12. Thivoll

12

Thivoll

I've been walking in the dark for some time now.

Periodically, I readjust my trajectory so I can keep myself headed toward the direction I saw the closest ship piece fall. I'm walking on my back paws, making sure my tread is silent and ready to tip forward at any time for a burst of quadruped speed.

For now, I like the added perspective gained at this height.

This leg shape makes walking on two limbs somewhat ungraceful, but when I tip forward onto my hands, with my back claws extended and ripping into the soil, I'm able to run at impressive speeds.

I wish I could do so now, since I haven't experienced the joy of running like that for years. Space station floors don't hold up to the abuse and it's frowned upon.

I'm sure there will be reason enough to do so soon, but for now I would only leave deep furrows in the ground that would make it easy to track me.

So easy that even rich genali playing at hunters could manage it. I suppose at a slow run I'll leave almost no trace.

I tip forward so I can make faster progress.

I assume the season must have just started here or I would have already come across hunters. I've yet to find a place that seems worth trying to create a den. A cave would be nice, but only if it had more than one exit.

So far the land has been fairly flat, with a few natural clearings, but mostly heavily wooded.

I was lucky enough to be in one of those clearings when the genali ship crashed or I wouldn't have been able to get a good bearing on the direction it was falling.

I'm thankful for my species' ease in navigating terrain. I'm certain the genali are finding it much more difficult. It's actually surprising any of them would subject themselves to the challenge considering how few natural advantages they have when technology is no longer available.

Thinking of them must have brought them to me, because I suddenly smell their acrid scent. The wind has been brisk tonight and moving from the west.

It's possible the ones I smell aren't hunters at all, but are instead crash survivors, but I'm going to assume anything I come across on this Thela-cursed planet is hostile.

That should improve my chances.

The scent is faint and intermittent. I decide it would be best to rest for a while, rather than go out seeking my prey. I walk a while longer, looking for a good tree. One that will be comfortable and also effectively hide my presence.

I haven't climbed one since my youth. The trees suited to growing in a space station are nothing like these tall, imposing figures with their fluffy plumes of light green.

I come across a suitable candidate, with a thick trunk that leads to a heavy canopy. It's tempting to dig my claws in and scramble up the tree as I did when I was young, but I can't risk leaving evidence. Instead I hook my arms around the tree and carefully find places to insert my claws between bark pieces. I brace by back paws against the trunk and scoot myself up the tree in that manner.

I lash my tail imagining how I must look.

Mane fluffed out, arms grasping the tree in an embrace, the toes of my back paws splayed as I slowly hop-wiggle my way up the tree. I push my whiskers forward in amusement, thinking of how much my friends would chuff at me right now. I doubt I'll see them again and the thought brings my whiskers back toward my face.

I try to avoid thinking about people I won't get to speak to again as I continue climbing.

I'm pleased with my tree choice once I get into the dense canopy. The leaves extend down past a thick, almost horizontal branch. I pad my way out, then lay my body along it, hands and paws dangling down. I double check to ensure my tail, which dips down much lower than my back paws, is still well hidden, then tuck the whiskers on the left side of my face close to my cheek and rest my muzzle on the branch.

Just to be extra cautious, I wrap my tail a couple times around the branch so the bright orange and purple plumes at the end of it don't attract attention.

It will remain coiled like that as I sleep.

The wind picks up, sending a pleasant breeze to ruffle my fur. I've spent a lot of time in vents and so I appreciate the hard work that goes into keeping station air scrubbed and fresh. It simply cannot approach the quality of air and lovely weather of this planet.

If only this could be a pleasant vacation instead of me being on the cusp of having to fight for my life.

?

My limbs are looser and my mind clearer when I wake up.

After carefully listening to my surroundings I descend part way and then hop down out of the tree. I follow the smell of water to a nearby stream and drink my fill. A few more minutes of careful waiting and a quick darting of my claws and I have a wriggling prize in my hand.

Soon after, I'm tossing back a few of the planet's aquatic creatures as a morning snack.

Although I should make haste to the crash site, I still take the time to scoop water out of the stream to wash my face, then extend the tips of my claws so I can run them through my long mane.

I might strike more fear into the hunters if I didn't, but I have my pride and in no way will they find me looking bedraggled or out of sorts.

I can't do anything about the missing fur in two long stripes on my shoulder and flank. Nanites can only do so much and scars are inevitable.

I'm playing by my own rules on this planet, not theirs.

That task done, I use my inner ear compass to find my bearings, then pad off toward the crash site.

It's a beautiful morning on a lush planet.

Dappled sunlight filters through the trees, catching motes that are dancing in the air. Large insects and the avians hunting them swoop between branches of the thick undergrowth. The scents are complex and lively.

It really is a shame that it's now being used for sport hunting. Even with the limited technology on the planet, I'm sure the genali have already started polluting the environment with their love of chemicals.

I realize why that thought even occurred to me once I detect not only the scent of genali, but also of one of their favorite compounds used to keep slaves in line: a type of tear gas that makes anyone but a manticorid feel like their lungs and eyes are on fire.

It doesn't actually do any damage, but no one wants to feel it ever again.

It stopped working on us many years back. If they have that gas with them, they're not looking for me. Which means there is probably other prey in this area and they might be just as deadly as I am.

That gives me more pause than thinking of the hunters. I continue to pad toward them as I think it over.

Calculated risks are necessary to gain the upper hand.

Before I get closer, I take the time to more deeply analyze the scents, pulling up my lips so I can channel a steady stream of air over the roof of my mouth and the olfactory organ located there.

I gain little new information, except the addition of a number of polymers and what I assume to be the scent of the prey. They smell of salt, fear, and something utterly foreign, but distinctly pleasant.

If I had to guess, I would say female, but it doesn't align with what I've heard about the hunting grounds.

As far as I know, most, if not all, prey are males on this continent, though for plenty of species the largest and fiercest are the females.

Maybe this is one of those females?

To overcome the rampant misogyny of the genali she would have to be particularly grotesque. Any other females they sell into sexual slavery.

I love a good mystery and am eager to find out if I'm correct.