the bushes, a pair of ice-blue eyes watched Shadarii in malicious silence. A white tail stirred, then slowly sank into the shadows and disappeared.
***
The dawn burned cold and bitter in the forest mists. Zhukora breathed in its beauty and felt the life flow through her veins. Her hunting group ranged the forest all around her; for a solid week they had lived off the land, binding themselves together in a grim, determined fellowship.
One week. One week since her humiliation. The young folk of the clan had turned away from their elders, finally rejecting the ancient regime. They came to Zhukora’s hearth fire in the evening just to bask within her glow, and a dozen folk had clamoured to join the Skull-Wings. Zhukora thrilled as a strange power flooded into her hands.
The people needed her. When she smiled, the men walked taller, the women squared their shoulders and lifted their heads high. Zhukora had become their symbol of defiance.
The hunters made a strange, grim spectacle as they glided through the trees. Each man and woman wore tough leaf-leathers to protect them from forest thorns, while a pack across their chests held the few supplies they needed to survive. A dao, a woomera and a wicked bunch of spears made for a deadly armament. These were the elite - Zhukora’s chosen few. The nobles could keep their traditions and their rules; the trust of one of these common hunters was worth more than all the jewels in the sky. Zhukora looked out across her chosen ones and felt a thrill of love.
It felt good to be far from the villages. Zhukora’s headaches had driven her out into the dark. The councils had betrayed them all, and too few people had the eyes to see. They listened to the elders and believed the lies they told. A disaster was coming and the councils would do nothing! Zhukora felt helpless before the people’s apathy.
The hunt had led her high up into the deserted peaks. The forest’s food supples were drying up, and all the game had gone. Zhukora meandered along forgotten ïsha trails as she lead her teams in search.
A whistle trilled from somewhere in the ferns, calling for Zhukora’s personal attention. The woman flicked out her wings and dove silently off into the fog.
Daimïru flew behind her; all was as it should be.
The women speared through the mist, their wings cutting swathes of phosphorescence in their wakes. Zhukora banked past a looming tree trunk and swirled down beside her forward scouts.
The man knelt beside a massive something that gleamed against the forest floor. Smooth green stone had been carved into shapes; there was something like a nose and eyes, the broken tips of wings…
It was a buried statue!
Zhukora knelt down and touched the thing with marvelling hands. A life-sized Kashra had been buried neck-deep in the mould. The artistic style seemed crude and barbarous - an object from the uncultured ages past.
The other hunters gathered as Daimïru took her dao and dug down into the dirt. She uncovered the statue’s shoulders, chest and breasts. The girl exhausted herself long before she reached the statue’s waist.
Curious; still, it might look good outside the lodge. Zhukora stroked her muzzle and wondered whether it was too heavy to be carried home, until her train of thought was disturbed by another urgent call.
“Hunt leader! Another one!”
A second statue stood, facing the first. Hunters spread out and began scratching at the mould.
“Here’s another!”
“And here! Another!
Someone had found a third - and then a fourth, a fifth, a sixth dwindling off into the gloom. The mist held hundreds of shapes, ranked into a silent avenue.
Zhukora gazed along the lines of statues and signalled her followers aloft.
“Follow; we’ll see where this leads.”
Great wings stirred as the hunters drifted quietly in the mist. Beneath them the lines of statues led their way into the mountain peaks - up into a land of bitter winds and barren, folded rocks. Finally the
***
The dawn burned cold and bitter in the forest mists. Zhukora breathed in its beauty and felt the life flow through her veins. Her hunting group ranged the forest all around her; for a solid week they had lived off the land, binding themselves together in a grim, determined fellowship.
One week. One week since her humiliation. The young folk of the clan had turned away from their elders, finally rejecting the ancient regime. They came to Zhukora’s hearth fire in the evening just to bask within her glow, and a dozen folk had clamoured to join the Skull-Wings. Zhukora thrilled as a strange power flooded into her hands.
The people needed her. When she smiled, the men walked taller, the women squared their shoulders and lifted their heads high. Zhukora had become their symbol of defiance.
The hunters made a strange, grim spectacle as they glided through the trees. Each man and woman wore tough leaf-leathers to protect them from forest thorns, while a pack across their chests held the few supplies they needed to survive. A dao, a woomera and a wicked bunch of spears made for a deadly armament. These were the elite - Zhukora’s chosen few. The nobles could keep their traditions and their rules; the trust of one of these common hunters was worth more than all the jewels in the sky. Zhukora looked out across her chosen ones and felt a thrill of love.
It felt good to be far from the villages. Zhukora’s headaches had driven her out into the dark. The councils had betrayed them all, and too few people had the eyes to see. They listened to the elders and believed the lies they told. A disaster was coming and the councils would do nothing! Zhukora felt helpless before the people’s apathy.
The hunt had led her high up into the deserted peaks. The forest’s food supples were drying up, and all the game had gone. Zhukora meandered along forgotten ïsha trails as she lead her teams in search.
A whistle trilled from somewhere in the ferns, calling for Zhukora’s personal attention. The woman flicked out her wings and dove silently off into the fog.
Daimïru flew behind her; all was as it should be.
The women speared through the mist, their wings cutting swathes of phosphorescence in their wakes. Zhukora banked past a looming tree trunk and swirled down beside her forward scouts.
The man knelt beside a massive something that gleamed against the forest floor. Smooth green stone had been carved into shapes; there was something like a nose and eyes, the broken tips of wings…
It was a buried statue!
Zhukora knelt down and touched the thing with marvelling hands. A life-sized Kashra had been buried neck-deep in the mould. The artistic style seemed crude and barbarous - an object from the uncultured ages past.
The other hunters gathered as Daimïru took her dao and dug down into the dirt. She uncovered the statue’s shoulders, chest and breasts. The girl exhausted herself long before she reached the statue’s waist.
Curious; still, it might look good outside the lodge. Zhukora stroked her muzzle and wondered whether it was too heavy to be carried home, until her train of thought was disturbed by another urgent call.
“Hunt leader! Another one!”
A second statue stood, facing the first. Hunters spread out and began scratching at the mould.
“Here’s another!”
“And here! Another!
Someone had found a third - and then a fourth, a fifth, a sixth dwindling off into the gloom. The mist held hundreds of shapes, ranked into a silent avenue.
Zhukora gazed along the lines of statues and signalled her followers aloft.
“Follow; we’ll see where this leads.”
Great wings stirred as the hunters drifted quietly in the mist. Beneath them the lines of statues led their way into the mountain peaks - up into a land of bitter winds and barren, folded rocks. Finally the
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