The Traitor
Setting:
~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%< The River Moss >~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%~%
This is a particularly rock portion of the River Moss. Large boulders, smoothed by the gentle caress of the river, and the silent tears of the rain, rise up from the ground. The shore line isn't. It stands at a cliff that rises a couple meters up, over which cast large white oaks, shading the river from most direct sunlight.
The trees move gently in the breeze.
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Characters:
Lutea, the Taggerung
Heskra, leader of the Juska
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|The Traitor| ===
As the river brings them closer to this "Snake Pit" place, Lutea grows more excitable; she's always loved a good fight, and if the rumors are true, then she can expect to find a few there. But, as it is, they are not there yet. After their camp is thrown together, their canoe hidden against the bank, and the fish set above the open flame, the Taggerung slips away from her companion and their guide to tuck herself away into the steadily darkening forest around them. The constant state of change that comes with travel has done well enough to temper the otter's energy, but she is still left with the anxiety of inaction at the end of some nights like this one. Away from her companions, she stands in a small clearing and breathes in the dark forest air, basking a moment in the silver glow of the moon, before she spins her staff and sets into the motions of her known forms. Forward, backwards, side, side - her imaginary enemies are dispelled like wisps of smoke.
With the darkening of the evening comes certain other denizens of the forest, the beasts slinking through the trees and blending into the darkness that's rapidly encroaching on the treeline. A keen eye could spot them, but for those who aren't used to searching in every shadow for an enemy, they'd be nigh invisible, their forest green tattoos making even the fox in the lead with blazing orange fur blend in with the colors of the woods. And amongst these rogues who call themselves Juska, there's a plenty good reason for their need to say invisible. The group is not what it once was. Where there used to be scores of beasts, now there's only around twenty-five, and all twenty-five aren't even present in the group making their way to the river. A group of fifteen makes their way to gather water and check the nets in the river, the beasts emerging from the trees and crouching by the riverbed after making sure that roving shrews aren't coming down the river in their logboats. In the open air, it's easy to see that many of the Juska are wearing freshly bloodied bandages, and a few of them sport new missing bits and pieces. An ear there, an eye there, a paw missing a finger. The fox at the head of the group still bears all his limbs, but even he, their leader, has a bandage across his chest hiding a scrape across the ribs, plus a fresh gouge along the top of his muzzle that traces between his eyes and ears. The group starts to haul in their catch, the nets, thankfully, full of flopping fish.
A keen eye is needed to see the Juska slinking through the woods, but it doesn't take as keen an ear to hear the disturbance in the river. The river is the lifeblood of her species, after all, she likes to think herself in tune to its whims. The staff whirrs to a halt and is held out in front of her as she suddenly crouches low and trots back towards the river, angling more up-river than where her companions are camping. Tucked away in the bushes, her breathe catches in her throat - there's NO WAY that is who she.... NOPE. Scrambling backwards, she can only think of putting as much distance between herself and the Juska as possible - while she should be more focused on making her retreat more quietly.
It turns out that Lutea's fears are quite unfounded, as Heskra doesn't seem to either hear her or see her. Instead, he's standing still, looking over his remaining Juska, when all of a sudden his posture stiffens, the fox standing bolt-upright as if someone had just stabbed him in the spine with a red-hot poker. His ears, rather than being perked and attentive, are already laid back, and no doubt if Lutea were in front of him, she'd be able to see the fierce grimace on his face. As though she weren't laying in underbrush at all, and as if she were painted head-to-toe in the brightest, most glowing yellow paint in the world, Heskra's eyes snap to exactly where she is. No doubt as close as she is, and considering the amount of strife she'd caused, giving herself a seat right at the forefront of the seer fox's mind, the Heskra's sixth-sense has found her. As though he doesn't believe his own abilities, he starts to slowly stalk towards the brush she's backpedaling through, bare paws flexing and digging his sharpened claws into his palms. "Izzat ye? Are ye hidin' 'ere /traitor/?"
Her blood freezes, and Lutea's breath catches in her throat. The Taggerung is still for only a brief moment, but it passes with an agonizing slowness... Finally, she stands, and reveals her location. "Not hidin'." The otter grunts, swallowing her panic as she tightens the grip at her staff. "I don' want t'fight you, an' I ain't a traitor." There is a small flash of white, her canines glinting in the moonlight; a subdued, but defiant, snarl. She doesn't want to fight, but she seems ready to.
Heskra's snarl isn't subdued nor defiant. It's savage, full of fury and injured pride. In his wildest foresights he hadn't seen the otter abandoning the tribe nor the fallout from the sudden loss of their Taggerung. He doesn't stop approaching, and now it's easy to see that he's completely unarmed, his typical pole flail somehow not on his person, not even slung on his back. As some symbolic alteration of his appearance, Heskra seems to have dyed the fur on his neck stark red, clearly visible as he lifts his chin and stares at the otter. His claws flex, and they show just how dangerous vulpine digging claws can be made with a little bit of sharpening. "Oh yer a traitor alrigh'. Ye abandoned yer tribe, yer /fam'ly/!"
"I didn' abandon nothin'!" The otter spits back, advancing forward a step when he pushes his ground. "Y'/lied/ t'me. I thought y'was a tribe like that'a my birth, but y'/thugs/!" Unlike Heskra, the Taggerung /is/ armed, and she is comforted by the weight of her staff in her paw. "Stormin' a village what's done nothin' wrong, roundin' up th'beasts. I ain't jus' y'banner, I got morals, Heskra." She pushes forward another step, and with a growl, drops her staff to the ground. "I accepted y'as m'brother. As m'friend." Her approach is relentless, and brings the snarling lupine, Juska markings etched into her face, toe to toe with the fox. "I woulda died f'you, but I ain't /killin'/ no innocents f'you."
The fox's voice gains volume, and he's outright shouting at Lutea now as the indignant rage mounts. "Ah gave ya mah markin's! Th' markin's of mah tribe an' th' markin's 'at bore mah sign!" The staff is either unnoticed or uncared for by Heskra, and even if he was in his right state of mind and could see more than just the otter, he wouldn't be too likely to care about the obviously disadvantage he's in. "Killin' beasts who deserve it fer defyin' us en't killin' innocents! Wasn't a beas' Ah've killed 'at 'asn't gotten fair warnin' 'fore it 'appened!" Dimly Heskra registers that she's dropped her staff. "Lookit yer skin! Yer wearin' mah markin's with dishonor! Th' tribe /was/ yer morals!"
The otter winces with the sting of his roar, but doesn't budge. "Ain't y'markin's if I took y'ink under false pre-tences!" Lutea argues, her paws balling into fists at her sides. "Why didn' y'tell me wha' y'/do/! Wha' y'wanted /me/ t'do?" Beneath the anger there is hurt, grief... Exiled from the tribe of her birth, a traitor to the new family she found - the bonds she makes are brittle, no matter how fiercly she may devote herself to them. It's a curse, and she wears its mark on her skin forever more. "Y'dishonored me, an' I left."
Now he's growing quieter, though there's still an undercurrent of a growl in every word Heskra snarls. "Ye en't been lied to! Ye were told 'at ye were goin' t'make th' Juskaskor strong an' powerful! Th' rulers of th' forest! An' rather'n doin' what 'ad t'be done, ye ran! Like a traitor! Like a coward! An' ye left yer family t'deal with th' results!" Heskra bites his tongue, then spits a wad of blood-flecked spit at Lutea's feet. He fails to see any devotion in what she did. "A 'undred dead Juskaskor're on yer paws!" Glowering, he adds, almost as an afterthought. "Ah should kill ye righ' 'ere. With mah own two paws."
"I didn't..." Tiny ears wilt further back against the otter's skull. "Y'weren't supposed t'suffer me leavin'." Hundreds dead? And here she only wanted to avoid casualties... She didn't want the blood on her paws, yet her former chieftain insists on staining them red... And she buys into it with sickening ease. "Y'ain't done it yet, y'ain't goin' to." Lutea glowers at the fox, but she falls to one knee on the ground before him. "But if y'truly feel y'hardships are my fault, then I won't fight y'. I owe y'that much." Duty, shame, grief... They accompany her at the fox's feet.
"Treachery 'as consequences, otter! Th' Taggerung's th' lifeblood of th' tribe! Wha' did ye /think/'d 'appen when ye turned tail?" He scowls at her, and rather than mollifying him, Lutea's supplication and acceptance only seems to cause a greater consternation. Heskra's claws dig into his palms as his fists clench, and the fox seems to debate within himself what he should do. He makes a choice. Reaching out, he grabs Lutea's neck with both paws and starts to squeeze, the palms of his paws pressing against her windpipe none too gently, staring down into her eyes as he chokes her, his ears perked almost expectantly, as if he's waiting to see if she'll welch on the offering of her life by trying to struggle free.
Lutea, doggedly true to her word, is silenced with a strangled growl. The warrior's neck is savagely muscled, and the assailing claws have to dig and grip to find purchase through her sheer brawn. It's brutal. The jill's paws clench into fists at her sides, and as the grit and tension of adrenaline surge through her, the otter's entire body trembles with the strain of keeping her limbs arrested. She sags backwards, arms still pinned at her sides, her weight collapsing down and dragging the battle with it.
Rather than keeping up the strangling, Heskra instead snarls and lets go, pushing Lutea backwards and taking a step back from her. "No. Killin' th' Taggerung when 'ey en't fightin' back won't make me th' Taggerung. Ye'll get t'live, traitor. Someday we're goin' t'meet agin an' 'at time... 'at time yer goin' t'make me th' Taggerung fair an' square. 'en mah tribe'll fin'ly be whole agin!" Heskra aims a kick at the otter's flank, the soccerball kick holding nothing back. "Live with yer shame a while longer, traitor!" Heskra turns to go, leaving Lutea behind him, no doubt gasping but otherwise physically undamaged.
With grating, gasping, coughs Lutea falls flat against the ground, one paw clutching at her wounded windpipe. With her other, the otter struggles to push herself upright - that dead-eyed gaze still stuck on Heskra. She growls, her voice rough and broken from the fox's death grip, made callous and harsh by her brush with the Dark Forest... Again, she offered herself to it and, again, she is spared. She is a superstitious beast, and this is not lost on her. "I'll look forward to it... Brother."
