[He's hunted game in these forests as long as he could walk, using all of his senses to decipher the language of bird calls and tell apart the distinct crinkle of one set of paws in the underbrush from another. Someone's nearby--he can tell that from the sound alone. Two-footed, moving quickly.
And heavily. Boots crunch on pine needles. Branches catch against a body. The steps stutter, stumble, and then resume again, off-kilter in what must be a limp.
Poised in place, his eyes track the movement of the sounds his ears pick up on. That's no Trikru survivor, he realizes; there's no way a warrior would be crashing through the trees that loudly and obviously, even on his or her last legs. There's time to hide. The person is practically screaming their position out to him, letting him know exactly where they are and what direction they're moving; there are about a dozen places he could conceal himself while waiting for them to stumble past. He could watch. He could assess. He could attack, if need be, a calculated strike to end the life of any wounded animal.
But he doesn't, for the same reason he'd hiked to the site of the battle. The smell of blood is sharp and coppery in the air--they're probably injured, whomever this is, and probably in no state to fight.
Probably.
As he watches the spot where the noises have gone silent, a dark shape rises from the foliage. It resolves itself into a disheveled figure, liberally streaked with dirt and gore. A boy. Around his age, he'd guess, though the layer of grime and the angry red cuts streaking crimson tracks down the boy's face makes it difficult to gauge. Pain ages everyone. It's the distinguishing jacket that seals the identity of the stranger--he's heard talk of those unusual uniforms from others who've seen the camp up close. Midnight blue, like the color of the sky in late evening.
Skaikru.
Blue eyes meet blue eyes, different from the Skaikru uniform, the other boy's the shade of grey storms, his own flecked with brown like the earth he'd been born on. He observes the other unblinkingly, the lower half of his face concealed behind the scarf he'd pulled over his mouth and nose to protect against smoke. He wears no mask, but then he'd never favored bone or leather. No war paint, either, beyond an unremarkable dusting of dirt. At first glance, he's reserved the paint for his hair, smudged a striking and deliberate coal-black.
The most he moves is to drop his gaze to the business end of the rifle, the bloody finger on the trigger, then back up. Calculating.
He'd be within his rights to pull a knife and send it home in the other's heart in the time it'd take to pull that trigger--expected to, really. This is a Sky boy, beyond any doubt. This is one of the intruders who'd likely just helped turn the forest into a graveyard populated with the corpses of Tree people, people he might have known, might have spoken to. No doubted he'd be lauded for killing one right here and now, and he'd have no trouble claiming it was self-defense when staring down a gun. It'd be what the Sky People call Grounder justice.
But that trigger finger keeps pulling his gaze back. Specifically, to the healing fingernail bed he can see even from here. That's not an injury earned from fighting. It's older. Precise.
He knows exactly what it is, having seen it, having been shown how to administer it. It's what's going to happen to this Sky boy when reinforcements arrive and capture him. There'll be no swift, clean deaths for anyone responsible for this devastation. Just interrogation and the most hellish, unimaginable pain the Commander and leaders can devise.
(Look at all this death already. Are you going to be responsible for more?)
His knotted stomach gives a kick, something uncomfortable in the thought. His knife remains sheathed.
Carefully, he reaches up to tug the scarf away, exposing the rest of his face to view.]
I don't want to hurt you.
[The voice of the clan in his head says he should, but his own voice says more blood isn't about to clean up the blood already spilled.]
no subject
And heavily. Boots crunch on pine needles. Branches catch against a body. The steps stutter, stumble, and then resume again, off-kilter in what must be a limp.
Poised in place, his eyes track the movement of the sounds his ears pick up on. That's no Trikru survivor, he realizes; there's no way a warrior would be crashing through the trees that loudly and obviously, even on his or her last legs. There's time to hide. The person is practically screaming their position out to him, letting him know exactly where they are and what direction they're moving; there are about a dozen places he could conceal himself while waiting for them to stumble past. He could watch. He could assess. He could attack, if need be, a calculated strike to end the life of any wounded animal.
But he doesn't, for the same reason he'd hiked to the site of the battle. The smell of blood is sharp and coppery in the air--they're probably injured, whomever this is, and probably in no state to fight.
Probably.
As he watches the spot where the noises have gone silent, a dark shape rises from the foliage. It resolves itself into a disheveled figure, liberally streaked with dirt and gore. A boy. Around his age, he'd guess, though the layer of grime and the angry red cuts streaking crimson tracks down the boy's face makes it difficult to gauge. Pain ages everyone. It's the distinguishing jacket that seals the identity of the stranger--he's heard talk of those unusual uniforms from others who've seen the camp up close. Midnight blue, like the color of the sky in late evening.
Skaikru.
Blue eyes meet blue eyes, different from the Skaikru uniform, the other boy's the shade of grey storms, his own flecked with brown like the earth he'd been born on. He observes the other unblinkingly, the lower half of his face concealed behind the scarf he'd pulled over his mouth and nose to protect against smoke. He wears no mask, but then he'd never favored bone or leather. No war paint, either, beyond an unremarkable dusting of dirt. At first glance, he's reserved the paint for his hair, smudged a striking and deliberate coal-black.
The most he moves is to drop his gaze to the business end of the rifle, the bloody finger on the trigger, then back up. Calculating.
He'd be within his rights to pull a knife and send it home in the other's heart in the time it'd take to pull that trigger--expected to, really. This is a Sky boy, beyond any doubt. This is one of the intruders who'd likely just helped turn the forest into a graveyard populated with the corpses of Tree people, people he might have known, might have spoken to. No doubted he'd be lauded for killing one right here and now, and he'd have no trouble claiming it was self-defense when staring down a gun. It'd be what the Sky People call Grounder justice.
But that trigger finger keeps pulling his gaze back. Specifically, to the healing fingernail bed he can see even from here. That's not an injury earned from fighting. It's older. Precise.
He knows exactly what it is, having seen it, having been shown how to administer it. It's what's going to happen to this Sky boy when reinforcements arrive and capture him. There'll be no swift, clean deaths for anyone responsible for this devastation. Just interrogation and the most hellish, unimaginable pain the Commander and leaders can devise.
(Look at all this death already. Are you going to be responsible for more?)
His knotted stomach gives a kick, something uncomfortable in the thought. His knife remains sheathed.
Carefully, he reaches up to tug the scarf away, exposing the rest of his face to view.]
I don't want to hurt you.
[The voice of the clan in his head says he should, but his own voice says more blood isn't about to clean up the blood already spilled.]