their lanterns casting a flicking light on the bronze statue standing atop the three-tiered, marble fountain behind them. As soon as the noise of the Private's cart caught their ears, they had eyes on him and their voices dropped to low whispers. Adding to the armed presence were the pairs of guards stationed every thirty feet around the edge of the square in between the merchant stalls and shops. 

That's a lot of troops. 

As he pulled the reins to one side to guide his prison wagon to the left around the fountain, the three men on horseback stiffened up and adjusted their seating. The middle knight of the trio, a man in full plate armor glittering with silver trim trotted forward. Scowling Galen shifted in his place and glanced to his rifle across the floor boards of the driver's seat. 

One in the chamber atop a mag full of rock and roll. This goes south, we'll be fine. 

One of the horsemen moved his mount in Galen's way while the other took up a position on his left. That knight with the silver trim then casually traipsed his horse up along on Galen's right. Both of the men escorting the cart noticeably relaxed in the presence of the riders, giving not-so-subtle nods of comradery to them as they drew close. Grumbling, the Private stopped his wagon and waited as the leader rode up alongside him, inspecting his cargo and approaching the front of the wagon. 

"A little late for a prisoner delivery," he commented, stopping his horse beside the driver's seat. 

The Private eyed the man in the full steel helm sitting less than three feet away, doing his best to mask his nervousness with feigned fatigue and attitude problems as he snarked, "Not with my prisoners. Mine don't wait." 

"He's a bounty hunter, Captain," chirped one of the escorts. "He has a pair of Sun-kissed Commandant's locked up in the back. We're to take him right to the castle." 

"Sun-kissed?" the Captain echoed, his head turning to the back of the wagon. "As in Drow? The ash-skinned Elves with the pointy-tipped ears?" 

Both Galen's eyes narrowed. "Commandants. With the pointiest ears of any." 

He could almost feel the weight of the Captain's gaze as it fell on him once more. "And you came to cash them in for some shiny coin?" 

"From the king himself, I hope. Considering the amount on the bounty and how much I lost catching these two." 

"Fair enough," the Captain replied before he looked to the two escorts. "Both of you return to your posts. I'll personally lead our guest and the captives to the castle." 

A look of surprise came over the two men, though Galen kept quiet. 

"Sir?" they questioned. 

"Go," the Officer ordered more firmly. 

"Yessir," came the unified reply. 

The two men turned, and though one of them chanced a quick look back, started back toward the direction they had come. Both the horsemen then moved away from the wagon into defensive positions to his left and rear while the Captain motioned his head forward. The Private gave an affirmative nod and snapped his reins to motivate the two horses in front of him to start moving. 

Under the moonless sky with only the streetlights to guide them, the four rode out of the square and back into the streets. A few minutes had passed in the silence, with only the clops of hooves against stone and the squeak of the wagon wheels to fill the void. Jrastra's influence had to press in on Galen's nerves to calm them as the Captain refused to say a word. 

Long after they had seen any sign of the heavy presence of the city guards, the Private took a deep breath and finally asked, "We have friends among us?" 

Right then there was a crash of steel against stone, and he snapped his head right to see one of the Captain's riders had fallen from his saddle. The knight was writhing on the ground and clawing at his helmet in desperation though he made no alarming noise. There was a squeal, his legs kicked, but with one last gurgle, he went limp. 

"Now we're all friends here," the Captain announced, bringing a jumpy Galen's attention back to him. 

"It's been a while, Captain Devon," Dreek announced from the cart. "You ,too, Aius." 

"My lady," replied the knight riding behind the wagon. 

Galen blinked, his eyes wide. He glanced at the back of his wagon, then at the Officer on his right. The steel helm looked back at him, an unseen gaze meeting his and bringing an odd sense of ease to him. Then the man nodded. 

"You must be Dreek's newest agent. Pleased to meet you." 

"Likewise," Galen replied, reaching for his rifle lying across the floorboards behind his feet. 

The Private brought the rifle up and clicked the safety to the off position. His voice low, he leaned in toward the knight captain, who took the cue and leaned in as well. 




Going Feet First



Taking his first step brought about an unexpected force that yanked Galen back and dropped him back to the ground, the flap of his parachute pack coming open.

The static line, he cursed.

He pulled off the pack and unhooked the wire from his parachute, removing the whole canvas bag from his pack and shoving it aside. He did decide to keep his reserve chute, just in case. Survival training told him that in the event of emergencies, a parachute doubled as a tent canvas. That and a reserve was a Hell of a lot easier to hoof through a jungle than a full-sized parachute.

When he threw his pack on again, the first sight that greeted him to the jungle was the corpse of another paratrooper ten feet from the plane. The sight of that body finally shut Galen down. He tried to move, to look away, but his eyes remained locked on that body, unable to pull away from the sight.

"Yeah, so am I. Just keep your head down and your rifle ready. We'll be back at base before you know it."

The words hung in Galen's mind, fresh from not even half an hour before. They had come from the mouth of the very trooper that now lay at his feet, his gut impaled by a long strip of aluminum. Galen dropped his pack again and walked over to the man's side. A terrible tremble took over his hand as he knelt down, pressing two fingers to the neck of his comrade and prayed for a pulse. However, all that he could feel in that touch was stillness. No breath, no pulse, no life.

I'm the only one left, he thought. The only survivor.

The realization sent a dark chill down Galen's spine as he turned back toward the crash. The wrecked plane was torn to shreds; entire sections of the body had torn away or peeled back like a banana. What hit him even harder was the reality of his entire situation, the harsh truth that plunged into his stomach like a drop of cold steel.

He was alone, in hostile territory, probably being hunted at this very moment. In minutes, Charlies could swarm in around him, and then his next stop would be either getting himself shot to bits by AK-47s, or a one-way ticket to the luxurious Hanoi Hilton, an option that Galen would much rather shoot himself than accept.

What he really needed at the moment was to regroup with the rest of the Company. Galen looked back at the long scar of mutilated trees slicing through the sea of green foliage down the hillside. Somewhere in that direction would be the city they were jumping into to help push back the North Vietnamese. There, the rest of his Company would be fighting waves of Viet Cong while waiting for air and tank support.

Where are the aircraft? he wondered, staring at the vast, empty, blue sky.

If his plane had crashed, shouldn't a couple of 'Huey' helicopters come roaring over the hilltop? A squad of marines roping in to check for survivors and extract the wounded? Where were the Soviet jets that were supposedly patrolling the area?

Galen scratched the back of his head underneath his helmet and looked down to the body lying beside him. Corporal Isle's eyes still stared into the horizon as it were his last beacon of hope of surviving this Hell. Galen knelt down beside his comrade and rolled him over onto his back. Swallowing hard, he ran a hand over his face and shut his eye lids before removing his dog tags.

It took several sickening tugs, but Galen pulled the aluminum spike from the corporal's gut and retrieved the dead man's chute from his pack. If he was going to do the man one honor, it was going to be a proper burial before any enemy troops came through and defiled his corpse. Besides, if the MiGs weren't buzzing around, it probably meant the NVA were too busy with trying to hold back the tide of US troops in the city to bother with one downed plane.

After carefully wrapping Isles' body up in the parachute, the Private pulled out his entrenchment tool and began to dig. The soil was soft and the shovel easily sunk into the earth because so much of it had been disturbed by the aircraft when it crashed. It made Galen's self-appointed task easier and kept his mind off the situation around him.

He plunged the shovel deep into the soil and began pulling large scoops out at a time, and in the time it took for the sun to cross the sky, he managed to dig eight holes.

..............................................................

Curious, leaf-green eyes of a shadowed creature sat in a tree above the wrecked metal monster. The entire time that the human in the odd clothes had spent digging into the earth, the eyes never once pulled their gaze away from him. They continued to watch as he climbed back up into the belly of the beast, pulling six and two half-bodies out from inside and removing necklaces from their necks. After removing several other items from the dead, he wrapped them in wide, green sheets pulled from their packs.

The human placed the bodies in the holes he had dug and continued to say a few words, giving them their "last rites" as their priests called it. When the bodies were cast to the ground, he lashed together several crosses from the skin of the metal beast and marked the graves. What the watching creature found unique was how the human proceeded to hang the necklaces off of the crosses and say a few more words.

But why are the crosses fashioned from the metal skin beast? the creature wondered. Is he honoring their deaths with the skin of a slain foe? Very curious.

The beast itself held no lack of interest for the watcher, either. It was no dragon, for those legendary beasts did not have square scales or glass faces. Their wings did not fall off when they crashed and they certainly did not have hollow bellies that one could pass in and out of like some cave. This beast, if it was even a beast at all, was foreign to this land. Alien to this world. By whatever means the human and his comrades had slain it, must have proven more effective than he could've known if he had lost his friends in its demise.

When the human climbed back into the metal beast, the watching creature began to move. It scaled down its tree and prowled along the forest floor, crawling across the open clearing and over to the crosses the human fashioned.

The creature mumbled to itself as it inspected the curious designs. It checked the intriguing knots that tied the pieces together and investigated if what exactly the beast was made. The metal was not one with which the creature was familiar with; it had the appearance of silver, only with more strength and less shine. How heavy it was, it could not tell without pulling the cross and alerting the human to its presence.

The necklaces pulled from the bodies seemed to be made of the same metal, however, and they proved feather-light, far lighter than a bit of steel or iron of the same size. Adding even more to the already overflowing mystery of this human, there were a series of characters stamped into the surface of the necklace disks that the creature had never seen before.

Wherever this human had come from, it must have been pretty far to have a written scripture that even this creature did not recognize. Its ears perked up at something rattled within the belly of the giant metal beast, and in a second, it darted off from the graves back to the shadows of the trees, slipping back into the forest without so much as ruffling the grass. In a split second, it scaled a tree and took its perch on a branch.

When the human came back out from the beast, he began collecting the items pulled from the bodies and taking them back into the beast.

...........................................................................

Galen gathered what supplies he could and stuffed them into a couple M60 and M14 transport crates that had been brought aboard the aircraft. Weapons, ammo, food, water, equipment, medical supplies, anything he could find was gathered up. Galen even broke open the weapons locker and added what he found to his growing stash of supplies.

After he sorted through the weapons that hadn't been destroyed in the crash, he was left with one M60 machine gun, two M14 rifles, one of which was scoped, six colt M1911 pistols, several broken M16 rifles, and one Ithaca 37 shotgun. Enough parts were left over from the mangled weapons that he could maintain what he had and assemble an extra rifle or two, but even in this state, Galen still had enough weapons for a squad and more than enough ammo for an entire platoon. He could easily hold out until evac arrived but he wouldn't be waiting for the choppers to come. Not when his Company needed him.

Galen stocked up on whatever ammo he could for his battle rifle and sidearm and he packed a couple extra canteens of water before shutting the rest of the supplies in the crates. He took the time to set up a claymore next to the stash, hiding it underneath several bits of metal and hooking its trip wire up to each lid of the crates.

Unless they could read English, there would be nothing left of anyone attempting to raid the stash after the claymore was done. He had carved the words "Protected by claymore" into the front of the crates just in case the choppers did come.

Loaded with his gear, Galen hopped out of the ruins of the C-130 and began marching along the scar toward the top of the hill. The crest wasn't far; two or three hundred yards at the most. Any wild life that may have been nearby would've been scared off by the crashing plane, which made his only enemy the sun.

The flaming orb in the sky was beginning to turn red as it neared the earth. Galen thought for a moment as he counted how many finger widths high it was above the horizon, and he guessed that there were roughly two hours of daylight left before the night would consume the land.

The last place Galen wanted to be was near a wrecked aircraft while the NVA would be poking around for any survivors. If he was lucky, he might run into someone else from the Company. Or if he got to the top of the hill and managed to find himself a good vantage point, he could perhaps find out exactly where the Hell he was.

................................................................

The creature leaped down from its tree after the human left, landing on all fours as it hit the ground, yet it came to stand up on two legs. It stepped out from the shadows and into the light, giving a feline purr as the setting sun cast its warm glow down upon her.

A pair of black leather shorts hugged over her ample hips, barely coming over her cheeks on her well-toned thighs. Over the back of her shorts descended a long tail that flicked casually between her legs. The soft, thin coat of fur that covered her body was a light brown, with a series of dark brown stripes running across her arms. Her head sported a long, elegant flow of a dark, reddish brown hair that reached halfway down her back. Some coils of hair came down over her chest to partially cover the wide cloth strips of fabric that crossed over each other between her well-rounded breasts before sweeping up over her shoulders.

Her hands, while somewhat human in nature, sported thin silts in her fingers for her full set of retractable claws; her feet, however, purely matched the physiology of a cat. Atop her head stood two feline ears that twitched and turned, moving with the sound of nature around her. Her eyes, her leaf-green eyes, remained fixed upon the human walking away from the metal beast it had slain without so much as a trophy to claim.

Curious, she mouthed the words, very curious.

With a bit of a smile across her face, she tapped a finger on her chin while silently thinking to herself, contemplating how she would interact with this human. How should she approach him?

All in due time, she thought as she turned to the metal monster that had fallen from the sky. Now was her chance to take a closer look now that he was gone.

Leaping gracefully up through the entry way, she scanned the cabin around her. At once, she was taken back and fascinated with its internals. She saw now that this monster was not only armored on the outside, but on its inside as well. Many thick, black veins ran along its skin, some of which were leaking oily, thick, purple blood over the walls.

In the head of the beast, a hole had sundered half of its glass eyes from their sockets and sprayed the beast's blood over the ground. However, what the feline woman found curious was the boards of metal within the beast's head that were painted with the characters of this human's language. This ultimately brought her back to the question, Is this truly a beast at all?

She turned for the exit, leaping down onto the grass and diving into a low crawl. Her ears twitched constantly as her heart rate began to pick up; dusk was fast approaching and this human was headed toward dangerous territory. Moving silent as the dead wind, she crawled across the clearing away from the beast and into the trees.

Never once did she try to move ahead of the human or attempt to move in closer to him as he trampled noisily through the scar. She made sure he stayed a fair distance ahead, and that she stayed hidden within the shadow's embrace. Unlike this human, who walked carefree in the center of the destruction wrought by the beast's descent from the sky, any creature with any sense of self-preservation would keep to where the forest was still whole, would use the bush as cover and the shadows to hide from hungry eyes.

Then again, this human was different from the others. This one reeked of fear, yet oozed with strength. He carried himself like a warrior, though he had no blade; he kept himself in the open, as if he were taunting a predator to strike. Everything she discovered about this young man intrigued her so much.

..............................................................

Galen marched down the center of the scar, his eyes constantly scanning the area around him. Every few seconds, he found himself toying with the safety of his rifle, flipping the weapon from full auto to semi and back again but not once setting it to safe. If anybody decided to open fire on him, he wanted to make damn sure that he didn't go down without a fight.

Even with this resolve, a shaky hand came off the front of his rifle to itch his nose, instantly snapping back to its place as something rustled in a bush to his right. The Private nearly jumped clean from his skin as he brought his rifle to bear, watching as a pair of birds hopped from the bush and took flight.

Galen uneasily wiped the sweat from his forehead and chuckled silently to himself as he stared up toward the sky and mutilated remains of the tree tops. Even though the C130 had done a good job at trimming them, most of the trees around him still stood a good ten or fifteen feet tall. Had their tops not been ripped off, they may have been closer to twenty or thirty.

Regardless, the height of these trees didn't concern him so long as their trunks could still provide cover. It gave him a sense of comfort if anyone started shooting because with every step he took, Galen felt like hitting the dirt. His gut told him that something was watching him, something more than a bug or a jungle rat. What he didn't know was if he was being drawn in on the sights of an AK-47, or simply being eyed by a local. Either way, something or someone was keeping tabs on him, and he didn't like it one bit.

In a very nonchalant manner, Galen turned slowly on his heel and began walking backwards as he scanned the scenery behind him. There was no movement, no shifts in the bush, no birds rustling in branches, only the endless amounts of trees swaying together in a passing breeze.

More slowly this time, Galen turned back to face the proper direction, still scanning over the area as the incline of the hill began to get a lot steeper. Right up ahead was a familiar sight; it lay impaled into the ground, a broad piece of aluminum plating lying on top of several toppled trees.

Galen took a moment to inspect the severed wing of the C-130, and the couple dozen yards of trees it had flattened right down to the forest floor. A large hole had burned right through the wing where the lightning had hit, draining the wing of fuel long before it had hit the ground. The scorch marks that extended out from the lightning hole told Galen that the fuel had been burning as the plane went down. If that was the case then the plan was lucky to have made it so far instead of just simply blowing up mid-air.

Lucky me, Galen thought.

When he was done looking at what was left of the wing, he got out of that flat section of the forest and back to the scar. Too much open space with no cover around him could get him shot.

The Private kept pressing on up the hill, his breath growing weary as the incline made him do more climbing than walking. Galen ordered himself to keep going, no matter what. He needed to regroup with the Company, and there was still one more body he needed to find.

The end of the scar was fast approaching, which would mean the top of the hill. This put a hup-two in Galen's step as he picked up his pace as he climbed rapidly up the hill. At last he found himself on even ground, though still surrounded by trees twenty feet tall that obscured his view of anything beyond them. If he wanted to figure out where he was, he needed to climb one.

Swallowing hard, the soldier brought his head up and pushed the thoughts of the height out of his mind. He wouldn't be a good paratrooper if he was scared of some damned tree!

Galen began to wander around the hill top, searching for a decent place to climb. It had to be taller than the other trees, and it had to have branches all the way up or else he was going to have one short trip.

He didn't have to go far to find one. A pine tree.

At first, Galen rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. Why the Hell is there a pine tree in Vietnam?

The question only had a second to occupy Galen's mind before he shoved it out and refocused on his task.

At once, he dropped his pack against the tree and set his rifle down, leaving its safety on for once as he approached the soaring pine. All the way up its trunk were considerably large knots, withered limbs, and needled branches protruding every which way from its bark. This tree was the only one of its kind in the entire area, the others being simple deciduous trees that had claimed rest of the hill and much of the forest below.

The Private took one look up the evergreen before him then spat onto his palms, rubbing the saliva around and taking hold of the pine's bark. One branch at a time, he began his way up, one arm reaching forward, one leg pushing up.

"Not much farther... I'll be... Urrghh, back in US hands... dammit... by t'night."

The bandage wrapped around his left arm started to bleed through, pain working its way into the muscle once again. Hard, stabbing pains made his bicep throb, but Galen hung on for dear life.

Forcing himself past the pain in his arms, he fought for every inch toward the top. He grunted as he pulled himself up another few branches, bringing him in close to his goal. He managed to get his boots onto two separate little nubs before his objective was in sight. Just a few feet above hung a wide branch, possibly thick enough to support the young soldier's weight.

Snap!

"Whoa, shit!" he yelled as a branch snapped in his lead hand. He desperately clawed for the branches around him around him as his body tipped backwards, almost pulling him off the tree.

"Shit!" he swore as he dug his fingers into the sides of the trunk and reeled himself in.

He fought the queasy feeling surging up in his stomach, he leaned over to peer down at the ground he had come so close into meeting again. His breathing suddenly got very heavy; the rapid thumping in his chest sank down into his stomach.




Going Feet First



Beneath him was a good twenty five feet of daylight and a whole lot of little branches that would do nothing to slow any sort of rapid descent. Blood pounding through his ears, Galen reached up and grabbed onto the wide branch above with a death grip, breathing hard as he pulled himself up and onto the perch.

At first, the long branch bent downward, bits of dead bark cracking and breaking off. Galen's heart stopped as the branch began to creak. If it was going to drop him, now would be the time.

It ain't the fall that kills you; it's that sudden stop at the bottom.

Galen found himself giggling now at his father's wicked sense of humor. If he was going to die, it would at least be with a smile. At last, the precarious tree limb upon which he found himself resting held still.

The stagnate air pent up in his lungs escaped as he laughed away the tension in his mind. He took a moment to try and slow his heavy breathing and silence that pounding in his ears. He even glanced over the side to see how high he sat.

Another brush with death, he thought, pressing his back against the tree and settling his nerves. Either the devil doesn't want me, or God indeed loves me. Either way, I still gotta find the Company.

At that moment, he looked out to the direction from where he had flown in. He saw not a city in the distance, nor any aircraft buzzing about, nor the burst of flak around a flood of search lights. There were no signs of war or rattling off of AK-47s in the distance, only the vast expanse of an untouched forest.

Several clearings, both wide and small, were scattered all over with flocks of birds gliding over the tree tops. Trails of smoke steadily rose from several of of the clearings, but it didn't seem to be from the crash of any aircraft. The smoke was thin and steady, like a camp fire, not thick and plumy from burning oil.

That meant a cooking fire. And cooking meant people. And people meant the chance of communications.

Galen also made note of the river cutting its way through the land. A place he could possibly clean himself up if he needed.

The only thing that made him wonder, though, was not his situation. It was what lay beyond the forest. Miles upon miles away, there were rolling, treeless hills. Not treeless from bombing, but waving fields of grass. Whatever was beyond those grassy hills was blocked by the faint silhouettes of mountain tops.

Wherever Galen was, he was sure as Hell it wasn't Vietnam.

Galen peered over down the side of the tree, packing down the lump in his throat before carefully sweeping his feet over the edge of his perch. Climbing up was one issue, getting down was going to be an outright challenge.

Cycling several deep breaths, the Private carefully guided his boots down onto the same points he had used to climb up, every step cautiously placed to ensure he didn't take a tumble down to his death. It'd be a shame to survive a plane crash only to buy it falling off a tree.

Considering his earlier troubles coming up, his journey down was making good progress. Only ten feet separated him and the jagged roots jutting from the earth below and he was moving at a brisk pace.

"I can do this," he whispered, "I can-" -snap- "shit."

A lump of bark gave way under his boot, leaving Galen wailing as he hung eight feet from the safety of solid ground. He kicked wildly, beat at the side of the tree, anything to try and find a spot to dig in. His fingers began stinging as the sharp points of coniferous needles sank in.

"rrr-AHHHHH" he hollered as he released the tree.

Training kicked in just as his boots hit the forest floor, his legs collapsing with enough muscle power still pushing back to soften his landing. The only downside was this technique was meant to be done while moving forward. This sent his helmet smacking against the trunk of the tree with loud crack and a swirl of stars in his eyes.

"Oww," he groaned as he fell backward.

Next he felt a root jabbing right up into his ribs.

"Ahhhoowww, damn it!" he cursed, flipping over and away.

The only comfort to his current agony was the fact that he was on the ground. His right thigh hurt like Hell, it felt like some hit him on the head with a hammer, and he could swear that somebody sunk a knife in his back, but he was on the ground.

Groaning at the pain riveting his body, Galen managed to pull himself together enough to stand up. Battling the strain of muscle and the weariness of fatigue, he gathered up his pack and hoisted his rifle over his shoulder.

Wherever he was going was a mystery, the thought of where to go next drew blank in his head. All he knew was that there was a river a mile or so away. And a river meant fresh water and even a few fish. Maybe a town or village could be in some of the clearings he saw. Fire confirmed the presence of people, and if they had a radio, he could try and contact any US forces in the area...

If he was even in a place that had any US forces.

What if the plane carried him to a new country completely? What if even, he was-?

BANG!

An eruption of birds burst from the tree tops as the gun shot echoed through the forest.

One name passed through Galen's mind the instant he heard that rifle go off.

Michael.

....................................................................

The Neko woman clung to her tree as thunder shattered the calm over the forest. Hairs raised down her back as she frantically searched the skies for any sign of clouds or lightning. She didn't smell any rain, nor had any dark anvil head formations blown in from any direction. Where had the thunder come from?

Her nerves rattled through her body as she leaped to another tree, her claws sinking into its bark as she watched over this curious human who now sprinted through the forest, that great wooden club of his pressed close to his side with the metal tip pointing forward.

Whatever this club was, it seemed very special to him, and it didn't seem like he was interested in leaving it behind. Perhaps she could remove it from his possession while he slept, investigate it for herself or even bring it to her village elders. One of them was very familiar with some of the workings of human society; he may have a clue as what it may be.

Until then, she could only follow the human as he ran full tilt through the forest, bounding over roots and bushes, bolting past trees and scaring the game away. Twice, she had caught glimpses of deer fleeing the racket he made. Never once did the human even acknowledge them. It became obvious that a hunt was not on his mind as he ran to where the thunder had clapped.

"Sergeant!" he yelled as he passed by a tree painted with the image of a red claw.

The Neko woman froze as she saw the symbol. What was this human doing?! Did he not know where he was going?!

FOOL! She cursed in her mind; you're entering the territory of the Ra'zorlichs!

Of all the races across her world and the different tribes and 'nations' that had arisen within them, the Ra'zorlichs were among the few who didn't enjoy the Company of others. If any of them found this human, they would end him. Not quickly, neither. They were known to be beyond the definitions of the word 'cruel' with any who dared to trespass on their lands. This human would be begging for death by the time they were done, but not if she had something to do about it!

At once the woman began to leap through the trees, bounding from branch to branch with incredible agility. She needed to stop him before his life would be at the mercy of the rogue Neko tribe. Her feline abilities allowed her to surpass the human running along the ground as she went through the trees above him.

Suddenly the human slowed down, raising that club of his in a peculiar fashion. Right ahead, something unnatural was caught in the forest canopy. It was one of the wide sheets that the human had used to wrap his dead; it was caught in the highest clutches of a tree with some sort of backpack hanging down by long strands of string.

Below that pack laid the corpse of a Neko. A Ra'zorlich. She could tell by the red claw painted on the shoulder of his black plate armor. Blood stained his light gray fur, and his sword was still tucked in the sheath attached to the warrior's red steel leggings.

And there! A few feet from the body, lay yet another human. His clothes were identical to those of the first one, as was the strange club lying at his side. The only real difference between the two was that this human didn't wear armor on his head or carry a heavy pack. He was also wounded.

This human was torn in the thigh, the whole of his right leg bathed in thick crimson. There was a second, long gouge through his flesh, right below where the pant leg had been torn off below the hip. If this human did not bandage his wounds at once, he would likely die.

The first human broke through the bush with his club pointed at the other human. The end instantly went down as he recognized his friend.

"Sergeant!"

"Martin? Son of a bitch... you're late."

"Better late than..." the human froze as he saw his friend's leg. "We need to get ya to a medevac."

"It's just a scratch," Michael shrugged, staying extraordinarily calm at his predicament.

"That's more than a scratch, Michael! We need a medic... I saw a clearing a couple hundred yards away, there's some smoke comin' from there, so it could be a village."

Oh, you poor fool, the Neko woman thought.

"And if they have a radio, we could use that to get air support. Get us the Hell out of here."

What is a 'radio'?

Crackling in a bush a few yards off brought the woman's attention away from the humans. Five Ra'zorlich scouts emerged from the brush line a short distance away from the human; this time they had their blades in hand.

Ready to slay the beings that killed their pack mate.

..................................................................

Galen spun on his heel, bringing his M14 to bear on the five creatures that had just come out of the bush. Their teeth were flashing, sunlight shining off that heavy armor plating they wore. Swords were readied in their clawed hands.

Wait, claws? Fur? What the Hell?

The Private took a double-take on the creatures before him. Never in his life, nor in his job description, did he ever see anything about these... things. Fur covered their bodies from head to toe, distinctly feline ears protruded from the top of their heads, just as long feline tails hung behind their legs. These things were no human; they were closer to the description of oversized cats walking on two feet.

Red claws were painted on their shoulders, matching the image he had seen on the tree a couple dozen yards up the trail. Dark red loincloths hung off their hips, embroidered with that same claw, only it was stitched in black.

"A human!" one growled.

"We told you parasites that none shall pass our territory, human. And now you will pay with your life!"

Galen took a step back as moved the select fire switch of his rifle to full auto.

"I am Private Galen Martin of the 101st Airborne Division of the United states Army. I don' know who you are, but if you attack me, I ain't gonna hesitate to kill you."

The pack of beasts laughed aloud, "Ahahahaha, a human? Alone? With wounded? AHAHAHAHA HAAAHAAhhhh!!! Human, I will make your death swift for granting me such a hearty laugh."

"We'll see how that works out for you, kitty cat. I'm not warnin' ya again, back off or I'm gonna kill you!"

Sergeant Michael clutched onto the gash in his leg and chuckled, "Aim for the head. Their dead friend here didn't think I was serious, either, so I think we should teach these pussycats a lesson."

The leader of the cat beings crossed his arms and motioned his troops forward, "Bring me the wounded one's head. I desire his tongue for my son's chew toy."

In a dash of fur, four of the beasts leaped forward toward Galen, swords high in one hand and claws readied in the other. In a second Galen lifted his rifle up to the flying fur balls and squeezed the trigger, a burst of 7.62 mm rounds spitting from his rifle and punching clean through those breast plates of these cat creatures and dropping them from the air.

Their leader bounced back as his four men fell to the ground, one screaming in agony as blood surged through his armor. Without hesitation, Galen brought the barrel of his rifle up to the wounded cat's head and gave one last pull of the trigger.

The head exploded as the .308 caliber round hollowed out his brain pan. When Private Galen looked back to the leader, he had already turned to flee back to wherever he had come from.

"Don't let that bastard escape!" the Sergeant ordered.

With a nod and an adjustment to semi-auto, Galen shouldered his rifle and lined up the shot. The rifle gave a deafening crack as it fired. The cat creature pirouetted as his shoulder burst open from the high powered round.

When he hit the ground, Galen pulled a bayonet from his belt and fixed the six and a half inch blade to the end of his rifle, not willing to take any chances as he ran after his newfound foe.

...........................................................

The Neko woman watched in total awe as the human ran after the fallen Ra'zorlich officer.

This human, by himself, had slain four fighting men of a Ra'zorlich hunting pack. They were no mere tribesmen who trained for battle when they came of age. The Ra'zorlichs were violently reclusive, training themselves from birth to be ready to fight and die for their lands. They never left their home, and those who dared to come in rarely left alive.

The fact that the humans still drew breath -and drew it in victory- sent chills down her spine.

This momentary delay would not last long. More would come, and unless she and the humans wished to join those whose remains fertilized the Ra'zorlich victory garden, they had to leave. Her own tribe had peaceful terms with the human lands; they could bring them to safety, return them to wherever they had come from.

With the swift agility of her feline body, she leaped down from her tree, landing just a few feet short of the wounded Michael. In an instant, he pulled an axe from his belt, drawing his arm back to throw.

At first glance, his eyes went wide. His hand wavered a bit.

"I mean no harm, human. I have come to help," she stated in a low voice, searching around for any Ra'zorlichs that may have come toward the thunder.

"Stay back, woman!"

"I am not here to hurt you! I wish to bring you to safety! To help!"

Michael stared at her a moment, his weapon still drawn back to throw. While she made no hostile moves, he quickly glanced to the other five bodies around him, all of them the same race as her.

There was no reason for her not to attack, to try and take his life. Michael debated whether or not to throw his tomahawk and end her. He needed help, however, and something about this woman... something about her churned up his chest, softening his grip on the weapon in his hand.

Returning his tomahawk to his belt, the paratrooper grabbed onto the rifle beside him and made sure the safety was off. With his weapon serving as a brace, he managed to sit himself up to properly face her.

"What's your name?"

"Mila, a tracker of the Willher tribe. What is yours?"

"Michael. You know how to dress a wound, Mila?"

"I do, Michael. But I have not the herbs or wraps to help."

Michael set his rifle aside, pulling his field medical kit from his webbing and tossing it to her. When she caught the first-aid kit in her hands, he opened the holster on his hip and laid the pistol on his lap. Mila, however, didn't even acknowledge the firearm as she inspected the medical kit. Either she knew that he wouldn't kill her, or she didn't even know what he held in his hands.

Whatever her reason, this lack of knowledge bothered Michael. If she didn't know what a gun was, how many creatures or men would be killed going against a weapon they knew nothing about?

Mila stared at the package Michael had tossed to her, wondering what exactly it was until she felt something move inside. At once, she tore it open, barely catching the contents that spilled out. She wondered at the white packet and small white bulb with the pointed needle encased in glass. Half the items that were within this package were completely alien to her, but she knew what the white bandage was for.

Unwinding the wrap, she knelt down beside the soldier and tore away the remnants of the pant leg.

"Have you any water, Michael?" she asked.

"I do," he answered, pulling a canteen off his hip. He twisted the lid, opened it up, and took a swig before passing it off the Mila. She washed off the open gash that ran deep into his muscle, cleaning away what blood she could before more of it could fill the wound. At least it seemed that nothing important had been damaged.

"Dump that white powder packet in there, it helps," Michael ordered.

The Neko woman fumbled with the rattling packet. She tore it open and dumped the contents over the wound and started to wrap it up.

"What the kinda creatures are you?" Michael asked as he winced at the tightness with which she wrapped his leg.

"I am a Neko," Mila answered.

"Neko?"

"Yes. Cat people, as you humans simplify."

Michael thought for a moment as he analyzed her features. She wasn't much taller than him, heck, she may even be shorter, but from his sitting position, trying to guess her height proved to be quite difficult.

Her face was somewhat cat-like, with the carnivorous fangs that lined her mouth and a coat of fur covering her body. But, unlike a true feline, she had no whiskers, and her nose and lips were very much human. As her hands moved around his thigh, Michael could feel how incredibly soft was the layer of fur that covered her entire body. She had the fur of a young kitten, and yet that long, flowing grace of beautiful, reddish brown hair descending from her head was just like that of a human.

Michael was pulled from his moment of admiration as Mila tugged hard on the bandage to tighten up the knot.

"That will do. We must collect your friend and leave this area, quickly."

"Yeah... where is Galen?"

...................................................

The Ra'zorlich warrior lay back against a tree with Galen's bayonet prodding his throat. Thoughts of grabbing the weapon and plunging it into his neck crossed his mind; it would certainly end the suffering of his obliterated shoulder. Such a shame it was for him to fall to a single, pathetic human. What respect would his warriors hold for him if they knew their officer had been beaten by an inferior parasite such as this? Then again, his shoulder told a different tale, as did the rest of his pack.  

"Why'd you attack me?" Galen demanded.

"You are in our land, human. A hundred years, we told your kind that these woods are forbidden to you. A hundred years, we have slain the trespassers. Now, you dare ask me why I strike?"

"Listen, cat, I don't got any idea where the Hell I am, or who the Hell you are. I just came here for my friend, next thing I know, you an' your kind are pickin' a fight and tryin' to kill us. Now if you can just point me to the nearest radio, I'll be happy to get out of here, and never come back."

"What in Necela's name is a radio?" the warrior asked.

Galen's brow raised as a confused look came across his face. None of this seemed to be good news for the Private. For one, this creature wasn't human, which was not a good sign. Two, the cat creature didn't seem like he was lying, though it was difficult to read the alien body. And three, if he spoke his tongue but didn't know what a radio was, then Galen was definitely not in Vietnam. Wherever he was, it was not even his world.




Going Feet First



Slowly, Galen began to take steps back from the warrior but not even daring to pull his aim away from his skullcap.

"I'm gettin' out of here. If you or any other cats come after me, you'll be dead before your claws leave those pretty little hands."

"We are not cats, human. We are Neko. And if you return again, I shall see that you pay dearly for this day," the Ra'zorlich warrior swore.

This provoked an uncertain look from the soldier as he tapped his finger against the trigger of his rifle, debating whether or not to pull it. Scanning the forest that flanked him at every angle, he spotted the shadows shifting in the distance. The darkness of night had already begun to set in the sky, and without light, the beasts would surely get him. Right then, a twig snapped in the direction of the village, immediately followed by a pack of voices growling at each other to be quiet.

"My people come, human. Run or we will feast upon your bones."

Galen didn't waste another moment. He turned on his heel and sprinted full speed toward Michael. This was his only chance as the Nekos would be on him in minutes. Twigs and branches snapped underfoot as he ran, bushes were trampled and trees were dodged. As he bounded over a bush back into the clearing, the sight of another Neko made him bring his rifle up as he landed in a kneeling firing position.

"Private, stop!"

The Private swapped his target toward the voice, freezing as he found himself drawing a bead on Michael.

"Put that weapon down, soldier!"

His hand was off the trigger the second the order registered in his mind. What did not register, however, was the Neko that had the Sergeant hanging in a fireman's carry over its shoulders.

"What the Hell---?"

"Galen, this is Mila. She's here to help! Now get on your feet and let's go!"

There was no time to ask, Mila and Michael were already moving back up the hill, back to where Galen had come from. It was probably the fastest way out of the hostile territory, which meant that was his-

PING!

Galen was caught off guard as an arrow glanced off of the side of his helmet, the stone tip barely scratching the steel. Without missing a beat, the soldier turned and brought a Neko archer in blue armor into his sights. As the anthropomorphic feline was reloading his bow, Galen shouldered his rifle and fired. The Neko was thrown off its feet, legs kicking into the air as the Private took off in pursuit of his Sergeant and their new friend.

Hot on his trail was a pack of the Neko warriors, running with their claws out and a thirst for blood boiling in their eyes. If even one caught up to him, or got past his rifle, he was a dead man. He set the rifle to full-auto and spun around as a beast lunged forth. The muzzle blast lit the area around him as the four round burst tore through its body.

When the solid thud of the beast hitting the ground registered in his ears, he brought the next cat creature into his sights and pulled the trigger.

But all he heard was a click.

In that moment, Private Martin could feel his heart stop. The bolt of his battle rifle was locked open, showing the hollow interior of his empty magazine.

"Galen!" Michael yelled, "Come on!"

The world raced through the Private's mind in an instant. His rifle was empty, Michael was wounded. Once these creatures tore through him, the Sergeant and Mila would come next. These things needed to be stopped, or at least delayed so the others could get out.

Once again, his heart pounded in his ears as he shouted, "Go! I'll hold them back!"

As his words came from his mouth, the pack of beasts closed in on him. He could have turned and ran but they would pounce on his back. Retreat was not an option. The only thing standing between him and death was the six and half inch knife on the end of his rifle.

"Let go of me!" Michael yelled. "You fucking bitch, let go!"

Galen glanced over his shoulder, watching Michael fight Mila's grasp as she locked him down tighter over her shoulders. She had one hand locked around his wrists and the other gripping his uninjured leg to haul him out of the area. She left him completely helpless to only watch as the Private was encircled by the pack of Ra'zorlichs.

"You are brave to stand and face us, human," growled one of the Nekos, his golden blonde fur easily identifiable in these final minutes of daylight.

Natural dark black streaks ran down from below the officer's glowing, orange eyes right to the breast plate of his pitch black armor. There was no doubt in Galen's mind that this Neko was an officer, judging from the silver bands that wrapped around his shoulder plates.

"Few have ever stood to fight alone willingly against the might of the Ra'zorlich warriors."

A bead of sweat ran down Galen's leg, going past his knee into his quivering boots. "I... I'm not lettin' you bastards kill my friend."

"I smell your fear, human."

This made him swallow hard. He slowly began to fish into his ammo pouches to pull out a fresh magazine. Yet, even in the dark, the action did not go unnoticed by the Neko leader.

"Is your thunder stick finished? Human?"

"You wanna find out?" Galen threatened, leaving the magazine in its pouch as he aimed his empty weapon at the leader's head.

At once, the warriors growled and were about to step in, but their leader roared, growling orders in their own tongue. The officer glared at Galen for a moment, one side of his mouth coming up into a snarl.

"Tell me human, why have you invaded our land? Slain our men?"

"Listen, bud, I didn't know where the Hell I was until about ten minutes ago. I just came to get my friend and get us both outta here. I didn't want to fight anyone, I only defended myself. If I had come here for war, then we wouldn't be talking right now."

The leader began to chuckle, "If you are so confident that you can slay us all, release the power of your thunder stick, human. Take my life with your magic."

If there was any game beyond the capabilities of a young Private of the US Army, it was the bluffing game. He could go for his colt, but by the time he would clear the holster, their claws would be sunk into his flesh. There were, however, the four grenades hanging off his combat webbing.

"If I'm gonna die," he started, each one of the Nekos taking a defensive stance as he grabbed hold of one of his grenades. He slung his rifle over his back and ripped out the pin from the grenade, holding it high above his head. "Then I'll drag each one of ya to Hell with me."

The Neko leader took a step back, obviously cautious about the new weapon. If the human was ready to give his own life in the taking of theirs, then whatever he held was surely the weapon to do it. He was certainly not willing to sacrifice more lives of his fighters just for one cursed human.

"Step back!" he ordered in his own tongue. "Return to the village. We shall let this human leave our lands."

The men slowly backed away from the human with confused snarls and enraged glares. Their claws withdrew and swords returned to their sheaths as they backed off, turning back for their territory. At first, Galen wondered what was happening, but as the leader drew closer, he readied to release the lever on his grenade.

"You win today, human. But know this, if you return to our lands again, weapons or not, I will follow you to this, 'Hell' of yours and slay you a second time. Now be gone, lest I choose to join you in your journey into the Nether."

When the Neko leader backed off, Galen took his first deep breath and stared at the grenade in his hand, slowly attaching it back onto his combat webbing and reinserting the pin. Then he brought his rifle around and dropped the empty magazine to load in a fresh one, pulling the bolt and chambering a new round. Just in case.

When he was certain that the Nekos had retreated into the bush toward their village, Galen turned and ran off to catch up to Michael and Mila. Laughing silently to himself, he made the facetious note to clean out his underwear next chance he got.  

.....................................................................

The last glimpse of the sun sank below the hills in the west, its dying glow fading into the horizon to drown the world in a sea of darkness. Michael held his head low as he limped along the ground through the scar made by the crashed plane, his arm draped over Mila's shoulder. The war paint on his face was smeared with the flow of sweat.

"Your friend was a brave man," Mila commented.

Michael stayed silent. He was on his first tour of duty, just like half the men of C-Company. Though he had killed and seen men wounded, never had he seen one of his own die. This first loss in combat was chewing at his gut, and he hated it. He hated the Nekos that killed him. Every inch of him wanted to go back there and tear the head off of every cat creature he saw, to charge in and sink his tomahawk into the skull of that golden bastard with the fancy armor.

"I'll kill them. If I kill their whole tribe, it's what I'm gonna do."

"Do not charge into a fight that you cannot win, Michael. The Ra'zorlichs were only defending their home. They lost many of their warriors as well, and in the balance of the world, you both should have lost your lives this day."

Michael glared at this woman, trying to muster up whatever anger he could with her, but he couldn't even stir his rage. Every time anger boiled in his gut, something about her reduced it to a simmer. She was only trying to help, doing what she thought best.

But why? Michael thought. For what reason did she pull a stranger out of dangerous territory that may result in getting herself killed? There were a hundred reasons, and one solid way to find out.

"Come, let me bring you back to my village. Your wounds must be treated."

Right then, Michael pulled his arm off of her shoulder, shoving the Neko forward into the ground as he drew his sidearm. When she flipped over about to stand up, he flashed the gun before her face.

"Hold it right there."

Mila gazed in shock as Michael backed up a step, stumbling on his injured leg.

"What is this?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"I'm asking you the same damn thing," Michael barked. "You show up the second I split up with Galen, next thing I know, we're fleeing a hungry pack of your own kind that seems mighty keen on ending our lives. I have no idea who you are, what you are, or why the fuck you are playing nice. But if you plan on dragging me into some Charlie's booby trap or into some tribal cauldron to be cooked up into stew, let me know so I can save myself the trouble and kill you right now."

"I would never!"

"Then start talking!" Michael ordered. "Starting with why you showed up in the damn first place!"

Mila swallowed hard as his eyes burned brighter than the sun, his hand tightening up around his weapon. "I was tracking game in this part of the woods when a metal beast fell from the sky, cutting open the forest before it stopped in a clearing on the valley floor. I investigated the monster, and found a man crawling from the wreckage. Before I could get to him, he had already succumbed to his wounds. That was when your friend awoke. I did not know of how he would react to me, so I hid and watched his actions from afar."

Mila's tone eased Michael's grip on the pistol, moving him to lower his aim slightly as she continued.

"He buried the bodies of the others and set out on his trek, which I now know was to find you. When I saw he was going into the territory of the Ra'zorlichs, I knew I had to turn him back. But then you appeared and then it all became very difficult. Had we not fled, there would be two dead humans in their hands, not one."

As tense as his finger had become, Michael released the trigger of the sidearm, flipping on the safety as he wiped his nose. He didn't have any intention to kill her, or to even harm her. Fear was his only weapon in finding out why she did what she did. As much as he regretted doing it, it had worked.

Before Mila could come back to her feet, he knelt down and showcased the firearm before her face, "You see this?"

She nodded.

"This is a Colt model 1911 .45 ACP auto pistol. It shoots a .45 caliber round at eight hundred and twenty-five feet per second. That is a two hundred and thirty gram slung flying at its target at five hundred miles an hour. So I don't care what any kind of Razor-lick bitch says, this fine piece of American engineering will flat out kill any motherfucker that gets between its sights. And had you let me go, I could have stepped in and shot those pussycat fucks before I lost another one of my friends!"

Mila stared at the weapon and stared at Michael, although half of what he said hadn't made a lick of sense in her ears, the message was clear. He was a pack killer, and she had made him lose one of his pack. He had every right in the world to be angry.

"Then maybe next time, you'll do just that."

Michael and Mila both turned as Galen came down the hill, rifle slung over his shoulder and looking no worse for wear. At first, the Sergeant rubbed his eyes and took a second look before he returned his pistol to its holster and ran forward, nearly toppling over on his wounded leg.

"You son of a bitch!" he swore, hugging onto the Private and patting the top of his helmet, "from now on, you ask my permission before you decide to go be a hero, you got me?"

"Yes, sir, Sergeant."

Michael released Galen and put his arm across his shoulders, "Good, now let's get to the Hercules, it's getting too dark here to travel and I don't want to get caught out on my own when things start coming out to hunt. Besides, I think Mila here might be able to help us figure out our current situation."

The cat woman stood up off the ground and rubbed her bottom, pulling a thorn out of it before giving a nod. "I'll help in whatever way I can."

..............................................................

The spacious grand hall of the Ra'zorlich palace was filled with the Neko tribals. From the wise elders to the brash young warriors, Nekos of all ages gathered together under the stone roof. Panicked and savage remarks were thrown about, with many of the comments relating to the metal beast that roared through the sky.

As the Ra'zorlichs spoke and bickered, the mighty iron doors at one end of the hall were thrust open, the clap of metal meeting stone silencing the room. A pack of overly-muscled Nekonian warriors marched into the room, walking through the parted crowds with a look of disgust at the circus of fear around them. Thick, steel plates overlapped upon one another formed a heavy armor that covered their bodies from head to toe. Long swords hung at their sides as did bucklers off the forearms of their off hands.

Right in the middle of them walked yet another Nekonian, though one of less stature than the troops around him. His blood red fur matched the crimson silk robe he wore. Golden rings wrapped around his fingers just as more were tied into his bushy black hair. A crown of iron wrapped in bands of silver sat atop his head, and in the center, above the Neko's dark brown eyes, sat a single sapphire cut into a perfect oval shape. Every Nekonian in the room bowed their heads to this richly dressed Neko as they pressed closed fists over their hearts.

"Hail, King Hector," the crowd chanted in their native tongue.

The Ra'zorlich king proceeded to the front of the hall where a large throne of steel awaited him. Here, he took a seat as his guards pushed the crowd back several feet. When he felt he had sufficient personal space, the entire end of the hall to himself, the king motioned a scribe forth from the side of the room. A young Nekonian male dressed in gray robes stepped forth with a large book in hand. He quickly flipped through it, coming to a certain page and clearing his throat.

"My king, this morning, a beast of steel roared over the sky, raining down fire and a new metal across our lands. The people are gathered here to know what the king has to say. If his lordship will take action against the monster that flew above us."

The king nodded, raising his voice high above the silent crowd, "You all wish to know what will happen?" he roared.

The crowd echoed back with a unanimous, "yes."

Such fear was not common amongst the Ra'zorlichs. They would slay any beast of intelligence that would dare enter their lands, yet, beasts of the skies, Dragons, and Terons, were a different matter. Nobody knew how many different kinds of those aerial beasts there were, as nobody could count that high, but one had fallen from the sky above them, appearing from nowhere and crashing into the forest beyond their borders. Fire poured from its wings and metal fell from its skin. Hundreds of trees were hacked down in its crash, proving how strong it truly was. The only consolation of the matter was what the scouts had said.

"The beast is slain. It fell from the sky shrouded in flame and roaring in pain. Whatever kind beast it may be, it breaths no more," the king declared.

Just as his speech concluded, the hall doors were thrust open again. Vicious snarls roared and ordered men to move aside as the warrior came through. The king even rose in his seat as his officer with the golden blonde fur and silver banded pauldrons stepped forth.

"Hunt Commander Farok, what brings you to my court?" the Ra'zorlich king questioned as his officer knelt before him.

"Two humans wandered into our lands, ignorant of where our borders lie. Hearing of them, I sent forth a pack, but they took to arms and fought back. I personally ran them out from our territory, but at the cost of the lives of seven hunters."

Several audible grasps and angered roars echoed through the room. Several of the warriors went into an uproar, claws high as they cried for blood.

"Two humans?! Seven lives?!" the king bellowed above the crowd, rising up from his throne as rage contorted his face.

"It is so, my king. They wielded the power of gods, but swore never to return."

"I DO NOT WANT THEIR WORD!" the king thundered. "I WANT THEIR HEADS!"

Farok's eyes went wide as he lifted his head to lock his gaze with the king's furious, brown eyes, "My king, have you not heard what I said? They came after the beast fell from the sky! Killing my men with thunder! My scout swore he saw one falling from belly of the great metal beast!"

"ENOUGH! I will hear no more of it! You will send the shadow stalkers to find the beast and find these humans. I will have their hearts to feast upon, or have yours taken in their place, commander. Now get out of my sight!"

"Yes, my king."

Farok rose to his feet, pressing a fist to his heart and giving a bow before walking out of the grand hall to the outside. When the heavy iron doors slammed behind him, he unleashed the fury of his frustration in a roar to the sky above, drawing the attention of many eyes to the angered officer standing in the middle of the town center.

Many averted their gaze and returned to their business, though some warriors scoffed at the commander's outburst, mocking him in silence. Yet it was not their remarks that scorched his insides, it was their ignorance. How little these people knew! What the king knew! That pompous child was barely grown, claiming to a throne his father left him after his early passing and the queen's shortly thereafter.

The thoughts of the royal matter set off an inferno in Farok's belly as he stormed through the crowd of curious onlookers. The whole situation had been cast in doubt and suspicion, but nobody would dare to think the prince would slay his own parents. Farok had his suspicions, however. The child was little more than a spoiled brat, dying to have his way.




Going Feet First



A female was thrown aside as the hunt commander marched on toward his barracks. A hundred times over, he cursed his role as it had backed him into a corner. There was no choice but to dispatch his assassins, to send them into a task in which their survival was uncertain.

All to please Hector's pride.

However, if the king demanded it, even if it was for the sake of vanity, it was his obligation to see it done. No matter how strongly he felt against it.

Farok thrust open the doors to the troops' quarters and marched inside. A hundred sleeping warriors lay in their bunks while a dozen others readied themselves for a night patrol. Many more were in the mess hall at the opposite end, feasting up before resting for the night.

In a far corner of the barracks, a lone ladder led up to the rafters above, to the loft of beds and tables used by the elite shadow stalkers of the Ra'zorlichs as they waited for their next assignment. So rarely were they used that they lived in perpetual comfort, shrugging off all warrior's duties to focus solely on training and the pleasures of life. It sickened many warriors of the tribe, but these women were not to be trifled with, lest you intend to have a new way to breathe through your throat in the morning.

Farok climbed the ladder to the assassin's loft, pulling himself into the pitch black room and clearing his throat.

"Shadow stalkers, come forth."

Sensual purring circled the room as he sensed their presence around him. Their paws were too light for him to hear, their breath too silent for him to sense, but their purring gave them away.

"Has the king a mission for us, Hunt Commander?" one of the women asked.

"Yes, Petra. He has."

........................................................................................

Kindling crackled as sparks flared up from the soft wood; Galen flicked his lighter closed and sat back against his pack. Michael, Mila, and himself circled around the fire burning in a small pit, simply staring at the flames as a cricket chirped in the distance. When the Private was about to pocket his lighter, he spotted Mila's eyes locking on to the small device with an intense focus. A smile crept up his face as she examined the zippo, her cat tail swishing along the grass behind her.

"Here, take a look," he said, handing off the lighter. She accepted it and began to roll it between her fingers, sniffing it, flipping the lid. Finally, when she figured out the flint, she struck the wheel, her eyebrows rising as a small flame erupted from the wick.

"So small, yet it creates light and fire with ease," she muttered, her irises paper-thin with her expanded pupils.

"Scared the shit out of me when I first saw one," Michael added, "But now that we're all comfy, it's about time for you to start explaining a few things. Starting with where the Hell we are."

Mila gave a nod and snapped the lid shut on the zippo before passing it back to Galen.

"We are in Atzla forest, mainly home to the Nekos, Aviens, and Lycans, but others also have claims to this place, like Humans, Trolls, and Tree Elves."

Already, she spotted Michael's eyes flickering with a stare of disbelief while Galen simply sat and listened, sipping water from his canteen as he stared up at the sky.

"To the south, if you pass the Ra'zorlich territory, you come into the Marching Hills where Hill Giants, Humans, and Hill Nekos roam. Beyond that are the Roaring Peaks, where Dwarves and Dragons reside."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, dragons?!" Michael thundered. "Elves and trolls are one thing. If it weren't a cat creature telling me this I would never believe it. But dragons?! I ain't never heard of no dragons in Vietnam!"

"Where is Vietnam?" Mila asked.

"In the east Pacific, below China. We Americans have been fighting the communist bastards for the past six years. You can't have missed the B-52s overhead!"

"Do you see a Bfiftatoo over your head?" Mila asked, making Michael look up scan the skies above him. "You are on Raska now. That is what we call our world. I don't know what a 'communist' is, or why you could wage six years of war against them, but this 'Vietnam' you speak of, you are not there. Your world has been left behind."

With her words, the icy truth began to set in full, for both soldiers. Galen tried not to show it, but his hand was trembling, the butterflies going wild in his belly. Michael however, had both his fists clenched, knuckles stark white.

"So you don't know what the US is? Or how to get us back home?" the Private asked.

Mila shook her head. "You are in our world, Galen. I can only start by returning you to my village. Perhaps bring you to human lands, if you wish to make that journey."

The thought of being with his own species welcomed Galen, but then again, he had no idea what he was walking into. Everything he knew about the world was just thrown off the plane. Literally. All that he knew about geography, history, culture, nations, everything was useless here.

He lay down, using his pack as a pillow as he settled in. Desperately, he searched among the stars above him, praying to find any constellation he could recognize. Orion, Taurus, Leo, Gemini, Cancer, Ursa Major, anything.

Nothing revealed itself. No stars aligned in a way he knew. No image formed in his mind. Nothing was the same. Not even the moon, the white stone that he knew -set in the sky as a goal promised to be reached by Kennedy- was gone, replaced by a rock that seemed larger in size, with just the slightest blue tinge to it.

No, if there was any doubt in his mind that said he was still on Earth, it was gone now. And that fact left him with a queasy feeling in his stomach. He felt scared of the days to come as he stared up at that strange blue rock hanging above him in the night sky, wondering if he would ever get back home.

The first quiet snores took Michael off guard. Just minutes after lying down, the Private was asleep.

"A true warrior," Mila whispered. "Sleeping calm after a battle."

"I always knew he would be a tough little soldier," Michael added. "Saw it the day he walked into basic. Shivering in his shirt and shaking in his wee, black boots as he walked amongst the veterans. But no matter how they teased or the Drill Sergeant hammered him, little bastard kept his chin up."

"Is it normal for your culture to insult each other so vulgarly?" Mila asked.

"It's all in good humor. Nothing like the Drill Sergeants rant. He would scream at us like a mad banshee, break us down 'till we were nothing. Sometimes, you could hear the Privates crying out at night for their mommas to save them from the big, bad Drill Sergeant."

"What is a 'Drill Sergeant'?" Mila asked, her knees brought up against her chest, her feline eyes expanded to the full as she listened. She reminded Michael of a kitten, curiously watching the string dangling before her. That soft, playful innocence of hers brought a smile to his face, a warm stirring in his chest.

"He was the man that broke down the civilian shells we lived in and carved us out into soldiers."

"I see..." Mila mumbled. "And what of your hair?"

She moved closer, getting right beside him as she ran her hand over his scalp, her soft fur making the hairs on his neck stand on end as a warm sensation rippled down his back. Their eyes caught each other for a moment, putting them both at a loss for words. As Michael's cheeks gained a red tint to accompany his grin, Mila timidly glanced aside and back again.

"You do not armor your head like Galen does, and your hair is cut into one hedge down the middle. Why?" she asked, restarting the conversation again.

Michael stroked a hand through his Mohawk, brushing her hand away but taking it within his own and giving it a gentle squeeze. Much to his delight, she squeezed his hand in return.

His tone softened as he explained, "the mother of my mother was one of the Blackfoot. A human tribe that roamed the plains many years ago in my world. And the father of my father descended from the Mohawk tribe, whose warriors cut their hair like this. Both of my parents spoke of ancestors and warriors of the past, and when I was a kid going into basic, I dreamed of becoming one of those warriors. To go into enemy lines, hacking them to death with my tomahawk."

"So you are a born fighter. A warrior by choice and profession."

"Exactly."

This did not surprise Mila. There were many in her tribe who grew up with a thirst for battle. Human bands of raiders and bandits, the odd troll, and the few rogue packs of Lycans scouring through the woods always gave warriors a chance to go to fight. Others, if they found these trivial fights too simple, went east to join the pan-racial army of Galaeus and fight his glorious battles against the demon hordes known to harass the borders of their mortal realm.

"You haven't told me of your people, Mila," Michael said.

"My people as the Neko? Or people as the tribe of Willher?"

"Your tribe. It sounds interesting."

"There is not much I could tell you, I am no keeper of age, but I can tell you we are a large tribe. We have a village two hills yonder; it is only forty zetra away if walking."

"I'm sorry, zetra? What is that?"

"It is how we keep time. There are a hundred zets in a zetra, a hundred zetras in a zetran, and fourteen zetrans in a day. It is also how we speak of distance."

The talk of time made Michael checked his watch. It was off the hour; he seriously doubted that is was five in the afternoon. "Well, I guess we can't share everything. I'm surprised we share a language across worlds."

"I don't always speak human," Mila chimed, "but I've been studying your kind and speaking with the emissaries and ambassadors since I was a child. I hope to one day become ambassador to the human city in the rock lands to the west."

"There's a city?" Michael asked, now fully interested.

"Oh yes, the city of Redding. With stone walls a hundred feet high. A large... 'castle' as the emissaries called, and a vast market place with goods from across Raska. Though, I am not sure if they have made peace with the dark elf city yet. They have been at war for quite some time..."

"Wait, how many kinds of elves are there?" Michael asked. His eye brows rose as she began counting with her fingers.

"Tree elves, high elves, dark elves, night elves, sun elves, feral elves... so many kinds that I cannot tell them all. But it is no different from the humans, though. There are a dozen kinds of your race."

He had to admire how knowledgeable Mila was, and her openness to his own race. Although, he couldn't help but wonder about her own people. Were they as accepting as she was?

"Let's get back to your tribe, what are they like?"

Mila leaned back, propping herself on her elbows as she gazed up to the stars above, unconsciously giving Michael a full view of her body bathed in both the moon and firelight. Her slim yet powerful legs coming up to those smooth thighs and ample hips. A light patch of soft fur that covered her belly rising up to her shapely chest and those admirable breasts wrapped in cloth. It made more than just Michael's smile grow.

"The Willher are a peaceful tribe, even if we do raise our share of bold and vicious warriors. We tend to stick to our own territory, though we do occasionally leave to trade."

"How do they treat humans there?"

"Humans are tolerated, though the troublesome ones are run off. You would have to be wary of some of the elders though. They had fought in a war we waged with humans many years ago and still have not given up their hate."

The Sergeant paused a moment as he stared at the beautiful Nekonian before him. She didn't notice as her gaze remained fixed upon the moon and stars above. His father always told him to never let the best ones pass him by, to pounce on her when you know the time is right. Right now the time seemed perfect.

"And what about you?" he asked.

"What?" Mila asked, her tail lashing down as Michael leaned in toward her.

"What do you think of humans?" he asked, a bit more softly.

"They... they're not usually as brave as you have shown. They prove themselves in battle, yet distinguish themselves in trade. You find humans so vulgar, yet there are some who are as kind as the summer breeze. Humans intrigue me, fascinate me. You fascinate me."

For a second, Mila froze at the words that had just passed her lips. A new look had come over Michael's face as his the lower half of his jaw glowed in the fire light, the flames dancing in his eyes. This man had threatened her life, and now he dares to look at her in such a way? She saw in his eyes that he was an animal. An animal in so many ways. Maybe even, her kind of animal.

Michael was taking a moment to study Mila completely. The lush curves of her hips, the rounded peaks of her shapely breasts. She had the darling face of a bombshell, and her sparkling green eyes, they entrapped him in their luminous moonlight glow. They reminded him of an oak leaf bathed in the summer sun. With one each of these thoughts passing through his mind, he couldn't help but admire this woman even more. Truth was, he hadn't stop admiring her the second she landed at his feet to pull him away from those Ra'zorlichs.

"You know, I didn't say thank you for saving my life," he began.

She turned away, trying to suppress the smile on her lips.

"I couldn't let such fascinating creatures be lost to the Ra'zorlichs," she countered, turning back toward him as his face drew closer.

"Then let me thank you."

Perhaps it was his savage nature, stimulating the inner beast that prowled within her body; when his hand came up to her face, gently pressing against her cheek while his lips drew so close to hers, she couldn't resist. All instinct brought her forward to finally bring their lips together. It gave a spark. A single spark that ignited a fire in her chest that burned away all her urges to say the word, 'stop'. Nothing in her life readied her for it, and she didn't even understand what was happening within the confines of her own body. It was too fast, too sudden.

No explanations could work their way through Michael mind as his hand reached around and wrapped itself in the back of her hair. This Neko woman stirred that primal part of him that he had been feeding for so long. Everything about her attracted him: her lush scent ripe in his nose, her soft fur comforting against his skin, that warming purr soothing his ears as his hand glided down her back.

"We shouldn't... we shouldn't go further," she whispered, her hands pushing him away.

"Why not?"

"We have not known each other a day, it is... too soon. We Willhers have rituals, and there is a presence among us." She whispered, her eyes glancing over to the sleeping Galen. Nervousness became a twitch in her nose, a twitch soon settled as Michael took her hands within his own.

"We are in your world, under your guidance. I will respect your wish," he said, touching his lips to her fingers.

"Thank you," Mila mumbled, her cheeks flushing red under her fur.

With that, Michael laid back and settled his head onto his pack. The woman beside him looked nervously aside, tenderly touching the back of her hand to her still tingling lips. She was debating something inside her head, something important as she shifted her gaze back to Michael, staring at him as he got comfortable.

Oh, Necela and sweet Calia, please guide me...

To Michael's surprise, Mila slowly moved in, laying her body against his own and nestling her head against his neck.

"I thought there were rituals?" he whispered.

"There are several rituals before a male can take a female, yes. This is one of them. A night spent in sleep under the eyes of the moon, so our spirits may decide if the match is true."

If the match was true, he repeated in his head. Michael pondered those words a moment, thinking about the weight they carried. Mila wouldn't settle for anything casual; if she wanted something, she wanted it for life.

He'd had his share of girls, that series of one-night stands or simple, month-long relationships. As he came closer to the start of his first tour, however, he began facing his reality, and he wanted something more. He had begun to search for someone to write to, for someone to look forward to...a woman to anchor him home...

"How do our spirits do that, decide the match?"

"The goddess Necela watches all who sleep under her moon. If a couple's spirit decide the match is true, they receive her in the form of her charm."

"I see..." Michael responded, looking up at the moon above him. He had no idea what she said, or what it meant. But everything in him yearned for this girl. If she wished for a goddess's blessing before she could fully lo...

All processes stopped in Michael's mind as the word 'love' threw a wrench into his gears. Was it really love? Or just a simple attraction? Or did he really love this... beast of a woman? This Neko?

He had been here less than twelve hours, and he was already head-over-heels for one of the women in this strange world? The Sergeant looked down at the soft face pressed against his collar, her warm purrs vibrating against his chest. She wasn't his kind, but that didn't seem to matter. The layers of doubt were stripped away as the few simple words rang through his mind.

This. Is. Real.

......................................................................

Black boots marched down a hallway behind the fine-cut suits worn by two official-looking men. These figures stuck out amid the olive drab uniforms of the Army soldiers that walked past them, drawing many curious looks from soldiers who quickly returned to the tasks at hand.

The two suits neared the end of the long hall and approached two MP's standing guard over a pair of double doors. The soldiers snapped to attention and saluted as the black-suited men went through the door. Five men occupied the tight room; they were standing over an operational map of North Vietnam but immediately stood up to address the new arrivals.

"Major Linton?" one of the men said.

The aged soldier stood up a little straighter and pulled down the sides of his dress uniform. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a single Major leaf on his helmet. The medals on his chest jingled against one another as he crossed his arms and inspected the two new arrivals. Both men had short, military-style haircuts and a hard look in their eye, though their clean suits and pressed ties showed that these men were fresh into the Jungle Hells of Vietnam.

"Yes, I am Major Linton," the aged man responded, curling his black, bushy mustache.

"I'm Robert Smith. This is my partner, John Smith; no relation. We've come to talk about the plane you lost this morning."

A cross look came over the Major's face. "Boys, I need you to leave the room."

The officers that had been with the Major nodded and headed for the door, silently filing past the two agents and giving them suspicious glares.

As the last man left, Agent Robert Smith turned to the MP outside the door and said, "Nobody enters until we leave."

The MP gave a prompt, "Yes, sir," and shut the door. When the bolt clicked shut, the two Agents took a seat at the map table.

"You boys are late," Linton commented.

"Plane troubles, Major. Please, have a seat and brief us on what you know."

Linton pulled up a chair and leaned in on the table, clearing his throat. "At oh-six hundred, we launched a surprise attack into a city in North Vietnam with elements of the 101st Airborne. The focus of the mission was to secure several HVI's in the area while pushing the North Vietnamese out of the city entirely. However, just as the planes entered the drop zone, pilots reported lightning storms filling the sky. This was deemed impossible, as cloud cover was minimal with no signs of rain or sudden change in weather. When C-Company's craft was hit with flak fire, it started to go down. However, soldiers claimed that the craft was struck by several bolts of lightning at once, causing the craft to vanish."