A hive hung on the luminous canopy in the muted green of the jungle, and with a sudden yank Grendel’s hand plucked it from its branch like a succulent fruit. Instantly a cloud of insects pour out, all noise and aggression, but their attempts are all in vain. They are too small and too few to prove any significant danger, and even thought Grendel feels the prick of their attacks, to someone that lives with pain so often this means nothing.
His fingers tore a considerable hole in the smooth, crunchy surface, and then he poured the contents in his mouth. Dark brown, syrup-like honey and helpless glistening grubs cascading slowly down the ravenous gullet. Yes, it was so sweet.
It was the only thing that brought him joy that morning. The squamataur was going through his monthly shedding, and while this time the old scaled skin was falling off in great flakes, most of it refused to go easily, ensuring that the itching lasted. And on top of that his decision of sleeping in a rotten log last night hadn’t been exactly smart; he was crawling with parasites. Grendel was scratching so much he felt he’d tear off his skin at some point, and yet it wouldn’t cease for even a bit. He wasn’t in a good mood.
And that was why he was making this trip so early. He stood there for a moment, looking around in the gloomy distance, wondering if he was lost. But then he caught a whiff of that smell, distinctive and bittersweet. And the crashing and scampering through leaves and undergrowth reassured him. With the half-empty hive still in his scarred hands, Grendel pushed further through the tangled trees.
After a while, he finally found what he was looking for. The luxurious undergrowth slowly gave way to open space into a small hill, faintly illuminated by what light filtered through the greedy canopy above. The plants all over were dead, scarce, apparently broken, as if they had been trampled on for far too long. In the middle of it all sat an enormous formation, a misshapen lump of dark stone infested with the green coils of ferns and the black and orange dots of lichens. Taking up a chunk of its base was a jagged crevasse, from which the bittersweet scent emanated from.
Just as Grendel expected, he was not alone here. Other beings were gathering around the area. Several nagas, most of them male, occasionally chatting with each other in whispers. A flock of perhaps four harpies in the thin top of a nearby tree. A sphinx with her cub, playing on the edges of the hill. There were even some animals, namely an entire group of duikers and a lone bull Mumansi, snorting under the globules of light.
All of them tolerated each other. All of them fled into a panic when they saw Grendel approach. The duikers stormed away outright, screeching with their reedy calls. The one female naga almost let out a scream before she and her partners slithered to the shelter of a bramble bush. The harpies flapped to the branches of an even higher tree and stared down in half-fear, feathers puffed and hissing their usual obscenities. The mother sphinx took her child in an eye blink and retreated under the trees, all the while raising her wings and showing her fangs at the squamataur in a threat display. Only the Mumansi stood his ground, bellowing menacingly
Grendel eyed them with blatant contempt as he passed, keeping a watch on every last of them suspiciously. He did not like being surrounded. That those weaklings knew who he was and were pathetically trying to hide gave him a degree of satisfaction, but it changed nothing. The maddening itchiness only made him angrier. He should beat them out of here, he though, go and give them a good reason to be afraid
But no, he wasn’t doing that. He had to follow the rules. And with them on the side, he was the first in line.
He knew how the ritual went. Somewhat hurriedly he climbed up the hill to the rock formation, and with a heavy fist he knocked on its surface. One. Two. Three.
A murmur of little drumming legs in the inside meant the signal was right. From the opening they emerged; very small creatures, black of shell and flat of body, like they had been squashed with a rock and somehow they kept on living. First in ones in twos, but shortly a whole swarm was out of the rock, twitching appendages seeming to inspect Grendel. Several seconds passed and they began climbing up his front claws, their many scuttling legs clinging to hard scale and soft skin as they spread all over.
Grendel would not try to swat them. No, there was no alarm. Throughout his massive frame the creatures went, from the great back of his tauric half to the tail and belly and legs, to the fingers and between the claws, to his human torso, under the arms, on his hair and ears and nose. And wherever they went they dislodged ticks and ate them, cornered mites, lapped on open wounds, nibbled on dead skin, tore chunks of the shedding scales revealing the shiny new armour underneath. They were cleaning Grendel. The Groomers were working.
This had gone on since the world was young. Every time a predator suffered the torment of parasites or needed to cast away the old skin, the Groomers were there to cleanse them. They obtained food, and the predator was freed of the pain. Such a simple bargain, and of course it had its rules. The Groomers tolerate no strife. Something kills something, someone succumbs to hunger, and the Groomers leave. All predators have to control themselves. Every predator knew, and for the sake of relief they’d have to follow. For only a while, everyone was equal.
Grendel certainly was in bliss, that horrible itch fading away with the work of the little cleaners. The shed tissue was almost completely gone now, brand new scales glistening under the light. The parasites were dropping in number, and the Groomers licked the fresh wounds they left behind. The squamataur yawned, and they took the chance to pick in his open maw for strands of meat between his fangs. He certainly couldn’t complain, it was like he was reborn.
The pang of hunger struck him again; guess he could go ahead and finish his snack now he had time. With much of his mind enjoying the session Grendel grabbed the handful of remaining grubs in the hive and shoved them on his mouth, chewing contentedly.
A snapping sound and he turned his head, almost throwing the Groomers rooting in his hair.
The sphynx cub was right next to Grendel’s left claw, looking up at him with big hazel eyes. Her little sand-coloured body was shivering in place, and yet there was as much curiosity in her as there was fear. On her hands there was a fat wriggling grub. One of them must have fallen to the ground while he wasn’t looking, and she must have tried to get it.
The squamataur squinted at her with hateful eyes, lips pulling back to reveal the dripping fangs and a most threatening rumbling groan coming from between them. How dared she steal from him?
She still stared back, absolutely frozen with fright, tears beginning to build up in her eyes. For what seemed like eternal seconds they remained like that, the hulking behemoth staring down at such a little thing. Then, slowly, painfully slowly, the cub lowered her arms and carefully left the grub on the broken grass.
The moment Grendel moved his arm to pick it, the cub darted away like she had been set on fire, throwing herself at her mother’s arms and whimpering uncontrollably. The older sphinx clutched the little one against her chest for dear life, stroking and comforting her as best as she could, while once again giving the squamataur a most horrible face, snarling from the shadows
Grendel replied similarly, hissing with a maw that oozed toxic saliva and mashed grub fluids. That cat-blood was as worthless as a Glouteaux, and her spawn even more so. Did they really think they could survive in this world acting like that? Bile rose in his throat when he thought about it. If only they were somewhere else…
Eventually the Groomers began to descend from the great squamataur’s body, seeking the safety of their crevasse. Their job was done. Great, Grendel though, he couldn’t stand being there any longer. He cracked his neck, stretched his refreshed but cramped body then made his way out of the hill, towards the warm twilight of the dense jungle.
From the corner of an eye he could see the weaklings watching him go, prisoners of their fright. They slowly emerged from their hideouts as he moved deeper into the undergrowth, and quietly they’d form a line in front of the Groomer nest.
That was completely irrelevant to Grendel now. Tossing away the empty husk of the hive, he continued stomping through the vegetation until he was sure he left the comfort zone of the Groomers
Now it was time to hunt.
Subject: Ritual 
Sat Dec 03, 2011 7:24 am
