Solo Adaptation

[Colt]

51st of winter, 515 a.v.
early morning

They awoke before dawn, scattering dirt and mud into the remainders of the bonfire and then leaving the scraps of the previous night’s feast to be consumed by the jungle. It was a short affair, and they were on the move within minutes of waking up; the forest was still dark and foreboding, but the Myrians navigated it as if nothing was different.

Shahar felt sick. It wasn’t the same as scurvy, which made his bones ache and his stomach turn; there was no physical ailment that was making him feel unwell. It was last night that made his throat tighten. It was his mind that was sickened by what had happened, not his body; his physical stomach felt stronger than ever, filled with the first meat he’d had in what felt like years. Meat was strong food, and he had recovered enough to stomach it––crave it, even. His body was thriving on last night’s feast.

But his mind was screaming at his stomach to vomit, to rid himself of what he had done. It is meat, his body said, and there was no reason to let it go. But it’s human! his mind repeated, over and over.

His body did not listen. His body did not care. The Myrians would glance at him occasionally, questions in the lines of their body, and would try to hide their amused smiles. They could tell that it had been his first human flesh. They were wondering if he could keep it down.

They reached the village just as the sun was staining the sky gray. Most of the villagers were still asleep, but the hunting party seemed not to care; they all split up to find their various tasks, because he was learning that while Myrians were many things, they were not lazy. There were always things to do, even in the morning.

And he had his own tasks to attend to. He hadn’t planned on staying out all night; the traders would be leaving today with the horses, and he needed to go with them. Shahar was good with horses, and they knew it; he would be paid for keeping their merchandise under control until they reached someplace called “Taloba,” which was apparently a great city that lay deep in the jungle. He needed to get to the horses and rouse them for the journey, and he needed to gather the others. There were so many things he needed to do, and he shifted all of his focus to what lay ahead.

If he focused, he wouldn’t have to think about what he had already done.

[Colt]

The animals were penned on the outskirts of the village, although they were close enough the the main hub that predators would think twice about taking a pass at them. They were a cluttered mix of horses and zibri, most of them in their prime; the young and old had not survived the trip over. They were uneasy when he approached, but they were not as alarmed as they had previously been; this was a strange land, and they were surrounded by strange people that smelled of blood, but they knew that staying where they were would bring them the least harm.

Snow padded quietly behind him, aware of his churning emotions and doing her best to stay close without getting too close. She, too, had eaten the flesh of the pirate the night before, but she did not have the same mental barriers that he did; she had killed men before, and to eat something she had killed was not a strange thought at all. But she sensed his anxiety at what had happened at the bonfire, and gave him his space.

There was more than one head that looked up when he approached. He signaled for Snow to not get close to the animals and ducked his way into the pen. The gentle reassurance on his shoulders was familiar to all that lay eyes on him; a young stallion whinnied and pranced a few steps closer, then a few steps back; he recognized Shahar as Drykas, but was too on edge to pursue anything more.

That was Shahar’s job, then.

Dropping his shoulders non-threateningly, Shahar approached the stallion from a wide, easy-to-see angle with his hands outstretched. The stallion allowed him to touch his side, and although the Dawnwhisper did not have the tools to properly care for the horse, he could still look him over for signs of injury or sickness.

The stallion’s hooves were filled to the brim with mud and dead leaves, but it was all soft enough to be gouged out with a finger. His winter fur had fallen out during the journey over, so he would probably be safe from heatstroke when they got moving. He was thin, of course, but the Myrians had supplied the herd with enough feed to keep them from dropping of exhausted; he was less sluggish now that he had actual food in him, which meant that he was at least able to recover. Shahar did not know enough to care for a sick or injured horse, no more than he would a sick or injured person; he needed to do his best to make sure that the herd avoided as much damage as possible. This stallion, at least, was marginally sound.

Making his way through the herd of thirty or so animals, Shahar paused at every horse and zibri to examine them for problems. The one that stood alive before him were all the animals that had been hardy enough to make the journey and wise enough to avoid danger; a great many of them were hungry and weak, but few of them were actually in decline.

But a zibri on the far edge of the pen was dead. Examining it closely, Shahar could not even begin to fathom what it was that had been the final straw; had this zibri eaten something poisonous, or been bitten by something venomous, or had the strain of the journey simply been too much to survive? There was no way for him to know.

[Colt]

Snow’s alert informed him of something amiss outside the pen, followed by a shrill chorus of frightened whinnies and brays as the herd shied away from the far edge of the enclosure. Shahar straightened from the dead zibri, brushed his hands off and moved to investigate; he wasn’t really worried about anything outright dangerous; the Village of the Shining Scales was well defended.

And indeed, it was a Myrian who was distressing the animals. Shahar dipped his head to acknowledge her presence, then set about to calming down his charges. The horses were first, reassured with calm touches and firm guidance to a different area of the pen that would not require them to be close to the Myrian. When they weren’t shoving each other for space, he returned to give the visitor a proper acknowledgement.

“Hello,” he said, respectful greeting. He didn’t expect her to understand Pavi, but the subtle gesture of a nod was enough to get his point across.

She said two words in her native tongue––“Hello,” he assumed, and then his Myrian-name––and then backed it up with Common. “Hello,” she said, even attempting a warped mimicry of his Signs. The other word he did not know was one he was becoming familiar with in usage, if not meaning; all the Myrians he came across called him that same word, almost like a tease.

“Hello,” Shahar tried to repeat her native-word. “Hello?” If he was going to be working with them, it would be best to learn how to communicate.

She tilted her head, then nodded. “Yes,” she replied. He knew that word from Itxec. “Yes, hello, hello.”

“Thank you,” Shahar returned. Thank you. “Thanks?”

She seemed to understand, and stepped around him to point at the herd. “Move?” she asked. “You, they, move, today? You move horses soon?”

“Horses?” Shahar repeated. He pointed at the herd, too. “That, horses?”

She nodded. “Four-leg, ride on, make noise––” she did a strange impression of a neigh. Yes, she meant horses.

“I…” he took a breath. He ran through the few words Itxec had taught him. “Yes… I… move… horses… soon.”

“Yes. Soon, move, all, we come, others, all move together.”

“Move, Taloba?”

“Yes.”

He needed to get the horses ready to move, because soon the rest of the trading party would arrive and they would set out for Taloba.

[Colt]

For the most part, the Myrian left him to it. She lingered to watch, though, as he wove through the herd again and tossed off signs of preparation, intent to move; it was the same routine he practiced with his own herd, when the family––

––he choked up, unprepared for where that thought was going, and brought himself firmly back to reality. If he looked to the past, he would drown. He couldn’t afford that; he had to get the herd ready to move, and to do that he had to turn away from the pain of his situation and focus on nothing but the practical facts. Intent to move. Get ready.

They were congregating on a different section of the pen now, pressing up against the fencing in a way Shahar had never seen them do before. There was something outside the pen, something much taller than either horse or zibri––something bronze-skinned and lumpy.

Ashta?

The little elephant was reaching out to the animals inside the pen, touching them with her trunk, and they were responding. Some of the younger horses reached back with outstretched muzzles, but in any case, none of them seemed to fear Ashta like they feared the Myrians. Ashta. That was what the Myrians called her, although Shahar couldn’t tell if that was her name or simply what she was. He had seen her before; she had been there when he first left Itxec’s hut. She had allowed him to lean on her as he became familiar with the bright sun and noise of the rainforest.

And now she was nosing around his animals.

Tilting his head in mild bemusement, Shahar made his way over to where Ashta was pushing past the fence. She took notice almost immediately and raised her head, flapping her ears in excitement; as soon as he was within distance, she reached out with her trunk to touch his arm. Her emotions were a flurry of curiosity, greeting, friendly, happy to see you; it was an unexpected wave of positivity that was not unlike that of a child.

He set a hand on her trunk, and even that simple action turned into more than he had bargained for; she snaked her nose around almost the entirety of his forearm, still flapping her ears––then just turned around and began to walk away, pulling him along as if she’d forgotten there was a fence between them. Shahar had to scramble over the walls of the pen to avoid simply smashing into them.

The Myrian was laughing, he could hear, and in a few moments he could turn enough to shoot a sardonic glare her way. It was made even easier by the fact that Ashta seemed to want to interact with the Myrian, too, and pulled the Dawnwhisper along the outside of the pen until the two of them reached the woman watching.

“You…” She couldn’t even get her words together. Instead, she walked up to Ashta and greeted her with a rub to the head.

And then the Myrian climbed into Ashta’s back like it was nothing but a set of stairs.

“Come,” she said to the dumbfounded Witch. “Up, ride. Ashta like you. Ashta ride for you.” She offered a hand. Shahar looked at her hand, looked at Ashta, then shrugged and placed his hand in hers.

[Colt]

Shahar grunted as he was hauled by the wrist onto Ashta’s back. He wasn’t even hauled the whole way; his guide only put in enough effort to drape him over the creature’s back, then left him to struggle the rest of the way on his own. It took more than a few moments, and he almost fell off at first; Ashta’s back was so wide. It wasn’t like a horse’s back where he could simply swing a leg over and sit; it was more like a small hill, one that just so happened to slope into a cliff that he had to overcome.

The Myrian––he didn’t know her name, but he knew her face––watched him with an amused smile. He ignored her, and managed to drag himself upright on top of Ashta.

“Yes,” she said. “Good. Now, you, come, here.” She gestured for him to move forward, to where she herself was sitting on Ashta’s shoulders with her legs on either side, framing Ashta’s thick neck.

Hesitantly, Shahar moved up until he was directly behind his guide. He paused there, uncertain as to whether or not it was a good idea to touch her, and she soon became impatient; she grabbed his knee and pulled him the last few inches, ignoring his uncomfortable hiss. He ended up snug behind her––Gods, she was tall––with his legs dangling right behind hers in the shadow of Ashta’s enormous ears.

The closeness of their bodies allowed him to feel what she was doing; the Myrian swung her feet back and tapped Ashta lightly on the shoulders, and the animal whuffed loudly and began to walk. The motion was completely foriegn to Shahar, totally unlike anything he had ever ridden before; Ashta’s entire body felt like it swayed miles and miles to either side, and he was certain that he would have fallen off if he had not been seated in that exact spot.

The Myrian called for his attention, using the foreign word that he was learning to be his name. He needed to figure out what it meant, but for now, she wanted his attention.

She her left hand to let him know she wanted him to watch, then set it on the crown of Ashta’s left ear and stroked softly. Ashta angled to the left. She raised her right hand for attention, and did the same thing. Ashta moved to the right. The ears… were the ears how a rider directed the animal.

“You,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “You, ride, you hands.”

She wanted him to do it? Shahar frowned in uncertainty, but she was adamant; when Ashta began to slow down, she pointedly elbowed him in the ribs.

“Ride,” she commanded.

[Colt]

Ride. The word itself was simple enough in meaning, especially to a Drykas; in practice, though, he was a novice all over again.

Mustering up his courage, the Witch placed a hand on Ashta’s left ear. To his amazement, the creature moved to the left––although it had already slowed down and was continuing to do so, and so it was only a moment or so before it stopped entirely.

He looked questioningly at his mentor, but she refused to even meet his eyes. He would be figuring this out on his own.

What had she done to move it forward? Tap its shoulders? That wasn’t too entirely different from how the Drykas would urge a horse forward, except that his heels were moving backwards instead of inwards. He took a deep breath and swung his heels back. Just a tap…

Ashta perked up and started walking again, continuing to sway to the left since his hand remained on her ear. Around the corral of zibri and horses they walked, steady and unhurried. When he removed his hand Ashta walked in a straight line, but he wanted to stay near the corral so he put his hand back and directed her back in that direction.

“Yes,” his mentor said approvingly. And then again she used that word, the word that all the others used for him––the word that was becoming his name to the Myrians.

Shahar repeated the word back to her, trying to fit his tongue around the harsh and guttural syllables.

She twisted and looked back at him. “What?”

He repeated the word. “That, what is? Word? What word?”

She laughed, then turned to the corral and pointed. “Horses. Horses, you know?”

He nodded. “Horses... yes.”

“Stallion, boy horse, boy horse. Stallion.”

Alright, but that wasn’t what everyone was calling him. “Stallion. Big boy horse, little boy horse?”

“Stallion is big boy horse. Father horse.” She paused to let that sink in. “Mare. Girl horse. Big girl horse, mother horse.”

“Mare, girl horse, stallion, boy horse. Yes.” Understanding. Neither of them were familiar. Though. Neither of them were that particular word he was looking for.

“Foal. Little horse, child horse.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Both.”

He took a moment to try stringing the words together. “Stallion… and mare… make foal.”

She nodded. “Yes. Sometimes make filly, little girl horse. Filly, same as foal, but girl foal.”

“Stallion and mare make foal, sometimes filly, girl foal. What not filly? What boy foal?”

She smiled, and gave him the word. “Colt. Boy foal is colt.”

It was the word. The word all the Myrians referred to him as. It was what they said when they pointed at him, or waved for his attention, or stared at his Phylonura.

The Myrians were calling him a Colt.

In the grand scheme of things he could have been called, it wasn’t the worst. Amongst his own people, it was a childish thing to call someone. No doubt it was childish to the Myrians as well, although he could see that they didn’t have the same relationship with horses as his people did. The closest thing they had was how the Scarred One treated her tiger, and how her tiger treated her back. They were not Drykas; they would not have the same feelings around certain words that he did.

But as a Drykas, being called a Colt wasn’t all that bad.

[Colt]

There was more than one Myrian slinking out of the village. Although Shahar couldn’t see the sun, he could at least see that the light was increasing. Members of the traveling party were slowly gathering within sighting distance of the corral, each laden with a small collection of essentials. The lot of them were traveling lightly, that was for certain, although Shahar couldn’t really throw stones at that; he himself was bringing along all his worldly possessions, which consisted of half-cracked boots, a ragged pair of breeches, a cutlass, a gauntlet and an armband. He didn’t even have a waterskin, but since the Myrians had assigned him to work the herd as they made their way through the jungle, he assumed that they would invest resources in his survival, and the survival of his companions.

Erikal and Kyla were absent, though. Shahar looked for them, but did not find them; were they late? They couldn't afford that; they had to get moving today if they were to get anywhere. The Myrian trading party would not wait for them. Perhaps they just needed a few more minutes.

Shahar lifted his hands from Ashta’s ears; she had slowed down by herself before, and he assumed she would do so again. She took a few more steps, but then gradually lost speed; a few more moments and she meandered to a halt. Once he was confident that she wouldn’t move out from under him, he set himself to dismounting––a task that was neither easy nor graceful. He didn’t dismount so much as he simply stopped being on top of her, meaning that he swung one leg over her side and clumsily slid to the ground in an uncoordinated heap.

The few Myrians that had arrived in time to see him didn’t even try to hide their laughter. “Colt,” they called him, although he could not pick up the rest of what they were saying about him. No doubt making jokes.

There wasn’t time to dwell, though; if the rest of the party got here soon, then the herd needed to be ready. The Witch hopped the fence, reiterating his intent to move and time to get ready. The herd didn’t like it, not one bit, but that was why he was here––he needed to get them moving no matter how they felt on the matter.

“Alright,” friends, protection, I am leader, “let’s get up. Easy, now, it’s time to go.” He moved amongst them, running his hands over the more docile ones and simply touching others, for no other reason than to establish physical contact. Some moved closer, others moved away, but all would follow eventually. He needed a plan.

If he could just get through to the less intelligent ones, that would be a start. The zibri, and the bulls would probably be best; if he could get the bulls to follow him, the cows would follow the bulls. If the zibri left the corral, then the horses would surely follow; there were more semes than striders, and the striders would be the least happy about what they had to do––but if the entire herd was moving, then they would almost certainly rather follow than be left behind.

To the bulls he went, then, one by one, stroking heads and sending reassurances in Nura; their fear and aggression were layered thickly in the lines of their bodies, but he could still get through to them––he could get them to trust him.

And if he could get them to trust him, he could get them to obey.

[Colt]

The herd was responding, slowly; at least some of the cows were following the bulls, and the rest seemed to be in the midst of making a decision. Surprisingly, it was Ashta that made it easier; the elephant was watching him and coming to observe from just outside the pen, where more than one horse and zibri paused to interact with her; in this strange jungle and culture, they seemed to trust Ashta despite the odds. Could he use Ashta to get them out of the pen?

“Colt.”

Suddenly, there was no time to dwell on it; someone was calling his name, and he turned in something resembling irritation; the party was gathering, and they were getting ready to leave––what was it now?

It was Itxec.

That gave Shahar pause. He automatically asked what’s wrong, even though he knew it wouldn’t be understood. The medicine man’s face was set in a dire expression, and he was gesturing. Come, his hands were saying; he didn’t need Grassland Sign to make that known. Snow looked up from where she had lain down in the shade of a building, as uncertain and nervous as her partner.

Hesitantly, Shahar glanced around at the other Myrians congregating outside the pen. More than one was watching him in turn, or watching Itxec; this was a surprise to them, as well. Something was amiss.

Shahar ducked out of the corral just as Itxec was waving over the woman who had helped him ride Ashta. Would she translate? Itxec didn’t seem to speak a word of Common.

“Itxec, says help,” his mentor said. “Your hurt girl, red hair, problem.”

Shahar swallowed down a lump in his throat. “What is, what help? Problem?”

Itxec shook his head and turned to walk away, gesturing for Shahar and the translator to follow. Shahar took a moment, but followed silently. With a low whine of uneasiness, Snow stood and followed, tucking herself close enough to the Witch’s side for him to run comforting fingers through her fur. Was he comforting her, or himself? He couldn’t tell. Silently, they followed. Within a few moments, they were also being followed by a not-so-silent Ashta. Through the outskirts of the village they went, to Ixec’s medicine-hut; from inside, Shahar could hear tearful Pavi as Kyla tried to reassure her son of something.

The Drykas woman looked up as all three entered; her face was streaked with tears, but she looked alive. More alive than she had in the days past, at least. Her son was at her side, clinging to her worn shirt, and he bared his teeth at Itxec––but stopped when he saw Shahar.

Itxec spoke, and Shahar’s mentor translated. “Boy, need boy go. Boy no help.”

“Why?” Shahar asked.

“Leg,” was the answer. “Bad leg, leg need go.”

To make it even more clear, Itxec knelt by Kyla and picked up her skirt. Kyla flinched and tried to move away, as if fearing that Itxec would have the same cruel intentions between her legs as the pirates had, but the medicine man only needed to expose her calf for it to become clear what the problem was.

Kyla’s foot was rotting.

There was a tight, clean tourniquet just below her knee, and the skin below that was painted with small symbols and images. The gangrene was congregated around her foot, and had not yet spread up the ankle, but the damage was clear.

“They’re going to take my foot,” Kyla murmured. “They’re going to take it.”

Shahar turned to Itxec. “Foot, go?”

Itxec gestured cutting off his own foot, which left no doubt.

“Take Kai,” Kyla breathed, desperate, help me, help him. “Take him; I don’t want him to watch. Take him outside and don’t let him see.”

“What’s happening?” Kai cried, flinching when Shahar reached for him. “No, I don’t want to go! What are they doing?”

“Go with Shahar, my son.”

“Mother––”

“Go!” Demand, now, don’t disobey, implication of punishment.

“Kai.” Shahar held out a hand. They boy didn’t want to. His signed were terrified, non-understanding, don’t want to… but he obeyed. His mother’s words, signs and gaze drove him to Shahar’s side, where the Witch directed him outside.

He closed the curtain behind them and took Kai away from the hut, towards another building, and knelt. Snow trailed behind with her head dropped low and her tail in between her legs; she didn’t understand what was happening, either, but she knew that it was bad. As if sensing that the she-wolf’s feelings matched his own, Kai wrapped his arms around her neck and buried his face into her white fur.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” the little boy whimpered. “What are they doing to her?”

Necessary. “They are saving her life.” Slowly, non-threateningly, Shahar covered Kai’s ears. Don’t listen.