Far from Home
MALROK DUSKWELL
⟁Tip the Scales⟁
The creature saw them.
Of course it did.
It had eight eyes and enough rage to power a siege. Noise wasn’t the cause, just the timing. The moment had arrived. Survival meant movement now.
Malrok moved in a tight forward arc, sprinting low across the jungle floor. The Rancodin’s torso began to pivot, heavy shoulders swinging, momentum building toward another charge. Its forelimbs dug for traction. The ground buckled.
He didn’t fight the beast.
He was the bait – he would distrupt its footing.
Malrok pivoted behind one of the fractured root-veins that split the clearing, reached to his belt, and drove a shockwire charge into the soil—hooking it into the root at shin height. He didn’t check to see if it would trip the creature. It probably wouldn’t. That wasn’t the point.
It would steer it.
The creature veered as its gait shifted—eye clusters adjusting, upper mass twisting toward the flash of Karesh’s voice. Perfect.
Malrok turned just slightly and pointed—not shouted—at the Rancodin’s left flank. Just a sharp, deliberate motion toward the exposed seam beneath its shoulder.
Then he held up two fingers. Not toward the monster.
Towards the others.
Then dropped one.
Strike Now.
He stayed low. The spear tip hummed with restrained tension, but he didn’t strike yet. This moment was for someone else. Someone louder. Someone faster.
He was just serting up the angle with the beast's softer underbelly.