Harvest 10, 855
The boy would be relatively safe within a place of walls, Tuag knew. He would rejoin with the boy soon, but for now, he couldn’t be near soldiers. Soldiers had the audacity to try and hold him, to leash death and use the grimm like a tool. Like a dog.
If he followed the boy into those walls now, he would tear every one of the soldiers inside to pieces. The thought did not displease him, but Tuag understood that it would likely put the boy in danger. The grimm could not interpret the obnoxious, inelegant strings of noise that the monkeys used to communicate, but he still heard the tones and saw their body language. He knew that the other humans had grown suspicious of the boy because of Tuag’s presence.
If the grimm caused a bloodbath the moment the boy arrived at the walls, within the walls themselves, the idiots would likely kill the boy, destroying the closest thing to a way home Tuag had found since his capture. Then they would know what a bloodbath really looked like.
Tuag needed time away from humans, he decided. Some time to stretch his legs and let his anger fade until he could bear to be near the smells of weapon polish, boiled leather, and sweat without tearing them apart. Then he could return to the boy and watch for his chance to go home. His being ached at the thought.
But try as he might, the humans seemed to be everywhere. Retracing his steps into the woods, he found a group of foresters, the thunk-thunk-thunk of their axes applying directly to the grimm’s last nerve. He turned, setting out over the flat alvar surrounding the walled place.
Farmers. Settlements. Shepherds. Like termites — once he spotted one, they appeared more and more. Each sighting stoked his anger, building the flames inside him until he felt he would burn up. He wanted to hunt. To kill something.
The grimm scanned the countryside, ignoring the cries as people spotted him and fled. Flocks of the elk-sheep favoured by the local shepherds grazed and meandered through their pastures, oblivious to him. Too easy. They would not give him a good hunt.
Then he smelled it. Weapon polish. Boiled leather. Sweat. The idiot humans had gathered some soldiers to try to defend themselves against the grimm’s very presence. They shuffled, prickling with spears, up the hill behind him. Upwind. Idiots.
Fine then. If they would threaten him so blatantly, he would defend himself. And if I then retaliate for the insult, Tuag thought to himself, who could blame me?
The grimm turned, licking his lips.