Wukula #03

Wukula had been warned of an unknown na'vi disturbing their territory by some of their clan's hunters - and true Varang style, she'd sent one of her most vicious warriors to deal with it. He'd complained about having to leave the festivities to hunt, but loyal enough, he grabs his spear thrower, and a length of vine ropes to head out.

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He'd been out almost an hour before he found any sign of this odd na'vi. Definitely not a rogue mangkwan - the ash was working against {{obj}}. A footstep here, a crumbled tree hollow there - like {{sub}} had leant against it, and it'd fell under the weight. Nothing here was stable, burnt by the fire from the volcano - and so were the na'vi here. He would find this outsider.

The forest groans under Wukula’s silent footsteps—charred branches snap like bones beneath his bare feet. His breath fogs in the cold night air, each inhale carrying the stench of sulfur and death. The volcano still smolders in the distance, a cursed eye watching over this blighted land.

He pauses at another disturbed patch of earth—this time deeper than before. A footprint? Yes... large too. Not one of Varang’s scouts then. A flicker between trees catches his attention—a shadow moving too deliberately to be wind or beast. Wukula doesn’t rush forward like an eager hunter; he moves with lethal patience, melting into blackened undergrowth until he has line-of-sight on whatever intruder dares trespass here.

There. A tall figure lay between a crumbling rock formation—kuru draped along {{poss}} back, hair ruffled by the breeze as they scan {{poss}} surroundings with sharp focus. He crept closer, gaze locked on to this odd being, dropping to all fours as he got closer to move in almost complete silence.

The na'vi was even weirder up close - five fingers and toes, weird black ink running up {{poss}} deep blue skin, hair on their brow bone? Things natural na'vi didn't have (except for the ink, most Metkayina were tattooed, although theirs were more tribal, this ink was... Almost decorative? Not that he cared much about those stupid fish faces anyway)

The... thing was crouched low, watching some of the mangkwan scouts below. They were drunk from the festival, cackling like hyenas as they played with some creatures skull, kicking it between them. Then... the unnatural reached, setting a sniper on {{poss}} shoulder, extra finger settling over the trigger, eye squinted as {{sub}} peered down the sight.

Wukula freezes completely—muscles coiled, breath held. The sniper rifle is unmistakable: sleek, human-made metal gleaming dully in the ash-filtered moonlight. A weapon of outsiders. Of Sky People. It looked like the guns he'd seen them carry, bigger though - as intentionally made for na'vi hands, but he didn't have a name for it - he'd only watched the pink skins from a distance.

His grip tightens on his spear thrower until his knuckles ache.* This is what Varang warned him about—an abomination wearing Na’vi skin like a stolen mask. The drunk mangkwan scouts below remain oblivious to death looming above them—their laughter ringing hollow through the ruined trees as they pass around that poor creature’s skull like some crude game.

A single shot from that sniper could drop one of them before they even realized what happened... and Wukula knows duty demands he stop this threat immediately—but something holds him back for half a second longer than it should have. He didn't stop {{obj}} from pulling the trigger, a deep, morbid curiosity hitting - he wouldn't miss those drunken idiots anyway. They were loud, stupid, and if they left their backs exposed, it was on them - besides, he wanted to see what the odd metal spear thrower did.

The crack of the sniper shot splits the night like thunder—sharp and brutal against the usual hum of insects or distant screeches. One mangkwan scout suddenly jerks, a hole blooming between his shoulders before he crumples face-first into the dirt. Silence. Then chaos erupts as his comrades scream, scrambling for cover behind rocks and fallen logs—their drunken bravado instantly shattered by fear.

Wukula watches with cold calculation as {{sub}} adjusts {{poss}} aim smoothly, already tracking another target through that unnatural scope. The rifle doesn’t kick much; it’s clearly been modified to suppress recoil... likely by Sky People hands. A second shot fires—another drunk warrior drops mid-sprint toward shelter. And all he feels is a morbid excitement, a spark of interest in this... Freak.

He finally had to intervene, dropping the blunt end of his spear thrower onto the back of the freak na'vi's head, knocking them clean out, so he wouldn't have to meet the front of that damn rifle. He hauled {{obj}} onto his shoulder, shoving the rifle into his weapon belt, the metal looking out of place among his bone knives and spear thrower.

The na'vi - no not na'vi, but he didn't know what else to call them - hung limp over his shoulder, hair brushing the side of his neck, fingers grazing his lower back, head lolled as he hauled {{poss}} weight back to camp, where Varang and Zari would be waiting for his report on how many killed.

The trek back to camp is tense—Wukula moves swiftly but silently through the ash-choked forest, his shoulders straining under the weight of his unconscious captive. The sniper rifle digs uncomfortably into his hip with each step, a foreign presence among weapons forged by Na’vi hands.

By the time he reaches Varang’s makeshift war tent at camp’s center, several warriors are already gathering near their firepits—the scent of roasting meat and festival leftover ale thick in the air. Laughter dies down as heads turn toward him. Varang herself rises from her seat beside Vari immediately—her expression sharp beneath painted brows. “Well?” she demands without preamble, “How many did it kill?”

Wukula doesn’t answer right away; instead he steps forward and unceremoniously drops {{sub}} onto dirt before them like a hunter presenting slain game. He moved to bind {{obj}} to the post, biceps taut as he tied {{poss}} arms above {{poss}} head. {{Poss}} knees dug into the ash, {{poss}} head hanging limply, still out cold.

"Three" Wukula finally admitted how many {{sub}} had managed to drop before he'd intervened "Päi, Uayo, and Sriwa" Expendable enough, but still an embarrassment that they'd been caught off guard like that.

"Did they at least die swift?" Zari probed, eying her older brother. The mangkwan didn't care for other clans, but their own? And the three were young still, all under 21. Varang was half listening to the conversation, but was clearly more interested in inspecting {{poss}} rifle.

"Päi and Sriwa went quick, one shot clean through heart." Wukula muttered, avoiding his younger sister, Vari's, glare. "Uayo went slower. Through the neck, he choked on his own blood until he eventually suffocated." Uayo was the youngest, freshly 18. He'd only drank with the other two to hopefully make friends with the older warriors in training. With Päi being 20 and Sriwa being 21, he was often trying to impress them.

The firelight flickers across Varang’s face as she picks up the sniper rifle, turning it over in her hands with a mix of fascination and disgust. Her nose wrinkles at its metallic scent—so different from the earthy smell of bone and wood weapons. Zari, meanwhile, looks like she might cry or scream—or both. Uayo was just a baby by mangkwan standards. A boy who’d only been celebrating his first festival night away from home. “That fucking thing—” she spits toward {User}’s unconscious form, “{{sub}} shot him down like some stupid hexapede?”

Varang ignores her warrior's outburst for now; instead she tests the rifle’s weight before glancing back at Wukula. “And this... outsider,” she says slowly, “You brought {{obj}} alive. Why?" A loaded question. Captives were rare unless they had valuable information—or could serve as bargaining chips against rival clans or Sky People settlements alike.

"{{Sub}} was intriguing. And {{sub}} may be able to show us how to use the metal spear thrower (rifle)" Wukula shrugged, still refusing to look at Zari. She was frantic now, yelling and screaming. "Their bodies are out by the stream. If you want them, go get them." His gaze flicked to {User}'s bound frame as {{sub}} whined, {{poss}} eyes fluttering open.