He touches the blood on the dry sand of the canyon floor. He looks at the bodies of the dead Tribals. An arrow in one's chest. The other one in the cave – bite marks on the neck. Deep.
Instinctively he scratches the scar under his eye. The little bastard was tough, but he couldn't have done this alone. Then again, killing a tribal was like killing a child.
He had seen a few of them eye him warily when they had made camp for the night. But they wouldn't dare attack. The same goes for those arachnids in the caves. He made a note to return for all of them once this was over, once they had enough ammo to torch this entire canyon and then some.
Then he sees the iron muzzle on the ground.
And the bloodied paw-prints that lead away from the scene.
The other man walks up to him, his still-smoking rifle in his hands.
They look at each other.
Smiles creep across their faces.
YOU ARE READING
Callisto
FantasyThe Deadlands - dry, arid, and merciless. A place where only the scent of death hangs loosely on the scorching winds. This is all that remains of a once bright world. This is the only world that Rain-Born has ever known. As a warrior of the Hanakh t...
