The land was changing.
Already the voluptuous foliage that blossomed between spring and summer were being stripped from the boughs of its birth, ripped away by the billowing breeze as their crisp, withered forms were strewn across the ground in defeat. Summers warmth became a fleeting memory as its remnants now were imprinted upon the recollections of both man and beast—fall began undertaking the task of preparing the islands for Winter’s commencement.
Though the decay of pristine green was minimal as the Islands saw plentiful rainfall which sustained the very existence of a year-round tropical paradise to thrive, there was a sense of newness which was refreshing.
While the land itself had begun its transformation, Cellen himself recognized that changes influence had impacted him both physically and mentally. Change, perhaps, was an interesting subject; it was dynamic in the extent of its capabilities and yet fickle with an airy-fairy mannerism. Unpredictable, undefined, and unusual, change was something whose impacting wakes bore consequences of favor or foulness. And yet while its clarity never allotted a guarantee for what would arise, change was an element whose unrivaled tactics continuously enticed the individual to resent the stagnancy of their surroundings and brace themselves for a breakthrough.
For Cellen, the reminiscent remnants of previous dreams still lingered and the message of change, its core meaning, remained raw—requiring to be consumed and internalized. But amidst their conflicting messages, the feral himself was certain of one fact: he would never allow himself to become domesticated.
But even such a statement was rooted within a faulted foundation that was severed with guilt. Perhaps he had been too rash, too intoxicated with testosterone to have truly weighed out the reality of his decision. Born and bred within the wilds, his feral instincts were something which could never be usurped or stripped away from him but there was, whether he admitted it or not, a longing to belong.
The transition from having been a reckless, unbridled spirit who was then incarcerated within the walls of Huntingdon Settlement to only then to be broken free from what bondage he was placed under, had shaken him. What he had witnessed within the Compound, where darkness ensued when man was engrossed by investment and profit, only cemented his resentment. Winning streaks and records were not the only things that were lost—countless lives were. The innocent, who merited no just outcome, were slaughtered.
An ill-tempered growl rumbled from out of his throat. Even the mere recollection caused a wretched loathing to pulsate through his veins. Such barbaric bloodshed was to be frowned upon and those who were pitted one against the other in the ring, especially those who were utilized as ‘bait’ to escalate the tension amongst fighters, deserved damn better life than that. Anything but that.
Although darkness abounded within particular individuals, there still was a genuine goodness that could be found even within Huntingdon. Cellen couldn’t deny such a thing as he had been a recipient of true kindness, even love, from his previous owner.
His large figure stalked through the dense brush, enveloping his presence as he lurked within the shadows. A pang of hunger reverberated through his body with a famished rumble. It was a reminder that he hadn’t eaten a significantly meaty meal in several days. The rummaging of his mind did well to keep hunger at bay but his strategy was losing ground. There was no bowl to rely on, no freshly prepared meat that was still warm from the initial preparation which he could anticipate.
Beyond the walls, you had to catch or scavenge your meal. There were plenty of options which could comprise a rather satisfying meal whether it was gorging oneself on fruit, seeking out the fish and crustaceans who had become stranded in the shallows and tide pools, ransacking Huntingdon’s trash, or making the kill.
Often the sweetness of island fruits were enough to sedate his appetite but, regardless of how much he consumed, fruit could not fill the void of hunger.
He needed to hunt.
Methodically, Cellen maneuvered himself towards the open Mapua Hills. His ears cocked slightly, erecting upwards as the sound of grunting and bleats echoed through the slope-side. The call was unmistakable but a second affirmation followed in pursuit—it was the smell that made him salivate voraciously.
Tia.
The feral crept forward with a stiff-legged motion, keeping his amber eyes fixated on the herd that settled atop of the hill. Thick, burly brush that blanketed the outskirts of the hills did wonders in offering a natural cloak for him to utilize yet already alarm was starting to brew amongst the herd.
One of the bucks uttered a low grunt, beckoning his herd to be on alert for imminent danger that lingered along the fringes of the hills. Wary and skittish by nature, the Tia were small and defenseless—vulnerable to both Mokai and man. Several Tia shot their head upward, concerned with frantic bleats that echoed through the open clearing while other members of the herd seemed irritated by the interruption and plunged their head deeper into the tall, island sweet grass.
Cellen sunk low onto his stomach, crouching as he transitioned from behind the leafy barrier and became more exposed to his prey. A wayward, rogue breeze ruffled against the nape of his neck and flitted elsewhere, rattling the thickets of grass and latching itself onto the nostrils of the herds stag. His pupils widened as the scent trigger a fit of panic inside of him which quickly was projected outward with a bugling bellow.
"Just damn-tastic," he glowered. Already the herd was becoming disheveled in disarray as they began to disperse in every direction, some colliding into one another as fear consumed them.
Within the wakes of the turmoil, a lone Tia seemed to stagger behind; its pace was hindered by a leg whose appearance was disfigured and strained from, perhaps, a mishap along the Raupatu Mountains when trying to scale its cliffs to reach its succulent tendrils of fresh sprigs. Regardless of how the injury was accrued, it was an opportunity that shouldn't be wasted.
Lunging forward in full stride, the feral charged. The Tia's could see its predator from out of the corner of its eye and stumbled forward if only to will itself to pick up its pace. Its motion was off kilter as each step felt strained--its own flight or fight instinct had already found defeat regardless of the situation. As the Tia turned its head around, its eyes widened as Cellen's form barreled down on top of it. It struggled, kicking its legs outward and giving a shrieking cry, but the feral's powerful jowls clamped onto the creatures throat and collapsed its trachea. The blood that seeped onto his tongue felt like fire-- he felt invigorated from its taste.
Panting, Cellen laid upon the hill with crimson masking his maw. Out in the distance, the herd of Tia looked on in mourning for only but a short time before they loped further away from the killing grounds if only to ensure that those who remained would not become the next meal.
Although the restlessness of his mind continued to plague him with the unanswered questions, the feral began to ravenously feed. There was no need for dignity or for manners as, for now, hunger controlled him.
