Predator

‘Our world is just a proving ground for that… thing. We are all mere trophies to be mounted on its wall. Pray you never see the shimmer of its cloak, for you will be slain before the night is done.’ — Wallmaster Othorion For the Yautja, there is no greater glory than finally overcoming their opponent after a long, gruelling battle. The rush of adrenaline as they deliver the killing blow. The hot spurt of their prey’s blood as it splatters across their armor, and carving a mighty trophy from their still-warm body. To become formally recognized as a true Blooded Yautja, a young Predator must take part in a Ritual Hunt to prove their courage, strength, and honor to their clan. This is no grand pageant, complete with feasting and revelry, nor is it a desperate fight for survival. It is a sacred trial where a Yautja will either ascend to join their kin if they succeed, or be cast out as a failure. Protocol dictates that young Yautja stalk a particular malignant beast for their Ritual Hunt. For the Predator that later found its way to Teleria, to hunt a well-documented beast would be too simple. Too easy. No, the skull that hangs from their wall must be a marvel. The blood that adorns their armor must be from something that no other Predator has claimed. To find such a beast, however, required a journey outside of the known galaxy, and to a world that had yet to fall prey to the Yautja. This upstart Predator eventually found its hunting ground — at the end of an unmapped wormhole on the very edge of known space. As its Scout Ship was violently ejected toward the planet below, the Predator had no time for fear. Armed with the time-honored weapons of its people, it emerged from its crashed vessel, ready to face this planet’s panoply of vicious beasts. Its welcoming party was not the one it hoped for — it was a single Human farmer, cowering before the towering invader and making the mark of its god. As wily as Humans were, one of their skulls would not do, especially one of a weakling like this. The Predator activated its camouflage, melting away before the farmer’s eyes and disappearing into the wilderness. The peasant thanked Lumaya for answering his prayers, though the sight of such a monster would never leave him. The Predator ranged across Teleria, seeking that one trophy that would place them above all other Yautja. From feral, dangerous creatures to Elven princelings, Orc Chieftains, Ogryn enforcers, and rabid Skinwalkers — all fell to the thrust of its Combistick. Heads mounted, but they did not satisfy. The Undead held little sport either, lacking the verve for life that made mortal prey so thrilling. Eventually, it found its match in the infernal and immortal. Many a Demonspawn locked blades with those of the interstellar hunter, foul magic clashing against Yautja technology. Yet the Predator failed to claim the trophy it so desired. A Demonspawn’s mortal husk quickly disintegrated upon death, its screaming soul being catapulted back to the wretched spawning pit from which they crawled. Nothing remained of them for the Predator to take. As tale of this extra-planar warrior reached the higher strata of Siroth’s hierarchy, the true hellions of Anathraad emerged to set down their challenge. The Predator became prey as an endless array of Demonspawn tried to claim its head as a trophy. One denizen of Anathraad who pursued the Yautja was Black Mordril of the Seven Seals. The chase lasted for week after exhausting week through the volcanic Dusk Hills. Their final confrontation was a deadly dance of blood and bone, deep within a caldera of roiling steam. Its camouflage rendered useless by spurting geysers of white-hot water, the Predator had to rely on brute strength to overcome the Demonspawn warlock. For every chunk of flesh a Wristblade took, Mordril matched with a grievous cut from a hexed razor. In their final, desperate struggle, Mordril gained the upper hand, towering over the Predator. His Demonspawn arrogance saw him linger for a brief second too long, a sneer spreading across his bloodied face, as he prepared to plunge his knife into the Predator’s chest. In that single, wavering moment of pride, the Predator let out a single derisory click, and turned the warlock’s face to bubbling pitch with a well-timed Plasmacaster shot. A Yautja would never make such a mistake. Despite a sea of bodies in its wake, the Predator’s Hunt continues. The promise of that desired prize calls from over the next horizon, and the Predator will not cease until the skull of Teleria’s apex predator is proudly hung in the Trophy Room.