ROLEPLAY

"What you carry inside

Family home - Evening meal

The table was set as if for a feast.
Warm dishes, scented with berries and morning herbs, smoked gently in the heavy air.
Orange light fell from the hanging lanterns, but there was no real warmth emanating from the moment.
The atmosphere had that special heaviness of silences that you try to dress up without success.
Lothie's mother, Lyner, was getting restless.
She smiled too much, talked too much, her voice high and brittle, a nervous laugh hanging on the edge of every word.

Lyner (serving gingerbread)
- Did you see what Kaly the weaver did to her roof?
Three layers of resin - what's the point?
She says it's because of the black birds, but I say it's because...
well, she's always been a bit... how shall I say...

O'Larch ate in silence, his back arched.
Her hands betrayed her confusion - clasped around her spoon, they trembled slightly with every movement.

Lothie watched.
She had hardly touched her plate.

Lothie (calmly, putting down her cutlery)
- Let's stop pretending.

The silence that followed cut short her mother's gesticulations.

Lothie (looking at her parents)
- I know about the parchment. About the locket.
I know there are two forgotten marauding clans, and they've been killing each other.
I don't understand it all. I still don't.
But I know that somewhere, in the ancient lands, there is something... that concerns me.

Lyner (pale)
- Ancient lands?
No, no... you can't! This is madness!
Nobody comes back from there, Lothie.
Even the Marauders talk about it in hushed tones...

Lothie
- And yet, I'll go.

O'Larch (strangled voice)
- You don't know what you're saying.
You don't KNOW.
It's not a treasure hunt or an old tale, Lothie!

Lothie
- Precisely.
It's time to stop talking to me like a child.

She stood up straight, peaceful.
His eyes shone with an unsettling clarity - a conviction born of trial, not whim.

Lothie
- I don't go there to play.
I want to understand. And I will.
I don't need your permission.
But I need to know what you're hiding.

Lyner
- Lothie...
he's just trying to protect you.
This world... it's blood, mud and nightmares.
Your father...

Lothie (cutting her off gently)
- ...was one of them, wasn't he?

O'Larch (explodes)
- I wasn't LIKE THEM!

The scream echoed throughout the room, taking everyone's breath away.
He stood up in turn, knocking over his chair.
His eyes were those of a man on the brink of an abyss he thought he'd left far behind.

O'Larch (panting)
- I didn't mean to...
I thought it was over...
that it was dead and buried...

But it never is, is it?
These things... they stick to you, they gnaw at you even when you stop looking at them.

He sat down suddenly. As if drained.
Jaw clenched. Fists on knees.
For a long time, he said nothing.

Then, in a low, broken voice:
- I'll tell you, Lothie... Everything.
What I ran away from.
What I've done... What I've lost.

But after that...

you'll never look at me the same way again.

Lothie (approaching, placing a hand on his shoulder)
- Perhaps...
But I'll look at you and finally know who you are.
Not just what you want it to look like.

He raised his eyes to hers, and in his gaze, there was no escape.

Just a man, tired, but ready to open the doors he had long sealed.

Silence hung over the room, as dense as the lukewarm steam rising from the plates.
The meal was there, untouched. No one was eating. No one was talking.
O'Larch stared at his fork as if it might save him. His hand trembled slightly.

His wife looked away, nibbling her lips.

And Lothie, upright, calm, implacable, stared at him with eyes where the shadow of resolution shone.

She had spoken.
She'd said it all.

The parchment. The medallion. The Sage's words.

And his decision.
To leave. Reach the Ancient Lands. Find the tracks.

He had tried to interrupt her.

He hadn't succeeded.
Something inside her had resisted, something stronger than him, than his authority, than her fear.

Then something inside him gave way.
A dike. A lock. A souvenir.
His throat tightened. Her hands clenched on the wood of the table.

He stood up. Pushed back the chair without a word.
And, in a strangled voice:
- Would you like to know? All right, I'll tell you. I'll tell you what I ran away from.

And he was no longer in the room.
He was no longer a husband. No longer a father.
He was O'Larch, the youngest son of the Great Hunter of the Sarak Etüm pack...

[...] The wind whipped through the trees, shaking the thick canvas shelters.
In the clearing carved into the hillside, the Sarak Etüm clan vibrated with a brutal, silent tension.
Hunters roared past, armed with jagged spears.
The fire from the large den cast menacing red shadows on the trunks.
And he, O'Larch, knee-deep in mud, was digging.
He stuck the shovel into the soggy sawdust, panting.
His hands were bloody. Blisters were bursting under the pressure of the handle.
Another day of humiliation. Again.

He had never been weak.
But never strong enough.
Not in this pack, where the slightest doubt cost a place, a flesh, a future.

Sent there by Tarkan, his brother.
Tarkan, the magnificent.
Tarkan, the implacable beast.
Tarkan, who should have been a brother but had been nothing but an executioner.
- "Dig in, if you finally want to prove you're good for something, maggot."

The words still vibrated in his ears as he dragged his carcass toward the camp.
But the air wasn't the same.
The sky had changed color.
There was... fire.
Muffled cries.
Shadows that moved too fast.
The attack had begun.

He saw his brother emerge from the thicket, accompanied by young hunters armed with trophies.
Tarkan's face was painted with the blood of his prey.
A splendid beast, whose claw he still wore on his belt.
Their eyes met.

For a moment, O'Larch thought he was about to say something.
Perhaps an order.
Maybe forgiveness.
An opening. Brotherhood.

But no. Tarkan jostled him, pushing him back with a snarl of contempt.
- "Stay out of the way, Fuzzë!"

And he disappeared into the fray, into the howling of the Ragam Etgûn, into the fury of fire and iron.

O'Larch wanted to scream. Wanted to run.

But an older, deeper voice chilled his insides:
You're not a hunter.
You don't belong here.

He stepped back.

He stumbled. He fell against a wet log.

Then nothing.

"An Izam

When his eyes opened again, the sky was gray.
The silence was not that of peace, but that of a dead world.

In front of him, an izam, a messenger.
On his paw, a parchment.

O'Larch read in the morning light:

---------------------------------------------------
" O'Larch,Runaway son of Sarak Etüm,

You weren't there.

When the fires swallowed our shelters.
When screams replaced voices.
When the Ragam Etgûn broke our tents and our bones.

You weren't there.

You could have held a blade, screamed with us, maybe died -

But no.

You've chosen shadow and escape.
You left our father in their clutches.

They took him alive.
They dragged him, exposed him, tortured him.
You know their rituals: the burning blade, the blood emptied as an offering, the bones crushed for silence.

He died proclaiming our name... not yours.

And our mother?
She lives. For now. Broken, her eyes drained.

He misses you, but not like a son.

Like a poison that has crept into his heart.

Your absence is abandonment.A crime.

Don't you dare come back without being prepared to face the consequences.
Here, no one pronounces your name without spitting.

Do you want news about Sarak Etüm?
All that remains is a breath and ashes.

But I'm still here.
And if you ever set foot among your people again, you'll have to face me.
And carry the weight of what you didn't stand up for.

- Tarkan your brother, until honor do us part."

"acceptance"

He wept.
But not for his family.
He cried because he had waited all his life for this moment.
Let him go.
Let's finally give her a reason to stop fighting for recognition that's never been granted.
But in that moment of relief...

there was a deeper wound.

He had gone without a fight.
He knew it. He'd run.
And to the shame of the clan had been added the shame of not even mourning them in time.
To have known only how to hate.

Then forget it.

And now... not knowing how to get back.

In the dining room, his voice faded.
He didn't cry. He wasn't screaming.
He was... drained.
Disgraceful.

But relieved.

Like a man who has waited so long for punishment that he receives it as a deliverance.

- That's it. That's it. That's what I ran away from.
Not the Ragams. Not death.
Myself.

Lothie remained silent for a long moment.
Then she stood up.
walked slowly towards him.
She laid a gentle hand on her father's shoulder.
She says nothing.

Not yet.

This was no time for answers.
But in O'Larch's eyes, something had changed.
He no longer carried the burden alone.

He had just said, at last.
And in this simple truth lay the first step towards acceptance.

Family home - Dining room -

O'Larch slowly looked up at his daughter.
She was still there, standing with her hand on his shoulder.
She wasn't crying. She wasn't judging him.
She was waiting. Right in the eye of the past.

He took a long breath, still trembling.
Then he spoke, in a deeper, calmer voice.
Almost hoarse.
- You want to leave, I understand.
And nothing I say will turn you away.

He gestured towards his wife...

He stood up.
Slowly.
It was as if his bones had grown heavier since he'd spoken.

He took a few steps towards the window and looked out, without really seeing.
- I'll never set foot there again.
The Old Lands don't want me anymore.
And me... I don't want to die there anymore.

Silence.
Then he turned back to her.
- But you were born for this, weren't you?
You want to understand.
Knowing what came before.
Before me.
You want to follow the trail back to the den. Scratch to the bone.

He stepped forward and locked eyes with Lothie.

There was no more fear.
Just old-fashioned fatigue.
And a faint flame of will.
- So listen to me, Lothie.
I can't stop you from leaving.
But I can force you not to go ignorant.

He straightened up.
He no longer looked like the worn-out father he'd been an hour ago.
In an instant, he had regained the bearing of a survivor.

From an ancient Sarak Etüm.

The Predator hunting its Prey.

"Le Réveil

- Here's the deal:
You're not leaving until I get you ready.
I'll teach you what I know.
What little I have left.
How to read the signs.
Follow a trail.
Distinguishing the smell from the lie.
Listen to the silences.
Silence your breath. Approach you. Strike, if you must.
Run, if you must.

A beat. Then:
- I'm not giving you my blessing.
But I give you my weapons.

He lowered his head.
- That's all I can offer you.
Not a homeland. Not a pack.
But knowledge. And a promise:
If you must bear the burden of the name I fled...
You won't wear it helplessly.

Teaching the predator

- The prey -

The low-lying dunes quivered in the evening wind.
The air smelled of hot resin, dust and crushed chitin.
In the distance, we could sometimes hear the clicking of a Kitin explorer, alone, making his way through the shadows.

Lothie stood erect, her torso swollen, her sword behind her back, her eyes squinting.
She exuded power, mastery and certainty.

O'Larch He never made long speeches. He never made long speeches. He just waited.

A sneer split his face. He wasn't mocking. Just... tired.

She shrugged.

He approached. slowly.

He planted his spade in the ground.

She drew her weapon. Turned slowly around him.
His gestures were sure and controlled. Her breath calm.
She feinted quickly. He parried. Another. He dodged.

She was already smiling. The fight was hers.

But then, without a soundhe passed into her custody.
A movement without hesitation, as if each step had been calculated days before.

He knocked.

Not hard. Just... just enough.

The dart pierced the defense, then the flank.

Lothie waveredlooking surprised, almost indignant.
She wanted to say something.
But the pain seized her violently, brutal, dull.
She fell to her knees. Then she toppled over.

When she came to, the sky had changed.
The wind blew harder. Branches creaked.
She lay in the dust, short of breath, her body still vibrating with the memory of pain.

His father was sitting nearby. Unmoving.
His pike flat on his lap.

He said nothing for a long time.
Then :

- Can you see now?

She turned her eyes to him. Still stunned.

- I... you killed me...

He nodded, just once.

- Yes. And you're back. Here. Thanks to The Powers That Be.
He paused.
- Back in the Old Lands, you wouldn't have been so lucky.

She wanted to answer.
Nothing came.

- You think you're invincible.
And maybe you are, in this protected world.
But out there, you'll be the prey if you don't learn to be something else.
If you can't disappear. Observe. Hush your strength.
Read a pack's gestures before approaching it.

He stood up.

- I'll teach you that.
To be alone, but never isolated.
To feel the territory. To recognize your place.
Choosing when to bite... and when to lie down.

He looked at her with an intensity that froze her.

- I'm going to teach you to become what you already think you are: a predator.
But a real one.

She lowered her eyes.
And for the first time, says nothing.

Teaching


The next morning, at dawn, O'Larch woke her up without a word.
No warm-up. No weapons.
He simply handed her a piece of dried meat and gestured to the top of the roots to the east.

- Up we go," he says. And watch.

They settled into a hollow overlooking a natural retreat, an old dry riverbed.
There, between the roots and the embankments, Kitins circulated. Discreet. Organized. Ruthless.
Scouts, first of all. Lonely. Then, from far and wide, a pair of diggers. A cloud of dust. Then dead silence.

- How long are we going to watch them like this?
O'Larch didn't reply.

- We could eliminate them one by one. By playing on the heights. I've already done that with...
- You look, Lothie.

She gritted her teeth.
But she looked.

One hour. Two. Maybe more.
Then suddenly O'Larch whispered:

- There. Can you see it?

She followed his finger.
Slight movement in the ferns.

- It's not a Kitin," she says. It's... too fast.
- Exactly. A hunter.

Silence returned.
He continued:

- Kitins have structure. Castes. Roles.
But they are adaptable.
A pack is not a fixed hierarchy.
It's a shifting balance, based on the place each person takes, not the place they're given.

Lothie frowned.
She thought of the clan. The Drakhani. Fyros society.

- What if two want the same place?
- They clash.
Not always with fangs. Sometimes with a look.
By waiting. By pressure.
The one who doesn't bend makes the other bend.

She didn't answer.
Something was changing.
In his attention. In his breath.

O'Larch continued:

- The lone hunter is not an outcast.
He's a scout. A suitor.
He lives alone, but not without a purpose.
He observes, approaches, measures. He knows how to make himself accepted, or he provokes the test.

And if he fails, he dies.

He turned to her with a serious look.

- You want to go there, where the packs are alive, where there's no forgiveness.
Then you must learn to read all this.
To become invisible, patient, precise.

Lothie, her eyes fixed on the scene below, murmured at last:

- What if I don't want a pack?

Silence. Then:

- Then you'll have to create one.
Or be left alone.

These are the only options out there.