"Waah! Waah!"
In the midst of a dark forest, where even light seemed to hesitate, there lay a child—a child with the features of a human, except for four hands: two emerging from the shoulders and two from the back. The child's cries didn't seem to stop. In the deep, silent, eerie forest, the child was alone—the only thing echoing in this deep, silent forest was the cries of the child echoing the forest.
Even then, there was no predator that seemed to be coming towards the little child—no bigger than a few inches. The child's eyes opened and closed in the midst of its cries. Its huge jade-green eyes were filled with tears. The child threw its hands here and there in search of something—a figure—anything—anything for it to grab on to—to be said—its. But there was none—nobody. No father, no mother, no one to call its own.
Only an indifferent forest—an unforgiving one too.
Then—thud!
From all its movements of flailing its hands around, the child fell from the up-arched root coming out of the earth and fell towards the ground beneath it.
The sound of thud was not enough for one to think that much damage could've been caused to the child, but unfortunately, for the child who was just born mere moments ago—it was fatal.
The cries silenced too haphazardly, with a hic!
The child lay face-first towards the ground. A thin trickle of its blood flowed towards a slim flow of water near it. Getting mixed in it. The colour of the water changed from translucent to pure red. But as indifferent as the forest was towards the child, so too was nature and everything in it. The water, only after going a few distances away from the child, changed again to its translucent colour—as if the child didn't exist, and the blood flowing from its forehead was nothing but a mere pebble as compared to the forest it ran in.
The child lay there, face-first towards the dirt. No movement from it. As if he had just been concussed, the flow of blood didn't seem to stop.
Then came the chirping of birds—but more than the usual sound they make, this time it was more like a warning call. Something that birds create when they hear something that preys on others—a creature that feeds on others—something that tops the food chain. A behaviour shown by all the birds and beings that warn others, irrespective of place, time, or moment.
The creature now awake—was something that stood 7 ft tall and 12 ft long, with its long tail flailing around, clearing the insects near it. It moved its head upward as if it had picked on something, sniffing up, moving its head in directions to be certain of where the smell of blood was coming from.
After some time, confirming that the direction it smelled was the right one, it lowered its majestic head—laced with fur and a crimson-orange mane with a mix of white. It walked alone, but its movements showed why it was feared by all the creatures near it—as it walked, its large body moved. With each step, the muscles on its back bulged up like a horror creature in an eldritch movie.
Each step carrying a huge amount of weight, certainty—certainty of something getting killed tonight—and an air—a heavy atmosphere of blood and violence. Its eyes—a mix of green and black—small pupils that could dilate large, but at the same time, could quickly change their shape.
Each step of its carrying a dread—a dread for the now unconscious child. Its life not guaranteed. Its movement suspended. The Olf moved towards the child that was now within its sight. Eyes so indifferent that they didn't even seem to understand the concept of a child.
Now arriving beside it—pupils dilated—it decided to watch the child closely. Light entering its huge, dilated pupils in the darkness of the night. Moving its huge head that seemed to be much bigger than the body of the child itself. It sniffed the child—its blood now stopped flowing from its forehead.
Pulling its head back up—it considered whether to eat this child, which was even less than half of its face.
Moving its shoulders back down and sniffing the child again—it considered—the child was alive.
So it moved its head back up, preparing to cleanly maw its neck upward in one bite—a normal behaviour of carnivorous predators that happens everywhere in this world. Carnivores claw or bite off the neck of the prey for a quick ending—something ingrained in their very DNA. And so, the Olf moved its head straight towards the child's head—maw wide open—closing in on the child's neck. And just when it was about to close—
The Olf sensed a movement in the bushes towards its right.
Moving away from the child and focusing on the bushes on its right, it moved its body from facing towards the child to now fully focusing on the bushes towards its right side. Its front legs bent, back hunched so as to quickly come into action, whatever may come. But after the tension dissolved and nothing came, the Olf moved towards the bushes slowly—slowly–slowly—then it suddenly stopped, one leg still hanging—tracking something with its eyes. Pupils shortened. Reading—reading—reading something—a target.
And then suddenly—it moved with might so unparalleled that it left gusts of wind behind, the ground moving—thud—thud! Each step sending tremors through the earth.
Another movement could be heard—something kicking away the dirt and land of the forest—running.
But there was no escaping this monster.
After a few more seconds, a large cry could be heard. Something that filled the hollowness and eeriness of the forest with sound. Cries of the creature that had just been caught. It cried and cried—and then it stopped.
The jungle, as if an event had been over, again went back to its usual calmness and hollow silence.
But that didn't change the fact that the hunt had been over—and the wildling had been hunted. Not clear of its build, but something big enough to feed the Olf nonetheless.
The chirping of the birds, the warning of the wild—stopped. The jungle knew the hunt had been over and there would be no more hunt—no more killing—at least not for tonight. Tomorrow? Nobody knew. Or perhaps they did know. It had become a routine for them at this time. They saw their parents do the same, and so they did the same since the moment they were born—warning the wild of the beast that lurked within it—the same Olf since the moment they were born. No change—nothing new. Just the usual alarm—killing—and the silence returning in the forest.
But this time, there had been a difference—a difference that nobody knew what it may bring. A new voice. A change. Change in how the jungle's usual routine.
This time, there had been something new—a cry—a cry of something new. Something different in this indifferent forest.
Would this change get dissolved in this indifferent forest? Or would there be a change?
Only time may tell.