A lone hunter-gatherer battles starvation and encounters men with eerie, shining blades... Will he survive this brutal world?
"Man was little more than prey in those days. They were victims to the elements, hunted like any other game. It was truly the Age of Night."
(Unfortunately, I could not find the source for this image)
I am starving. My stomach growls loudly in pain as I lie low among the tall grass, begging for nourishment it has been denied for the past three nights. This desperate urge in my belly claws at my flesh, dulls my senses, and strips me of strength, yet I have no choice but to ignore it. The sensation of starvation has become part of my life, a feeling I have been forced to become all too familiar with after the death of my kin. Indeed, I am alone on this hunt, guided by nothing but instinct and memories of a better, ever-so-distant past. What knowledge my father could not pass on to me was instead etched into my mind through trial and error. Now, however, failure will only bring death.
Three days I have spent tracking down my prey, stalking them from the shadows, watching them with anticipation. I have watched the hooved beasts losing a foal to a cave lion, I have stared in disgust as men of twisted flesh and deformed skulls chased them throughout the plains. In both times, I did nothing. I have bid my time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike, the perfect opportunity to fill my stomach with their succulent red meat. I can already taste the bone marrow spread over the tip of my tongue and the beast’s blood dripping down my throat. Each heartbeat I spend with hiding brings me closer to the brink of insanity. Yet I cannot reveal myself, not now at least. A hunter must be patient, or else he brings doom upon himself and his tribe.
The time of truth is at hand. Like a shrewd fox, I have managed to get close enough to smell the scent of their fur. They glow brightly in the color of the sun, standing out against the deep green plains as if they were droplets of honey. My plan is finally coming to fruition. Approaching the herd from the east, I let the cold steppe wind carry my scent in the opposite direction. To my prey, it’s as if I don’t even exist.
With my hairless face pressed against a mound of dirt, I hear the prize of the hunt approaching. It is the only male in its group, living proof that their kind is as scarce as men and women. I am reminded of my grandfather’s tales of a distant past, when my kin were as numerous as the birds in the sky. Heavy thoughts arise in my mind as I recall his words: this world is a realm of death, where the only rule is to kill or be killed, where survival demands bathing in blood. My mind shifts to a more recent memory. Images of my previous hunt flash before my eyes, filling me with fierce determination. This day won’t be my last in this world, but for these beasts, I shall be their doom.
In the blink of an eye, I leap from my hiding spot and charge toward my unsuspecting prey. The creature’s four pitch-black eyes stare back at me with a soulless gaze as I hurl my spear with all my remaining strength. It lets out a piercing shriek as my weapon’s flint head burrows deep where neck and shoulder meet. Driven by pure terror, they start fleeing, and I give chase. The wind that aided my hunt now whips my long black hair like the grass I’m running through, while the scent of blood fills my nostrils. I follow the trail of red ichor, and though my legs threaten to give out, I push on like a true hunter. My heart pounds so fiercely I fear it might burst from my chest. Yet I continue sprinting, my mind dulled but focused, driven by the mere sight of blood.
The creature pauses every so often to rest and check if the coast is clear, but I feel no urge to rest my body. Before long, it finds itself cornered between me and a small rocky hill. In its pain-filled delirium, it chooses not to drag its still-bleeding body over the hill; instead, it tries to go around, giving me a second opportunity to strike. I pick up a rock and throw it at its head, surprising us both with my sudden surge in marksmanship. The beast waddles for a few more heartbeats before I lunge at its now-wretched body. I pull out my spear and sink it deep into its fur-covered throat in one swift thrust. Blood gushes from the wound, and before it can drown in it or pass out from exhaustion, I greedily drink directly from the source. The hunt is over. I have proven myself a man once more.
The sound of meat grinding against my maw is music to my ears. It has been so long since I last tore tender flesh with my teeth that, in my celebration, I overate. A small, dwindling fire warms me as I lie among the rocks, giving my now-aching body much-needed rest. I feel no fear in this blissful moment. For now, my hunger is satiated, and the specter of starvation no longer looms on the horizon. Even in the chilling touch of the wind, I sense safety, for I know my forefathers watch me through the western breeze. Yet as time passes and my fire fades, my mind begins to wander. Are they proud of me? Were my steps into adulthood as glorious as theirs? Only the dead know, for I am alone.
I start wondering about my place on this cold, cruel world, when suddenly, a scream throws me out of my comfort. Over the other side of the small hill where I have slain my prey, I can hear the sound of feet moving through grass, and most shockingly, the pleading of a woman. My muscles tense up as I look around in fear of being attacked. I cannot see anyone or anything disturbing the vegetation on my side, yet I pick up my spear alongside my knife. A second scream fills me with disgusted curiosity, so after spending another moment observing my surroundings, I crawl to the top of the hill, and take cover behind a large mossy rock.
The sight takes my breath away. I see a trio of men dressed in glistening, amber-like coats, surrounding an elderly man and a young woman clad in smooth white leather dresses. The old man kneels, pleading with the warriors in a tongue I cannot understand, while the girl stands frozen in terror. I watch with a heavy heart as he begs in a shaky voice, tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks into his messy gray beard. The warriors, however, remain unmoved. After a tense moment, one of them steps forward and draws a dagger. The blade, made of the same amber-like material as their clothing, glows brightly like fresh tree sap yet possesses the clear hardness of flint. My mind wanders for a split second, pondering the origins of such intriguing equipment. A rare rock from a distant land? Spears, knives, and clothes from a fabled past? Are these men even the same kind as I am, or spirits from beyond the veil of existence? I do not know. All I understand, as I watch the weapon slit the old man’s throat, is that it surpasses anything I possess.
The elder’s blood splatters over the tall blades of grass like autumn rain. Its crimson hue is dark, like the clouds above or the hearts of his strange, alien killers. The girl lets out a petrified shriek, but it is drowned out by the rumbling of thunder as her uncaring captors drag her off by her hair without a hint of remorse. They head north, toward lands unknown, leaving me as the sole witness to their dark and evil deeds. Without hesitation, I pray to whatever being watches this world from the heavens, thanking it for the wind and rocks that hid the smoke of my now-extinguished fire.
As my heart slows, thoughts flood my anxious mind. I have spent many moons alone on the plains, without anyone by my side. The memories of my dying kin remain fresh, and while fear has taken root in my soul, the longing for connection never fades. Perhaps it is this longing, or maybe my hatred of idleness, that drives me to pursue them. It would be a foolish endeavor, of course—me against three mighty warriors, whose blades slice through skin and flesh with ease, as if it were nothing. They are taller, stronger, and merciless, true fighters of this dark and brutal age. Yet I find myself tracking them. It could be the girl’s long chestnut hair, her fair skin, her resemblance to a now dead loved one, her cries for mercy—or perhaps my dream of proving myself—but I don’t care. Man is a wolf to man, and I will not be an exception.
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