There was an ominous whistle of something fast and sharp moving through the air which abruptly ended in a wooden thud. Dor Akol yanked the claws of their left hand out of the mahul tree they had just embedded it in and wound up for another strike. This was their practice, their warm up, their sharpening and they were almost satisfied with it. The tree they chose for target practice was a strong one, towering over 40 meters in height, surely at least a hundred years old and it will be the third one to fall this morning by Dor’s mighty arms as they sharpen their claws in anticipation of today’s battle. While the sounds of more and more strikes echoed through the lonely grouping of trees, Dor imagined their claws raking through the bodies of the Tealhide Clan drahmir while praising Kavuushu and peppering the battlefield with severed limbs.
Dor’s adoptive clan, the Kanba, came into contact with the Tealhides close to six moons ago at a watering hole and the two clans locked into a vicious struggle immediately, their continued encounters becoming a steady source of glorious bloodshed, ending many lifecycles each time and leaving their meat spilled on the ground to feed new cycles in turn. Steadying their breath, Dor took a few steps back and retracted their claws. They eyed the tree they were laying into expertly and, with a few quick steps, slammed their shoulder onto its trunk right above the deep cuts they put into the tree meat just moments ago. With a deafening crack, the wooden giant wobbled for a moment and then collapsed sideways, ending today’s morning routine. Dor regarded its soon-to-be-dead mass impassively, turned around and started walking back to their camp.
The Tealhides were a fearless clan and a serious adversary, a much welcome change to someone as strong as the Kanba, and they threw themselves into battle against a worthy enemy with renewed vigor. In recent seasons, before running into the Tealhides, the Kanba grew large in an uncontested and deeply unsatisfactory way. Many times have Dor been a part of an assault force that challenged and murdered a neighboring clan’s elder warriors after which it only took a few raids for the clan to accept its subservient position and agree to supply farmed meat and fresh birthers to the Kanba. Dor’s face twisted and they spat on the ground in disgust, the idea of drahmir willingly giving up bloodletting time and potential kin-warriors to tend to livestock and serve others filled their very being with contempt. Their arms hanging by their side as they walked, they extended their claws again, lovingly caressing their thighs and drawing enough blood to coat their fingers. Facing violence is no excuse for surrendering, Dor thought, admiring the glistening blue hues of the liquid on their hands against morning sunlight. These hands are meant to rip animals apart sooner than herd them and Dor knew for a fact they would fight to absolute exhaustion rather than consider giving up. Two captures by a clan other than their own gave enough evidence for it. The first time Dor managed to escape and eventually take revenge on the rival clan, but the second time they watched from captivity as their old clan was all but exterminated by the Kanba and they decided to employ the might of their arms in the ranks of their captors instead. And so they will do today, but first they had another task to take care of.
…
Seven drahmir, slender and tall, slowly started filing out of the darkened and musky interior of a heavy tent. As each of them passed through the flap of thick fabric that covered the entrance, Dor squinted their eyes against rays of sunlight that briefly invaded the inner recesses of the round room. Something large and heavy moved and groaned lazily on one end of it as if prodded by the bright fingers of Helastyr’s sun, but Dor paid it no mind. Instead they got up, dirty and covered in sweat as they were, and filled a clay jug with wild mushroom brew from a barrel standing right at the entrance. There was another figure in the middle of the room, lying on its belly, panting heavily, covered in dark wetness the color of which was hard to discern in the dim light. Sitting back down onto their haunches next to the figure, Dor waited for it to calm its breath and turn and then offered the jug to it. It was clearly drahmir, covered in fresh cuts too shallow to have been meant to kill, starkly exposed with its birthing glans grotesquely engorged, wearing a serene expression that didn’t match its tortured body. There were chains wrapped around its throat and ankles, anchored to the ground with wooden stakes, not too tight, but short enough that standing up would already be a challenge. A strong body still, Dor thought, as they admired the birther chugging most of the shroomwater down in one go.
Their name was Portak and they were captured during a skirmish with the Tealhide clan about three moons ago after managing to single-handedly disembowel half a platoon of warriors. And, very surprisingly, they were a birther. They told Dor that they tried to use the Kanba attack to escape becoming a breeder to their own clan and, when discovered by the attackers, hoped to die a warrior’s death with as much blood on their hands as they could. For a warrior that wouldn’t be surprising, but birthers usually didn’t put up much resistance, let alone kill a bunch of their assailants. Portak were young, hadn’t even gone through their first seeding at the time, so they were not yet weakened by a life of constant pregnancies, but even in those circumstances Dor couldn’t imagine any other birther they knew put up so much of a fight and found the display of strength very exciting. Strength that, sadly, was not to last, as a birther’s life, no matter how exceptional, takes a toll on their body and their will to fight with each new birth until there is nothing left but a pathetic farm animal waiting to be taken care of.
This one had already given birth to two separate bursts of grublings since their capture and, after today, were likely on their way to a third one as well. And indeed, before they were even able to finish the jug of fungal draught, Portak hunched over sharply, clutching their mid-section. The clay container shattered on the ground, spilling its leftover contents all around them as the birther groaned deeply, snapping their head up, eyes and mouth wide open in silent agony. Underneath the other drahmir’s fingers Dor could see the once firm, toned stomach shift and swell frantically, as if hiding a cluster of angry serpents.
“Uuuugh, I hate this part”, managed Portak to squeeze out the first articulated sounds from their mouth that day.
“Worse than this one?” pointed Dor to a massive scar indicating that at some point in their history the other drahmir had nearly been bisected from shoulder to thigh by something large and unfriendly.
“No, but constant.”
Gingerly, Portak rolled on their back and closed their eyes, the convulsing stomach now clearly visible. Looks like the seeding was successful and they may start to swell and feed early this time around, Dor thought. That was a pity, as once that happens most birther bodies use all of their energy on growing their grublings as fast as possible and are barely able to move or communicate, aside from their regular feeding frenzies. Dor should probably let someone know to send a fresh meat basket soon. It wasn’t in drahmir nature to think about tending to their captives very often and so it wasn’t unheard of that a birther was devoured from the inside by growing grublings desperate for any kind of sustenance, which were then born weak and malnourished or died alongside their progenitor.
Less of a chance of that happening here, among the enlightened Kanba, who were known to even produce their own numbing concoction that they would give to captured birthers to keep them docile and cooperative instead of regularly beating them into submission as was the tradition in most other clans. The concoction was part of the reason why Kanba was so successful in convincing subjugated clans to regularly send their fertile kin to serve. It amplified the ecstasy of pain to impossible highs, introducing at least one desirable element to the breeder existence that those condemned to it could look forward to. Dor also knew that prolonged use of the potion would then make the breeder truly into an unthinking, vacant-eyed animal all the while their repeated pregnancies gradually turned their once mighty drahmir body into a bloated, flabby mockery of itself. That part was not talked about much, one had to spend a few moons with the Kanba to notice the potions side effects. Which was too late for any birther that has already gotten accustomed to drinking it.
Portak seemed to know, or at least guess, enough to refuse the concoction and prefer to face their new existence with all of their wits intact, earning a warrior-kin’s share of respect for the captive in Dor’s eyes. During times of clarity, usually between giving birth and the next seeding, they would visit the birther and talk, learning more about the Tealhides than any other clan member, whose conversations with strangers were mostly limited to shouting a few insults before attempting to gut each other. Dor were particularly excited to learn that Kavuushu worship was common amongst the enemy clan, the shared appreciation of a well executed bloodletting making their murderous encounters all that more meaningful and glorious. They also exchanged small life stories with the birther, gaining so much admiration for the other’s strength, that they made a decision to always fulfill their breeding duty whenever Portak was due for another seeding.
They looked at the tensed up drahmir on the ground, compared them with the babbling blobs of farmed birthers around the tent and felt happy with their decision. Portak seemed to be settling down into a regular breathing pattern, unmoving, their conception pains staying level in what Dor had heard described as a steady hum of agony that expanded from the stomach into every muscle in the body. There will be no talking today. But that’s okay, they will send someone with food and water and prepare for the upcoming conflict. Talking can be reserved for another day.
…
The air was thick with the roar of fighters swinging their weapons, mingling with the frenzied screeches of those too injured to continue fighting. Dor stumbled sideways, slipping on the muddy ground, and wiped off blood running down their face with their upper arm in an awkward shrug. Frustration swelled inside of them as they flexed fingers of their right hand trying to get rid of an unmoving drahmir body hanging from it limply, chest pierced with their massive claws. Their adversary was dead, but managed to pierce their own claws through Dor’s upper arm before breathing their last, impaled like a trophy and seriously limiting Dor’s ability to fight. Growling, they swiped their free arm at the burden, dismembering it with a few quick strikes and shaking themselves free. Their right arm still hung limply at their side and their axe was lost inside the skull of another dead enemy since what seemed like ages ago to their frenzied mind.
Suddenly, a sharp pain of something small and hard hitting at high speed blossomed in their shoulder. And another and another, all over their back. Dor ducked down and swiveled, their uninjured arm tense and ready to tear into another body, but there was no attacker nearby. All around them were groups of drahmir locked into a murderous struggle, but none were paying attention directly to them at the moment. Squinting, they looked past the closest combatants, surveying the once grassy field now turned into a muddy trap by hundreds of heavy, stomping feet and fresh blood and… there! A few tall, thin, hunched over figures stood perched on a rocky outcropping not even fifty bodylengths away, some of them spinning up wide leather straps above their heads. Slingers, archers…
“COWARDS!”, bellowed Dor, fury and indignation dripping from them like poison at the thought of fighters hiding at a distance, never tasting the warm blood of their kill, never wrapping their hands around the still beating heart of a defeated enemy.
With all of their might they started charging towards the outcropping, barreling through a group of surprised warriors, eyes locked onto their prey. There was a clear path to it now, since the battle had raged for a while and there were more drahmir lying down on the ground dead or injured than still fighting. A warrior covered in a thick mesh of scars holding a bone knife stepped into their path to intercept. Without hesitation, Dor adjusted their charge to tackle the challenger. The other warrior dodged sideways while striking out with their knife to catch Dor in their side, also missing. Whirling around, Dor let their limp arm be carried by their momentum, hoping to catch the other drahmir with outstretched claws. But the warrior was already too close, the strike bouncing harmlessly off their side, claws finding no purchase. Bone knife flashed again, ripping muscle tissue from Dor’s hip. Looking directly into the eyes of the enemy, they could see that the warrior was young. There was fear and uncertainty in the eyes, but also determination and oh, so much hunger! Dor tried bringing their left arm in to block the next attack, but were too slow and the knife buried under their ribs from below.
Feeling strength leave their body, time seemed to slow down and everything around them snapped into focus they may never have experienced before in their life. They saw the broken, reopening pattern of everbleed scars on their killer’s neck. They saw that the battle was soon to be over and not in favor of the Kanba. All over the muddy battlefield they saw their comrades down on their knees screeching their lungs out in pre-slaughter throes. And they realized what it all meant. Everbleed marked the young drahmir as a Kavuushu devotee. Dor would be strung up high and disemboweled, as the god’s will dictated. Their killer would bathe in their blood and partake of their insides, their strength passing onto them, exactly as it should be. Dor felt elation grip their mind and, using whatever strength they still had left, let out a mighty roar in celebration of the occasion. Before their dying body could betray them, the roar was cut short by a powerful hand grabbing them by the throat and lifting them up.
“Praise Kavuushu”, thought Dor as the knife sliced downwards, opening them up for slaughter.
Dor Akol – proud drahmir warrior of the Kanba clan
Kavuushu – one of many drahmir gods of death and rebirth, this one taking the aspect of blood
bloodletting – a series of religious practices in Kavuushu worship, usually involving the drawing of blood in one way or another. Fighting to the death is a pure form of bloodletting.
Portak – captured Tealhide birther
birther – drahmir that can get pregnant. It is not obvious which drahmir are able to, most only find out after losing a battle.
mahul – type of Helastyr wood
cycle/lifecycle – life. Drahmir admire death as they perceive life to be cyclical and death as an opportunity for another iteration.
seeding – semi-ritualistic impregnation of a birther. Usually done in a group of seeders and as violent as anything the drahmir do. Drahmir seeders don’t draw nearly as much pleasure from the act of seeding as they do from pain and combat, viewing it at most as a mildly pleasant duty to their clan. Most clans put their captives through seeding as soon as possible to figure out if they can become breeding sows.
grubling – a stage of drahmir life right after birth. Defenseless, hungry and pathetic, it does not resemble the adult drahmir very much.
burst – a group of grublings
bodylength – the length of a lying down drahmir body, about 2.5 meters; drahmir unit of measurement