Post by Spooky on Jun 9, 2006 0:07:02 GMT -5
This is a short story I wrote in a writing class at my school... I'm in a group, and we got given about twenty five minutes to write this, give or take a few.
This is going to be a thread with a small collection of stories about a tribe I've made. So far I've only made two short ones, but the series will, with time, contain a few bigguns.
The night was warm, a settling air docile enough to put even the greatest of hunters to rest. Giant animals bounded across the ground, mere silhouettes under the majesty of the nightlight, the guardian of dusk, the moon.
Even the carnivorous predators of the land did not stir. The mighty trees that normally towered over man didn't sway, for there was no wind. The faraway waves lazily lapped at the hot sands, only moving because it was compulsory, for if they didn’t, the world would be thrown out of proportion.
It seemed that the small native tribe was the only thing alive for a stretch of miles and miles, and even then the hunters did not hunt, the weavers did not weave, the builders did not build, and the farmers did not farm.
Instead, the entire clan was gathered round a large fire, small flecks of gold coming alight in their eyes, their skin a fierce run of reds, mighty yellows and gold imaginable only in dream.
The village chieftains sat at the foreground of the fire, followed by warriors, hunters and finally the ladies of the tribe accompanied, by their children and other people of the commune.
In front of all of them, the only person facing away from the fire was the village elder. A man who'd fought fights, heard tales and seen things few men would ever see. His eyes were orbs, a sea of blue contained inside the round domes, lapping at the Iris. He was a man that all looked up to and few disrespected. On a night such as this, the villagers and hierarchs would gather to listen to his stories.
"How was the world made?" A young child asked.
The elder chuckled, his smile big enough to fit a hundred antelope.
"Puzzling questions you ask, youth. Even I can only answer small portions of that. Not my ancestors or our past generations. Bits and pieces are yet to be revealed, and past findings have been long forgotten," the elder paused and the child looked down, disappointed, but then the wise man once again spoke.
"Once, many moons and storms and wars ago, the world was uninhabited," the Elder paused and scratched his chin.
"Seeds grew forests, the sky rained sand, forming deserts, the seeds that didn't become trees grew and grew, making mountains of infinite height, and still they grow today."
All of the village inhabitant's eyes were agleam with wonder and intrigue.
"Small rivers became oceans. Fish were the first animals granted life on our world.
Starting out as young cod that grew into great leviathans of the sea. The gods then made beasts like the gazelle and lion, impala and wild dogs. Then insects and birds were introduced. Man and women came, mighty beings with intelligence, able to eat both fruit and meat, able to hunt and forage." The Elder smiled again, his face a veil of warmth and love. Still the tribals listened in both amazement and interest.
"Although men hunted the animals, they only did so to survive, they only picked berries when they were hungry, they lived in harmony and peace with the animals, racing cheetah, wrestling lions, jumping higher than gazelles and swimming faster than the agile crocodile," The elder paused for the third time, tightening his cloak of fur around his body, playing with his long white locks of hair.
"And even to this day," he said, "Even to this day man lives in peace with mammals, forests, birds and beast." He stopped, his gaze suddenly dropping lower than the lowest of seas, with both sadness and disappointment.
"Though I fear that that is all soon to change."
Tribe Stories: To Become A Man:
A morning was rare that a frost over would hit where Dadun and his tribe lived. Infrequent, but still they occurred. For this was no ordinary day, this was the day of acceptance, the forthcoming of a man.
With a sharpened spear, an animal hide cloak, wits and strength, Dadun was to leave at Dusk, and come back with the body of a male Leopard… Or not come back at all.
For a man cannot stay a boy forever, and to make the transfer was a tradition. At the age of fifteen, a boy had to make his way into the Savannah and spill the blood of a big cat.
The Hunts were not always over by nightfall, sometimes warriors would not return for days on end, having to make use of what little resources they had.
Dadun was surrounded by long shards of dead savannah grass, like he was running through the mane of a lion.
He quietly shifted his pose, making sure the grass entirely hid him, not letting his presence being made aware. He gripped the long of his spear, pressing his thumb into a gnarl in the carved wood. At the end of the spear was a menacing stone point, bound to the piece of wood by a taught piece of weaving.
The glinting piece of rock was black, once grey, soon to be red. The rock was sharpened to perfection, ideal for stabbing, clubbing and ripping. The spear was Dadun’s defense, his offense, his tool.
The spear was sturdy, long enough for efficient range, and thick enough not to snap easily.
Looking up, Dadun saw a flock of birds all flying in the same direction, cooing and crying to eachother.
A reply was offered but not welcome. A piercing roar that split the air and hushed its surroundings, a vicious growl that rumbled away into quiet, leaving a frightening silence to echo around the savannah. But how could silence echo? That didn’t matter - the Lord of the Jungle had come.
Dadun knew he would have been better off with a trap, but he didn’t have the appropriate tools or time to make one, right now. He would have to make do with the element of surprise.
Dadun had chosen his spot carefully, downwind of any predators so that they couldn’t hear or smell him. It was fortunate for Dadun that the winds had gone in his favour. If he had chosen an upwind spot, even though the savannah grass around him would have muffled his scent, the grass wouldn’t have come close to dimming his scent enough to catch the Leopard unawares.
The Leopard and it’s majestic relatives only needed the smallest fragment of smell to pick up their prey, and a the saying went in Dadun’s tribe, ‘A Leopard can smell a Gazelle from a mile away, it can smell a Warrior from treble that.’
As unrealistic and humorous as it sounded, it was true, as Dadun had learnt in his training.
His training. Instead of getting up at the crack of dawn to help farming in the tribe like he used to, he had to get up at the crack of dawn to be bruised and beaten, to practice in the arts of a warrior, to learn how to kill.
Despite what Aden, his instructor had done to him, Dadun knew that if he hadn’t trained, the Leopard would have done even worse to him. But now he was confident he would slay the big cat, but he didn’t let his guard slip. He was aware that even though he had had learnt to kill, the Leopard was equally as strong as him, if not stronger. He knew it was as smart and efficient a killer as him.
Tugging his cloak up so it kept his shoulders and body warm, Dadun continued to wait, anticipating on what was to come.
Midday fell across the plains, and the sun was at it’s highest. The rare morning frost had melted, leaving a sweltering heat sapped the energy and life from the savannah and it’s animals. It was at this time that the Leopard would come to it’s home.
Dadun had situated himself close to a Baobab tree, a tree with a fat trunk that stored water inside itself.
Dadun’s instructor had said that the Leopard came to the tree for its water, it’s shade and the view it gave of the plains.
Dadun had been patient, five hours of lying in wait of the large Predator, listening, and thinking.
Within minutes, Dadun was alerted by soft grunts and heavy, distorted breathing. He froze; it was so close, on the other side of the thin layer of grass. Although the Savannah grass totally hid him, Dadun felt naked, exposed, like the Leopard could see straight through the shelter to him.
He grasped his spear so hard that his knuckles went white and readied himself, he heard the Leopard scamper up the tree and settle on a branch. Soft crunching and slurping noises came from the Baobab. The Leopard was digging into its kill.
He imagined the dead animal’s carcass, it would most definitely have two puncture wounds in its neck, and a disturbing gash in its stomach where the Leopard was ploughing into it.
In time, the Leopard finished its meal and hopped down from the tree. Dadun waited patiently, he had to rely entirely by his sense of sound.
The Leopard walked past Dadun, soft thuds pressing into the dry and cracked earth. As the Leopard walked past Dadun, he lunged out from his hiding spot, a swish as the grass settled.
The Leopard instinctively rotated, snarling at Dadun. Dadun raised his spear slowly, making no sudden moves. The Leopard was three or so meters away from him, waiting for Dadun to make the first move.
For a while the pair did nothing, then without any notice, the Leopard lunged closing the space between Dadun and himself.
Dadun rolled out of the way, the Leopard quickly turned and made another run.
Before Dadun could get back up, the Leopard jumped at him again, this time landing on top of him. It’s face closed to meet his, and Dadun saw the animal in its eyes.
The pupils were thin and sharp, like the blade of a knife. It’s pupils were dark brown, with coatings and speckles of blood red.
Its mouth was wide open, showing two rows of sharp teeth. There was foam coming from it’s mouth, coloured red from it’s last meal. The breath was unbearable. It was rank, hot, and Dadun tried to move his head, but it was pinned.
Before the Leopard had time to strike him again, Dadun brought up his spear and jabbed it into the Leopard’s leg. It shrieked, and its eyes went wide. It jumped off. Dadun rose up. The Leopard blocked out all thoughts of pain and backed away. Dadun raised his spear. Again, the Leopard leapt at him. Dadun brought up his spear to intercept the Cat, and it hit its target. The blade of the spear tore into the Leopards underbelly as it left the ground. It tore through the tissue of the Leopard’s underbelly.
Small drops of blood splashed into Dadun’s eyes, but he took no notice of it. He heard a heavy thud behind him and he turned. The Leopard was sprawled across the ground, blood steadily flowing from it’s stomach at the speed of a small stream.
If the Leopard felt pain, it didn’t show it, instead it attempted to get up, trying to finish off its assailant before it inevitably died. Dadun almost felt regret for the beast, it hadn’t done anything to him, it was a natural born Predator, and predators weren’t meant to end their lives being prey.
Dadun shrugged it was either him or the Leopard. The least he could do was give the Leopard a mercy.
Warily, he walked over to it. Stopping by it’s side, he raised his spear, found where he was looking for and thrust it deep into the animal’s ribcage. He heard a snap, the a spurt of blood was pushed upwards from the body, onto Dadun’s face and chest.
The Leopard’s eyes immediately went dead, the pupils dilating. The blade of the spear had hit the Wild Cat’s heart, silencing it within seconds.
For a while Dadun only stared at the dead body, thinking. Finally, he spoke.
“May your soul be guided safely to the next world.” Normally a hunter would slice open the heart of his kill, so that the soul could be released and rise to another realm, but Dadun had already opened up the organ, and it wasn’t needed.
With a grunt, Dadun heaved up the leopard over his shoulders and made his way back to the village.
“I hope never have to do that again,” Dadun said to himself, eager to get back to farming.
However, little to Dadun’s knowledge, the gods had far bigger plans for him, and the killing had only started for the newly named ‘man’...
This is going to be a thread with a small collection of stories about a tribe I've made. So far I've only made two short ones, but the series will, with time, contain a few bigguns.
***
The night was warm, a settling air docile enough to put even the greatest of hunters to rest. Giant animals bounded across the ground, mere silhouettes under the majesty of the nightlight, the guardian of dusk, the moon.
Even the carnivorous predators of the land did not stir. The mighty trees that normally towered over man didn't sway, for there was no wind. The faraway waves lazily lapped at the hot sands, only moving because it was compulsory, for if they didn’t, the world would be thrown out of proportion.
It seemed that the small native tribe was the only thing alive for a stretch of miles and miles, and even then the hunters did not hunt, the weavers did not weave, the builders did not build, and the farmers did not farm.
Instead, the entire clan was gathered round a large fire, small flecks of gold coming alight in their eyes, their skin a fierce run of reds, mighty yellows and gold imaginable only in dream.
The village chieftains sat at the foreground of the fire, followed by warriors, hunters and finally the ladies of the tribe accompanied, by their children and other people of the commune.
In front of all of them, the only person facing away from the fire was the village elder. A man who'd fought fights, heard tales and seen things few men would ever see. His eyes were orbs, a sea of blue contained inside the round domes, lapping at the Iris. He was a man that all looked up to and few disrespected. On a night such as this, the villagers and hierarchs would gather to listen to his stories.
"How was the world made?" A young child asked.
The elder chuckled, his smile big enough to fit a hundred antelope.
"Puzzling questions you ask, youth. Even I can only answer small portions of that. Not my ancestors or our past generations. Bits and pieces are yet to be revealed, and past findings have been long forgotten," the elder paused and the child looked down, disappointed, but then the wise man once again spoke.
"Once, many moons and storms and wars ago, the world was uninhabited," the Elder paused and scratched his chin.
"Seeds grew forests, the sky rained sand, forming deserts, the seeds that didn't become trees grew and grew, making mountains of infinite height, and still they grow today."
All of the village inhabitant's eyes were agleam with wonder and intrigue.
"Small rivers became oceans. Fish were the first animals granted life on our world.
Starting out as young cod that grew into great leviathans of the sea. The gods then made beasts like the gazelle and lion, impala and wild dogs. Then insects and birds were introduced. Man and women came, mighty beings with intelligence, able to eat both fruit and meat, able to hunt and forage." The Elder smiled again, his face a veil of warmth and love. Still the tribals listened in both amazement and interest.
"Although men hunted the animals, they only did so to survive, they only picked berries when they were hungry, they lived in harmony and peace with the animals, racing cheetah, wrestling lions, jumping higher than gazelles and swimming faster than the agile crocodile," The elder paused for the third time, tightening his cloak of fur around his body, playing with his long white locks of hair.
"And even to this day," he said, "Even to this day man lives in peace with mammals, forests, birds and beast." He stopped, his gaze suddenly dropping lower than the lowest of seas, with both sadness and disappointment.
"Though I fear that that is all soon to change."
***
Tribe Stories: To Become A Man:
A morning was rare that a frost over would hit where Dadun and his tribe lived. Infrequent, but still they occurred. For this was no ordinary day, this was the day of acceptance, the forthcoming of a man.
With a sharpened spear, an animal hide cloak, wits and strength, Dadun was to leave at Dusk, and come back with the body of a male Leopard… Or not come back at all.
For a man cannot stay a boy forever, and to make the transfer was a tradition. At the age of fifteen, a boy had to make his way into the Savannah and spill the blood of a big cat.
The Hunts were not always over by nightfall, sometimes warriors would not return for days on end, having to make use of what little resources they had.
Dadun was surrounded by long shards of dead savannah grass, like he was running through the mane of a lion.
He quietly shifted his pose, making sure the grass entirely hid him, not letting his presence being made aware. He gripped the long of his spear, pressing his thumb into a gnarl in the carved wood. At the end of the spear was a menacing stone point, bound to the piece of wood by a taught piece of weaving.
The glinting piece of rock was black, once grey, soon to be red. The rock was sharpened to perfection, ideal for stabbing, clubbing and ripping. The spear was Dadun’s defense, his offense, his tool.
The spear was sturdy, long enough for efficient range, and thick enough not to snap easily.
Looking up, Dadun saw a flock of birds all flying in the same direction, cooing and crying to eachother.
A reply was offered but not welcome. A piercing roar that split the air and hushed its surroundings, a vicious growl that rumbled away into quiet, leaving a frightening silence to echo around the savannah. But how could silence echo? That didn’t matter - the Lord of the Jungle had come.
Dadun knew he would have been better off with a trap, but he didn’t have the appropriate tools or time to make one, right now. He would have to make do with the element of surprise.
Dadun had chosen his spot carefully, downwind of any predators so that they couldn’t hear or smell him. It was fortunate for Dadun that the winds had gone in his favour. If he had chosen an upwind spot, even though the savannah grass around him would have muffled his scent, the grass wouldn’t have come close to dimming his scent enough to catch the Leopard unawares.
The Leopard and it’s majestic relatives only needed the smallest fragment of smell to pick up their prey, and a the saying went in Dadun’s tribe, ‘A Leopard can smell a Gazelle from a mile away, it can smell a Warrior from treble that.’
As unrealistic and humorous as it sounded, it was true, as Dadun had learnt in his training.
His training. Instead of getting up at the crack of dawn to help farming in the tribe like he used to, he had to get up at the crack of dawn to be bruised and beaten, to practice in the arts of a warrior, to learn how to kill.
Despite what Aden, his instructor had done to him, Dadun knew that if he hadn’t trained, the Leopard would have done even worse to him. But now he was confident he would slay the big cat, but he didn’t let his guard slip. He was aware that even though he had had learnt to kill, the Leopard was equally as strong as him, if not stronger. He knew it was as smart and efficient a killer as him.
Tugging his cloak up so it kept his shoulders and body warm, Dadun continued to wait, anticipating on what was to come.
Midday fell across the plains, and the sun was at it’s highest. The rare morning frost had melted, leaving a sweltering heat sapped the energy and life from the savannah and it’s animals. It was at this time that the Leopard would come to it’s home.
Dadun had situated himself close to a Baobab tree, a tree with a fat trunk that stored water inside itself.
Dadun’s instructor had said that the Leopard came to the tree for its water, it’s shade and the view it gave of the plains.
Dadun had been patient, five hours of lying in wait of the large Predator, listening, and thinking.
Within minutes, Dadun was alerted by soft grunts and heavy, distorted breathing. He froze; it was so close, on the other side of the thin layer of grass. Although the Savannah grass totally hid him, Dadun felt naked, exposed, like the Leopard could see straight through the shelter to him.
He grasped his spear so hard that his knuckles went white and readied himself, he heard the Leopard scamper up the tree and settle on a branch. Soft crunching and slurping noises came from the Baobab. The Leopard was digging into its kill.
He imagined the dead animal’s carcass, it would most definitely have two puncture wounds in its neck, and a disturbing gash in its stomach where the Leopard was ploughing into it.
In time, the Leopard finished its meal and hopped down from the tree. Dadun waited patiently, he had to rely entirely by his sense of sound.
The Leopard walked past Dadun, soft thuds pressing into the dry and cracked earth. As the Leopard walked past Dadun, he lunged out from his hiding spot, a swish as the grass settled.
The Leopard instinctively rotated, snarling at Dadun. Dadun raised his spear slowly, making no sudden moves. The Leopard was three or so meters away from him, waiting for Dadun to make the first move.
For a while the pair did nothing, then without any notice, the Leopard lunged closing the space between Dadun and himself.
Dadun rolled out of the way, the Leopard quickly turned and made another run.
Before Dadun could get back up, the Leopard jumped at him again, this time landing on top of him. It’s face closed to meet his, and Dadun saw the animal in its eyes.
The pupils were thin and sharp, like the blade of a knife. It’s pupils were dark brown, with coatings and speckles of blood red.
Its mouth was wide open, showing two rows of sharp teeth. There was foam coming from it’s mouth, coloured red from it’s last meal. The breath was unbearable. It was rank, hot, and Dadun tried to move his head, but it was pinned.
Before the Leopard had time to strike him again, Dadun brought up his spear and jabbed it into the Leopard’s leg. It shrieked, and its eyes went wide. It jumped off. Dadun rose up. The Leopard blocked out all thoughts of pain and backed away. Dadun raised his spear. Again, the Leopard leapt at him. Dadun brought up his spear to intercept the Cat, and it hit its target. The blade of the spear tore into the Leopards underbelly as it left the ground. It tore through the tissue of the Leopard’s underbelly.
Small drops of blood splashed into Dadun’s eyes, but he took no notice of it. He heard a heavy thud behind him and he turned. The Leopard was sprawled across the ground, blood steadily flowing from it’s stomach at the speed of a small stream.
If the Leopard felt pain, it didn’t show it, instead it attempted to get up, trying to finish off its assailant before it inevitably died. Dadun almost felt regret for the beast, it hadn’t done anything to him, it was a natural born Predator, and predators weren’t meant to end their lives being prey.
Dadun shrugged it was either him or the Leopard. The least he could do was give the Leopard a mercy.
Warily, he walked over to it. Stopping by it’s side, he raised his spear, found where he was looking for and thrust it deep into the animal’s ribcage. He heard a snap, the a spurt of blood was pushed upwards from the body, onto Dadun’s face and chest.
The Leopard’s eyes immediately went dead, the pupils dilating. The blade of the spear had hit the Wild Cat’s heart, silencing it within seconds.
For a while Dadun only stared at the dead body, thinking. Finally, he spoke.
“May your soul be guided safely to the next world.” Normally a hunter would slice open the heart of his kill, so that the soul could be released and rise to another realm, but Dadun had already opened up the organ, and it wasn’t needed.
With a grunt, Dadun heaved up the leopard over his shoulders and made his way back to the village.
“I hope never have to do that again,” Dadun said to himself, eager to get back to farming.
However, little to Dadun’s knowledge, the gods had far bigger plans for him, and the killing had only started for the newly named ‘man’...
