The Count And The Shaman
A Deranged Human soldier from Earth is trapped on an alien planet after crash landing on the surface. He is the only survivor among hostile wildlife...
The acrid smells of fresh kill and gunpowder disoriented and nauseated his stomach. Ravaged earth, fiery craters and bodies of friend and foe alike blocked his path at every turn. His only weapon was his blade, but he'd be damned if he let a demon take his soul!
“Foolish Spectre! I am Count Tod! This meal is mine alone to devour, and your desirous presence offends me! I will banish you to an eternity in Hell for this transgression, have at you!" Count Tod screamed.
Tod slashed forward with his bayonet, just missing its throat. The ghost caught the knife in its hand, but was too slow to dodge the left hook that followed. Grunting in pain as it fell to its knees, Tod took the opportunity to kick it in the side and knock it to the floor. His impatience gave the ghost its chance, he followed the ghost's descent too close. The apparition slashed through Tod's flak vest as it fell to its back. The attack did little to stagger Tod though, he ignored his wound as the blade plunged deep into the ghost's chest.
Featureless clouds of mist resigned from their humanoid form and faded into the night and forest, defeated by the soldier's blade. The count stood, his adrenaline fading. The pain of his wound became apparent, enticing him to rest against the wreck of a nearby Abrams.
“That wretched cur! Ruining my pleasant dinner!" Tod yelled as he began discarding his damaged vest.
Unbuttoning his uniform, Tod got a good look at the damage. Blood dripped from underneath his ribcage, something he'd have to at least stop the bleeding of, and would need stitches, too. Tod reached into one of his vest's pouches to produce a small first aid kit.
One of the corpses behind the Abrams began to shift, drawing Tod's attention away from his gash. He crept over to the edge of the Abrams' treads, agitated, and ready to kill whatever dared to disturb him this time. Eyes leering with anger and hunger, he eyed his next meal.
The creature was kneeling over one of its dead, its hands folded, as it mumbled strange words. It's glossy blue eyes opened as it finished its chant, gazing at the body beneath it. The creature's soft paws caressed the corpse's cheek as a final regard before standing to adjust its snow white robe and search for another body.
“I hope that prayer was for yourself as well, it's the last you'll ever make." Tod said as he walked out from behind the tank.
The creature's eyes met with Tod's, and it greeted him with an expression of relief and delight.
“Child of the forest, you have my gratitude. Not even the most powerful of my family have been able to cast out evil as you did." The creature thanked Tod.
“I am no child, woman. I am Count Tod, ruler of this strange land. You are trespassing on my property." Tod said.
Adrenaline faded completely as his fight or flight response faded. Lethargy stripped any chance of intimidation from his warning. Hunger, and exhaustion took their toll, causing him to rest against the tank and soil once again.
The woman's eyes went wide, afraid for his life. She rushed over to him as Tod winced in pain, clutching his side.
“Child, you're hurt!"
“Save your loathsome breath, I'm alright."
“Move your hand!"
“I'd be in fine fettle were it not for your ins-"
She slapped him before he could continue his protesting.
“Be quiet, child, do not argue with me!" She screamed.
Tod bit his tongue, silently musing the many ways he'd tear her apart once he regained his strength. The woman reached to a satchel on her side for bandages, and began to treat his wound.
“...Obnoxious and mysterious female I am not privy to your name. What do they call you?" Tod asked.
She ignored him for a moment, then looked up from her work to gaze at him. Her eyes narrowed a bit, then she smiled before lunging forward to lick his cheek. Tod recoiled in disgust.
“I am Belpheobe Silves, the elder shaman of my tribe." She told him.
Many minutes passed without a word between the two. Belpheobe finished stitching his wound, and almost considered foraging for food. Her meal had been postponed as she felt drops of rain hit her fur. She reached down for Tod, who fell asleep during her handiwork. She couldn't let him stay in the open.
The two took shelter inside a Chinook, sleeping next to each other for warmth. Though hungry, tired, and now cold from their respective long days, the fires of the combat that had taken place only hours ago would not kill them tonight.