Not Like You (The Simian Forest Saga: Vol. I)

The Killer [XXIII]

The rain grew colder, the canopy enamoured and blushing even deeper shades of auburn and gold. It was one of those quiet mornings where Slate would, at times, spend a few hours grooming and speaking with his mother. This particular morn, however, was spent out in the woods, combing for signs of his brother whilst also getting a bit of hunting done. There were four parties out, alert and wary of the looming threat. Signs had become apparent in each and every part of their wood, yet none had managed to catch the small coup. The tension was growing and the entirety of the large clan of two-hundred-plus knew that it would snap at a moment's notice. They were all waiting-- waiting for something to crumble.

Deep, hot breaths of air escaped the skinny buck standing in the clear, rubbing his antlers against the nearest tree for food. It was cold, condensation accumulating in the air like coiling fingers of vapour. Slate's entire body was soaked from the pattering droplets that fell from the snivelling sky. The pressure on his long bow grew, waiting on the orders from Rocket himself. The dark grey chimp sat a good three feet away, head turned, body completely rigid. One of his hands rose, as if to heighten their own eager intent; their prey was mere seconds away from falling into their clutches. The lack of harvest from the admittedly bitter cold spell had left the apes hungry for blood and flesh, some unable to keep themselves strong enough. A cold spell from the west constantly clashed with the dry, hot air from the east, churning the heavens and squeezing every last frigid tear from its complexion.

It was coldest in the heart of their territory, or so they thought. The only trouble Slate had with that, was that Krissa was currently in the thick of it, the small isle she called home dead-set in the centre of the storm. He worried day-in-day-out for her. Where was she? How was she coping? Summer had gone out like a lion, some would say, and others had a theory that the beast was here to stay, all through autumn. Slate's neighbours glanced around with dreary dark emerald and brown pits, some shifting where they silently sat as they grew impatient. Another hunt, another day, another dawn, another fatigued grey afternoon.

An ape stirred behind him and Slate craned his neck back, eyeing his hands. Small movements, secretive. He wasn't nosy enough to investigate. Instead, he turned his shoulder and let out the softest scolding grunts he was able to produce. The males behind him ceased their conversation, looking at him with guilty pools. The chinobo turned his head with a roll of his eyes. Young males. They made him feel as if he were centuries old. Perhaps it was because Slate had been forced to grow up too fast, or because he disliked most of the newer males in his colony, especially the more boisterous types. Eager, all hands and teeth, ready to fight...

You were that way, whispered Koba. He could hear his smirk. Before you lost her.

Rocket's head turned in their direction, gesturing for them to move forward and take their positions. Slate pulled the bow up over his head, just as he had seen Krissa do so many times in the past. His father's spear remained at home some days. Whether it was because of the ghost constantly at his shoulder or the disapproval of his mother, he was unsure. He would go with the latter, seeing as his original hypothesis was something unappetising.

With one powerful jump, the male launched himself forward, swinging along the worn-down branches of towering timbres alike, leaf-litter falling to the ground. Slate grunted and tossed himself up next to Rocket, the two coming to an abrupt halt only feet from where the gulch severed the treeline. Water hissed as it crashed down the rocks, the river churning beneath, swollen from gallons upon gallons of precipitation. His head ducked as his momentum sent him nearly tumbling forward, only caught last minute by his leader's talons. Confusion filled him, he shot him a fleeting glance.

"The... bank," Rocket grunted, gesturing along with his husky intone. Slate remembered this part of the territory thoroughly, the feeling of Krissa's tight grip keeping him on his feet returning again and again in waves of unrelenting nostalgia. It had been the first time she had physically interacted with him, pulling him away from a watery end to his short existence. This had taken place just a kilometre down the beck. Although he did not understand at first, he narrowed his eyes and peered further along the water's spray. Suddenly the buck was no longer their concern-- at first there was nothing out of the ordinary, the boulders deep blue-grey in colour, jutting out of the mud and tendrils of emerald, white-water gushing along the stony shore. Then his eyes caught sight of motion: one body, then another. Chalky war-paint, metallic weapons within their grasps. The first, a young orangutan, paused and turned to his elder, a rather scrawny bonobo with greying hair. Their movements were unclear, but Slate immediately understood why Rocket had stopped him.