Chapter 1: The Savage
Listen good, my children; this is a story of my past, and it takes place when I was a little whelp, like you, in a village in Africa. We might be in chains now, but free your ears of the shackles of slavery and listen closely. This is a tale of a man called Credo, a brave man, a strong man. Once, not so long ago, there were these two men, strong as lions fighting over territory in the savannahs of the African continent, a man called Credo, and a man called Kha’Jin. But this story begins much earlier, when Credo was still a pup: The air was stale and the sun was scorching the earth as clouds of dust hovered over the grassy plains, and besides the squawking noise of various carrion feeders, everything seemed to be at a halt. There, a blood-gorged pit near a small tribal village; in this arena did, by a trial of blood, boys become true men. And one boy in particular has passed his test, a boy lighter than the others, who was adopted by the Zulus as an infant, when a pack of hyenas attacked and most likely killed his parents. I would know, as my father was the one who found him in the savannah, I was but a boy when Credo passed his test, and I was afraid because he was different. But he grew, and as he grew, he honored the tribe by hard work and dedication, the values that would bring him into the ring of blood in which he now stands. There he is covered in blood, shaking from exhaustion, breathing for his life, the young boy, and above him, a grown man with a spear in one hand, and in the other, a shield decorated with a bloody, zebra’s hide. They know each other, at least the boy knows the man. This is a man deemed to be one of the strongest in the village, a man that can lift a whole wildebeest by himself! With a quick thrust at Credo, the man seemed to have secured his victory-- or so he thought. The boy leapt to the side like a cougar, passion and fear intermixing in his deep, blue eyes to become the most powerful weapon one can ever hope to yield; as salty sweat ran down his blood and dust covered face, the will to live helped the boy defeat his enemy. Swinging recklessly, the man stumbled, and the boy, Credo, took this opportunity to win. As he turned, Credo’s tomahawk began to enter the area between the enemy’s shoulderblades. The man’s eyes widened in despair, and he stood motionless for a few, good moments. Then, as if the stone axe took a week to lodge itself into his body, a loud scream decorated the stale silence of the crowd watching around the ring; the man was now on his knees, not ready, but helpless enough to receive the finishing blow. The boy stood over his enemy, snatched the spear out of his hand, and looked him in the eyes. What he saw, was fear--the fear of death; this fear, however, did not stop Credo from taking his place among the tribe. “Kill or be killed,” echoed through his head... The spear now stood erect in the man’s chest, the dust clouds whizzing by, while everything else remained silent. In the silence, the gravel grinding beneath credo’s footsteps was the only noise. Slowly circling his nearly dead enemy, Credo took his tomahawk into his hands once again. He turned towards the man again, lifted his hands high, so everyone could see them, and as the rays of sunlight enveloped his weapon, he struck downwards with unrelenting force. An unpleasant sound of bones breaking and teeth and skull fragments dropping to the ground like dates, blood gushing faster than the raging Ncandu Falls. Red all over, Credo knew that this was hi’s domain now. But the story begins in his prime; after passing his test, Credo, seeing no point in fighting his, now, own people, turned to the hunt and was recognized by the son of the Chief Kha’Zix, Kha’Jin. The two grew up to be inseparable; they were the two who would bring our tribe to new heights. I remember looking up to their brotherhood, as a boy. The two would come back from a long day of hunting, with large, white grins on their faces as...
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