The Yah forest was a sprawl of green that bled beyond the horizon, becoming sand, then snow-peppered rock, and eventually melding into the ocean. The Elders called this land Yu'vuili; the pilgrimage land. It was the place every Whren had to travel when they came of age and await the call of the Arva, the altars that would demand of them a service. She hated the desert, the baking heat of it, and found the Yah forest was calmer if not more likely to catch fire from her. She supposed it was funny, being a fire-demon, and hating the heat even though her skin was always coated in flames--the elders always made fun of her for it. The elders, she thought, how long had she been out here now? She wasn't sure; time had lost all meaning, it was uncatchable. She missed home terribly some days, her family and friends, but all Whren knew the Pilgrimage was necessary. She took comfort in the hope that the call of the altar would be sooner rather than later, and once she had completed what was asked of her, she would be welcomed home with open arms. But that did not make the time go any quicker, while she waited, boredom settled in. It was her impatience that first made her find the Human.
The altars, the Arva, were of ancient origin and their practical uses were beyond only the Tui Vu'l--the call. They allowed Whrens to transport their consciousness to other realms, other worlds, other universes. She'd spend hours sat atop the stone, watching vibrant races of all shapes and sizes; lands and people that seemed so foreign to her that they belonged only to her distant, deep dreams. The Human seemed so insignificant at first within the thousands she'd seen.
He was a tall thing with coal-black hair down to his stony shoulders. She had noticed, nestled between the loose strands of those bangs was a pair of shimmering blue eyes; as blue as the lake she bathed in. She watched him move quietly through a clearing of bushes, his feet crunching against dead leaves and twigs. Those eyes were focused on something she couldn't see. Slivers of sunlight broke through the canopy and bathed him in gold, glinting his hand. She saw the small blade that looked even smaller in his paw of a hand. What is he doing? A distant wail rang out and he turned towards it, moving through a row of thick-trunked trees towards a clearing. It was a pained yelp; an animal of some sort, she thought. When the Human approached, she saw what was the cause of the noise, and felt the lump in her throat.
It resembled a Deyta; its body sleek with fine fur and a long face, the eyes resembling her own. All four of its legs were bound tightly together. The wailing grew louder as the Human approached and it struggled, trying to escape but the thick twine dug deeper into the softness of its flesh; dried blood stained it. The Human raised its arms out and treaded softly towards it. The knife still glinted with a hungry sheen.
"Easy," she heard him whisper. "Sshh--sshh--It's alright."
The Human knelt down by it. The animal trembled and thrashed, but the rope only dug further into it and so it gave up once more. The Whren understood the fear, and the exhaustion swimming in its eyes. She wanted to help, but knew it was impossible. The lump in her throat felt like a boulder as the Human slowly put his hand on the animal's side and gently held it there; shards of fur split between his fingers. The animal went still, and the Whren felt her skin pulse with heat. "I've got you," he said. Its eyes focused on him, almost recognizing the smile.
Then he patted the fur softly and bought the knife close. For a moment, she held her breath and watched as the blade moved towards the body, and then at the twine. He cut through the strained, entangled ropes, slow at first until he was sawing at the thickest knot with gritted teeth. A tight line snapped, spraying flecks of fiber that fled from sunlight. The tension released. The legs of the animal splayed out freely, and he dropped the knife at his feet to pull away at the remnants until the animal understood it was free, and it pulled away from the strands.
