The moons set three times before the veil’s pulse renews its frantic beat, signaling the return of our hunting party. Again, the swarm lines the ocean shore, crawling over our tentacles in their eagerness to sight the victors. We flex our scales to remind them of their place as we turn our own gaze skyward, ready to give welcome.
But when the hole widens, the cliff wind bears not the delicious scent of alien skal, but the death stench of our fallen.
Unthinkable, we roar, shaken by so much loss.
Around us, the swarm reels, equally alarmed by this shift in fortune. Our tail lashes, silencing them as we study the pulsing veil. At last, a lone scout pushes through the hole, its orange scales no longer jewel bright against the heavens. Scored and blackened, it plummets to the ocean.
We dive beneath the waves and chase its plunging body through the dark. When it is secure in our tentacles, we lift it back to the surface and place it in the centre of the nest. Bloodlust flows through the swarm like a tide, demanding satisfaction. Our body coils around the injured scout, holding their wrath at bay as we study it.
Its scales heave with imminent death. We pry open its mouth, extract its tentacle, and touch it to our own. Swiftly, we harvest its meager portion of alien skal. Yet in its mind, we also find images of ungainly two-legged beasts wielding skal that burns as strongly as our own.
Ground dwellers, we hiss. Insignificant.
Swarm killers, the scout whispers as it shudders and falls still.
For the first time in our memory, true fear spirals through the swarm.
Overhead, the pulsing veil slows and ceases to move. The remaining hunters are truly lost, including the black-scaled runt. Fury grips us so tightly that we hear nothing but the pounding of the waves against the sand, echoing the wrath simmering through us. We gather the scout’s body, wrapping its tentacles around its scales before offering it to the swarm. In silence, they consume its flesh.
Resistance, our mother-sisters hiss when the honour feast is done. Xenthians.
Myth, we scoff to quell our rising panic. Nest tales told to make hatchlings obey.
Fool, says our eldest mother-sister, releasing a wave of memories. They are an ancient foe, feared and desired by queens of old for their potent skal. With it, those queens of nests long past conquered all our lands, but at terrible cost.
We shift our scales as our mother-sister shares memories stolen from the nest minds of our long-dead enemies. We see ancient hunting parties traveling the Xenthian home world: a vast, wide place, its lands lush and green.
Xenthians are the only skal-bearers with the power to seal the veil and end our hunts. It is a thought to shiver scales. The queens of old hated these beings, our mother-sister continues. Their fear leaked into the nest minds of all the swarms they conquered, including ours. We stored this knowledge against future need.
The wind shifts, and again our nose slits fill with the stench of death. Rage twists our guts. How dare these ground-crawlers threaten our swarm?
Before we can issue commands, our mother-sisters speak again. Thrice you have hunted on that shore, they observe. The aliens breed as plains herds. Where you attack matters not. Strike elsewhere and breed fear of our might. Move the veil’s exit and select another of their nests for destruction.
We shall not abandon our hunt.
Never, they agree. Yet the aliens are primed to our coming. Reclaim our advantage.
The stars wheel above us, remote and imperious. So must we be to these vermin. No prey is worthy of our direct vengeance, not even Xenthians.
We divide our hoarded power, keeping the largest portion of skal to succor our growing hatchlings as they coalesce inside their shells. We wield the smaller fraction of our strength against the veil, until the entrance hole is wide enough for more of the swarm to cross.
Join the hunt, we command. Kill the Xenthians.