Hunt of the Golshi

[Aisharak]

26th Cylus, 721st Arc
Owaenar Territory, Orm’del Sea

Golvak was a stout and fearsome Mer. While she spent much of her time hunting and gathering rare plants and algaes now, it had not always been so. In her younger arcs Golvak had been a renown warrior of the Owaenar. She had reached the rank of Karar, or first spear, and retained that honor to the trial. Now though, her eyes were cloudy and her scales were losing their color. Still, knowledge was earned, and age was earned as well. One did not grow old in the Orm’del while being an idiot. It was an unforgiving environment. If Aisharak wished to make a name for himself he would start by listening to what old warriors like Golvak had to say. 

When she swam over with a crowd of small younglings, more junior than Aisharak, and beckoned to him he quickly answered. The Caein was crowded with Mer readying themselves for the coming Berca Ruchaur, the Hatching Festival. It was a sacred time in the Tribe when everyone gained an arc, new members were born, young members grew closer to adulthood, and the Tribe celebrated their kinship. For Aisharak and his broodmates, it was a new beginning. Gone would be the trials of an elder Owaenar being ever watchful. They would be expected to act on their own and provide for the tribe. 

But that trial was not yet upon him. 

“Hail Golvak, what do you need from me?” He sent to her as respectfully as he could.

“I need some older younglings to help me watch these tadpoles while we hunt for Golshi.”Golvak responded in his mind. Her bluster was tempered with an empathetic investment in teaching the young. 

Aisharak raised the trident he had been training with for the past few arcs eagerly. If Golvak needed him to watch the younglings with her, he would be more than willing to show her he could be trusted in that. Golvak saw the motion and barked a silent laugh in the deep water.

“Calm. Mighty warrior! Golshi are clams, they won’t be fighting you. I just need more hands to make sure these ones don’t drift off on their lonesome.” She quickly curbed the daydreams of a valiant defense. Aisharak blinked and nodded.

“Do you know any other who would be good to take?” She asked in his mind.

Aisharak’s gaze drifted around the broad promenade of Fathomdeep Caein, the largest of the tribal havens. Many Mer bustled about, most with tasks. He was looking for someone he knew. It was not long before he spotted Ologologotak, a broodmate of his. 

“Ologologotak is there, Galvok. He is a good choice.” Aisharak said, pointing with his trident to where the young Mer swam. Galvok peered through her rheumy eyes towards the youngling Aisharak had indicated and nodded shortly. She began swimming over to him.

[Ologologotak]

The eager thoughts poured out of the Owaenar like guts from a threatened sea cucumber. Snarky remarks, flashy imagery and vibrant colors all made up for a show too striking to ignore, and yet one he chose not to observe. He kept to himself, self-isolated, playing with his rapier by tossing it from one tentacle to the other. Deep in thought, the mutant felt, once again, that creeping sensation of being out of place, as if something was missing from him to become like his tribesmen were. He knew what it was, albeit he refused to name it even in thought - he wished not to make an enemy out of his thoughts. A part of him hoped the Berca Ruchaur would cure his complex; a tight knot made of dread down in his stomach suggested otherwise. Movement in the bottom caught his attention, and he drifted closer. A quick tentacle snagged a small, lost crab with bubbly eyes. Its legs danced in the current like kelp in a wave. The tentacle closed itself further, and with a crunch, the crab was no more. It’s remains he tossed into his maws.
“Oktal,” came the faint whisper of Galvoc, her arrival swift and sudden. “Are you tasked?”
Ologologotak looked over at the veteran, his colors grey and distant and cold. His whisper flew in much the same manner. “Am not, Galvoc.”
“We’re heading for Golshi, some younglings and I,” she whispered. With it came an array of images; a strobing picture of scavenging the depths, of young eager mer, and of Galvoc staying vigilant as a group of young Oktals worked. Galvoc’s telepathy was concise and experienced and so her images were vivid. Her tone, however, betrayed her age; the colors were dull and the experience laconic. “Will you join us?”
Ologologotak swallowed what remained of the crab. His tentacles reached for the bottom then sprung him forward towards the veteran. Despite her age, her reflexes were as honed as a blade. Her tail waved violently and sent her back towards the craggy rocks she had descended from.

There were about two dozen younglings on the wait. Some of them swum violently against one another, brawling into an array of tentacles and finned tails. Others scoured the rocky patch in search of crabs, clams, or oysters, which they then shoved into their maws. Whatever it was they did, they were not still, and yet they all spoke to one another though this invisible tether keeping the Mer together. Most of those whispers were private, but others were loud and public, some of which Ologologotak captured. Vivid, exaggerated images of one’s figure, imagined scenarios of battle and blood, and one image of a courtship dance that came from a very creative mind. The tentacled mer then spotted an old acquaintance, a shark-tailed brother almost cradling his trident. Using his tentacles like legs on the surface below them, he approached.

“Aisharak,” he whispered, his telepathy dull and boring and devoid of anything significant. “Your trident gotten any better?” A hidden tentacle flashed forward, bringing the rapier into the mer’s hands, which he then thrust here and there in the water as a show of skill.