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That sign they’ve laid out in the crops isn’t a real attempt at being rescued. It’s a hopeful waste of time which will never be seen by anyone who actually cares. I have never, in my many years of existence, felt sorry for my prey. I have never empathized with them. There has only ever been something organic between me and what I want. But right now, I do feel the stirrings of empathy. I squash them immediately. Now is not the time to start caring about who I kill.
I focus on the fact that there are three of them down here. I should wait until they are all in the same place. Then they can be dispatched all at once. If I attack now, I risk being flanked by the third. This should be done quickly and it should be done without mess. It would be terrible if humans were to see these creatures, worse, if they saw both the warboys and me killing them. This is one battle which will have to happen in silent darkness.
While I think, they are deciding to go after the third one, who apparently went out to scout the area. I am surprised at how restrained they are being. I would have thought they would go crashing into the first human settlement they found and demand that the humans serve them.
I trail them as they head out on a path made by their third member. I am surprised they don’t seem to notice my presence. They have excellent senses, and they are accustomed to doing battle with my kind. I expect them to turn at any moment and charge at me, the two of them making for potentially dangerous foes. The idea of them doing that fills me with excitement. It has been too long since I indulged in real physical battle. I need to unleash myself on something worthy, something that can fight back, do real damage.
They go deeper into the bush, their words lost to me as I keep my distance. I wonder if they are trying to set a trap for me, if the previous argument was nothing more than a ruse. I am aware that I am moving further and further away from Tres with every step, and I am concerned for her. She has still not impressed me with her will to live, and I do not know if she is capable of running and hiding, let alone fighting, if she were to encounter hostility.
A cry ahead of me snaps my thoughts away from Tres. There is real anguish in that sound, and it comes from both the warboys. They are howling, a sound which seems to make the trees rustle with sympathy.
I approach them slowly. They are crouched over the body of a slain creature in the middle of a clearing. At first I am confused as to the reason they seem upset, then I realized that the butchered figure on the ground is not an animal. It is one of them.
A dead warboy. I have not seen many of those in my time, and never butchered like this one.
The humans must have hunted it down and slain it. Tres tried to warn me that such a thing was possible, but I would never have believed it if not for the fact that I am seeing it first hand.
The two warboys circle around the body of their third. He is not merely dead. He has been decapitated. The hands and feet have been taken as well. The legs and arms are tied down to stakes, suggesting that the humans tied the warboy down while he was still alive and butchered him.
It is a deeply unsettling sight. This is the dark side of humanity, the side which is so easy to forget about or ignore when I focus only on the sweetness that is Tres. This is a cruel little species, soft and weak, but capable of nastiness unlike any other.
I have never once considered humans to be dangerous. I still don’t truly consider them a threat, but I admit I am now forced to consider them with more respect. They are savages with nothing but stone chipped tools to bring down their prey. Scythkin have failed to prevail in battle against warboys before, so the fact that a small tribe of human males managed to bring one down is almost unthinkable.
“Flenders,” one of the warboys says. “They took his head. They carved out his chest. They have butchered him like an animal.”
“How could they have bested him? They are so weak and so primitive.”
The other warboy voices the same question I have. This is a scene of brutality a scythkin would be proud to lay claim to. Somewhere, the humans have trophies taken from the warboy. They have head, hands, and feet. I have noticed that humans have a penchant for imbuing objects with magical significance, pieces of power. I have no doubt that those parts are already being celebrated in some village somewhere. Perhaps even the very same one I took watch over.
