At the base of the pyramid, Chopper and Celtic wait for Scar to finish dispensing with the Quinn ooman and catch up. Celtic secretly broods at the loss of his kill. However, Chopper is a lot less charitable about his own thought processes. He peers back over one shoulder as Scar approaches.


    “Not very sporting,” Chopper chides Scar. “To make a trophy of another’s kill. Especially when the ooman was unarmed.”


    “He was mine,” Scar retorts. “It was my combistick which nearly severed his arm. Was it not I, who chased the big ooman through the cold white? It is not my fault if he ended up at Celtic''s feet. Did you also not see the ooman attack our hunt leader? He only lost his weapon later. He was still mine to hunt.”


    “So you say, Little Brother,” Chopper mocks. “I still say you should not have killed him. Not without a weapon. It is dishonor. He was no threat to you without one. That kill would disqualify you in the eyes of the elders.”


    Scar’s eyes narrow behind his face mask and he stifles the growl building in his throat. Were Chopper not of his clan, Scar would end his miserable life right here at the base of the great chuf''trhat. Yet, Chopper is of his clan. The hatred boiling in his blood will have to wait for the practice pits. After they have achieved their victory and become one of the blooded.


    Ignoring anything further Chopper might say, Scar climbs the steps of the great pyramid two at a time. His battle brothers follow closely behind. At the top, an alarm sounds. Celtic glances down at his wrist device and lets loose an agitated growl.


    “The oomans…,” Celtic roars. “They have extracted our sacred hunt weapons!”


    “What? That is impossible!” Chopped exclaims. “That has never been done!”


    “It has now,” Scar says.


    A chill travels down the unblooded youth’s spine, but not from the surrounding cold. He turns to his disbelieving brethren, and attempts to still the rapid beating of his heart.


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    “These oomans are not like the ones who visited many cycles of the moon ago,” Scar says. “They are cunning. But we are more so. Brother…Hunt leader. Let us go! Before they get too far from the sarcophagus.”


    Running at full speed, the three hunters enter the pyramid. In search of the violating oomans, and their stolen yautja weapons.


    -


    -


    The walls of the pyramid begin to shift all around them. Scar and Chopper follow their hunt leader deeper into the heart of the pyramid, leaping to avoid some of the rapidly closing apertures.


    Scar’s heart pounds in his chest, at the idea of confronting the oomans. Chopper, on the other hand, is more concerned with their misappropriated weapons. He mumbles and swears angrily under his breath. Celtic, forever the stoic hero, shows no emotion either way. The massive hunt leader’s arms move fluidly through the air as he races through the labyrinth of passageways.


    Entering the sacred resting place of the masters’ sarcophagus; Celtic kneels before the large slab of stone. He scans the floor with his mask.


    “I see possibly seven distinct footprints here,” Celtic says between a growl. “We can expect to run into that many of them. Maybe one or two more.”


    “But they have our weapons!” Chopper yells. “How do we fight the serpents without them? And where are the oomans going? Do they not understand what this is?”


    “I don’t believe they do,” Scar says candidly. “Otherwise, they would not have taken our weapons. They cannot use them. But neither can we. They have greatly reduced the chances of their own survival.”


    “I do not care!” Chopper bellows. “All I care about is getting my weapon back from the oomans. If they die at the claws of the keinde amedha…All the better. I can wrench the weapon from their cold dead fingers as the worm grows inside them!”


    “Not very smart, Chopper!” Celtic warns. “To get that close to the nest without a true weapon would be recklessness. You would end up a host for the worm as well. Now, stop chattering your teeth and let us be gone from this place. The oomans have quite a start on us already.”


    Pointing to a large opening several yards away, Celtic motions for his two companions to follow him.


    “We can go this way,” Celtic explains. “The shaft leads into an adjacent corridor.”


    Gripping the top of the hole, Celtic hefts his massive bulk off of the ground. He slides down the chute like an ooman child at an amusement park, his arms outstretched behind him. Chopper is still fuming at the loss of his weapon. He pushes past Scar and climbs into the chute behind Celtic. Scar shakes his head with a soft growl and follows his hunt brothers down.