Nomad

Lumbering, heavy-footed, Grendel marched forward. Always forward.

The landscape he was passing through was not familiar at all. Long grasses covered the ground, but they were not green or blue, but grey and very brittle, crunching noisily at every step he took. The trees had bark of an almost sandy texture, and in a most unnerving fashion their wispy branches and vermiform trunks swayed back and forth even thought there was no wind. But it didn't just look wrong; Grendel could feel it in the air, in the soil, in the roots of his hairs.

Perhaps he had stumbled into one of those "vanishing lands"? Pieces of territory that appeared out of nowhere then were gone again, just like those sky-ripples. Like the world itself shrugged off a bothersome parasite. If that was the case then it wouldn't be smart to stay in there for too long.

An ugly baying noise stopped the squamataur on his tracks. Something had spotted him, up there in the strange woods. It brought to mind a Kensha beast, but it was slightly bigger, and did not have as many legs, or ears as long. Pink fur ruffled like licroa seeds, eyes like those of chameleons. It was rushing towards Grendel in a mad hurry, foaming from its black muzzle, baying, baying. An attack out of confusion, it seemed. Maybe it was not so different from the scarred brute, another stranger in a strange land. One wondered.

All it took was a mighty punch across the jaw and the creature crashed on the hissing grass, its furry bulk flipping in mid-air from the momentum. Almost instantly Grendel set upon his assailant, and he beat and slammed and clawed. Festering fangs clamped on matted flesh. And with that same surge of bloodlust he hauled the battered hound far behind him, making a harsh cracking thud as it hit the trees and slumped to the fragile grass. The would-be attacker was now but a pained, blubbering heap, flopping helplessly as the squamataur's venom made its way through its veins. Death would come slowly.

Grendel watched it lie there with upset disdain, blood staining his jowls, then turned around and continued like nothing had happened. Stupid thing should've known his place

Once again, forward.


In time the writhing trees became thicker, and he stumbled into something new. Sticking out of the grey fields was some sort of stone pillar, thick and flat on its highest point, engraved by what seemed to be some sort of crude writing. Time certainly had taken its toll, for that thing was dusty and pock-marked by erosion, countless ferns and lichens encrusting its ancient surface. Was it made by manlings? Hard to say….but it seemed harmless, and Grendel already saw a use for it. With a bit of effort he climbed the platform and then just lied there, bathing himself under the sun. He had been moving for a long while, some rest was needed.


His choice of life was not normal either, when he thought about it. Every manner of creature from the tauric beings to the dark-minded animals all lived and foraged and died within established territories. They could be small or they could be large, but they never left them. Even the creatures of the sky, with no barriers that could stop them, set limits to themselves. Grendel had no territory. No limits. He wandered from land to land, never to stop, never to stay. Why was he so different?


The answer was simple. He knew how things worked. The world is ever hungry, ever watching, ever waiting. You lower your guard for one second and it pounces on you. Only the strong can survive. But cooping up in a bunch of trees and soil doesn't make you strong. It makes you a coward. So much gall for so long before something comes from beyond your little nest and you are used and abused, or become food. That's the fitting end for weaklings.

He was strong. He did not need sissy limitations. He does what he wants. If he wants to go anywhere, he will go anywhere. If he wants to eat anything, he will eat anything. If he wants to drink, he'll find drink. If he wants to sleep, he'll carve out a shelter. No one can tell him what he can't do or where to go. It's true that some places might have less food than others, or less water to drink, but in the end he always prevailed. Never once he'd back down. He'd go forward. Always forward. Sometimes he wondered if his brothers were doing the same out there

If they still were out there.

As a hatchling he remembered climbing the great trees to catch birds and eggs and monkeys, or simply watch the endless scenery from the highest branches. Now he couldn't do that; he was too large and too heavy, and only got himself tired last time he tried. There were other places he couldn't seem to go as well. Lands with rivers of fire and heat so strong that suffocated even a plains-born like him, and lands of ice so cold they could gnaw the flesh from his bones. Those places had the touch of death in them, and were to be avoided….but he assumed there'd be a time he could conquer those as well. If what he heard is true there was life thriving in those places. It was only a matter of preparation

The warm sunlight that casted on him brought back memories of his homeland, if it could be really called a home at all. He recalled the vast seas of green and blue grass, the cliffs and canyons of orange hot sandstone, the old plateau, the frequent storms splitting the skies with crackling light. Perhaps he could go back some time…

No.

No no. He wasn't doing that. He was never doing that. He'd only go forward. Never back. Going back is for the weak. For the weak and the cowards and the fools and the whiners.

Or hadn't he learned anything?

Suddenly there's a shudder of the earth, a grumbling tremor beneath him. He had let his mind wander and had forgotten the peril of staying in a vanishing land.

The reptilian limbs strained and the squamataur rose, stretching out briefly before hopping down on the crunchy grasses. Rested now, he continued his lumbering journey

There were too many things on his head, but Grendel would keep moving forward. Always forward.