FSE

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The time had come It was Kleios' job to finally deal with the foreign invaders from the outside world, the crawling creatures of elsewhere with armored bodies and mandibles that could rip through flesh with the slightest of ease. It was against this foe that a wolf like Kleios was trained from birth to deal with. Strength, cunning, agility, and the ability to pierce a vulnerable area with the tip of his spear -- between gaps of an armored body, or the bulbous eyes of the monsters, to make killing them as efficient as possible to move onto the next target before we became overwhelmed by their numbers.

Sending him in alone only made sense; others would only slow him down, and he could not deal with any wounded. He would accomplish his objective of eradicating the creatures, or he would die in the process; there was nothing in-between, and he knew it. His affairs were put in order, and he said his long goodbyes to those he had grown close to over the years; though he had no real mother or father, being raised by the tribal warriors more than anyone else, he still had those he considered as such, and tears formed in his eyes as he hugged them a last time. It was time to see if his training had held up.

Donning a pack with the supplies just necessary to keep him going for three days, his spear, and a pointed sword and long dagger along his belt best for piercing between gaps, he was prepared and set out into the outside world. He took a moment to find clumps of earth, covering his white fur in them. This was not so much to conceal the sight of himself, as to try to dim his own scent and cover the oils of his fur from being so easily sensed by the creatures, whose vision was otherwise poor.

After covered in dirt, he then moved forward, from one hiding location to another. It did not take long for him to hear the rustling of many legs nearby, and the sound of a something crawling. The dirt was not enough, as already one of them scurried towards him, the six legs of the creature nearly a blur as it approached close enough to bite, pausing only a moment to try to get a grip on his chest. Kleios reacted quickly and with precise movements, stepping back to avoid the mandible and thrusting forward with the spear, straight into the creature's eyes, the force he exerted measured enough to penetrate the brain while not committing excess strength, to avoid contributing to exhausting his body in the long run.

The creature recoiled and started to crawl into a ball, even as others came at him. His mind went blank, his every step measured, as he entered that dance of death. Sway one way, jump another, strike, pull away. He struck another mortal blow. Then another. His spear caught in the armored body of one, and then he dropped it immediately to pull out his sword for the death strike, plunging it into the creature's eye before retrieving the spear. By the time it was all done with, six of the creatures lay curled in the form their death-spasms took.

Six were easy. There were thousands. He had to climb the Hill of Death to meet them. At first, he proceeded slowly, climbing up footstep by footstep up the loose hill; they came to attack, of course, and each met with a spear thrust, and he would fling their bodies down upon the ground to curl. His movement was slow, and the bodies accumulated on the ground, starting to form a pile of dead bodies; but the creatures would not give up, and the air was thick with the stench of that smell they emitted to communicate. The clicking and clacking of their mandibles and the scurrying of their feet grew louder and louder the closer he got to the top of the mound, a maddening sound that would drive a lesser wolf to fleeing. It was not that Kleios did not feel fear, however, it was that he controlled it; every death he inflicted was closer to ending this, and fleeing would only bring a far more painful end for himself.

Finally, he reached the top of the hill, where a large hole fell deep into the earth. Now that their attacks had stopped for a brief moment, it was time to crawl through; this was the most difficult part of all. He would have to leave his spear behind, being useless in the tight confines, leaving him the knife by his side and his sword. He drew both, before starting to descend the hole, face-first, deep into the dark. He operated more on feel than sound, using his imagination to know what was coming and how to deal with it; a sound of a creature approaching, and knowing precisely when it would attack; he would then stop trying to climb down, letting himself fall into the creature and falling over the mandibles, then plunging his weapon deep before they could open and close around him. The loose earth was loose enough to make this difficult, but would also partly pile beneath him and keep him from falling completely, so long as he kept his arms and legs wide enough to prevent descending completely.

It was slow, meticulous work in the dark, and only when he was able to stand straight and stop digging and clinging his way downward did he pull out his torch after sheathing his dagger, hoping the flame would not be quenched in the clouds of dust deep beneath. As the torch lit, it revealed the dark twisting maze of tunnels that ran all around, and the stench of the creatures, the sounds of their clicking, their rustling in the dark sounding from all around him, made it difficult for him to focus. He didn't know if one could end up right behind him at any time, and it was difficult to tell what sound came from where, with so much noise coming from the deep claustrophobic depths of the tunnels.

Then came the larger of the creatures; these truly monstrous, filling the passageways with their bulk. They were stronger and faster; if one should grip him, he would be able to do little against them. When there were only creatures in front, he would make quick strikes to their eyes and jump back; if not, he would jump forward, rushing into its massive body where it could not reach him, and then plunge his sword deep. He would often use their curled bodies as a wall, to slow down any pursuit from behind him.

Time became just a series of killing, long sharp breaths, and the sound of the flickering torch. He did not know how long the whole ordeal lasted, but the wolf's body was able to push itself well beyond endurance, that burning sensation deep in his muscles reminding him he was still alive. Eventually he had reached his target. He was amazed at the bulbous, armored body of the central figure of this colony. The small room reeked with that smell, much of it emanating from her. Despite her massive size, she could not move well -- and she too was dealt with. By this time, the tunnels were almost empty, and the clicking and scurrying deep in the tunnels were almost non-existent.

Wandering his way through, he then found the tiny shelled eggs that would mean a new generation of monsters. He had his answer for that; a small hammer in his pack, which he used to strike into them and through, ensuring that he would kill the unborn deep inside. Finally, when he had dealt with all that he could find, he wandered his way to the exit, crawling from deep within the earth, his heartbeat sounding through his ears. The dirty wolf stood atop the mound, breathing heavily, heart pounding in his ears. He had done it.

Leaving the spear, he left the battleground, leaving countless curled corpses deep within the earth.

The earth started to shake in a rhythm. He was too exhausted to even look up until it became impossible to ignore, and he looked up to see what it could possibly be, hackles raising on his neck, not knowing what to expect. A shadow fell over him. He looked up, to see a huge wall moving above him and descending. His eyes widened; he had just enough time to take in what it was before it fell atop him.

***

Alice had just turned 18, and was shopping for the right kind of gift. The jackal girl brushed back her black hair as she walked forward, intending to hit the clothing store for a dress for a dance event she intended on joining. As her weight shifted forward, she grimaced, stopping in her step as she pulled up her footpaw. Under the sole was a crushed figure, looking more like a clump of blotched red and some dirt-brown fuzzy exterior. She tried not to think of what kind of bug would be so fuzzy, instead peeling it off with a look of disgust and flicking the mass into some bushes, quickly forgetting about the experience and going on with her shopping.

Thus ends the tale of the unsung hero who killed a colony of ants. For all his skill, strength, and agility, there were some creatures far too great for him to handle.