[center][h1][b][color=black]❚█══[/color][color=red]Villagxor[/color][color=black]══█❚[/color][/b][/h1][/center]


Villagxor listened to her story closely. He stayed close while she spoke, one hand braced against the ground, the other resting open and visible so she could see it. The words came tangled, soaked in fear but he pulled sense from them all the same. Strangers. Sharp stones. People torn apart. When she finally ran out of breath, he nodded once, slowly and helped her to sit upright.

He rose and turned to the village and the noise started to turn into a uneasy silence. “No one is chasing you right now,” Villagxor said, calmly. “You are here. You are safe.” He let that sink in before continuing. “Panic will make us loud. Loud things attract danger. We will not do that for them.” People quieted almost straight away. They trusted his certainty.

His instructions were simple and practical. Stay together. Bring the elders inside the inner paths. Close openings. Put out excess fires. Water covered, food stored, nothing left scattered or inviting. Runners sent to warn those still outside the village to come home swiftly and together. “No one goes out alone,” he repeated. “Not now. Not today.”

Finally, Villagxor looked toward the trees, where the green thickened and the valley watched in its silent way. “We've never been fighters,” he said, without shame. “So we will not pretend to be. We endure. We hide. We stay calm.” His gaze returned to the villagers. “That has always been our strength. And it still is.”

When the movement settled and people began to follow his words, Villagxor spoke again, quieter. “While you shelter,” he said, “I will not be standing among you.” A ripple of unease passed through the gathered villagers, faces turning toward him all at once. He raised a hand before fear could bloom again. “Not away. Not gone. I will be where I must be.”

He gestured toward the heart of Gamblerdise, where white and gold rose clean. “I will go into the temple,” Villagxor continued. “I will call upon our patron, our Fun God.” The nickname carried weight, not thunderous, but steady, like a stone dropped into water. “Whatever reasons they might've had to get us here and protect us, they clearly care about our survival. Let's hope they still care about us.”

Some murmured prayers. Others simply bowed their heads. Villagxor did not dress it up or promise miracles. “I do not know what form the answer will take, if any,” he said. “A sign. A warning. A chance.” His eyes moved across them, meeting each in turn. “But I will ask. Clearly. As one of you.”

He took a step back, already turning inward toward the path that led to the temple doors. “You do your part,” Villagxor finished. “Quiet. Together. Alive.” Then, without ceremony, he left them to it, walking toward the light at the center of Gamblerdise.

Inside the temple, the air felt steady in a way nothing else did. Villagxor stopped near the center, right in front of the Anchor, not kneeling, not bowing, just standing where the light pooled clean and bright. He didn’t clasp his hands or lower his head. That wasn’t how this worked. Alechior wasn’t a god that cared for gestures and Villagxor had never pretended otherwise.

“Alright,” he said aloud. “This isn’t a game.” He exhaled slowly. “There’s a group coming. Ur-Humans. Armed with sharpened stones and nothing to lose. They’ve already killed some of mine.” No anger yet, just fact. “My people don’t fight. They don’t know how. They won’t learn in time.”

He shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the Anchor. “I’m not asking for spectacle. No lightning. No miracles.” A brief pause. “I’m asking for something that works. A way to stop them, scare them off, slow them down, or make them choose to leave.”

Villagxor straightened fully. “If you want games, I’ll give you games later. If you want offerings, we’ll talk.” then he added with a bit more power in his voice, “Right now, I need help. Tell me what you’re willing to give and what it costs.”

[hr][hr]

[center][i]Meanwhile[/i][/center]

Fangs stood at the edge of their crude camp when the others arrived. Shapes emerged from the treeline in small, ragged clusters, thinner than the ones already with him, eyes sunk deep, ribs showing through skin. Reinforcements, if the word could be stretched that far. They carried the same tools, sharpened sticks, stone knives, bones tied with sinew. Some limped. Some bled. All of them looked scared, the valley took its toll.

He counted them without moving his lips. Fewer than he’d hoped. More than he’d feared. It was enough. He let out a low grunt, a sound that passed for approval and the newcomers settled in quickly, collapsing near fires, gnawing on whatever scraps remained. No greetings. No questions. Hunger flattened all of that. Fangs turned his gaze back toward the village, already deciding how many would starve before dawn and how many would eat.

A scout returned a few moments later. She came in fast, breath harsh, eyes wide in confusion. She dropped to one knee without being told, head angled toward him. “The village,” she said. “It’s quiet.”

Fangs looked at her slowly. Quiet was never a good word. “Quiet how,” he growled.

“No smoke moving. No people outside. No noise,” she said, swallowing. “The survivor must've warned them.” She hesitated, then added, “But I felt watched.”

Fangs bared his teeth, the firelight catching on them as his chest rose with a low, pleased breath. “Good,” he said. “That means they know we’re coming.” He turned back to the gathered mass of bodies, voice lifting just enough to carry. “Eat what you can. Sharpen what you’ve got. When the light comes up, we go and FEAST!”


[hr][hr]

Nothing came back. No flicker of light. No twist of chance. No voice, no laughter, no sign that anyone was listening at all. The Anchor remained still, beautiful and empty, its glow unchanged, uncaring.

His voice rose. Words turned sharp then broke apart entirely. He shouted at it, at the stone, at the silence. Anger bled into the sound, then fear then something raw that scraped his throat. He demanded answers. He demanded help. He demanded to know why now, of all times, there was nothing. The temple swallowed every word and gave nothing in return. When his voice finally failed, the quiet felt worse than any reply.

Villagxor stood there shaking, fists clenched, eyes burning. Alechior was not coming. Whether unwilling or unable, it did not matter. The truth settled heavy in his chest. Whatever was walking toward Gamblerdise, it would not be turned aside by chance or mercy tonight.

He left the temple without looking back. In the village, people watched him pass, fear written plain on their faces. He stopped only long enough to take a sharpened stick from where it leaned against a shelter wall, simple, crude, meant for nothing more than probing ground or scaring animals away. He gripped it tight, jaw set. If the valley would not protect them and the god would not answer, then he would stand in front of the danger himself. Alone, if that was the wager forced on him.

The sun crept up slow, pale light spilling between the trees as the forest began to move. Shapes peeled themselves from shadow, one after another, until the undergrowth could no longer hide them. Fangs stepped out first, broad and scarred, teeth bared not in a snarl but a promise of a feast. Behind him came dozens more, thin from hunger, eyes sharp with it. 

They stopped at the edge of the village. Smoke drifted from cookfires long gone cold. Huts stood quiet. No voices rose to greet the morning. Fangs lifted a hand and the others slowed, spreading slightly, instinctively hunting even without prey running. His gaze tracked across the village until it found what stood waiting.

Villagxor was there. Alone. No line of defenders. No raised tools. Just him, feet on the group, a sharpened stick held low at his side. The early light caught the red of his markings and the dust on his skin. He did not step back. He did not call out. He simply stood, watching them approach as if this had always been where he meant to be.

Fangs laughed, a short sound that carried. “One?” he called, voice rough and loud. He took a few more steps forward, boots sinking slightly into the gentler ground. “This is what guards the fat place?” Laughter rippled through the group behind him. Hunger made them bold.

Villagxor lifted his head. His grip tightened on the stick but he did not raise it. His voice carried clear, steady despite the fear burning behind his eyes. “This is as far as you go.” There was no threat in the words, only statement. As if rules still mattered. As if the world might listen.

Fangs stopped a few meters away, his shadow stretching long across the grass. He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning Villagxor from head to toe, weighing him with his eyes, already thinking of sticking his teeth into him. “You stand alone,” he said. “That is brave. Or stupid.” His smile widened. “We will find out which.”

Behind him, the group shifted, gripping stone and sharpened wood, breath quickening with the promise of blood and food. The sun rose higher, burning away the last traces of night. At the edge of Gamblerdise, with no god answering and no one at his back, Villagxor stood his ground

Villagxor shifted his stance and lifted the sharpened stick, not in attack but so it could be clearly seen. “You want this place,” he said. “Then you deal with me.” His eyes stayed on Fangs, not the mass behind him. “One against one. No others.”

A low murmur rolled through the cannibals. Fangs tilted his head, amused, curiosity cutting through his hunger. Villagxor continued before Fangs could reply. “If I win, you turn around. All of you. You leave this valley and you do not come back.” His grip tightened, knuckles turning white pale. “If I lose, you get what you came for. Food. Bodies. No one will stop you.”

Silence followed. Fangs stepped closer until they were nearly face to face, his breath hot, his grin wide and ugly. “You against me? Fighting me with what?” he asked. “One thin stick?” He laughed again, louder this time and spread his arms as if embracing the idea. “I like this. I'll eat you whole! But why wouldn't I just have my people tear you from limb to limb? Why should I do this?”

“Because you’re not a coward,” Villagxor said plainly. “And cowards hide behind numbers.” His eyes stayed locked on Fangs, unblinking. “If you let them swarm me, you prove you were afraid to lose.”

He shifted the stick in his hands, planting its end into the dirt between them. “This is simple. You win, you take the village. No running. No tricks. No one gets in your way.” His jaw tightened. “I win, you leave and you don’t come back. You don’t test us again.”

Villagxor leaned in just enough to make the words bite. “You asked why you should do this,” he finished. “Because when you walk away after beating one man, everyone behind you knows you earned it.”

Before Villagxor realized, Fangs lunged forward with a roar. The larger man’s momentum was terrifying, each step like a drumbeat shaking the ground. Villagxor barely managed to sidestep the first swing, the stick scraping against Fangs’ crude wooden club and sending sparks into the air.

He stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a second, heavier blow that would have crushed him outright. Each movement felt like a roll of the dice: duck here, step there, hoping the larger man’s strength didn’t catch him. Villagxor’s strikes were quick but clumsy, more desperation than precision, slapping at Fangs’ sides or feinting to draw attention rather than landing hits.

Fangs laughed deep, swinging again, forcing Villagxor to leap sideways. A branch snapped under Villagxor’s foot as he rolled to avoid being pinned. The larger man’s attacks were relentless, sweeping and punishing, each one designed to end the fight fast. Villagxor’s best defense was instinct and luck, barely managing to keep the stick between them when Fangs’ club slammed down.

A sharp turn, a quick feint and Villagxor thrust the stick toward Fangs’ knee but misjudged the distance. The tip bounced harmlessly off the earth as Fangs barked a laugh, swatting it aside like it was a toy. Sweat stung Villagxor’s eyes, muscles burning from the effort, but he forced himself to reset, planting his feet again, bracing for the next charge.

Fangs lunged again, catching Villagxor’s shoulder with a heavy club, dropping him to the ground. Dirt and leaves scattered as Villagxor rolled, barely escaping another crushing blow aimed for his head. His lungs burned, every movement a gamble, a hope that the larger man would over-commit or misstep. Each thrust he push was less about striking and more about surviving long enough to find an opening.

Even as exhaustion hit him, Villagxor stayed visible, refusing to disappear into cover. His movements could give a trained fighter a heart-attack, but each dodge and block carried the weight of the wager: survive or fall. Fangs pressed the advantage, grinning as if this was all a game he had already won. Villagxor’s strikes biting nothing more than air, most of the time.


[center][sub][i]To be continued...[/i][/sub][/center]