Savages of the Sacred Salvage
You stare after them, torn by conflicting emotions, until you realize that your very indecisiveness has solved your problem for you. You waited too long, and there's no way to catch up now. Tiny figures do battle with the worms in the distance, and one by one tiny blue fires leap up to whisk away worm and warrior alike. It's out of your hands now.
"Chameek probably wasn't even in that group. If he took the Oath, it could have been days ago. Or he could be anywhere else by now. We'll just have to put the word out that we're searching, we'll hear something sooner or later." Picking your way down the hill, you continue to reassure yourself you did the right thing.
There's a piercing screech from behind you.
It's a sound you recognize right away, and one that sends chills down the spine of anyone who hears it. Whirling, you see a hulking, feathered creature rounding the side of the hill. Flapping its small, useless wings, it fixes its beady eyes on you. It has a cruel, hooked beak capable of severing a man's arm with a single snap, and its bare, scaly yellow legs are tipped with wickedly sharp talons you've seen disembowel cattle. People fear this predator more than anything else, far more than the demon locusts. Your tribe refers to these fearsome feathered beasts as "dogs".
"Beakdogs" to be precise, although the qualifier always seemed unnecessary when as far as you're aware, all dogs have beaks.
But what seems more important at the moment is that this one is charging right at you!
Turning to run, your foot nudges against something like a long rod or branch, partially hidden in the overgrown grass.
"Chameek probably wasn't even in that group. If he took the Oath, it could have been days ago. Or he could be anywhere else by now. We'll just have to put the word out that we're searching, we'll hear something sooner or later." Picking your way down the hill, you continue to reassure yourself you did the right thing.
There's a piercing screech from behind you.
It's a sound you recognize right away, and one that sends chills down the spine of anyone who hears it. Whirling, you see a hulking, feathered creature rounding the side of the hill. Flapping its small, useless wings, it fixes its beady eyes on you. It has a cruel, hooked beak capable of severing a man's arm with a single snap, and its bare, scaly yellow legs are tipped with wickedly sharp talons you've seen disembowel cattle. People fear this predator more than anything else, far more than the demon locusts. Your tribe refers to these fearsome feathered beasts as "dogs".
"Beakdogs" to be precise, although the qualifier always seemed unnecessary when as far as you're aware, all dogs have beaks.
But what seems more important at the moment is that this one is charging right at you!
Turning to run, your foot nudges against something like a long rod or branch, partially hidden in the overgrown grass.