Going Feet First Ch. 02

Michael sat in his place, one eye brow raised and both eyes wide as he looked Galen up and down. "I leave you alone for one damn day, and all the sudden you've become a linguist and land one of the rarest girls in the forest."

Galen again shrugged, this time with a smug grin, "I guess Lady Luck's been castin' her smile upon me a whole lot lately. That or someon-"

A sudden explosion cracked off in the distance, silencing the Private as his attention turned toward the miniscule bang. Then a colossal fireball erupted into the sky several miles away, the concussive blast following several moments after. Celia rattled with fear as she saw the mushroom cloud rise up into the sky, her nails digging into her palms as it blocked out the moon.

Michael seemed indifferent to the detonation as he turned toward the door of the tent. Several Nekos outside began aweing and passing fearful words between each other as they pointed up at the cloud. An incredibly powerful voice then boomed out over the village, quickly sending the Willhers on about their business. Without much sign of caring, the Sergeant gave a shrug and grabbed his canteen from his pack lying beside his bed.

"The Hell was that?!" Galen demanded.

"Claymore on the plane. It probably ignited what was left of the fuel when it blew. We left a note that said stay out," Michael answered, taking a drink from his canteen and tossing it beside the central post.

"Why would you leave an active claymore out there?!" Galen roared, fearful at the thought of all the innocent creatures that could've tripped the mine.

This got him nowhere with the Sergeant, who brushed off the question without a second thought. That only served to make Galen vibrate in anger, knuckles going white on clenched fists. What made him retract his rage was the tightening grip of a fearful Celia around his chest. His outburst had her shaking and drawing even more tears out of the frightened elf.

"Ra'zorlichs," Mila answered, drawing Galen's attention away from Celia and Michael. "They have assassins that do leave their lands. If they decided to send them upon you two, first place to begin a search would be the... umm... the 'Hurr-coo-leez', a beast any intelligent creature would fear or ignore. Do not worry about my people, we have told them what to expect if the Ra'zorlichs set off the trap, though not to that scale..."

Suddenly, the door flap to the tent was pulled open, causing everyone in the tent to turn toward the Willher warrior stepping in from outside. There was a certain air of arrogance to him as he crossed his arms and looked down upon Mila.

"Mila, you and... umm- you is... rak," he swore, thinking hard for a moment as he struggled with the human language. After several pauses the large Neko male swore again and spoke in Nekonian before turning to Michael, "You. Elder want. Great Fire. Come."

With a solid nod and a hint of satisfaction at his broken speech, the Willher male backed out the door and walked off toward the village center. After exchanging a few awkward glances with Galen, Michael turned to Mila asking, "Who was that bastard? Couldn't he have knocked first?"

Mila shook her head 'no' as she stood upright, offering a hand to Michael to help pull him to his feet. "That was one of the village messengers. The elder wishes for us to join the village at the Great Fire. Galen and Celia are invited as well, but they do not have to."

"Celia can't go out there anyway," Galen declared. "There's somethin' 'bout tree spirits trapped in the wood you're burning. It... just... strangles her."

"Tree spirits?" Mila repeated, pausing for a moment as she glanced over to the elf and thought for a moment. Tree elves must've had fires of their own, as Mila didn't know of a race that did not burn wood for warmth or cooking. There had to of been something they did to keep themselves from suffering in the smoke. Perhaps they pulled any taints or spirits from the wood prior to burning, purge it to meet their needs?

"Celia," Mila started. "The tree spirits that had you in pain, how can we release them?"

The elf swallowed hard while looking down at her hand, watching as her fingertips began to glow. "I would use magic. It takes only a few words and a few seconds, but will do much good for me and the forest."

"Then let's do that."

"But the smoke..." Celia muttered. "I can't get through it. It could kill me."

Right at that moment, a light bulb lit up over Galen's head. "Celia, what about the smoke is so dangerous for you? Breathing it? Touching it? What?"

Celia pondered for a moment on her experience, "Breathing it, perhaps? Why?"

"I have an idea," he declared as he got up and moved to his pack sitting over by the door flap.

"What are you up to now?" Michael asked as he righted himself on his crutch.

"Celia can't breathe the smoke, or else she chokes up..." Galen said as he opened up his pack.

"So how about she just don't breathe the smoke?" He turned to Celia, holding up a gasmask for her to see.

Right away she was taken back with a dreaded look upon her face. The empty glass eye-ports seemed to stare at her, a sense of evil within that repulsive, rubber face sending a cold shiver running down her spine.

"Is that... Demon skin?" she asked, her voice trembling as badly as her body.

"No, it's a special mask we wear to protect ourselves from dangerous air. It'll protect you from the smoke. Trust me."

"You're giving her your M17?" Michael asked. "Smoke is that deadly for her?"

Galen half-shrugged, half nodded, "Yeah, looks like it. She couldn't even breathe when she got hit with it. At least with this, she can do her magic and free th' trees spirits or whatever her plan is to make it so she won't die by walkin' out into the street."

After a minute of convincing her that the mask was not the severed face of some demon, Galen managed to help Celia pull the mask onto her head. Taking no chances, he made sure the filter was tight and the straps were snug. Only when his gut quite nagging him of danger did he dare bringing her toward the door for the moment of truth: hypersensitive nature, versus human ingenuity.

It was then that Galen's rifle piped up, seemingly calling for him to take it in his arms. Already on edge, Celia backed off a bit as a grim look came about the soldier. Both anger and annoyance seared in his eyes as he turned to the rifle.

"For the love of- Would you please shut up!" Galen erupted at the weapon. "You better damn-well behave yourself or I'll smash you, burn you, and bury your ashes in the muck and take the other M14 we got in the crate! A real nice one with a scope! So buck up you bastard, 'cause you're seriously startin' to piss me off."

Michael stared at Galen for a moment, "You're bat-shit crazy" scrawled all over his face. But the rifle went silent, and Galen shrugged off the Sergeant's expression as he threw an arm around the masked Celia to lead her out into the smoky street.

At first her breathing was harsh and staggered as she adjusted to taking air in through a filter. After cycling her lungs several times, though, she managed to adjust to the breathing apparatus. Her breaths became clear and steady, though she couldn't help but fidget with the seal around her face. To have her be able to stand freely in the smoke without a recurrence of her previous experience did much to relieve Galen's worries.

The Great Fire was a towering inferno several feet high, held in the middle of a large open area in the village center. The entirety of the Willher tribe surrounded the bonfire, a hundred Nekos at least ranging from spry, young kittens to wrinkled, old elders. Together they watched the flames dance before them, the crowd several persons thick and alive with many conversations and the clinking of celebratory mugs.

From just outside Mila's tent, Celia was able to see the large gathering several houses down, her view unobstructed now that the streets were empty. Hot tears watered up in her eyes as she watched two males stack several more logs onto the already intense bonfire, sending a cascade of sparks into the sky and adding to the agonized screams that echoed in her mind.

"Whatever she needs to do, get it done," Michael ordered. "I don't want to freak out the tribe by showing up to their ceremony with a rubber-faced elf beside me."

"What is it that you need to do?" Galen asked Celia, shooting Michael a dirty look.

"Just get me within a stone's throw from the fallen trees, it's all I need," she said in Nekonian.

"Our wood stores are there," Mila said, pointing to the large pile on the opposite side of the crowd.

Celia nodded as she spotted it, marking the location out in her mind. The second the Neko turned her back; she pulled Galen off to the side with her to take to an alternate path. Michael and Mila continued on toward the fire, oblivious to their abandonment as they joined the circle to take part in the final tradition. Native Willhers had to publicly declare their love and be blessed by their parents, though Michael had been given another task to perform before the tribe as well. He had to prove his worth.

This had been explained by the Elder, and translated to Michael by Mila, as the two took their place before the crowd. It earned them several quizzical looks that were shrugged off as the Elder continued into the ceremonial opening speech. Michael sat and listened, patiently biding his time. He had to wait for the old Neko to finish so Mila could have a chance to translate for him, as she would have to continue to do until he learned their language himself.

By now he had become used to the constant barrage of stares he received from the others of the village, able to ignore them as the elder dragged on. The Sergeant found a soothing calm in the old Elder's voice, found a certain respect for him, especially since he personally ordered for Michael to have the privilege to stay, or at least stick around long enough for the tribe to come to know the human better.

To see how he adapted to life among the Willher tribe.

Michael still needed to undergo the Willher traditions if he wanted to satisfy Mila and her clan's expectations. He had been blessed by their goddess, voted by slim majority to have potential value for the tribe, vouched for by the Elder, and now he only needed to persuade the whole clan. To do this, he needed to prove that he wasn't weak or useless. Willhers often did this while they were kittens growing up, demonstrating their abilities as efficient hunters or trackers; warriors or diplomats; merchants or village keepers.

Micheal had stated that he intended to be both a warrior and a hunter, much to the shock of most Willhers. Taking a dual role, especially in these two professions, was only reserved for the physical elite.

To the Willhers, hunting meant going out and chasing down prey with bare claws or a bow, unlike Trackers, who were assigned to a hunter to lay traps for their prey, lead them to game-rich areas, or find patches where edible plants grew.

For Michael to be both a hunter and warrior meant that only a single day per every five would be reserved for rest, the other days spent either hunting or training. Adopting a single profession would mean alternating days of work and rest.

With his injury in his leg impairing his mobility, Michael wouldn't be able to prove his skills in a physical demonstration for quite some time. Thus, his proving would not be a physical challenge, but rather to impress the tribe by giving a verbal history of his greatest moments, to use words as his tool for acceptance.

At the same time, the Willher's four Keepers of Age would be listening close; the elder Nekos taking note of every detail. They would also watch Michael for over-embellishment, or any signs that his stories may not be true. Their presence would keep the soldier from lying to the tribe, as they held the right to challenge him at any point on the validity of his words.

In using words, Michael would be obligated to prove them true with action, when the time came.

....................................................

Galen and Celia circled around the village, steering clear of the Nekos as they snuck up on the woodpile behind the bonfire. Several times, Galen asked why Celia was so determined to perform this task as stealthily as possible. As they had gone from street to street, moving in the shadows, Celia explained that, for a Tree Elf, wearing the face of a demon, or any piece of unflattering attire, was almost a crime against their culture.

Clothes, save for the most revealing or tastefully provocative, were not worn as they hid the gifts nature bestowed upon their bodies, masking their true beauty. The attire Atzlar had bestowed upon Celia did well to show off her body as much as it covered it up, concealing her feminine parts but revealing as much skin as possible. For her to wear a vile-looking mask, even for the sake of staying alive, gave Celia great determination to liberate these spirits as fast as mortally possible. The sooner the mask could come off, the better.

Under the cover of shadow, the two moved in behind a wooden shack not five yards from the wood pile. The tenants to the wood reserve had gone to watch a display in the circle, leaving the store unwatched. Desperate to get the mask off her face, Celia raised a glowing hand toward the stack of logs, chanting, "By my power, under Atzlar's gaze, I release you all from your earthly bonds. Do as Atzlar wills."

The golden glow in her palm reached a new intensity as a trail of white wisps emerged from both the wood store and the Great fire. The column of black smoke from the ceremonious blaze suddenly thinned out, the flames rising even higher than before and the heat becoming more intense. The escaping spirits, though, did not simply vanish as Celia had believed they would. The collection of white wisps pooled on the ground, coming together until every spirit was wound into one fog.

"Celia, what's happening?"

The elf shrugged as she pulled off the mask and passed it back to the soldier. Being curious herself as to what brewed in front of her, she stepped forward and knelt down to inspect the pool of white vapor. As she reached out to touch it, the gathered mass suddenly compressed itself, squishing down until it became a white, steel-like dart. Confused, Celia reached out for the dart, eyes going wide as it suddenly shot forward at lightning speed.

It pierced clean through her chest.

A scream tried to hurtle out from Galen's throat, but the air in his lungs had turned flat. Something struck him in the ribs, freezing his body solid. Not a muscle could move nor would his mouth open up. His dear Celia was still kneeling where the fog had been, her hands cupped over her chest where the dart had gone through.

Tears welling up under her eyes, she slowly tilted her head forward to glance down on what had happened to her body, how much damage had been done. Swallowing hard, she removed her hands, expecting to see a hole going straight through her torso and spilling over with her life blood.

Instead, there was nothing.

The skin had not been broken, nor was her breastplate scratched in the slightest. A sense of relief washed over her as she turned to face Galen with a smile on her face, that golden grin disappearing the second she saw that silver dart thrust into his heart.

Silent agony burned in his face has he tried so desperately to scream, to find some way to unleash his pain. The only thing he managed to do was reach a trembling hand out for Celia, slowly mouthing her name. As she moved to take his hand, the dart plunged the rest of the way into his chest, passing through his uniform as though it was a drop into water. There was a green flash in Galen's eyes, a momentary spark that caused his whole body to jolt in a violent spasm.

"Galen?" Celia tearfully murmured as he stumbled forth, collapsing down to his knees.

The elf dashed toward him, catching him mid-fall and holding him upright as his body continued to undergo a violent fit.

"Galen?!" she cried, the moment before he froze.

His ocean blue eyes went to cold, dull, black. As a scream built up in Celia's throat, green light flashed over his pupils, restoring the colour to his irises as well as air to his lungs. Galen's control over his body came back, his breaths hard and shallow as sweat dripped over his brow. The second he realized his arm could move, one hand grasped onto Celia's shoulder while the other clamped down over his heart, a cold shiver racking his body.

"W-what was that?" he gasped, probing the spot where the dart had entered his body without any physical evidence.

"I have no idea," Celia answered. "The spirits... They went inside you. I thought it was going to kill us, but now... are you alright?"

"Cold, but that's because I'm sweating in a breeze. Other than that... I'm alright. I'm a bit sore, and even more drowsy, but I'm alright."

Celia wrapped her arms around his torso, pressing the side of her face against his chest as she whispered, "I'm glad you're okay."

Relief warmed her chest as his arms embraced her, his soft voice whispering, "I can say the same for you. Come on, let's go join the Willhers by the fire. I think you'll be just fine with the spirits being released."

"I think so, too," she agreed.

Taking her usual place hugged against his arm, Celia rested her head against Galen as they joined the outer ranks of the Nekos surrounding the Great Fire. Michael, propped up against his crutch, stood in the middle of the circle, telling a story as Mila and two other Willher males translated his tale for the crowd to hear.

"So here I was, walking down a dirt path in the middle of the forest, trying the find the man who had been shooting at me, when I see this kid, a girl fourteen or so years old," Michael paused, looking around at his rapt audience as his translators caught up. When the age of the girl was clarified, there was a new spark of interest from the Willhers. As Nekos needed a little more than twenty five years to fully mature, and a century to be declared 'elder', a Nekonian fourteen year-old was the equivalent to a human ten year-old.

"This girl, she sees me, my face covered in black paint, weapon in my hands. The look of fear in her eyes made me worry she might scream. Before I can calm her down, she starts running. I, thinking she isn't worth my time, continue on. But after she runs off into the bush, I hear the sudden thunder of other weapons and the forest is suddenly being torn apart. Bang, bang, bang, thunder-sticks rattling off in the same direction that the girl had ran off to. Now, any idiot would have charged into the fight and gotten themselves killed. Not me. I circled around the thunder, coming in behind the Charlies that were waiting in ambush. I crept though the bush, low in the grass with the dew brushing against my face-"

"Uhh, Michael?" Mila interrupted.

"What?"

"What is 'ambush' and 'dew'?"

"Ambush is hiding and waiting for an enemy so you can surprise attack him. Dew is the water that forms on grass in the evening," he clarified. Mila gave a nod and, after relating this to the other two translators, restarted the translation of the story.

"As I was saying; with the thunder of their weapons roaring so loud, I was able to sneak behind them like a ghost-"

"What is 'ghost'?" another translator interrupted.

With a sigh and roll of the eyes, Michael answered, "A spirit still walking amongst the living, a person who didn't go into the afterlife. Now, AS I was saying..."