A Silithid's goodbye kiss.

[Lomrak]

Sun beats down upon the sands of Tanaris. Barren and desolate as they seem, they are none-the-less a source of life. Basilisk, Hyena, Roc and scorpid. All are dangerous foes and provide good hunting. The most dangerous of all, however, is the Silithid. These hive-dwelling insects work with the singular purpose of the automaton. They live only to serve. The have no thoughts save those of the collective being that is the colony. It was the Silithid that had drawn the young orc to this knoll.

Sun flamed down upon his head, his brow sweat-slick in the afternoon heat. A she-wolf, black as jet loped close at hand; her snout close to the grit, scent-searching. It was clear to the orc where his pray had come from. The twitching, towering structures down there in the bowl. Not the Crater. No, that was further west. This was more an excavation. Something dug by the creatures swarming down in it. No reason to go down there to them. Suicidal as ever a guesture could be. No. He would wait. He was good at that.

"A wise orc will not try to spread his wisdom amongst monkeys."

What it meant still eluded him, but he thought he was coming close to figuring it out. Great-father had told him that. Back when he was naught but a stripling in the camps. But that life was over now. Better to look ahead. Besides, he had his quarry. Like ants or termites, the Silithid hive will send out scouts to probe for new nesting or feeding grounds. It was one-such creature that he saw now, skittering across the flame-hot sand. All alone. The she-wolf, scent aquired, growled low in her throat, hackles raised. The young orc tested the blade of his axe with a thumb. Good. It drew blood. It would bite deep.

Moving off at a fast trot he started down the hill. No traction on the soft sand, so his progress became more of a slip-slide. He dug his heels in to slow the descent. Better. The bottom reached he started towards the quarry, she-wolf circling off to flank. They worked well together, this pair. A life-time spent at eachother's side. The bug, for that is what the orc simply called it, appeared un-aware. Good. A quick kill. He wished for no protracted battle. Not this close to the hive. The steel-clash on carapace would attract more. Closer he moved. Almost time.

The hive needs feeding. We must find a new place. A better place. We must rove and dig and search. We will follow the scent-trail we leave behind us. Food is close, scent on the air. We will follow it. Hyena-smells and Basilisk too. We will find us more to feed on. The Hive demands. New smells. New scents in the air, web-thin but the strands thicken. Closer-coming now. We smell fur and teeth and claws and rank, hot breath. Like the Hyena we feed upon, yet different. Regal. And other scents. We pause and search them out. No animal this. It smells of bone and flesh and of the biting ice-rock. We smell the smell of furlessness and of animal hides. It is behind. It is coming to eat us! Burrow! We must burrow to escape this thing and we must fight it from the underearth! We must continue our task!

The bug pauses. Its first and last mistake. The orc charges now, axe raised high, sun-gleam flashing for an instant off of the burnished steel. Then the bug does something unexpected to both orc and she-wolf. It vanishes in a whirling cloud of sand. The orc skids to a stunned halt, the she-wolf circling, teeth bared in a snarl. Warily now, they both approach the mound of sand. Nothing. Then from behind it comes, springing up and out and over in a slash of purple and black. The orc dives away but too late. Sliced open on the left rib-side. The she-wolf springs also to defend her kin. They collide mid-leap, all fur and teeth and clattering mandibles. Blood, both red and black, flies.

The orc lies still awhile. Blood does not flow as thickly from the wound as it aught. It should have been the death of him. Green ichor from the bug's blade-thing seems to have gummed the wound together. Poisoned, no-doubt. This does not bode well. Still, he is alive and that is something. To his feet he climbs. The wolf has backed off a pace or two, whining softly. The silithid is without a few limbs, and a feeler is gone. The orc readies himself for another attack.

Too much. The black-beast bites and scratches too much. We are faltering. We have failed. But it matters little. The Hive will send us again. For We are many in the number of the great Uncountable. We will not die lightly. A sound behind. We turn too slow. We see the sharp ice-rock flash in the sky-light. We will be sent again. It matters little.

The axe descends. The thing turns but not in time. Its blood spurts black and bile-tasting, showering the triumphant orc. He howls out his rage and pain and victory across the wastes. Heaving, breathless. The bug died well. Bending to inspect the kill before butchery he notices not the death-throes. Mandibles sink into shoulder-flesh. Ichor gushes. A goodbye kiss. A swift head-butt sees to the end of the thing. He shall be more careful in the future. Wrenching himself and his axe free, he sets to butchering the carcass.

They will all eat well this night.

[Vilirok]

Good job. Hope to see more

[Sadok]

This was an enjoyable (and at times gruesome) story. You write well! Thanks for the good read.

[Thrash'Nak]

Indeed, aint bad.