One tree in the Splinterlands stands above all others. It is immeasurably vast. Many creatures call it home. Some live in the trees expansive branches, others live in its mighty trunk. I live deep in the roots. The roots are a vast network of interweaving magic, and they are maintained by my tribe. We fertilize the soil with the dead of every being that lives within the tree. This way their magic is re-purposed, and never truly lost.
My tribe was proud of the work we did. Our magic helped the roots process and absorb all the ancient magic buried in the surrounding soils. Death fostered life and the natural law was upheld. Peace was maintained. But peace doesn’t last. Nature is beautiful, but it is also cruel. At first the disappearances were written off as accidents. A soul could easily become confused and lost in the tunnels of the roots. But we couldn’t ignore the screams that tore us from sleep, or that ever present feeling that something was stalking us. Stories were born of a giant serpent with skin made of emeralds that would steal us away in our sleep. The elders tried to dismiss these tales as rumors, but when a large emerald colored scale was found in one of our tunnels, they could no longer quell our fears.
The strongest of our warriors, myself included, tried to confront the beast. We laid a trap in the tunnel that the scale was found in. We believed it had worked. But we hadn’t trapped the beast completely, we had only slowed it down. The earth shook around it. Root systems caved in. I was pinned underneath a boulder, unable to aid my tribe as they fought. I watched as the beast killed our warriors with ease. I had never felt so powerless. Not only because I was trapped, but because I realized I couldn’t have done anything to stop the slaughter even if I weren’t. I lost many friends that night.
A hunger for vengeance grew within the heart of my tribe. The elders tried to warn us away from engaging the serpent again. They shared our grief, but they didn’t believe the tribe could withstand another culling of that magnitude. They cited the natural order. The elders were content to give us the role of prey. They were cowards. They wanted us to live a life of fear and torment. I sought another way. A better way.
Our soils were filled with magic. If we could channel the magic of the dead to help grow this tree, surely there was a way to use that same magic for other purposes as well. But directing a foreign magic and actually wielding it are very different things. I confined myself to my work for weeks. I tried to channel magic through everything I could think of. Wands and amulets shattered in my hand. I began to give in to my misery. I began to believe that we truly were as helpless against the cruel trials of nature as the elders insisted we were. Our hands were never meant to wield such destructive forces, so my hands were where I started.
I replaced them with the hands of the dead. Carefully I sewed their flesh into mine. It was painful at first. Their magic was foreign and my body tried to reject it, but I kept going. If I was going to save my tribe, I had to become stronger. The more I altered, the less it hurt. With every pass of needle through flesh, I bound their magic to mine until the two were indistinguishable.
When the elders learned of my work they forced me out. They said I had disgraced myself and my tribe. But regardless of whether or not my tribe accepted me, it was still my duty to protect them.
I left the roots of the great tree. I traveled the hollowed out tunnels of the trunk all the way up to the canopy. It was here that I found it. The serpent flicked it’s tongue at me, tasting the air to see who had dared to enter its nest. It didn't’ recognize me. I had transformed myself into something completely different than what it had come to identify as prey. I was stronger than it.
When I returned to my tribe, it was with the dead serpent's fang clutched tight in my fist. They welcomed me home as a hero. I replaced the elders, and became the first in a long line of chieftains. Now every warrior in my tribe is a flesh golem.
There are those in the Splinterlands that fear us. They fear the lengths we were willing to go to in order to protect ourselves. I welcome their fear. It is what assures me that my tribe will never be prey again.
This is my entry for the Steem Monsters contest that can be found here:
https://steemit.com/contest/@steemmonsters/steem-monsters-common-card-fantasy-story-contest-week-3
