The jungle clawed at him. Every branch, every vine, a whip against his skin.
Heart hammering like a war drum, the Simian ran–-he ran without thinking, without looking.
The shadows… they weren't behind him. They were everywhere!
He stumbled over roots, fell, scrambled. The scent of blood burned in his nose.
He couldn't stop.
Couldn't breathe.
The slope came fast. Too fast.
He slid, caught himself on a root, felt bark tear skin from his palm.
By the riverbank, he hesitated.
The water was swollen from recent rains, churning hard enough to drag a full-grown Simian under.
He scanned the treeline.
Shadows pooled there, thicker now, no longer pretending to belong.
He jumped.
The water hit like stone. Cold punched the air from his chest.
He went under, surfaced choking, dragged himself across slick rocks until his fingers found mud.
When he crawled out, his leg screamed in protest.
He limped.
Then walked.
Then limped-ran, his feet dragging behind him.
Pain shot through his leg, but he didn't care. He just kept moving, frantically glancing back.
Hours–-or was it minutes?
Time warped.
Every sound a scream.
Every shadow a hand reaching for him. His lungs burned. His mind screamed.
By the time the stronghold came into view, a towering oak with his kindred lounging within, the drums steady and distant.
The Simian's thoughts had frayed into fragments.
Relief didn't come. Only exhaustion–-and the slow, creeping realization that he was alone.
He reached the gate.
The guards didn't rush to him.They watched. Taking in the soaked, torn gear. The blood that marred his sorry figure.
They took it all in–-their faces contorting, paling.
Simian opened his mouth–-gasping for air.
He tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
The sorry Simian rushed past them, scampering for the safety of the great oak.
Eyes locked onto his figure, children ran to hide behind their mothers.
Word spread quickly.
By the time he reached the inner circle, a crowd had formed.
Warriors. Hunters. A few elders. Their expressions–-concerned and wary. Expectant.
Simian gulped and swallowed–-his figure trembling, jaws clattering together in constant chatter, fear swallowing him whole.
A murmur erupted–-low, skeptical.
And on cue, whispers transformed into a loud inquisition.
"What happened?"
"Where's Jo'rak?"
The voices meshed together, rising into a clamor that could barely be contained.
Thud!
Chink.
Silence reigned.
Everyone moved aside to make way for the towering Simian–-the Shaman Chief.
Behind him, a retinue of elders followed, hands tucked behind their backs.
Chink!
"What is the clamour all about?" the Shaman Chief inquired, his bony staff thudding against the hard ground beneath the oak.
His gaze pierced the visibly shaking Simian–-waiting for a response.
Nothing.
The Shaman sighed, raising his hands–-a green glow emerging from them, swirling before drilling into the Simian.
Urrrrrrrhhhh.
The Simian released a long gasp, his limbs twitching and crackling.
The watching crowd hitched a breath–-frightened by the macabre display, yet not stupid enough to call out the Shaman.
The gasps and twitches subsided, a vacant and hollow demeanor settling over the once-disturbed Simian.
"What happened?" the Shaman questioned, his eyes locked onto the vacant stare before him.
The Simian stared into space, lacking any lucid response.
Arrrgh!
He let out a nerve-wracking scream, breaking free from the Shaman's calming spell.
"Demon!"
He screamed, thrashing around, attempting to make a run for it.
Two Simian warriors jumped in, restraining him.
"Tell us, what happened to you?" the Shaman questioned yet again.
"No. No. Noooo." the restrained Simian cried out, his voice warping into an anguished wail.
"What did you see?" The Shaman waved his arms, drawing an emerald arc of arcana.
"He's coming!" the now vacant-eyed Simian screamed, fighting to break free from the restraints.
"Who is coming?"
Everyone burst into hushed whispers, murmuring under their breaths.
"Ask him," one voice quipped. "Ask him where my son is! Where is Jo'rak?"
An elderly Simian woman pushed forward, her voice trembling, fingers shaking.
Chink!
The Shaman struck his staff against the ground, halting the rising murmurs.
With a semblance of order restored, he proceeded with the inquisition.
"No. No!" the Simian screamed, all attempts to glean the truth failing, yet again.
"I saw his face! No. Noo." he wailed, smashing his head against the hard ground, leaving behind a crimson matte of blood.
The Shaman moved closer, grabbing his chin, chanting in a low voice.
Just then–-
Shiiik.
The restrained Simian jerked his arm free, grabbing the ornamental bone dagger from the Shaman's waist and swiping it across his neck–-from ear to ear.
Blood spewed in thick gushes as the Simian gurgled and choked–- yet a relieved smile stretched across his lips.
The Shaman's face contorted in horror, paling as he watched the dying smile.
Regaining his wits, he clutched the torn throat and began chanting, desperate to reverse the damage.
His efforts were in vain.
The Simian smiled one last time, gurgling before his body stilled–-claimed by the cold embrace of death.
"Move!"
The warriors burst into action, dispersing the crowd.
"My son! Where is Jo'rak!" the elderly Simian wailed as she was shoved away.
Their anguished voices receded, plunging the immediate surroundings into an uneasy silence.
The Shaman remained kneeling beside the smiling corpse, fingers slick with blood, lips moving without sound.
The glow in his hands had faded, leaving only trembling veins and a staff planted too hard into the earth.
An elder broke the silence.
"What did he see? Who is coming?"
Another elder shifted, gaze flicking toward the crowd being pushed back by the warriors.
"That's the problem," he exhaled "The populace heard it."
"It will be a daunting task to quell public unrest." the third murmured
The Shaman leaned forward, fingers curling around the bony staff, veins coiling beneath his skin.
He pried open the dead Simian's tight grip on the bony dagger, wiping the dried blood from its blade against the corpse's fur.
The Shaman rose.
"Clear the body."
Two warriors moved at once, lifting the corpse and wrapping it in hide before the blood could spread further.
The ground was scraped clean with sand. Fast. Deliberate–-though hands trembled.
The elders exchanged looks.
"If word spreads–-"
"It already has," another interrupted.
"Seal the inner ring," the Shaman ordered. "No one leaves the oak."
An elder stepped closer. "The crowd saw too much."
"Then they shall see no more," the Shaman replied, veins standing out on his face.
He turned to the warriors, "Double the sentries. No patrols beyond the treeline until dawn."
A brief pause let the silence rear its head again.
"Burn his gear," another elder said. "All of it."
The Shaman nodded.
Voices still rose at the edge of the clearing–-questions, names, fear edging toward anger.
The Shaman struck his staff once.
"Tell them the patrol fell to beasts," he said.
"A bad hunt. Nothing more."
"And the…?" an elder asked, gesturing toward the corpse being dragged away.
"He panicked. Fear breaks the weak," the Shaman answered without hesitation.
The lie settled. Heavy, but usable.
A runner was dispatched. Another followed. Orders rippled outward–-controlled, rehearsed.
The Shaman watched the crowd thin, his jaw set.
"By nightfall," he said, "this becomes a rumor."