Because sometimes, it's time.
The ship is small and smells strange; it's a transportation vessel, not a more expensive Clan one, and the engine room is not as well-insulated as most, making it bright, noisy, oddly scented, and always shaking slightly. There are three hallways off the section above the main ramp; usually, they're completely dark. Today, there's a blue-white glow
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He's fully armored, and his trunk full of trophies (carefully and lovingly wrapped up so they won't get dinged) is carefully being rolled behind him. He's got the flying thing, the Breadian, the carnivorous kangaroo, the horrifying space monkeys, the spike-arm with bonus impaled skull of the Candyman monster, and the pig. And, of course, the head of the kainde amedha.
He was less nervous after kissing Ace, but only just barely.
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She leads the way; the mist dies out as they go higher, although the light follows them all the way up. There are no doors, although she does swing an arm overhead and tap the archway where it lowers: "pressure shield."
They meet their first strange yautja at an intersection, who looks at them, double-takes, pops his wristblades, and staggers as Christine walks into him and bumps him aside. There's the sound of wristblades retracting a moment later.
"Unblooded," she says cheerfully to Spoon, completely ignoring the larger male in the hallway. "If anyone without the mark challenges you, pay no mind. This way. We are going to bring attention to ourselves all ways, so we might as well do it early."
The male is still staring mutely after them.
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"Fair enough." Spoon says, doing his best to trot after Christine without looking like he's trotting after Christine. She's really, really tall after all.
When he passes the strange male he doesn't even bother pausing...if the kid doesn't get out of the way, he's gonna get a knife to the balls. That's what you do when you're several feet shorter than everyone else.
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He's rather grateful that his mask hides his face right now. His nostrils are scented and if he had much hair it'd be bristled from the scents in the air. Spoon isn't walking like the average pyode amedha.
He's stalking. Wolfishly.
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Unspoken which is why we're moving right along! there ( ... )
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Spoon almost (almost) hopes he gets a chance to show off his other form.
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"What word did she just say?"
She almost slows--tension shows in her body language--as they near a corner. She tosses her head, braids clacking against each other and beads snapping off the plate over her back. When she moves forward, it's with the swagger of a huntress who's killed three kainde amedha, found the wreckage of an alien vessel, and participated in the first Blooding of a human in this clan because she didn't take a good count of xenomorphs. . . It's a sort of determined-to-have-pride walk.
There's a reason for it: they've hit the assembly hall.
It's big. And archy. And ribbed. And covered in ceremonial weapons ( ... )
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Spoon looks around, but doesn't stare. He keeps pace with her, chuffing softly into the mask. (The best that the translator can do is a laid-back chitter of acceptance and willingness to go along with what he's told.)
When they start to approach he reaches up and takes the mask off, ignoring the commentary of "Is that what they look like?" and "Eeugh, ugly."
(I really want a fag.)
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The Elders are, well. Old. Their braids are longer, although one's missing the ones from the left side of his mask. They're scarred. The weapons the two on the end hold are high in quality; the front and center one carries no weapons at all. The two further behind him have only wristblades. Their armor has skulls set into it. Some are human.
Their attention remains on the large picture until the trunks are opened, and then they look at the kainde amedha skulls first. They don't have to move closer; they're zoomed in already. Masks are good for tricks like that.
"K'citze," one says, and from the lack of translation it's a name.
"Here." K'citze is another male, heavily built and in intricate armor.
"That is the mark of your hunters. Did you Blood this male?"
"No."
The speaker's attention returns to the duo. "Tell us the circumstances of the Blooding."
Either Christine or Spoon could step into this pause, and if Spoon is silent for another moment, she will.
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Pause.
"With me teeth."
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"With his teeth," Christine promptly backs Spoon up. Masks swivel to her. "The blood ate through the vents and dropped them into the open; I saw. There is soft meat, and then there is soft meat. This one reforms his flesh quickly when injured and grows better weapons as he needs them. Claws. Teeth. It melted much of him; I flooded the area to dilute and he healed enough to survive.
"I was the only hunter who saw it; I respected my Blooding and gave him his with the mark of my leader. There was no way to find my leader, and the hunt was concluded. Since then, he wished to be a hunter following our ways; I have taught him, and we present ourselves now that we are called."
There's some minute shifting in body language; one cannot look sideways at one's fellow Elder, nor can one mutter something like "this is wierd, what do you think?" when you own the situation, the ( ... )
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This is what translates in the bar as follow the hunt; it carries almost spiritual connotations, understanding a connection to the way things have always been and always will be. And one's place.
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Unfortunately, that's the best he can do.
"Because I am a hunter. I was born with the will to hunt, I was given the tools to hunt, and I took the opportunity to seize the hunt."
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It always comes down to predator or prey, in the end.
". . . the thing on the spike. What is that?"
If all pyode amedha had teeth like that, they'd have been seeded on other worlds throughout the galaxy.
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