The feeble tendrils of sunlight creep through the gaps in my rustic, wooden home, rousing me from a restless slumber. Soot and ember from yesterday's battle mingle with the oppressive humidity of the jungle air, making each breath laborious. My long-awaited return to Iantana brings relief tinged with unease—sleep may have been within reach at some point, yet the weight of recent events means I can’t yet be at peace.
Iantana has been fortunate not to see more destruction by the attacking gray beasts, only seeing its external walls and the houses that were built nearby them suffer the greatest damage. There’s a lot of work to be done to repair everything, accumulating the wood and supplies to ensure the village is better protected should another attack of this magnitude occur. Yet with the knowledge we’ve acquired regarding these creatures, I’m confident we can be better prepared to take them on and defeat them swiftly.
What causes me to awaken to much sorrow, however, is witnessing the death of Sachia. Again. Except this time, he was one of those wretched monsters, transformed into a gruesome warrior for this evil group. My gaze lingers on the bow and arrows, reclaimed from the aftermath of his clash with the creatures. In their silent presence, I find myself mourning the loss of a dear friend. Though some of his physical features remained, his mind was unsound, lost to whatever spell he was put under. It was as though we had never met, as though I were a stranger. No, more than that—I was his unquestioned enemy, a threat that must be eliminated. Tragically, I can’t determine which death he suffered is worse: seeing his condition after he was killed by the gray beasts, or watching him disintegrate into ash after becoming a gray beast himself?
The thought I’m most upset with is that, when the time came, and lives were at risk, I couldn’t bring myself to kill him. It was clear as a cloudless sky that it was no longer the Sachia I knew, that it was no longer my longtime friend, yet I couldn’t do what was needed to be done. I froze, like a fearful child, not the warrior I’ve been trained to become. I could’ve been slaughtered by his claws, and he could’ve been allowed to devastate the people he once called his own, because I didn’t have the mental fortitude to move past the sentimentality and strike him down. What will I do if this happens again? Can I trust myself to do the right thing if—or when—the time comes? Am I worthy of calling myself a Tuatiu warrior?
I wrestle with these realizations as I force myself off my bedroll and out into the daylight sun. The reconstruction efforts have already begun, as people move about diligently like ants around a hill, carrying supplies and working together to repair the damage. The air is filled with the sounds of villagers pounding the wood and materials with their hammers, shouting instructions, hoisting beams and large logs, or grunting in their exertion to lift, pull, push, or carry. The work will require tireless effort, but resiliency is a trait all Tuatiu people possess.
I notice that, along with the supplies to rebuild the structural integrity of the wall, colorful embellishments appear, as well. Where before, the wall was simple and constructed solely of wood, some villagers prepare various methods for enhancing the wall’s appearance. Workers surround large clay pots with long wooden paddles as they stir a green liquid—likely paint formed with crushed and boiled plants and algae—and others have gathered various green items, such as green-dyed cloth. Some of the workers are carving intricate patterns into the beams and supports while others, including Chiqani, to my astonishment, collect and lay out clay to dry in the sun, forming them into a variety of shapes that will be mounted upon the wall. Seeing Chiqani and others crafting these decorations, I feel myself swelling with pride in our people, admiring how quickly we overcome conflict and transform the destruction into something beautiful.
A few yells, followed by a loud thump draw my attention to one section of the reconstructed wall. Haluiqa is present, having just assisted the team of workers in setting a large support post into the ground to anchor the construction of the wall. Makeshift scaffolding made with bamboo webs around the village’s perimeter, and I spot new buildings being crafted behind the newly developed wall.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I call out to Haluiqa, our hallowed leader, while pointing to all the new structures being raised up.
“I discussed with Sianchu,” he says, a little winded as he speaks, “about improvements we could make to our perimeter defenses. He mentioned watchtowers at key vista points, which could allow us to fire arrows down upon approaching threats. I liked the sound of it so much that we’ve been gathering extra amounts of wood to construct them. And thicker walls. We’ll have a second layer to make our protection more robust and durable.”
He sounds excited as he mentions this latest revelation, giddily pointing out the pieces of his new plan. It’s as if he’s taken much enjoyment in knowing our enemies will be more easily defeated with his preparations, pride exuding from each word.
"Seeing this village come back to life is truly inspiring,” I say. “But amidst all this reconstruction, I can't help but replay the events of that battle in my mind. It was... overwhelming to face those creatures, especially when one was Sachia." I pause, fixing my stare to the ground for a moment as I fight back the emotion, before once again meeting his eyes. "I never imagined I'd have to fight him, even in that horrifying state. I can’t… I’m not sure I have the strength to carry out this fight, to be the warrior that is needed for the challenges ahead.”
“Battles are not solely won with blades or arrows,” Haluiqa says, his weathered eyes meeting mine, a mix of understanding and respect shining within them, “but also with the courage to face the darkness within ourselves. Sachia's fate was beyond your control, a tragedy that none of us could have foreseen. Your hesitation, your compassion, those are not signs of weakness, but of the strength that sets us apart as warriors of the heart.
“My choice to have you stay in Iantana was not a reflection of doubt in your abilities,” he continues, walking to me with a warm, paternal smile, “but a calculated decision to ensure the safety of our village. You possess a resilience that can't be measured by a single battle. Remember, Inuxeq: A warrior's journey is paved with trials, and it's how we rise from them that defines our true valor."
I bite my lower lip and look away, not wanting Haluiqa to see me get emotional. It’s been a difficult few days, with the recent battle still weighing heavily on me, but the most significant words I needed to hear involved my exclusion from the mission in the first place, affecting me more than I realized. It angered me at first, and the latest events have made me question my capabilities, wondering if I was worthy of being Tuatiu. While clouds still hang above me, certainly, I feel the strength and confidence returning to my bones, feeling reassured that, perhaps, I may be able to carry on after all and bring the fight to whomever is attempting to harm my people.
After I regain my composure, coupled with deep breaths, I focus on the matters at hand. The tension caused ruptures in our fragile alliances, and we’ll need to be united if we’re to defeat these external threats. So making peace with one another seems like the first step that must be accomplished before we can proceed with any others.
“You mentioned Sianchu,” I say. “Where is he? And Mexqutli—have you seen him?”
“Sianchu was helping repair another section of the wall, further into the jungle,” he says with a smirk. “Perhaps due to there being more shade provided from the surrounding trees. As for Mexqutli, I have yet to see him since yesterday’s… events.”
Haluiqa grimaces slightly at the reminder. After Mexqutli and Sianchu had their spat, the two walked in separate directions. I’ve not seen nor heard from either since then, and knowing that both wanted to travel to Qapauma as soon as possible, I assumed I would see them off before they departed. Sianchu choosing to stay around is an interesting development, and I’m curious what his rationale is. Perhaps he feels guilt for leading so many Tuatiu warriors to their demise? Or am I projecting?
I walk around the sites of construction, looking to see if Mexqutli happens to be among the ranks of those rebuilding Iantana. I assume he’ll want nothing to do with Sianchu after their war of words, so I begin my search from nearly the opposite location as the Tapeu man and work my way toward Sianchu’s site. Despite this, and while also asking some of the workers if they’ve seen an unmistakable Ulxa man—fully aware of the irony in this, knowing how poorly I was able to identify him as such—no one is able to say he is around. I start to believe he has vanished, and when I walk into the city to where most outsiders to Iantana tend to reside, his presence is nowhere to be seen.
I come upon Sianchu, sweat glistening on his copper skin as he lifts up a large wooden post along with a few Iantana villagers. The stout man in the Tapeu red and orange assists the Tuatiu with rebuilding the wall, not leading the charge, but folding in with the other workers. After the group plants the beam into the ground with a mighty thud, he wipes his brow and glances up, spotting me standing off to the side. His face is unexpressive as he walks up to me, and I’m concerned about how cordial he’s going to be with me.
“You’re here alone,” he says, flatly. “Is the Ulxa still here?” Not addressing Mexqutli by his name is extremely petty, and I’m certain my rolling eyes convey this. Rather than get into an argument, I decide to reply by saying, “I have yet to find him. I take it you haven’t seen him, either?”
He shakes his head and scoffs. “Of course he runs off…” I can see he wants to say more, but instead leaves his remarks at that, hands planted to his sides.
“It certainly doesn’t look good for him,” I say as I watch workers hoist up a large section of the wall and mount it in place. “Those creatures resemble the ones the Ulxa supplied to the Timuaq during the war, yet he’s maintained the Ulxa is innocent.”
“The sooner we eviscerate those corpse-loving blood drinkers, the sooner Pachil can return to peace,” he says. “We should’ve never allowed them to fight alongside us.”
Sianchu’s position is harsh, but understandable. If these beasts are the result of Ulxa sorcery, watching them nearly destroy a whole village doesn’t bode well for the faction’s declaration of guiltlessness. And now, with the Ulxa’s only defender vanishing without a trace, Mexqutli’s statement stands on shaky ground. All that considered, something still doesn’t sit well with me.
“Yet he aided us in attacking the creatures,” I point out. “You can’t honestly believe he’s playing some long game, pretending to be on our side, only to stab us in the back with those obsidian blades when the time is right.”
“He’s Ulxa,” Sianchu remarks. “It would be a cold day in the nine hells if he was straightforward with us.”
I had hoped there might be a chance Sianchu would take at least some of what Mexqutli said or did into consideration, but he seems steadfast in his beliefs, unwavering and unconvinced. What did Haluiqa say? "Battles are not solely won with blades or arrows”? But how do I fight this with my words and persuasion?
“I have a difficult time believing Mexqutli would put himself in harm’s way if his intentions were truly malevolent. There might be a bigger threat at play, and he sees it. Though the Ulxa were servants to the Timuaq initially, they ultimately joined the fight for our freedom and liberty. So we can’t let past grievances blind us to the possibilities that we should be considering for the present. The truth might be more complicated and complex than we know. We should at least be open to other likelihoods.”
Sianchu scoffs and seemingly dismisses my argument, at first. After a few moments, however, I see his tough exterior soften, and a snarl crosses his face while appearing deep in consideration of what was said.
“We can discuss this at a later time,” he eventually says after a long sigh. He returns to the workers, lifting up another large section of wall and aiding in the reconstruction. I suppose that is that, all I can say. Was I effective in my reasoning? Was I convincing? I’m not certain I believe my own argument. Did I convince myself?
Mexqutli’s disappearance is not surprising, since he mentioned his eagerness to speak with Achutli and Xaqilpa. While ill advised in my opinion, his determination to carry out his assigned mission was always most likely to overcome his sensibility, knowing he’s unlikely to receive a warm welcome in the Tapeu city that has bought into the claims of Ulxa treachery. However, part of me still feels hurt if he departed Iantana without so much as a goodbye. It could be due to how much of his motivations and backstory was questioned when we were able to confront him, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit to feeling suspicious about his mannerisms; leaving without a word doesn’t sit well with me, making me think he’s guilty of something we have yet to discover.
So, what do I do now? I want to assist with the rebuilding efforts as much as I can. I want to chase after Mexqutli and remind him of how unrealistic and impractical his quest is. I want to hunt down this Xaqilpa and make him pay for his crimes against the Tuatiu. I want to force this Achutli fellow to answer for what he’s allowing his counselors to do to innocent villagers.
Then I reflect upon yesterday’s battle. The gray creatures, springing up suddenly and terrorizing our people, have become a significant blight upon our land. If more of them are roaming the jungles, I want the Tuatiu to be well protected against this supernatural threat. We’re vulnerable right now, having our defenses destroyed and our residents exposed to more death and destruction if we are attacked again while we’re in the process of rebuilding.
Suddenly, my head is filled with echoes of the boom boom boom that reverberated across the battlefield. The heavy, driving thumping, like war drums, or…
What did Mexqutli mention when telling his story about Xaqilpa and the Ulxa power struggles? Didn’t Xaqilpa take a drum with him? The… Hu… Hue… Well, it’s some unpronounceable Ulxa word, for certain, but I distinctly recall the drum. Who was playing it? And where?
The drumming pounds inside my head, and I close my eyes to relieve myself of the pain. With my eyes shut, flashes of the battle replay in my mind. Sinister whispers and faint images of shadowy figures, both Tuatiu and gray monsters, replay the events of the previous day. These spectral remnants lead me toward a particular direction, retracing the steps our attackers took as they approached Iantana. They emerged from the jungles, bursting onto the village from the depths of the dense collection of trees.
I shake away the visions of the combat and come to, surveying the scene and realizing my attention is back to the present. Haluiqa shouts my name, but I’m too entranced in this thought to pay him any mind. With purpose, I scan the floor, searching for footprints. There’s a large cluster of prints about the grounds around Iantana, undoubtedly created by a combination of the combat and the workers moving about. I follow the steps back to the jungle, observing the trampled vegetation and heavily embedded prints into the soil. As I follow these tracks, I begin to feel a growing sense of unease, as if I’m nearing the source of power from the ritual drumming.
After trekking deeper into the jungle, I arrive upon a small clearing, particularly jarring because I’ve encountered nothing but trees until now. It’s distinguished by gnarled roots which have withered and died along with nearby grass, out of place from the surrounding lush green of thriving plant life. A faint, acrid smell along with an eerie mist creeps above the ground, and blackened branches and vines, as though burned from immense flames, form an odd pattern on the jungle floor, causing my heart to leap into my throat upon closer inspection.
Along with multiple bizarre shapes and figures, there’s one symbol I immediately recognize: the roots have been twisted and crudely formed into the eye in the flame, burning the dirt upon which is rests. A circle is imprinted into the soil, as though a heavy object was placed here. The drum?
More footprints are near the circle, trailing away from the location and heading deeper into the jungle. The low branches and bushes have been immensely disturbed, broken and snapped by what I surmise to be large, lumbering creatures. Following them backward, they lead me further away from Iantana and toward the distant mountains. I have to find the source of these steps, to know if they’ll bring me to the person or persons responsible for the attack.
Continuing to hike away from my village, something rustles nearby. Multiple steps—hoofs?—trample on the ground, approaching me. Could it be a number of creatures heading toward me? I remove the obsidian dagger from the sheath at my side, crouching low and preparing to be attacked by whatever comes my way. The rumbling grows louder, louder, unceasing as branches and undergrowth snap and crackle. Whatever it, or they, are, they’re running fast, almost directly at me, and I brace myself for being rammed if I can’t evade them quickly enough.
An unexpected mixture of animals charge toward me: deer, tapir, capybara, and monkeys, all running together. As though I’m not there, they race past me, ignoring the predator in their midst. Whatever they’re running from terrifies them enough to hurtle toward me, consequences not even a consideration. I find I’m cowering to protect myself, realizing I’m unable to move, and lead with my shoulder should I take any blows from the oncoming animals. After countless creatures rush to escape whatever is behind them, a creeping feeling of unease overwhelms me at the strange and sudden silence. Nothing is chasing after them but ghosts. No more sounds of movement other than my own as they fade into the distance. Should I be turning around? What are they trying to avoid? How absurd would it be for me to continue my investigation?
My demand and desire for answers pushes me on, driving me to seek whatever exists further ahead. The footprints become harder to spot and track, fewer and far between the huge amount from the scene of the battle, or even the number I noticed among the burnt branches and twigs. I begin to believe whatever I had observed before hadn’t traveled this far from Iantana, and perhaps they arrived from a different direction. I may have lost them and will have to circle back to reevaluate the scene.
Just as I’m about to turn around, I hear faint chanting while I continue to walk onward, coming from a group of people. The song is unfamiliar to me, the words in another language I’ve never heard. Wait, that’s not entirely true: I recall Mexqutli cursing or saying something in anger at one point, in his stilted dialect. Does this match the words or language he spoke?
I approach another clearing—this time, one not manmade—standing out of place among the heavy vegetation of the jungle. Not an animal stirs nor soars in the sky. The chanting gets louder, the words hissed with more intensity and anger. I scan the area to look for something I can hide behind while I observe their behavior and learn what I can of what’s taking place here. Off to the other side of the open space is a thick, old tree, its trunk several humans wide, that bends and twists around like the hunched over posture of an elder.
I keep an eye trained on them as I circle the clearing, cautiously maneuvering through the fallen branches and leaves so as to not expose my position. A dozen or more are gathered in the group, wearing robes that appear to have been sifted through the dried ash of a campfire, all gray and dirty. They are of varying height and weight, standing in a circle with their backs to the perimeter of the open space. The detail that puts a hummingbird fluttering in my stomach is the facial coverings: Each person wears a cloth over their heads that completely obscures any features, colored a deep crimson, as though it was soaked in blood.
Among the gathered group is a man who prominently stands out: unlike the others, he wears a robe entirely of the same crimson red, with sporadic splotches throughout the cloth, and a solid gold facial covering that shines brightly in the daylight, designed to look like a stoic face with two almond-shaped holes, though I can’t see the shape nor color of his eyes. As I rotate around the group, I notice a large golden emblem at the back of his robe, which appears to be the symbol of a flame with an intricately decorated eye inside the circle, along with nine rays shooting upward. The eye is more detailed than the crude drawings I’ve seen, with a half-circle on top and two half-circles—a smaller one inside the larger one—beneath it, elaborately decorated around the sides with geometric patterns stitched in black and gold.
I can’t determine what they’re standing around, and whether it serves any significance to their seance. Is there an object in the middle? Could it be the drum, or perhaps something else? Between the bodies, I can make out a black object—perhaps made of obsidian—roughly the height of their knees. Is it a statue? A figure?
CRACK!
While attempting to distinguish the object and what they’re chanting, I hadn’t looked at my feet and snapped a sizable branch, nearly tripping over it while proceeding cautiously toward the old, twisted tree. The chanting halts abruptly, and, panicked, I drop to the ground, willing the shrubs and bushes to conceal my presence. I peek through the short grass and underbrush to see if I’ve been spotted, but it’s hard to see the faces through the shrubbery. I stay as still as a shadow in the jungle, hoping I’ve blended in well enough.
Long, deep breath in. Long, deep breath out.
My heartbeat reverberates in my head, p-pounding, p-pounding as I lie patiently. After about seventy-two heartbeats, the chanting resumes, discordant and horrific in its tonality. I slowly pick myself up and crawl, then crouch low as I walk over to the tree. I spot a large drum off to the side of the group, fashioned from polished wood and adorned with intricate carvings, its surface boasts vibrant hues of red and gold, reflecting the sun's fervent embrace. Waist-high in height, its elaborate glyphs and symbols mark the circumference.
Do I turn back and warn the others? Do I watch this scene develop more closely? I can’t decide which path I should take, with these odd and bizarre people here in the midst of Tuatiu jungles. I’ve never seen such a tribe before, even after spending so much time around the numerous factions of Pachil during the war. Who are these people, and what are they doing in my land? They don’t look like any Tuatiu tribe I’ve ever encountered, especially since our people hardly ever wear red. Eventually, my curiosity wins out, and I plan to learn as much as I can about this group before reporting back to Haluiqa—and even Sianchu—to develop a plan.
Gradually poking my head out from behind the trunk, I watch the ritual and monitor the activity. From here, I can finally see what is in the center of the group, but it takes me a while to get past the disbelief. Lying on the ground is a body, roughly the size of a large male. The torso is slashed and ripped to shreds, his lower body, unclothed, is misshapen, with the legs contorted into near triangles. His head rests on a black platform, a shocked expression permanently frozen on his face as blood drips from what was once his neck. Who is this poor victim? Three cups cast in gold rest at the base of the pedestal, a red liquid clings to the sides. Members of the group vocalize a single syllable, holding the ommm while three men pick up the cups and drink a sip before passing the containers to their left.
It was the last thing I saw before everything in my vision turned black.
The feeble tendrils of sunlight creep through the gaps in my rustic, wooden home, rousing me from a restless slumber. Soot and ember from yesterday's battle mingle with the oppressive humidity of the jungle air, making each breath laborious. My long-awaited return to Iantana brings relief tinged with unease—sleep may have been within reach at some point, yet the weight of recent events means I can’t yet be at peace.
Iantana has been fortunate not to see more destruction by the attacking gray beasts, only seeing its external walls and the houses that were built nearby them suffer the greatest damage. There’s a lot of work to be done to repair everything, accumulating the wood and supplies to ensure the village is better protected should another attack of this magnitude occur. Yet with the knowledge we’ve acquired regarding these creatures, I’m confident we can be better prepared to take them on and defeat them swiftly.
What causes me to awaken to much sorrow, however, is witnessing the death of Sachia. Again. Except this time, he was one of those wretched monsters, transformed into a gruesome warrior for this evil group. My gaze lingers on the bow and arrows, reclaimed from the aftermath of his clash with the creatures. In their silent presence, I find myself mourning the loss of a dear friend. Though some of his physical features remained, his mind was unsound, lost to whatever spell he was put under. It was as though we had never met, as though I were a stranger. No, more than that—I was his unquestioned enemy, a threat that must be eliminated. Tragically, I can’t determine which death he suffered is worse: seeing his condition after he was killed by the gray beasts, or watching him disintegrate into ash after becoming a gray beast himself?
The thought I’m most upset with is that, when the time came, and lives were at risk, I couldn’t bring myself to kill him. It was clear as a cloudless sky that it was no longer the Sachia I knew, that it was no longer my longtime friend, yet I couldn’t do what was needed to be done. I froze, like a fearful child, not the warrior I’ve been trained to become. I could’ve been slaughtered by his claws, and he could’ve been allowed to devastate the people he once called his own, because I didn’t have the mental fortitude to move past the sentimentality and strike him down. What will I do if this happens again? Can I trust myself to do the right thing if—or when—the time comes? Am I worthy of calling myself a Tuatiu warrior?
I wrestle with these realizations as I force myself off my bedroll and out into the daylight sun. The reconstruction efforts have already begun, as people move about diligently like ants around a hill, carrying supplies and working together to repair the damage. The air is filled with the sounds of villagers pounding the wood and materials with their hammers, shouting instructions, hoisting beams and large logs, or grunting in their exertion to lift, pull, push, or carry. The work will require tireless effort, but resiliency is a trait all Tuatiu people possess.
I notice that, along with the supplies to rebuild the structural integrity of the wall, colorful embellishments appear, as well. Where before, the wall was simple and constructed solely of wood, some villagers prepare various methods for enhancing the wall’s appearance. Workers surround large clay pots with long wooden paddles as they stir a green liquid—likely paint formed with crushed and boiled plants and algae—and others have gathered various green items, such as green-dyed cloth. Some of the workers are carving intricate patterns into the beams and supports while others, including Chiqani, to my astonishment, collect and lay out clay to dry in the sun, forming them into a variety of shapes that will be mounted upon the wall. Seeing Chiqani and others crafting these decorations, I feel myself swelling with pride in our people, admiring how quickly we overcome conflict and transform the destruction into something beautiful.
A few yells, followed by a loud thump draw my attention to one section of the reconstructed wall. Haluiqa is present, having just assisted the team of workers in setting a large support post into the ground to anchor the construction of the wall. Makeshift scaffolding made with bamboo webs around the village’s perimeter, and I spot new buildings being crafted behind the newly developed wall.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I call out to Haluiqa, our hallowed leader, while pointing to all the new structures being raised up.
“I discussed with Sianchu,” he says, a little winded as he speaks, “about improvements we could make to our perimeter defenses. He mentioned watchtowers at key vista points, which could allow us to fire arrows down upon approaching threats. I liked the sound of it so much that we’ve been gathering extra amounts of wood to construct them. And thicker walls. We’ll have a second layer to make our protection more robust and durable.”
He sounds excited as he mentions this latest revelation, giddily pointing out the pieces of his new plan. It’s as if he’s taken much enjoyment in knowing our enemies will be more easily defeated with his preparations, pride exuding from each word.
"Seeing this village come back to life is truly inspiring,” I say. “But amidst all this reconstruction, I can't help but replay the events of that battle in my mind. It was... overwhelming to face those creatures, especially when one was Sachia." I pause, fixing my stare to the ground for a moment as I fight back the emotion, before once again meeting his eyes. "I never imagined I'd have to fight him, even in that horrifying state. I can’t… I’m not sure I have the strength to carry out this fight, to be the warrior that is needed for the challenges ahead.”
“Battles are not solely won with blades or arrows,” Haluiqa says, his weathered eyes meeting mine, a mix of understanding and respect shining within them, “but also with the courage to face the darkness within ourselves. Sachia's fate was beyond your control, a tragedy that none of us could have foreseen. Your hesitation, your compassion, those are not signs of weakness, but of the strength that sets us apart as warriors of the heart.
“My choice to have you stay in Iantana was not a reflection of doubt in your abilities,” he continues, walking to me with a warm, paternal smile, “but a calculated decision to ensure the safety of our village. You possess a resilience that can't be measured by a single battle. Remember, Inuxeq: A warrior's journey is paved with trials, and it's how we rise from them that defines our true valor."
I bite my lower lip and look away, not wanting Haluiqa to see me get emotional. It’s been a difficult few days, with the recent battle still weighing heavily on me, but the most significant words I needed to hear involved my exclusion from the mission in the first place, affecting me more than I realized. It angered me at first, and the latest events have made me question my capabilities, wondering if I was worthy of being Tuatiu. While clouds still hang above me, certainly, I feel the strength and confidence returning to my bones, feeling reassured that, perhaps, I may be able to carry on after all and bring the fight to whomever is attempting to harm my people.
After I regain my composure, coupled with deep breaths, I focus on the matters at hand. The tension caused ruptures in our fragile alliances, and we’ll need to be united if we’re to defeat these external threats. So making peace with one another seems like the first step that must be accomplished before we can proceed with any others.
“You mentioned Sianchu,” I say. “Where is he? And Mexqutli—have you seen him?”
“Sianchu was helping repair another section of the wall, further into the jungle,” he says with a smirk. “Perhaps due to there being more shade provided from the surrounding trees. As for Mexqutli, I have yet to see him since yesterday’s… events.”
Haluiqa grimaces slightly at the reminder. After Mexqutli and Sianchu had their spat, the two walked in separate directions. I’ve not seen nor heard from either since then, and knowing that both wanted to travel to Qapauma as soon as possible, I assumed I would see them off before they departed. Sianchu choosing to stay around is an interesting development, and I’m curious what his rationale is. Perhaps he feels guilt for leading so many Tuatiu warriors to their demise? Or am I projecting?
I walk around the sites of construction, looking to see if Mexqutli happens to be among the ranks of those rebuilding Iantana. I assume he’ll want nothing to do with Sianchu after their war of words, so I begin my search from nearly the opposite location as the Tapeu man and work my way toward Sianchu’s site. Despite this, and while also asking some of the workers if they’ve seen an unmistakable Ulxa man—fully aware of the irony in this, knowing how poorly I was able to identify him as such—no one is able to say he is around. I start to believe he has vanished, and when I walk into the city to where most outsiders to Iantana tend to reside, his presence is nowhere to be seen.
I come upon Sianchu, sweat glistening on his copper skin as he lifts up a large wooden post along with a few Iantana villagers. The stout man in the Tapeu red and orange assists the Tuatiu with rebuilding the wall, not leading the charge, but folding in with the other workers. After the group plants the beam into the ground with a mighty thud, he wipes his brow and glances up, spotting me standing off to the side. His face is unexpressive as he walks up to me, and I’m concerned about how cordial he’s going to be with me.
“You’re here alone,” he says, flatly. “Is the Ulxa still here?” Not addressing Mexqutli by his name is extremely petty, and I’m certain my rolling eyes convey this. Rather than get into an argument, I decide to reply by saying, “I have yet to find him. I take it you haven’t seen him, either?”
He shakes his head and scoffs. “Of course he runs off…” I can see he wants to say more, but instead leaves his remarks at that, hands planted to his sides.
“It certainly doesn’t look good for him,” I say as I watch workers hoist up a large section of the wall and mount it in place. “Those creatures resemble the ones the Ulxa supplied to the Timuaq during the war, yet he’s maintained the Ulxa is innocent.”
“The sooner we eviscerate those corpse-loving blood drinkers, the sooner Pachil can return to peace,” he says. “We should’ve never allowed them to fight alongside us.”
Sianchu’s position is harsh, but understandable. If these beasts are the result of Ulxa sorcery, watching them nearly destroy a whole village doesn’t bode well for the faction’s declaration of guiltlessness. And now, with the Ulxa’s only defender vanishing without a trace, Mexqutli’s statement stands on shaky ground. All that considered, something still doesn’t sit well with me.
“Yet he aided us in attacking the creatures,” I point out. “You can’t honestly believe he’s playing some long game, pretending to be on our side, only to stab us in the back with those obsidian blades when the time is right.”
“He’s Ulxa,” Sianchu remarks. “It would be a cold day in the nine hells if he was straightforward with us.”
I had hoped there might be a chance Sianchu would take at least some of what Mexqutli said or did into consideration, but he seems steadfast in his beliefs, unwavering and unconvinced. What did Haluiqa say? "Battles are not solely won with blades or arrows”? But how do I fight this with my words and persuasion?
“I have a difficult time believing Mexqutli would put himself in harm’s way if his intentions were truly malevolent. There might be a bigger threat at play, and he sees it. Though the Ulxa were servants to the Timuaq initially, they ultimately joined the fight for our freedom and liberty. So we can’t let past grievances blind us to the possibilities that we should be considering for the present. The truth might be more complicated and complex than we know. We should at least be open to other likelihoods.”
Sianchu scoffs and seemingly dismisses my argument, at first. After a few moments, however, I see his tough exterior soften, and a snarl crosses his face while appearing deep in consideration of what was said.
“We can discuss this at a later time,” he eventually says after a long sigh. He returns to the workers, lifting up another large section of wall and aiding in the reconstruction. I suppose that is that, all I can say. Was I effective in my reasoning? Was I convincing? I’m not certain I believe my own argument. Did I convince myself?
Mexqutli’s disappearance is not surprising, since he mentioned his eagerness to speak with Achutli and Xaqilpa. While ill advised in my opinion, his determination to carry out his assigned mission was always most likely to overcome his sensibility, knowing he’s unlikely to receive a warm welcome in the Tapeu city that has bought into the claims of Ulxa treachery. However, part of me still feels hurt if he departed Iantana without so much as a goodbye. It could be due to how much of his motivations and backstory was questioned when we were able to confront him, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit to feeling suspicious about his mannerisms; leaving without a word doesn’t sit well with me, making me think he’s guilty of something we have yet to discover.
So, what do I do now? I want to assist with the rebuilding efforts as much as I can. I want to chase after Mexqutli and remind him of how unrealistic and impractical his quest is. I want to hunt down this Xaqilpa and make him pay for his crimes against the Tuatiu. I want to force this Achutli fellow to answer for what he’s allowing his counselors to do to innocent villagers.
Then I reflect upon yesterday’s battle. The gray creatures, springing up suddenly and terrorizing our people, have become a significant blight upon our land. If more of them are roaming the jungles, I want the Tuatiu to be well protected against this supernatural threat. We’re vulnerable right now, having our defenses destroyed and our residents exposed to more death and destruction if we are attacked again while we’re in the process of rebuilding.
Suddenly, my head is filled with echoes of the boom boom boom that reverberated across the battlefield. The heavy, driving thumping, like war drums, or…
What did Mexqutli mention when telling his story about Xaqilpa and the Ulxa power struggles? Didn’t Xaqilpa take a drum with him? The… Hu… Hue… Well, it’s some unpronounceable Ulxa word, for certain, but I distinctly recall the drum. Who was playing it? And where?
The drumming pounds inside my head, and I close my eyes to relieve myself of the pain. With my eyes shut, flashes of the battle replay in my mind. Sinister whispers and faint images of shadowy figures, both Tuatiu and gray monsters, replay the events of the previous day. These spectral remnants lead me toward a particular direction, retracing the steps our attackers took as they approached Iantana. They emerged from the jungles, bursting onto the village from the depths of the dense collection of trees.
I shake away the visions of the combat and come to, surveying the scene and realizing my attention is back to the present. Haluiqa shouts my name, but I’m too entranced in this thought to pay him any mind. With purpose, I scan the floor, searching for footprints. There’s a large cluster of prints about the grounds around Iantana, undoubtedly created by a combination of the combat and the workers moving about. I follow the steps back to the jungle, observing the trampled vegetation and heavily embedded prints into the soil. As I follow these tracks, I begin to feel a growing sense of unease, as if I’m nearing the source of power from the ritual drumming.
After trekking deeper into the jungle, I arrive upon a small clearing, particularly jarring because I’ve encountered nothing but trees until now. It’s distinguished by gnarled roots which have withered and died along with nearby grass, out of place from the surrounding lush green of thriving plant life. A faint, acrid smell along with an eerie mist creeps above the ground, and blackened branches and vines, as though burned from immense flames, form an odd pattern on the jungle floor, causing my heart to leap into my throat upon closer inspection.
Along with multiple bizarre shapes and figures, there’s one symbol I immediately recognize: the roots have been twisted and crudely formed into the eye in the flame, burning the dirt upon which is rests. A circle is imprinted into the soil, as though a heavy object was placed here. The drum?
More footprints are near the circle, trailing away from the location and heading deeper into the jungle. The low branches and bushes have been immensely disturbed, broken and snapped by what I surmise to be large, lumbering creatures. Following them backward, they lead me further away from Iantana and toward the distant mountains. I have to find the source of these steps, to know if they’ll bring me to the person or persons responsible for the attack.
Continuing to hike away from my village, something rustles nearby. Multiple steps—hoofs?—trample on the ground, approaching me. Could it be a number of creatures heading toward me? I remove the obsidian dagger from the sheath at my side, crouching low and preparing to be attacked by whatever comes my way. The rumbling grows louder, louder, unceasing as branches and undergrowth snap and crackle. Whatever it, or they, are, they’re running fast, almost directly at me, and I brace myself for being rammed if I can’t evade them quickly enough.
An unexpected mixture of animals charge toward me: deer, tapir, capybara, and monkeys, all running together. As though I’m not there, they race past me, ignoring the predator in their midst. Whatever they’re running from terrifies them enough to hurtle toward me, consequences not even a consideration. I find I’m cowering to protect myself, realizing I’m unable to move, and lead with my shoulder should I take any blows from the oncoming animals. After countless creatures rush to escape whatever is behind them, a creeping feeling of unease overwhelms me at the strange and sudden silence. Nothing is chasing after them but ghosts. No more sounds of movement other than my own as they fade into the distance. Should I be turning around? What are they trying to avoid? How absurd would it be for me to continue my investigation?
My demand and desire for answers pushes me on, driving me to seek whatever exists further ahead. The footprints become harder to spot and track, fewer and far between the huge amount from the scene of the battle, or even the number I noticed among the burnt branches and twigs. I begin to believe whatever I had observed before hadn’t traveled this far from Iantana, and perhaps they arrived from a different direction. I may have lost them and will have to circle back to reevaluate the scene.
Just as I’m about to turn around, I hear faint chanting while I continue to walk onward, coming from a group of people. The song is unfamiliar to me, the words in another language I’ve never heard. Wait, that’s not entirely true: I recall Mexqutli cursing or saying something in anger at one point, in his stilted dialect. Does this match the words or language he spoke?
I approach another clearing—this time, one not manmade—standing out of place among the heavy vegetation of the jungle. Not an animal stirs nor soars in the sky. The chanting gets louder, the words hissed with more intensity and anger. I scan the area to look for something I can hide behind while I observe their behavior and learn what I can of what’s taking place here. Off to the other side of the open space is a thick, old tree, its trunk several humans wide, that bends and twists around like the hunched over posture of an elder.
I keep an eye trained on them as I circle the clearing, cautiously maneuvering through the fallen branches and leaves so as to not expose my position. A dozen or more are gathered in the group, wearing robes that appear to have been sifted through the dried ash of a campfire, all gray and dirty. They are of varying height and weight, standing in a circle with their backs to the perimeter of the open space. The detail that puts a hummingbird fluttering in my stomach is the facial coverings: Each person wears a cloth over their heads that completely obscures any features, colored a deep crimson, as though it was soaked in blood.
Among the gathered group is a man who prominently stands out: unlike the others, he wears a robe entirely of the same crimson red, with sporadic splotches throughout the cloth, and a solid gold facial covering that shines brightly in the daylight, designed to look like a stoic face with two almond-shaped holes, though I can’t see the shape nor color of his eyes. As I rotate around the group, I notice a large golden emblem at the back of his robe, which appears to be the symbol of a flame with an intricately decorated eye inside the circle, along with nine rays shooting upward. The eye is more detailed than the crude drawings I’ve seen, with a half-circle on top and two half-circles—a smaller one inside the larger one—beneath it, elaborately decorated around the sides with geometric patterns stitched in black and gold.
I can’t determine what they’re standing around, and whether it serves any significance to their seance. Is there an object in the middle? Could it be the drum, or perhaps something else? Between the bodies, I can make out a black object—perhaps made of obsidian—roughly the height of their knees. Is it a statue? A figure?
CRACK!
While attempting to distinguish the object and what they’re chanting, I hadn’t looked at my feet and snapped a sizable branch, nearly tripping over it while proceeding cautiously toward the old, twisted tree. The chanting halts abruptly, and, panicked, I drop to the ground, willing the shrubs and bushes to conceal my presence. I peek through the short grass and underbrush to see if I’ve been spotted, but it’s hard to see the faces through the shrubbery. I stay as still as a shadow in the jungle, hoping I’ve blended in well enough.
Long, deep breath in. Long, deep breath out.
My heartbeat reverberates in my head, p-pounding, p-pounding as I lie patiently. After about seventy-two heartbeats, the chanting resumes, discordant and horrific in its tonality. I slowly pick myself up and crawl, then crouch low as I walk over to the tree. I spot a large drum off to the side of the group, fashioned from polished wood and adorned with intricate carvings, its surface boasts vibrant hues of red and gold, reflecting the sun's fervent embrace. Waist-high in height, its elaborate glyphs and symbols mark the circumference.
Do I turn back and warn the others? Do I watch this scene develop more closely? I can’t decide which path I should take, with these odd and bizarre people here in the midst of Tuatiu jungles. I’ve never seen such a tribe before, even after spending so much time around the numerous factions of Pachil during the war. Who are these people, and what are they doing in my land? They don’t look like any Tuatiu tribe I’ve ever encountered, especially since our people hardly ever wear red. Eventually, my curiosity wins out, and I plan to learn as much as I can about this group before reporting back to Haluiqa—and even Sianchu—to develop a plan.
Gradually poking my head out from behind the trunk, I watch the ritual and monitor the activity. From here, I can finally see what is in the center of the group, but it takes me a while to get past the disbelief. Lying on the ground is a body, roughly the size of a large male. The torso is slashed and ripped to shreds, his lower body, unclothed, is misshapen, with the legs contorted into near triangles. His head rests on a black platform, a shocked expression permanently frozen on his face as blood drips from what was once his neck. Who is this poor victim? Three cups cast in gold rest at the base of the pedestal, a red liquid clings to the sides. Members of the group vocalize a single syllable, holding the ommm while three men pick up the cups and drink a sip before passing the containers to their left.
It was the last thing I saw before everything in my vision turned black.
