Xaro's Den

Yautja Prime - Xaro’s Clan

You’ve been in this region before, so why haven’t you noticed this scent, thick in the air? A scent of blood, a metallic tang that sits in the back of your throat and puts fur on-end. You’ve heard of these lions. Lions who do not claim a territory as their own, but see the entire world as their hunting ground. The pride who sees hunting elephants and giraffes as the sign of a true predator, rather than the death sentence you know it is. You turn to escape their current hunting grounds, knowing that if you can smell them then they already know where you are, but it’s no use. A zebra skull hangs precariously where it wasn’t before, a low branch running through one eye socket. The other seems to plead for you to run. Yet it seems to know there’s no point anyway.

Heart heavy, head low, you begin trying to plod home. Maybe if you act small and weak, they’ll simply toy with you and let you go to seek out better foes. Regardless, your paws stay light in hopes to move fast. Too fast, in fact. In your rush to get out of the hunting zone, you ignored the plentiful warnings left by hunters proving, and even boasting, their strength through the skulls and remains they’ve formed into…staging grounds, it seems. Only once you freeze at the sight of a lioness lounging atop one of those pelts, the rough, plated hide of a rhino, a hyena’s head between her paws as she licks it clear of flesh. Her snarl drove you back, yet when she rose to her paws your own felt heavy, one paw batted another prize closer- a poacher’s rifle. Why was she even focusing on that, you’ve never met a lion who knew how to use one of those things! Or…did that just change?

“Hold!” A voice like thunder rang out, authority thick in his tone. The King of this hunting band stepped forward. The lioness who had been moments away from practicing with punching lead through your pelt returns to her trophy-cleaning, while your heart continues to hammer within your ribs. With a grunt, the mottled king decided “You don’t belong here, you’re as big as a bloodied hunter but act like a pup,” though after a moment of thought he amended that to “Some pups may even be braver than you.” When you explained yourself he gave another grunt of acknowledgement, turning to lead you elsewhere and flicking his tail to gesture that you ought to follow closely. Thankfully, the lion with a mane that looked as if it’d been a light, cherry-pink before the blood of his hunts stained the fur atop his back, shoulders, and crowning his head a deep, rich red and stained the plume of his tail crimson. Though when he opens his jaws to explain just where you are, and who you’ve come across, you find yourself compelled to listen.

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Xaro, the Elder detailed the history of his pride, how he had once been a pup himself, a little whelp trailing after his mother and elder siblings to learn at their side in a form of mentorship. From his mother and sisters, he learned how to track prey like plagues track the bodies they riddle. From his father and brothers, he gained copious skill and understanding in the many ways his birth clan hunted their prey. Antlers and horns of the fallen used as blades to execute with a clean finality, or leave a target bloodied as they tried to limp home before being taken as a prize like all others - and a meal like many. Xaro himself fondly admits he still keeps the rhino horn given to him by one of his sisters, sharpened by clashing against stone and given a “Beautiful sheen in honor of all the prey who I’ve plunged it into,” and gives an amused snicker before commenting “By now, the handle’s worn in the shape of my teeth. And the most important part of using a horn-blade is being able to hold it properly.” He was…teaching you? Or was he warning you? Regardless he continued on, and you found yourself silenced by the mere idea of his claims. Yet, you couldn’t deny the strength in his broad frame, muscle honed and corded by years of training.

When he slaughtered his first buffalo, a creature often called Black Death for quite a few reasons, as a mere adolescent the Young Blood gained his proper place among the Blooded of his birth clan. Buffalo, hippopotamus, rhino, the freshly anointed Xaro tracked and slaughtered them all until he had a den of bones and the title of Elite, but a much better mark eventually presented itself to him. A bull elephant hell-bent on trampling any lion he saw, after a tragedy within his herd left him forlorn. The young king decided to take matters into his own paws, and teeth. You can’t miss the glimmer in his fuschia eyes when he details how he hauled the still-damp, still-warm skull of his prey home, its pelt draped across his boy and back in a macabre show of strength. With a small band composed of an elite with history of training up worthy hunters and a young blood following his mentor, the newly empowered Elder Xaro set forth into the wilderness away from his birth clan, never settling down for long, always seeking out prey worth hunting and lions who could be trained in his clan’s ways. Two joined his ranks not long after, becoming blooded hunters themselves and serving alongside those who were born into a life of hunt and conquest as if they were meant to live it as well all along.

“And now, you’re here.” He purred with a note of amusement in his voice, “And you’re awfully lucky I didn’t just stand by and let her add a lion pelt to her collection. She’s been aching to do that exact thing for months, now.” You didn’t feel very comforted by that, or the fact he stopped when his paws were just about to cross over some odd…marker, a wildebeest skull seemingly painted with some symbol, in a familiar, rusty red that could only mean one thing. It was painted in blood, not crushed red stones mixed with yolks. “This is where we part- for now.” With a toss of his head signaling the temporary territory behind him, Xaro never takes his eyes off of you while he muses “There are still worthy prey in this area, prey that’ll put up a much stronger fight than yourself. My hunters need all the proper experience they can get, and they don’t need you in the way.” Your ego wanted to defend itself, but you wisely kept your maw shut, only opening it to ask if the clan would choose to hunt lion prides. A cold weight settled in your stomach when he smiled and coolly replied “We only hunt the worthy, those who can actually fight back. So you’re safe…at this time.” A heavy paw planted itself on your shoulder, shoving you forward and out of the hot zone while an icy remark stuck deep into your psyche; “But don’t worry. If we visit you, we’ll raise up your pups to be wonderful hunters.”
Pushed past the unseen boundary, you whipped around to insist this beast of a lion would leave your cubs alone - but he was already gone. Not just leaving, even if you could still hear bounding paw steps thudding away, growing quieter with each pace. It seemed as if he simply vanished in the few seconds it took you to turn around. You hesitate. What should you do? In the end, you decide to pad home, hoping you aren’t being followed by a scouting party.

{Written by 🔷Blue Moth🔷 (#511782)! If you like what you’ve read and want something written for you, visit me at 🌌Lore, Prompts, Backstories and More!🌌 | Moth’s Ghost Writing Galaxy.]