FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Azacoatl's heart pounded as he slid through the overgrown grass, unable to see anything more than a blur of green. Above, in the leafy canopy, hundreds of birds masked his approach with their raucous melody. And ahead, the interloper themselves waddled through the mud with the subtlety of a raging river.

Even though the skink knew he wouldn't be heard, he still kept his body flat, unable to stop himself from tensing whenever leaves crunched underneath his chest. His talons dug into the shaft of his spear, and yet he couldn't keep it steady.

There was only one species foolish enough to trespass this deep into the Tlax'ki jungle — skaven. Those vile rodents had as little concern for nature as their own lives. Strangely, this one's repulsive stench — one that Azacoatl had grown horribly accustomed to — was absent. Alas, skaven trickery knew no bounds; perhaps they had finally wised up and learnt to disguise it.

The rustling grass went still; the rodent stopped mere feet away. Azacoatl held his breath and wiggled closer, spear poised by his side, ready to thrust through the vile spawn's heart. He wouldn't hesitate. He repeated that to himself, but now — with the moment at hand — it only agitated him. What if it moved, or worse, struck first? What if he died like this, crawling on his belly like a lowly worm?

That fear drove him to strike. He let out a croaky roar and leapt forward, prepared to kill.

But he did something he had sworn never to do again — hesitate. His spear shuddered to a stop. Its tip trembled against the creature's stomach, threatening to pierce its flesh with the slightest push.

But he couldn't do it.

Azacoatl had never seen a skaven this large. Nor one with such scarce fur, pale flesh, and an obvious lack of a tail.

Something was wrong. He shook his head and squinted up at the creature, trying to stop his spear from shaking. It had both hands raised, palms open, empty. Its soft blue eyes blended with the sky, a far cry from the rabid red glare of any skaven.

It was a human.

But why here, this deep in the jungle, all alone? While lizardmen have had a truce with humans for many years, they weren't permitted to intrude on their lands. So was he a spy? If so, this human may be the worst spy in all the Known World, for he made no attempt to stay hidden. His headwear — a brown cap of sorts — had an auburn feather protruding from its tip, its bristles glistening in the sunlight like a burning arrow. Pretty, and blazingly bright for one trying to hide in a leafy jungle.

Azacoatl tensed as the human lowered his hand towards the spearhead, pushing it away from his stomach. “Easy there, lad," he said. “You might hurt someone playing with something that sharp."

Azacoatl jerked his spear back to the human's gut. “Hands off!"

“Okay, okay!" The human raised his palms, once again showing they were empty.

A cute trick.

“Where's your weapon?" asked Azacoatl, twirling the spearhead against the human's slender belly.

“Weapon? You're the one with the weapon, lad. Do your parents know you're here?"

Azacoatl tilted his spear to the satchel hanging off the human's shoulder. “Throw the bag to me."

“But—"

“Now!"

The human groaned, but after some added pressure to the spear, he flung his satchel into the mud. Azacoatl grabbed the strap and dragged it several paces back. He kept his spear aimed — the human in his periphery — as he unclipped the satchel and rifled through its contents. Several canteens of water, a sparse number of rations, a monochrome sketch of two humans standing side-by-side, a notebook, and a metal case. Nothing resembling a weapon.

The human coughed. “Are you… robbing me?"

Azacoatl ignored him and pulled out the case. Various tools lined the inside, each housed in their own perfectly sized indent — picks, brushes, trowels, even misshapen hammers — each too small to be a proper weapon. They resembled carpenter tools, though the case lacked many of the necessities.

Azacoatl slammed it shut and scowled up at the human. “Identify yourself, now."

“Certainly. The name's Theodor Walter Fitzgerald, but please, call me Walter." Despite the spear at his chest, the human spoke with an enthusiasm so genuine it crossed into mockery. “I'm an associate professor of archaeology at the University of Altdorf." He smiled gently. “And I'm a little lost."

Archaeology? Now it made sense. Azacoatl smacked his tail into the mud and gave a toothy snarl. “So, the warmblood's come to steal our relics, has he?"

“Warmblood?" The human recoiled. “Come on, lad, there's no need for that sort of language. If you take me to your parents, I'm certain we can sort out this whole misunderstanding. They're nearby, right?"

Azacoatl nudged the spear back against the human's gut, making him gasp. “Parents? What parents?"

“Your folks. Mum and pop. Whatever you lot call them." He lowered his head, eyeing the spear. “You know, it's dangerous for a young 'un like you to be playing with something like that."

It took all of Azacoatl's self-control not to plunge his spear through the human's soft belly. “How… dare you!" He hissed and unfurled his head frill, wincing as he stretched the torn membrane.

The human's mouth trembled, yet he didn't make a sound.

Azacoatl took a sharp breath. “First, we do not have parents, nor are we birthed in the same inefficient manner you warmbloods are so used to. It is most despicable for you to intrude on our lands while lacking even a rudimentary understanding of our culture." He swiped up his spear, poking the tip against the human's jugular. “Second, I am not a juvenile. It is an utter indignity to me, and all other skinks, for you to make such a belittling assumption — all due to my stature, no doubt!"

The human's eyes darted down to the spear, digging into his neck. He swallowed, adding pressure to the razor-sharp tip. “I… I beg your pardon, my dear skink. Forgive my ignorance, for it was certainly not my intention to offend."

“Apology NOT accepted!" Azacoatl pulled his spear back — only slightly — and rested the tip under the human's chin. “Now, you will explain the purpose for your trespass, and make no mistake; I won't hesitate to end your life if I detect even a drop of falsehood."

“As… as I said, lad, I'm an associate professor in archaeology at the University of Altdorf. You might have heard the Empire entered a treaty with your kind a few moons back, letting us excavate the new Tlax'ki dig site."

Azacoatl flinched; he was well aware of that arrangement, but the dig site—

“And I certainly won't be stealing any relics," the human added, “so you needn't worry about that. Once found, sketched, and administratively recorded, all finds are to be returned to their rightful owners. That's what the treaty says, after all. I think."

“But the dig site is many miles from here, on the jungle's edge." Azacoatl hardened his glare. “Why are you here?"

“As I said, I'm a little lost." He smiled. “Maybe more than a little."

Absurd. Utterly absurd. How could a human miss a dig site on the outer edge of the jungle and somehow wander into its heart — alive and well? For a warmblood, getting lost here meant almost certain death, though despite this one's lack of weaponry, he was entirely intact, even smiling, oblivious to how close his life thread came to being severed — whether at Azacoatl's hands, or some ravenous beast.

The human's excuse sounded implausible, but Azacoatl's other theory — that he was the Empire's worst spy — also had no teeth. The Empire wouldn't risk war relying on someone so incapable, especially not one prone to saying such offensive, ignorant things. Nor one that would wear such a grotesque feather on their cap like a glowing beacon.

Azacoatl lowered his weapon — again, only slightly. He ought not assign to malice that which could be the result of pure stupidity. But for a so-called scholar to lack as much self-preservation as the runtiest of skaven…

“You, human…"

“Please, call me Walter."

“You, human, are a testament to the utter witlessness of your kind. Nature has failed by permitting you and your ancestors to procreate and spread your stupidity for more than a single generation."

The human stiffened, chuckling nervously. “That's… a tad harsh, lad. I've never been that good with directions, you see, and—"

“BUT!" Azacoatl tensed the spear against his chest… before finally lowering it. “Someone as mindless as you could never pose any real threat, save for imperilling the lives of all those unfortunate enough to linger around you."

The human rubbed where the spear had been at his chest. His dumbstruck face suited him. “Well… I'm glad we've sorted that, at least. And again, my dear skink, please believe me when I say I truly meant no offence."

Azacoatl simply didn't care. He jabbed his spear against the human's now-muddy satchel. “Take your bag and leave at once."

“Hold on a moment, lad."

“My name is not Lad!"

“N-no, of course it isn't." The human cleared his throat. “In that case… would you be kind enough to honour me with an introduction?"

The skink gave a sharp hiss. “Azacoatl. Now get out of my sight."

“Azacoatl… A lovely name, I must say—"

The human likes my name? Pah, no, it's just shameless flattery.

“—and I'd be more than happy to get out of your sight, as fast as I can. But here's the issue — I don't know which way I ought to go to get out of your sight."

“Your indirect and imprecise language irritates me." Azacoatl bared his teeth. “You want to know where the dig site is, yes?"

The human gave a soft nod. “Yes."

Given the human's earlier contrition, Azacoatl would extend the smallest of lifelines. He looked to the sun and, once he got his bearings, pointed north-west, across a slow-moving stream. “Get to the other side of the stream and keep your head held high, following where the canopy fades into sky. You could make it by nightfall if you don't tarry. You do not want to be here once the sun has set."

The human gave a relieved sigh, adjusting his cap as he grinned. “You're a bloody saviour, Azacoatl. I certainly didn't deserve your help after my earlier rudeness, but thank you, from the bottom of my heart."

“Enough flattery." Azacoatl turned away, wanting to hide any softening of his expression. He slammed his tail in the mud to show he was done talking. “Now go, and don't ever return."

Azacoatl never liked to turn his back on a potential threat, no matter how harmless they may seem, but he couldn't stand to look at the human's ignorant, smiling visage for one moment longer. The skink took slow steps, concentrating on the squelching of mud behind him. The human's movements were cumbersome and irritating, but at least he was moving away. Still, the fool couldn't keep quiet; he chuckled for some senseless reason before yapping — to himself, no less!

“Guess I better roll up my pants for this one. It doesn't look too deep, at least."

More inane dribble. Why would the human be worried about his clothing at a time like this?

Azacoatl should have ignored it, but morbid fascination compelled him to glance over his shoulder. The human had perched himself at the edge of the stream, one leg raised, about to—

The skink's entire body lurched in terror. He flailed his arms and screeched as loud as he could. “Stop, stop, STOP!"

The human wobbled on one foot, but another croaky screech made him yelp and tumble backwards into the mud.

Azacoatl dashed over to him, his voice already hoarse. “Do you yearn for death, you imbecile!?"

The human stuttered, his eyes wide. “What? What did I do?"

“What would compel you to wade through a murky stream other than a death wish?"

With trembling arms, he pushed himself back to his feet. “B-but it's only waist deep. The university moat is deeper—"

“Keep quiet for once and listen!" Azacoatl stopped beside the human and scanned the stream. Dark shadows swirled about near the centre, the rising bubbles patrolling back and forth between the muddy banks. “See those?" he said, pointing at the bubbles. “Do you know what that's a school of?"

The human took a step closer and leaned over the water. “I haven't a clue, my dear skink."

Azacoatl snarled and yanked the human's arm, pulling him back. “In your tongue, you call them piranhas, though I promise they're nothing alike the measly sort over in your lands. To a scaleless one like yourself, they'd rend the flesh from your bones in seconds."

“S-seconds, you say?" The human swallowed, his eyes following the mass of bubbles before looking back at Azacoatl. “That… doesn't sound very pleasant."

Azacoatl returned his wide-eyed stare by flashing his sharp teeth. “Don't you worry; your brain would be the last part they rip to shreds, so you'll have time to enjoy the agony."

“I'm rather fond of my brain, to be honest." The human lifted his cap and swept back his hair. “It seems I must thank you again, Azacoatl."

“Concern yourself less with thanking me and more about your survival. Your continued lack of respect for the natural order will be the end of you."

“Indeed." He scratched the back of his neck. “I'm afraid I'm rather out of my depth here."

“Useless scholar…" Azacoatl clenched his hands, digging his talons into the wooden shaft of his spear. “Should you wish to die, have the good grace to do so far away from my eyes and ears."

“I assure you, my dear skink, I'm not planning to kick the bucket any time soon."

“Enough with your quips! My empathy has a limit, and you have already far surpassed it." Azacoatl thrust out his spear, pointing it north-west. “Continue in that direction. Do not attempt any foolish shortcuts. Walk around streams, stay out of burrows, keep your distance from caverns, and make no unnecessary noise — that means no inane chatter to yourself."

Admittedly, the human thinking aloud might just have saved his life; Azacoatl wouldn't have looked back otherwise. Still, for most of the jungle's denizens, excessive noise was a dinner bell calling them to feast. Even Azacoatl was uncomfortable with how much shouting he had done.

On account of that, he wanted to leave posthaste. “Cease stalling. Every minute you delay brings nightfall ever closer. Leave at once."

“Understood. I'll be on my way then, but first…" The human took off his cap, holding it to his chest as he bowed. “Thank you again, Azacoatl."

“Enough!" The skink jabbed his spear into the mud. “Stop with the praise! I care not where you die, but hurry off and do so somewhere far away from me."

Despite Azacoatl's enraged glare, the human gave him a soft smile. “You know, I'm starting to suspect you care a lot more than you're letting on."

“What did you say?"

“Sorry, just thinking aloud. Best I stop with that and stay quiet, as per your advice." The human chuckled as he walked away, following the stream's edge. “It was lovely meeting you, Azacoatl." Without looking back, he raised his hand. “The world needs more kind souls like you. The Old Ones would be proud."

A kind soul? Nonsense! I would have killed him without a second thought! “You… arrogant fool!" Azacoatl hissed at the human, still walking away. “It is not for humans to interpret the Old Ones' will. Your words are both empty platitudes and entirely misguided, for I have no qualms about the demise of a single, mindless human!"

“Please," said the human, squeezing between the trunks of two massive mangroves, “call me Walter. I've never been too fond of formal titles." With that, he vanished from the clearing, leaving Azacoatl to croak and snarl at nothing.

As the rustling branches went still, the skink squatted, grumbling to himself as he peered across the swampy waters. The piranhas — their bubbles reminiscent of boiling water — continued their patrol, thrashing back and forth in search of flesh. Though deadly, they posed a danger only to those foolish enough to enter their realm. They were a meagre threat compared to the legions of other predators that roamed Tlax'ki, unbound in their choice of hunting ground.

Perhaps the human — Walter — would continue to have luck on his side. He had no chance of survival otherwise.

And that didn't bother Azacoatl at all. Not in the slightest. He cared not for stupid fools, and he certainly cared not for that human. Walter showed disregard to him, his people, and the jungle they call home. He was pitifully naïve, miserably friendly, and, worst of all, disgustingly innocent.

Innocent.

More than any other trait, it was his innocence that left Azacoatl conflicted. Innocence is ordinarily a thing of beauty, a rarity in a world ravaged by Chaos. His kind and guileless nature was a weakness — and something to be cherished and protected.

Many interpretations of the Great Plan stipulate that all should strive to prevent the death of an innocent. And what is more innocent than a stupid human, defenceless and lost in a jungle rearing to tear him limb from limb? Would leaving him to meet his end be against the Great Plan? If Azacoatl accompanied him, he could ensure his safety. But why should he be the one responsible for plucking that fool from the jaws of death? Azacoatl could just turn around and not look back. No one would know, and no one would care. Least of all himself.

As he mulled it over, twisting his spear back and forth, digging it deeper into the mud, a scream jolted him upright. Birds in the canopy above squawked and took flight from the danger, and right below, Azacoatl flew towards it, leaping into the underbrush, swerving between trees, swiping down every branch between him and the source. He screeched out Walter's name, only for silence — birdless silence — to meet him in return.

“Why, why, WHY!? Stupid, useless, foolish human!"

Azacoatl sliced down a curtain of vines and leapt into a clearing. There he was — collapsed in the mud beside his bag. Azacoatl twirled in place, searching for the threat, prepared to find only blood. With no luck on either, he rushed to the human, expecting his extremities to be dangling from a fleshy thread. But the human just straightened up, notebook in hand, an already familiar smile on his face.

He flinched as he noticed the skink. “Oh, Azacoatl, look, look!" He pointed to a lone stump a few paces away. “In all my years, I've never seen anything like it."

“What?" Azacoatl heaved, his voice more gravelly than usual. “The wyrmwood stump?"

“Yes, that!" He flipped to a page in his notebook. “I've never seen so many rings. There must be over five-hundred growth cycles."

“Eight-hundred and twenty-seven," said Azacoatl, leaning on his spear as he caught his breath. He glanced at the stump, admiring the rolling waves of light and dark that stretched across its surface, each a ripple of time.

“Incredible," said Walter. “Where I'm from, you'd be lucky to find a tree older than two-hundred, and that's if they're not cut down in their infancy."

Azacoatl had forgotten the earlier scream; Walter's interest in such a mundane aspect of nature caught him by surprise. “This… excites you?"

“Of course!" Walter plucked the auburn feather from his cap. “My speciality may be archaeology, but all aspects of history fascinate me, and natural history is one sorely overlooked field of study." He took the feather to his notebook and began to scribble something.

“That hideous feather is a quill?"

“No, in fact." He lowered the feather so Azacoatl could see. Instead of a hollowed indent, the tip was solid and metallic. “It's a newfangled tool made of graphite, so instead of runny ink that stains and smudges, the graphite slides off and sticks to the parchment." He twirled the quill around his fingers. “See? Nothing leaks. It's fantastic for field studies — not that I've done many of those."

“Pah. Humans and their propensity to innovate that which needs no change." Fascinating. It could sit discreetly on our headdresses without staining the other feathers.

“To be honest," said Walter, “I'm rather impressed you counted all those rings so quickly."

“Your praise is unwarranted — as usual. I know this section of jungle like the scales on my wrists. Further, the longevity of the wyrmwood tree holds a special place in our culture." Azacoatl gestured to the stump. “This one, felled in its prime, required solace from our people."

“Wyrmwood…" Walter swished his feather back and forth. “And it wasn't even done growing, you say? How long do these wyrmwood trees usually live?"

Azacoatl puffed out his chest. “Over two thousand years."

“Amazing…" Walter's feather, now a blazing flurry, caught the rays of light that breached the canopy through the gap left unfilled from this tree's passing. “I assume the stump's flat surface and protective varnish were the doing of your people, correct?"

“Lightning split it in half many years ago, so we severed the scorched remains." Azacoatl ran his finger over the smooth wood, careful to keep his claw suspended high above. “But that is all we did."

“That can't be." Walter lowered his notebook and raised an eyebrow. “How is it still so pristine, untarnished by talon and termite alike? Even moss should have consumed it within a year."

Azacoatl couldn't help but chortle; for some strange reason, the human's curiosity filled him with glee. “Do you think a tree could survive long enough to be a symbol of longevity without its own defence mechanism? The sheen that covers it is solidified sap. It oozes throughout its life, enhardening both its exterior and interior. That sap is its shield against a savage jungle, still serving its purpose long after its master's death."

“An all-natural shield…" Walter's feather twirled with newfound intensity. “I could bloody do with a shield of my own. What if I slathered myself in wyrmwood sap?"

“W-what absurdity!" Azacoatl swung his arms up and down. “You would most surely cook yourself alive, you imbecile, if suffocation didn't claim you first!"

“Sorry," said Walter, chuckling. “That wasn't a serious suggestion; humans just have an odd sense of humour. I didn't mean to make you worry."

“I was not worried!" Azacoatl thumped his tail against the tree behind him, chipping off several layers of bark. “I was merely concerned about the harm your idiotic plan would cause to our precious trees."

“Right. My mistake."

“And why do you continue to linger here, whittling away what little time you have until nightfall?"

“We're having a conversation, aren't we?" He glanced down and smiled at the skink. “You possess an incredible wealth of knowledge. You don't get this sort of learning experience sitting in a lecture hall, that's for certain."

“T-this is all common knowledge, entirely rudimentary." Azacoatl's eyes were drawn back to that pretty feather, which still hadn't left the notebook. “Are you recording everything I say?"

“That, and sketching the stump's cross-section. See?" Walter lowered his notebook. Indecipherable scribbles covered the left page, while the circumference of the stump filled the right. He had drawn part of the ring in the bottom corner, the grey lines alternating between light and dark shades, replicating the waving pattern born of growth cycles and seasonal rainfall.

“Your drawing is rather… meticulous," said Azacoatl. “Your handwriting, less so."

“Thank you!" Walter returned to his sketching. “In another life, I fancied myself an artist."

“Hah!" Azacoatl croaked, driving his spear into the mud. “You will have no life of any sort if you remain absorbed in such a pointless exercise. Instead of Walter returning home to teach what he has learnt, he will litter this jungle with naught but bones and filled parchment, destined to decompose long before our trees form a new ring of growth."

Walter's quill stopped. “Strange," he said.

“Yes, you're quite right. Your bones would likely be devoured along with the rest of you."

“No, not that."

“What then?"

Walter closed his notebook and met Azacoatl's eyes. “You called me Walter."

“So!?" Azacoatl battered his tail against the mud, over and over. “That is your name, is it not? Or would you prefer I address you as a foolish simpleton for the entirety of our journey?"

Walter's brow furrowed. “What journey?"

“It has become exceedingly clear that your death is all but assured." Azacoatl jumped up, snatching the notebook from Walter's hands. “Your desire to share knowledge with the rest of the Known World is respectable, but fated to become lost to these lands — along with you — unless I intervene."

“Hold on." Walter tucked his quill back into his cap. “Are you offering to guide me?"

“I am not a measly guide! I am your shield against a savage jungle, the only one capable of ensuring your blood remains in your veins. I will deliver you to your dig site, and you will at last cease to be a nuisance to me and all other beings of Tlax'ki unfortunate enough to hear your grating voice."

“I see…" Walter seemed shocked. He rubbed his chin and said, “Azacoatl, I must sincerely thank you for your most generous offer, and—"

“This is NOT an offer!" Azacoatl unfurled his head frill, displaying how very serious he was. His pained grimace proved as much. “Nor am I generous. Neither of us have the right to refuse, for I act solely to carry out the Old Ones' will."

“I—"

“Quiet! Before you make another senseless comment about me caring, let it be clear that I have no such ulterior concern for your safety. I simply must see that the Great Plan is carried out to its fruition, as is the obligation of all races envisaged by the Plan — including your own. And so" — Azacoatl thrust his spear out, its muddy tip coming to rest on Walter's chest — “you, Walter, are duty-bound to follow me.

Walter went cross-eyed as he stared down at the spear. He slowly pushed it away, smearing mud over his vest. “I understand," he said, “and accept your terms. After all, who am I to question the will of the Old Ones?"

“Good…" hissed Azacoatl, grinding his jaw.

“But… could I at least pay you for your trouble? I have some coins in my bag."

“Your currency is meaningless here." Azacoatl lowered his spear and took a hoarse breath. “Though given your insistence to offer praise when it isn't warranted, I am certain you won't accept such a response."

“I mean, if you don't want—"

“And so!" The skink jabbed his spear towards Walter's cap. “I will accept your curious quill as payment — not for carrying out the Old Ones' will, mind you, but as compensation for the misery of your presence."

“That… sounds more than fair." Walter took a deep breath as his shoulders slumped. “It seems like we have a deal."

“Pah, and here is that other folly of humanity; they long to turn all minor interactions into a formalised exchange."

“If this is what you consider a minor interaction, I'd hate to witness something more serious." Walter lifted his cap and wiped back his hair, slick against his forehead. “But while we're at it, how about I introduce you to another quirk of humanity?"

Azacoatl's heaving chest and shoulders finally slowed, as did his swinging tail. He straightened his hunched back, lowered his spear, and handed back Walter's notebook. “And what quirk would that be?"

“A handshake." The human held out his hand. “On entering an arrangement — even a… friendly one, like ours — humans often shake on it."

“Ah, I suppose your lack of a tail makes many of our people's common interactions an impossibility. Very well, I shall oblige."

Azacoatl reached for Walter's hand, taking care to angle his talons away from his flesh. As he squeezed it, he gasped at just how warm and soft it was. The heat of the midday sun rested against his hide. Warmblood was more than a mere term of convenience, much to his surprise. But how did humans survive — even in their own lands — with only a supple layer of skin shielding their delightfully warm lifeblood?

“Azacoatl?"

“Mhm, yes?"

“You're squeezing a tad too hard."

“Ack!" The skink jerked his hand away. “M-my apologies." The warmth lingered for a moment, but it soon faded away.

“Apology accepted." The human smiled warmly. “Now, what's the first thing you'll be showing me?"

“I will not be showing you anything!" Azacoatl flicked his tail, tensing as it struck the sacred stump. “Do you require a notebook because your memory is faulty? I made it clear — in no uncertain terms — that I am not a guide. We are heading straight to your dig site with no imbecilic detours, you orcish halfwit!"

“There's the Azacoatl I know." Still smiling, the human shouldered his muddy satchel and tucked his notepad into his vest pocket. “Lead the way, my friend."