Wilderness and Freedom. The HUNT. skekmal

To Belong

He never considered himself a guest. Not in this forest. Not in Crystal Desert. Not among the nature breathing the fresh air into its green lungs.

He surely wasn’t born here and his body won’t return to Thra, as it never came from it.

But he was never a guest. He was part of Thra since his first day, when he was travelling whole day, searching for his first prey.

Maybe his blood never belonged here, maybe the soil would never accept it, when it soaks into the ground. But this land was his and no one would take that away from him, he was owner of it, as much as the other skeksis owned the castle, gelfling, power over the commons.

He didn’t even need to prove that. It was as natural as the circle of life, natural as strong taking over the weak, and natural as the predator claiming its meal.

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He was proud, of everything that he was. It was not only typical skeksis pride, which was so tied to their kind, as the Dousan were tied to death. Skeksis were boasting over the power they had, feeling everything belongs to them, taking and taking and taking, never giving. And if something happened and they gave, it was never sincere.

His pride was never connected with who he was, when he was born, in the flash of light and screaming and terror. It was earned. It was based on hundreds of trines of proving his skill to himself, hard work over his traits, relentless pursue over being the one that was feared among the land, the shadow that eats the flesh, the ghastly apparition everyone knew about yet no one could say they know its true identity.

He was proud, because he had reason to. Not sniffing books, not partying till the legs were bending and world spinning, not using slaves or servants to do things for him, which he could easily do by his own.

Yes, his pride was coming from a source that was carved in his very being. Because he could engage into most deadly battle, most bloody fight, most dangerous hunt.

And always end up victorious.

Nothing as good as the thought, that he was the only skeksis that truly conquered death.

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My territory mark the skulls of my prey.

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First Hunt

He has never forgot the first hunt.

Never forgot the first bite of the prey he slew himself. The taste of blood on his tongue, sharp and intense scent of the animal, the way his teeth were sinking into the flesh.

He learnt to prepare his meat i the future, over the brimming fire.

But the taste of blood still lingered in his senses, the taste of youth and freedom. It would be foolish from him to not try it even now.

His fangs tore the morsel of freshly hunted makrak. It’s good. It’s natural. It’s HIM. Why change that?

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Moss and Rain

skekMal inhaled the deep scent of the thick forest; the moss mixed with damp earth and the rain that just washed Thra. His tail thumped against the ground, with content, as last droplets fell on his unmasked face.

This wasn’t as good as hunt. But good of its own. To feel that he is part of this place, which belonged to him, yet he never fully was rooted in. In these moments, when everything was soaked in water, and the branches of the trees covered the bleak suns, he felt more bound to this forest. He was like those trees, eternal, with his feet dug into the soil, which was giving him prey, each day and each night.

His fists clenched, talons buring in his own skin, but not drawing blood.

This was a promising start of a good day. Good for hunt. Good for the kill. Good to live it through.

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