Uctilo'rhu

Still Valley

He was running. Running as fast as his tired legs would carry him. Dead hanging tree branches wiped at his face and arms, as he did his best to avoid the twisting roots and spongy moss that covered the ground.

Open pools of water start to appear here and there as the brackish water becomes deeper and the swamp plants begin to thin out. He hears angry shouts somewhere behind him. He quickly touches his backpack and smiles. The totem was still there.

His Brood would be proud of him when he returned with the idol of their enemies in tow. If he survived that is. His name spoken in reverence for generations to come. He would be able to pick any mate he wanted.

A dart flew past his head. He needed to get to his stilts quickly. He had damaged their canoes with stones. They would not be able to follow once he waded into the deep waters.

Every breath he takes fills his lungswith thick air that smells of stagnant
water. Beads of sweat form on his exposed flesh from the amount of humidity in the area. He can feel the warm liquid trickle down his spine as he ran closer to the edge of the mangrove.

A pungent odor, which smells like blood, rises from the grounds' surface. Water saturated-grass and earth seem to be his only foothold as he constantly twists and turns to avoid slipping or crashing head first into the muddy earth or a broken tree.

The sound of insects and the croaking of hundreds of toads and frogs fill the air. He sees a mist starting to form around his ankles and around the mud and moss covered roots. He jumps over a fallen log, see his stills bidding under branches, exactly where he left them.

He pulls his scarf over his mouth, to keep the worse of the fetid fumes from his throat. Its unavoidable that he will crash some poisonous pods. He grabs the two makeshift wooden tools and jumps on them quickly, crossing the water, trying to put as much distance between him and the shores of his enemies' mangrove.

So intent on escape is he and concentrating on not falling into the crocodile and mudcrab infested waters, that he doesn't realise the silence that has descend upon the early evening. No more croaking, no more sibilant calls of lizards or growls of the jaguars. No arrows fly past his wading form, no slingshots, no darts.

All he can hear is the pounding of his heart. And the proud voice in his mind congratulating itself. Darkness falls by the time he reaches the safety and sound ground of the ruined tower. He will not stop to camp. He cannot. They will find a way to pursue him. At least not until he reaches his Brood's domain.

He abandons the stilts. He can build another pair once he is back. He starts running again, but the sound of a huge roar fills the night.

Nearby. Close. The hairs on the back of his neck raise in fear. He looks around. It's never safe to travel at night in the Still Valley. Especially alone. His eyes catch movement above him. A large shadow crosses over his vision. He looks up...

He looks up at the ruined tower and despairs. His lips tremble and his mouth opens as if he is about to scream, but he cannot make any sound. His blood his frozen. His legs already tired from the the toll of the day turn to sand and he drops to his knees. Another growl from above, lower, more dangerous, warning like.
He bows his head, averting his gaze. He wants to run but he cannot. Wants to pull his knife out and fight, but will not.

When he feels the weight fall upon him, crushing him to the ground, pinned like a deer in a trap, he soils himself. It's over. He feels his warm blood raise in his throat and filling his mouth, choking him.

His eyes roll back in his head. So close. So close to returning home as a hero. As a man. But The God demanded otherwise. Decreed that his life would end here, under the old ruined tower.

The Devourer in the Mist. He who comes in the Dark. God of the Still Valley.