Spike's Deadliest Warrior: Mayan Vs Mutant -Done

[coyote1]

It was going to be a hot day. He was already starting to feel the moisture gathering on his body and the drips of sweat down his back. He needed this time alone, to clear his head, the situation in the city was getting worse. They were clearly becoming overpopulated and their resources could not support them. His wife was worried and was pushing for him to move them away to a smaller village. He had considered this, was still considering actually but for his son's sake, he couldn't. If they moved, what would become of his son Cut Rock? There would be no chance for greatness, for glory. He would become a merchant or trader, or worse..a farmer.
Even though these men fed cities, really, there would be no stories, no achievements to tell his children, his grandchildren. His life would be over before it began. Zero Wolf loved his son too much to commit him to a life of nothingness. Better dead than never living at all. He sighed and knelt beside a stream. As he drank and splashed water over his body he thought of the course he would take through the hills and around before returning home. He meant to be away for a good few days, his wife knew this. So did his mistress. He hadn't given them any choice in the matter. He needed quiet before he started getting angry over every day stupidities and smashing heads together. Not that he did that normally but one never knew. The councillors had been annoying him much of late, their refusal to look at other options to bring new crops and irrigation into the city. It was like they wanted the city to die. The city that fed and clothed them, extremely well by way of fact. Zero Wolf believed in not biting the hand that fed him, and that was the hand of the king. Long ago he had done a favour for the young prince and since then, he had been looked after. Not in an obvious, charity way but there had been helping pushes now and then over the years. Doors of opportunity that had opened for him which for others remained closed. He was silently grateful and so he and the king had held an understanding all these years. Now the king was in such dire straits, his rule resting on the tip of a knife. A false move he, and the city would plummet. Imbecile nobles and priests. They were blind and believed the food would never run out and the sicknesses couldn't reach far enough to touch them.
Maybe he would take his wife and two small children and move away. He could leave Cut Rock in the care of the militia, let him fend and prove himself without the overpowering presence of his father. That might be best.
He stood and adjusted his chest plate. It was made of heavy bone and was pointed, sometimes it even cut him if he moved wrong. He would not be without it though. The same for his helmet and weapons. Out in the wilderness there was more to fear than animals. Ruffians and criminals hid out here to pick off the remnants society might leave.
Human offal. If some crossed Zero Wolf's path, there would be less refuse to trouble the king's people. He kept on his path and stopped when he reached a clearing which overlooked the valley. As always, it was breathtaking. He stood a long time, taking it in. He was about the continue on when a light shone in his eyes. Startled he looked back across the way. Nothing..but then again..the light, reflected right into his eyes..almost as bright as the sun. This was not only puzzling but troubling. What on earth could have such an effect? Nothing known to him or his people. He thought of investigating immediately but then thought better of it. He would dismiss it for now until he could think on it more. He changed his spear into his other hand and began trekking up the hillside.

[Blackberry]

Hunger, pain, thirst, sleep. Most people just grow up with them, with the words, with what they mean. But I remember the discovery of the power of sleep when my damned eyes couldn’t stay open and I fell asleep despite my best efforts. I remember waking up from sleep the first time from the throes of my first nightmare to confusion. Cut right through the tree I was sleeping by without even thinking, and nearly got crushed by it. Reality, dream, and fading memory were the same in my confusion, and I didn’t dare sleep for days for fear that the darkness would once again transport me back to the room and the agony of it.
I didn’t understand the pain of my hunger, or the growing weakness of my body. It wasn’t until I came across a mexican wolf pack devouring a fresh, warm carcass that I realized that water was not enough to live off of. I tried to approach the animals, but they attacked me. I attacked them and chased them off, weak as I was, and though I didn’t like the damn blood that they had left all over the place I tried to eat what they had left behind.
My first meal ever was stolen from a wolf pack and eaten off the ground with my teeth and claws, like the wild animal I was.

Like a wolverine.

The red meat was not gone, but a pleasant sensation left him feeling stronger and better than he had . . . ever. He stood from the mess of red, his hands stained and his face sticky, like it had been in the beginning, when his own blood had begun to dry on his face.
He moved away, licking his lips as he sat on his haunches to lift the cold, biting ground water and wipe off his hands, his feet, his mouth.
He could not leave tracks.

He paused for a moment, looking down at the red mess of the slaughter he had feasted from. Food. Experience of his returned thirst again and again told him he would be hungry again, and he did not know how to get more.
Blood. He could smell it. He had eaten it, with the meat, and the bitter taste still lined his mouth. The same sort of smell he recognized whenever he buried his claws into one of his hunters.
He was hesitant to leave this place, however, where he knew there was food. Yet the men were still behind him, he was sure. He had not heard them for some time, though—since he had hid in a small, dark cave under a rock, curled up against a cold storm that made his toes and fingers break open and bleed before sealing back closed, but leaving them aching.
He did not know why it did that. He did not know why he bled, or hurt, but he knew he did not like it, or the cold. It gave him pain, and though it went away soon after, he did not like it.

Finishing with his rough cleaning and licking the last traces of moisture from his fingers, he looked down at one of the wolves that he had hit with his claws.
It had not moved from where it had fallen. None of the ones he had hit had.
Its belly was sliced open, spilling its fresh meal and its own slashed innards over the ground, and its fur was thick with blood that stained the leaves underneath. Its eyes wide and unseeing. He inched towards it cautiously, with a warning growl towards the still creature, but it still did not move. It did not even twitch with fear or caution.
It did not smell right.
He bent down, sniffing it.

Snikt!

The pain in his fist was sharp, but familiar now, and he knew it would disappear soon enough. Life was pain, and because he did not understand it he did not wonder. It just was, like the heat, like the hunger, like the thirst and the men hunting him. Like the dogtag made of wood around his neck that he knew gave him the name of the Wolverine.
He held one bladed-fist forward as he reached out a cautious hand towards the wolf. Slowly his hand reached down, brushing the fur, and finally resting on the cooling flesh of the body.
It still did not move.
He pushed at it, then prodded at the flesh with the tip of his claws.
Nothing. No sound of the heart or scent of feeling or fear. Nothing.
Just stillness.

I watched the wolves, followed them, found how they found shelter, and hunted. I saw the deer, saw the wolves outsmart and kill the creatures, saw them rip into the innocent pale throats and fling the blood all over each other, the trees, the ground.
I never killed one of the wolves again, but continued to feed from their hunt, though the meat was cold when I got to it, every time.

Wolverine strode through the brush almost silently, his lithe and filthy form blending naturally into the wood. His hair had been roughly cut back with his claws, and his beard cut back into rough muttonchops. The remnants of his meals were too hard to clean from his chin and upper lip with the thick, long hair there.
He was constantly alert to any danger or possible meal, but for now he was relatively relaxed as he moved, pausing only occasionally to listen more closely to a sound that had caught his attention, his nose twitching at the host of scents around him.
The wood was pleasantly quiet, comfortable now with a new predator that was likewise comfortable in its presence. He paused to sniff at a tree, recognizing this as the territory of a jaguar, and a big one at that. He moved on, more wary, but not overly so.
Big cats were wary of him too, and for good reason. Still, he would have to be careful to try and pass peaceably, if they happened upon each other.
The sun was getting high, and Wolverine was beginning to long for a midday nap next to the languid river he had been following since before the sun had risen. He yawned and shook himself, then began searching for a safe place to let his guard down . . .

[coyote1]

After climbing well into mid morning, Zero Wolf stopped to rest. He chose a large tree that he could lean comfortably against.
He placed his arms behind his head and sat back. These times alone were about personal reflection. Rarely could he do this in the city, not with his wife coming through, troubling him with trivial things or his sons running by asking about this or that or they hadn't done well in their training, could he help them? So many distractions. As much as he disrespected the pompous lifestyle of the priests, he believed in their teachings even if they didn't believe themselves. A man's quest was as much on the inside as the outside. He could place his feet on the ground far and wide but if the heart and mind didn't accompany them then it had all been for nothing.
He took great stock in one's experiences and their strength of spirit. He had no regard for shallowness and those of near sight.
Which included most people he came into contact with these days. Their small mindedness affected him, he hated to admit. Being surrounded by stupidness made him stupid..another reason he had to get away. He closed his eyes and drifted off, listening to the usual sounds of the forest. If only you could hear the same sounds in the city but no..just everyday conversations, people passing by to and fro, drunks finding their way home at night. All the more reason to enjoy these moments. He smiled to himself. As he dozed he heard a scattering of footsteps and immediately became alert but didn't react. The steps came closer, they were erratic, hesitant, moving from side to side. He cracked an eye and saw a small pack of wolves entering the small clearing around him. They seemed to just want to pass, not enter into any confrontation. They were disturbed, not aggressive. This was most odd. Whining softly they stepped widely around him and continued on their path. Once they had moved on, he sat up. The signs for his little journey were quickly turning for the worst. The strange light bouncing through the trees below him in the valley. The strange behaviour of the wolves. Perhaps he should head home. There was no gain in time away if you didn't come home. Yes. He might do this. Another hour or so of climbing and he would come to a ridge that would give him the option of further ascent or starting to descend. He would take the descent. The gods always gave signs, they always tried to tell you what way to go. It was up to men to first pay attention, then recognize the signs and then act accordingly. If you ignored the signs then you deserved to suffer, or worse.
He had been a war chief for a very long time, almost 15 years. He had survived this long because of his acute senses and his instincts. They were telling him now to take care. And he was more than willing to listen. He checked his weapons. He had his spear, his knife, his bow and arrows. The wind shifted. It was time to move.

[Blackberry]

The wind shifted.
He stopped, like a wolf frozen with one of its feet ready to step--torn between leaping and fleeing.
He smelled it.
Man.
Wolverine ducked into the brush, almost disappearing as he waited, forgotten memories rising as waves of hatred, fear, and fury as his claws slowly shot from his hands without thought. His eyes narrowed by the moment a tall man became visible between the foliages. The man wore alot of adornments made of animals —he could smell the stale, old scent of dead things easily, though it did not hide the hated scent. The man was warm and human, and carried weapons. It was the weapons that had kept him from killing men straightaway the first time he had seen them, but he had grown bolder over time.
He had already considered more than once simply going down and killing them. Their weapons might cause pain, but it would go away, and the hatred that burned and growled in his throat at the sight of them would be satisfied. But he had recognized that these men somehow caught the meat that kept him fed, and being fed kept the anger in him content to wait.
So he watched the man, making note of his direction, and of his wariness.
The man seemed afraid. Was he hunting him?
He did not know, but he was damned sure that he would never be able to catch him. Not this one, anyway. He was sure of that. Memories kept him wary nonetheless.
The hunter moved, and for once Wolverine let him go, though he stared after him, his brow furrowed.
His claws retracted, and his skin quickly moved over to seal up the wounds left behind. He absently rubbed his knuckles as he turned to a small water hole filled with the freshest drops from the early morning rain.
He drank deeply from the water hole, lapping straight from it before splashing some over his face to shock himself from the churning of his stomach. He shook himself, letting the droplets fall back down into the cold water. He wiped the moisture from his eyes, then froze in mid-gesture as he caught sight of something in the water.
A man!
Snikt!
Flawless blades buried themselves in the water, cutting through cleanly and rising up into the air again without striking anything solid and soaking him from his blind lunge. Wolverine reeled back, panting as he perched over the water, his fist raised for a killing stroke as he searched for his target that had impossibly evaded him.
He snarled at it, daring for it to emerge, his nose twitching as he searched for the elusive scent.
There he was!
The man was ready to attack—his hand raised over his head and three sharp claws ready to strike . . .
But no. It rippled, like a dream, like cold morning-mist. Yet he could see the image, as the arm slowly lowered, mirroring his own.
He bent down with a low growl, sniffing at it, watching as the man did the same.
He looked different than a man, though. His chest was bare, his hair wild, and something dangled over its chest . . .
Wolverine.
He reeled back and the man disappeared from the water. Something hit him then. Strong, like a memory, laughing at him.
It was a reflection—showing the trees above his head, the sky, the clouds. He turned sharply with a snarl, searching for the man that must have been standing behind him, but the wood was silent and still. He turned back to the water, and saw the man in the river—the reflection—do the same.
It was him.
His reflection was a man.
A plain, clear voice spoke out the implications of that.
If his reflection was a man . . . then he must be a man.
No!
He turned away with terrible mix of a howl and a snarl, his fists still clenched tight and his claws gleaming in the sunlight.
He let them vanish, let the pain fade.
He was . . . a man?
He was a man!
He tasted bile in his throat and rose onto his hind legs, howling into the wilderness with a terrible wildness that had never before echoed through those rugged mountains.
Damn!

[coyote1]

The howl echoing through the jungle brought Zero Wolf to a halt. Puzzled he turned and stared back the way he had come. What on heaven and earth could that have been? He had never heard anything like it before. It had definitely not been jaguar..possibly howler monkey but it had been too long and deep. And oddly it was emotion filled, that was what paused him the most. Heart broken, if one had a heart. Devastated. Human like but not. Very strange. He took a few strides back in its direction. He had heard the outrageous stories told by the old men in the city. Shadows, doom and the blood one found in the jungle if alone. These were simply tales to keep people out of the forests. The king liked keeping short leashes on his citizens, this was easier to do if they remained within the walls and not meandering about.
There was a faint rustling behind him that brought his back up immediately and he listened intently without letting on he was aware. He prided himself on his ability to keep absolute control of his emotions and expressions. One never knew what to expect from him as his face was always set in the same lines. Over the years his face just seemed to stay that way. His wife had hated this when they were first married but she quickly accepted it having no other choice. He felt his visitor creeping closer. He admired their stealth. They would still die but it would not be for their lack of trying or skill. Nonchalantly he put his hands on his hips and did a casual kind of stretch. On releasing he brought his hand around and in one motion, unsheathed his knife, then brought his arm up, landing his knife into the man's throat. A move he was so familiar with it almost looked like a dance. He pulled his knife out and watched disinterested as the man fell to the ground in a heap. Wiping the blade off on the man's torn dirty clothes as he gasped for his last breaths, Zero Wolf decided he was just a common thief out for whatever he could remove off Zero Wolf's person. Leaving the man to die, Zero Wolf walked on. If the thief had been responsible for the howl, maybe it had been a call to other thieves in his band. Zero Wolf wasn't worried but there was no reason to ask for more trouble. Weapons drawn, he picked up a light jog.

[Blackberry]

A final last breath escaped the skilled but unfortunate hunter, shaking still in pain and cold of death eating his blood second by second. And so he was no more. Coldly murdered by the perhaps most skilled mayan warrior walking these lands.

Further away, still by the water hole, Wolverine lowered to his feet slowly, letting his hands fall to his sides as he looked about, breathing in the world. Breathing in the confusing, meaningless clutter of scents.
There it was again.
Smell of man.
He stared around suspiciously for a moment, sniffing the air again before certain of a new threat was near.
T’CHI!
Fire shot up his arm like the slice of the jaguar’s claws. He dropped to the ground automatically with a snarl, furious at the pain but unheeding to it.
Snickt!
He knew this pain. He knew the arrows.
Hunters.

“Got anything?” a man called from where he was still hidden in the bush.
Damn, fool men. They thought they were the hunters.
"Swear I got something—a wolf, maybe, drinking from the water. Cannot see him, though.” There was the sound of spitting. "Damn!”
It was the last word the hunter ever said.
The Wolverine struck.
The man did not even have time to scream. Nine inch blades buried clean through his chest, and a hand over his mouth stifled the sound save for a muffled gurgle as he fell.
The other man swore.
Fear. He could smell it on the other man, as he raised his bow and shot wildly. Fear made the shot go wide.
It didn’t matter one way or another. Red filled the wolverine’s vision as a berserker rage overtook him.
He leaped forward, slicing the bow clean. The man screamed like a dying rabbit, but then that cry was cut short and the man fell, his blood bubbling in his throat as he convulsed on the ground.
The animal's fury wasn't satisfied. His snarls ripped through the silent wood as he struck again and again—ripping into the man's chest and shredding him, until blood and filth dripped off him like terrible rain.
Finally he stepped away from the corpse, stepping out of the gore and shaking himself with a last snarl, sending droplets of red into the air.
Wolverine’s mind and eyes cleared slowly, and he came to himself as he stood bloodstained over his latest kill. Then it came back to him like a high furious tide wave of water crushing over his self.
He was a man... These dead bodies were of his own kind.
He would not believe it!
The last one he had gotten to was too broken, its face was a ruined mess, its torso ripped and torn too much. So he went to the first one, drawing close cautiously as he stared at the corpse. Staring at the man’s hands, at his own hands, which seemed so similar, though his were larger and still damp from the water and a pale tinge of blood. The only differences were the claws. He let them slide back into his forearms and he rubbed his fists where dark bruising was already fading beneath his skin. Turned the cooling arm over to compare the workings of the veins that ran beneath his skin. His hands shook, and with a feverish intensity he moved forward to see the man’s bare chest, bloodied and torn as it was—staring at his face as he traced his own rough features and smearing new, darkened blood over his cheeks and brow as he did so. No claws. No paws, no fur like the wolf or the deer or the jaguar.



He stole the dead man’s loinclothing They were too big around the waist, but he didn’t really notice or care. He found a worn leather pouch and sniffed it carefully, then opened it up, staring at the continents inside. Precious Stones, it meant meat, water. Good sweet water, and warmth. What the hell? He gave a low growl and sniffed at one of the shiny stones, examining closley its all sides, but it did not make sense.
Damn it.
He let the pouch drop to the ground. The precious stone rested there in the dirt, unmoving and completely useless.
Stones. Just damn, useless stones. No good out here.
But it meant something. With a final grimace he snagged the pouch and tied it to his new trousers. What the hell. It is not like the stuff was hard to carry around. Wolverine walked onwards, following the tracks of the man he had met just before the attack. Though, he was uneasy. Something moved inside of him, making him restless, making him want to hunt, or run, or sleep until he could wake up and know...
Long before he had reached his target, Wolverine cut off from the trail to find a hideout where he sat down in the dirt. He leaned back with his head against the tree. His breathing filled his ears, and while he was so warm his whole body ached with it, weariness soon overtook him, and he slept.

[coyote1]

Zero Wolf studied the shredded bits of men. The cut off cry had brought him except he had done their customary circle back and he had come upon the scene from behind. The men had been cut with long gashes and had deep punctures through their torsos and throats. Their skin looked like women's hair ribbons, he thought. Sliced thin and rippling. Not even the largest wolf or jaguar could do such intense and extensive damage. But then neither had Zero Wolf seen or heard of a weapon that could have such profound impact. He shook his head. This excursion just got stranger and stranger. Looking again he noticed the bodies had no teeth marks or bites. What killed them had not been interested in eating them. Taking some steps back he surveyed the scene. One of the men had seen their attacker and had managed to get off an arrow. Clearly it had missed and embedded itself in this tree. The other must have been the first hit, the area around his mouth was ripped off. Instantly silenced. The tool marks were amazing, unseen before. Perhaps they were being invaded and this was the work of the scouts of a far off king. It would explain the different weapons. The scout was bare footed, the footprints in the dirt showed toes while the dead men wore sandals. In fact, one was naked!? Loincloth missing. How perverse! Zero Wolf was disgusted. What man would want another man's worn loincloth against his privates! Grimacing he continued his inspection around the bodies. A few stranded stones lay away from the bodies. Unclothed and robbed. This scout's status was plummeting in Zero Wolf's eyes. The foreign king had sent his worst representative not his best. A brutal killer for sure but no honor.
He must have sent a mercenary instead of a scout. So be it. The gods didn't make mistakes. Everything happened for a reason. Maybe they had sent Zero Wolf here to confront this new menace to their lands. Or maybe he was meant to die by it. Should he fall to a new enemy, his men would avenge him. He was sure of it. And they would have the king's backing. He would rather send Zero Wolf's men first and have them fail before sending his own men. Which was fair, king's right. Zero Wolf thought maybe he should try to make it back to the city and get his men first rather then face the nemesis alone. He would make the attempt to do so. Should the confrontation happen before then, again, it was up to the gods. He gathered the men's unused arrows. The mercenary had not taken their weapons. Which made sense of course, his own weapons were so effective, why weigh himself down. He took the faceless man's knives. They were light and could be thrown..useful. It was past midday now. He would be close but not quite back to the city by nightfall. Nothing to do but stay alert and make his best effort.