Following the trails of the doctor, The Aractanthrope never expected to confront a person who carried the eight-pointed star from the Isotoxal octagram constellation, the Crocotta clan’s famous crest.
In his past, he easily could detect the stigma of their particular dangerous scents and the traces that they left purposely on their territories. He always preferred to avoid them. It wasn’t because he was weak, but because he learned through long, painful experiences that even if he could hold a fight against one of them, it didn’t mean he could do the same with two or more.
As a result, avoiding them was the better choice he would choose.
But now, how he could avoid them when he couldn’t even sense their presence? The sequels of his ancient injuries showed to be serious with each critical encounter.
Yet, he felt relieved when his gut feeling was correct. The odd albino mongrel who somehow made him remember his old days in Mt Ninurta before the fall, this mongrel actually has a linkage with the Crocotta clan.
The big man looked at the young warrior clothed in light black armor designed for quick movements rather than defense. He was approaching him, despite he was nearly half his size, he didn’t show any sign of hesitation or fear.
The unisex fighting uniform along with the flying goggles that have tinted lenses which he wore, made it hard for the Aractanthrope to distinguish if he was a male or female based on his body shape.
The unidentified stranger ceased his advance and stood while his hands were hidden behind his back, defenseless in a display of the blind confidence of his own superiority.
When the two of them got to a comfortable distance, they engaged in a short quest of determination of each other degree of hostility and possible weak points that could play a vital element, if a sudden confrontation would break in.
In these decisive few seconds, the unknown warrior took off the flying goggles and let them dangle from his neck. His pale yellow eyes were glittering with assuredness and dominance. But what brought the Aractanthrope to figure out his identity was the strand of white hair in his right temple, also the white hair of the eyebrow, and the white eyelashes of his right eye that intervened with the darkness of his skin.
The big man whispered in his head in confusion. This must be the Crocotta, known as the void ambassador. The one who was famous for turning about a tenth of the Ea forest into a vacuum and left its gravitational borders to swallow every living being who happened to get near its edges. It was a notorious accident dated approximately ten years ago that made the regional council gather in less than a week.
Isidore wondered, maybe this was a Crocotta territory, but how did this reaper see through the barrier and managed to quietly trace past it without sending any soul to the other world?
“A Crocotta.” Isidor voiced in an audible voice, avoiding to use any nickname to address him.
“This is the Cocrotta’s territory. Who are you?”
The voice was a bit unclear and sounded mechanical as well as fake, it gave Isidore the impression that this person wanted to mask his identity no matter what.
The young warrior stepped forward, anchoring his center of gravity on his advanced right leg. His eyebrows raised upward, revealing the coldness that was built in his pupils. And nevertheless, in his preparation, he didn’t lose his calmness while waiting for the smallest sign remarking a peaceful or a hostile interaction. Maybe the body language of the anonymous Aractanthrope suggested to his receptors that there was no pressing danger to wage a quick attack.
The most important matter in any fight was the first few moments when an experienced fighter evaluates his opponent and decides what are the best opening moves. It seemed to Isidore that this reaper understood and applied this rule skillfully, as he didn’t exploit his death waves blindly in the air.
The deposition this young warrior chose to hold made him an object of admiration by Isidore since the rumors he had heard about the Crocotta ambassador of the void were degrading him to a mere slaughtering tool.
He lifted his hands in the air, and before he could say anything, he heard him declaring with the same mechanical voice, but less fake than the first time: “A Kerit? It’s really a Kerit. What is a Kerit doing in our territory?”
A female.
Could it be this was an aftereffect of a recent shape-shifting effect?
The Aractanthrope couldn’t decide. But for sure, this voice somehow stood midway between femininity and masculinity, however, its weight more on the feminine side.
After this statement, Isidore directly noticed the softness that overwhelmed the warrior’s stiffened experience as the uncertainty enveloped his thinking. He also felt the tension that was built within his limbs, slowly started to decline.
The confidence that this Crocotta showed at the beginning bleached under the stream of the incertitude. But the eyes, that pale yellow color still holding the same stubbornness, demanding more explanation to be convinced: “Who are you? And how did you break into this protected domain?”
Indeed, this voice was more feminine. So the Crocotta ambassador of the void is a female…
Isidore hesitated to give up on her at first, yet in the end, he resolved to be more honest. Not only to make himself credible to her but as well to prove to himself that he still can be well versed despite his grave disability. “Do not rush my lady. The truth is simpler than what it looks.”
The Aractanthrope waited for a reaction, waited for an irrational rushed act. His wait was long. He then resumed without giving much thought to the rumors he had heard about those who were nicknamed after the death: “To be honest with you, I am just a victim who got lured to this place then get himself stuck here because of his own stupidity and misjudgment. If you wish to kill me right now, right here, I can only blame it on my own incompetence.”
He said, as he looked at her face, which features didn’t change much. Still holding the same expression that meant: You still didn’t explain clearly what I wanted to know.
Thus, he resumed:
“How long it was? One year, two years, or maybe more…
I got lured to the borders of this barrier by a fake map. I didn’t discover that it was trapped until I suffered from a sneak attack and sustained heavy injuries.
I wasn’t in good shape when I arrived at this village, and when I came to walk on my legs again, I tried hundreds, thousands of times to get away from here without success. Through the time I came to understand that this must be a selective one-way barrier, and whoever crafted it must be a grapheme lore user, thus I came to a final understanding that the only way out is either to get permission from the one who crafted the barrier or I must kill him to destroy it and be free.
My plan was to break free. It went into motion a few months ago when I saw a strange person enter the tavern. Neither a Chimera nor a polymorph. At first, I thought he was just wearing a mask to fulfill whatever role he was playing, but when I approached him, I got shocked and perceived that the matter is more complicated than I have imagined it at first.”
The long explanation made the big man gasp for the air. And as he exhaled, he remarked that the warrior was retreating her right leg to take a less aggressive position. She bowed her head, observing the melting ice under her feet, then she sluggishly looked forward to the man in front of her. The gaze in her pale yellow eyes never lost its glow. And the moment they reconnected, the Kerit felt a sudden urge to say more, to accuse her, to blame her, maybe he could succeed to shatter some of her arrogance: “I do not know your reasons, but what you are doing is not just a sin, raising deads is a forbidden sin by all of our divine laws and for a various legit reason.”
His words were like a soft breeze, tackling her face or how he thought since she didn’t show any serious reaction. She just pouted her lips and declared: “I see… if you have recognized him, it means that you have known him before… Right?”
The big man shut up, his previous urges disappeared. And only halted in his place when he declared as his voice filled with agony: “Yes, he is dead now.”
“No, I am not committing any forbidden sin, neither this person is dead.” Savannah declared, shaking down the accusation after she confirmed that this Kerit knew Rokah, well, the original one to be more accurate.
“No way this one looked like a cheap rotten copy of the original?”
“He is not the same person you had known?”
“No.”
