Somewhere in deep space


    October 1, 2004


    A council of nine yautja elders are assembled around a long rectangular table. G’tlak, Chief Elder of the Ta’dnu clan sits at the head of the table. Adorned in his opulent robes, G’tlak is unmistakably the best dressed in the room. The other council members, all of a hunter caste, are dressed in their ordinary battle armor; masks neatly situated beside their full chalices on the table.


    G’tlak observes his warrior kin with pride in his heart. Each of these hunters has fought long and bravely. They have earned the right to sit at this hallowed table. Vtinyeel, G’tlak’s eldest son, is just returning from a battle on Felsus Prime. The warrior is less one eye, but shows courage—returning quickly to his duties. The hybrid offspring of the black serpents were put down expeditiously. In no small part, because of Vtinyeel’s quick thinking. He is a son to be proud of.


    The remaining council members around the table are fathers, brothers, and sons of other clan warriors. All highly favored, all renowned. Not one of them has ever shown a sign of weakness. A force all their own.


    G’tlak calls the meeting to order, raising his chalice of chruksh elixir; favored libation of the elders.


    “Brothers…Honored kin. Now is the time of the hunt,” G’tlak says.


    Growls and chitters fill the room as members of the council voice their pleasure and assent. G’tlak grins his widest yautja grin and glances around at his brethren. Many have clawed hands clenched in unspoken fury, others stare forward with expressions of absolute glee. The time of the keinde amedha has come. G’tlak turns to his left and addresses the warrior seated beside him.


    “Who are the three that have been chosen?” G’tlak demands.


    Kla’ali addresses his leader with a head nod before answering.


    “They are Scar of the blood of Skas’gld…Chopper of kv’adil‘s blood, and Celtic of the blood of Padih, High Elder,” Kla’ali explains with another respectful nod.


    G’tlak is more than pleased to hear the names of the chosen. They are all names he knows well.


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    “That is good,” G’tlak says gleefully. “I wish to have them brought here before they depart. I will give them my blessing for the hunt.”


    Kla’ali nods again. Summoning a messenger, Kla’ali sends the harried yautja servant to fetch the three unblooded youths. G’tlak moves on to the next order of business.


    -


    -


    “What weapons will you be taking for the hunt, brother?” Scar questions, looking askance at his warrior kin.


    Chopper glances over one shoulder at Scar, his brow furrowing deeply. Celtic, the hunt leader, says nothing. He watches his younger companions with interest.


    “I’ve found that my arm blade works just fine for inflicting maximum damage,” Chopper replies.


    He whips his arm down, by means of demonstration, and a large blade shoots out. With a sly smile, Chopper tilts his head toward Celtic.


    “Don’t bother asking him,” Chopper says, mocking the silent yautja leader. “His answer will be everything.”


    Chopper and Scar share a laugh at Celtic’s expense, knowing the brave warrior will do nothing more than chuff at their idleness. They are correct. With a haughty toss of his head, Celtic ejects his wrist blades and pretends to examine them. His brown eyes stare daggers into the only other young yautja in the weapons room. Chopper chuckles uncomfortably and retracts his arm blade. He moves off to another side of the room.


    Scar continues staring at his hunt leader—and warrior brother; until Celtic finally issues a short laugh. The two yautja hunters chuckle loudly, causing Chopper to turn back in their direction.


    “What is so funny, brothers?” Chopper inquires.


    While speaking, Chopper reaches onto a nearby shelf, searching for a stone sharpener for his arm blade. He finds an urn full of sharpeners on the right side of the shelf; nestled between a large shield fashioned from the skull of a vildif, and a thin knife carved from the rib-bone of a ghkivu.


    Scar shakes his beaded head and peers at Chopper from across the room.


    “You are funny, brother,” Scar says. “The way you run from even a stare. How will you face the keinde amedha…If you cannot even face your hunt brothers?”


    Chopper, quite hurt by Scar’s ribbing, remains silent. He glares at Scar with a powerful anger.


    “I bet I will be blooded before you are, Scar!” Chopper finally retorts. “You are all words. Words do not translate to deeds. Your movements during practice are much too slow, and you are easily distracted. Those are not good qualities to have when you are facing our greatest of foes.”


    Scar lets another laugh escape and ejects his wrist blades. Scar’s dual wrist blades are easily three times the size of Celtic’s wrist blades, and he examines them carefully in the light.


    “That may be so, brother…” Scar replies. “But I will have the most kills. Who knows, I may even kill the dreaded mother of serpents.”


    It is Celtic’s turn to laugh. He twists his face into a horrifying grimace, examining Scar from head to toe.


    “You dream big, little brother,” Celtic mocks. “That is good. But not good enough. It will take more than bluster to best the serpent queen. Nothing I have seen suggests you are up to the challenge.”


    “We shall see,” Scar says, testing the sharpness of his wrist blades with a clawed finger. A tiny droplet of blood appears at the tip of his finger and Scar smiles with satisfaction.


    “We shall see,” Scar repeats in a lower, more menacing tone.