Presenting the Xylanth

Dlain ran.  In his thirty-some years of life, he could not recall ever exerting himself so hard.  It was an odd thought to have cross his oxygen-starved mind.  Is this my life flashing before me?  It was getting harder to see, harder to avoid the thick roots that meandered across the forest floor, harder to pick a path around the large trees that seemed to unaccountably spring up in front of him.  It was getting harder to hear too; between the sound of his labored breathing and the staccato pulse of his heat beat, Dlain was barely aware of Nelston, somewhere in the murky fringe of his periphery, madly scrambling for his life as well.

Dlain's entire being burned with agony; his muscles ached and threatened to tear apart under the strain to run faster and faster.  For the past fifteen years, he'd worked in the ore mines; dangerous, back-breaking labor day in and day out.  He was young, strong, and fit, due to a combination of xylanthan chemicals and rigorous labor.  His lungs had never burned for air as they did now.  For fifteen years he'd been a proper, obedient, dirt-shoveling, Darmok-fearing slave to the meat-fucking plants.  Then he'd met Nelston.  And now he was running for his life.

Dlain twisted, pushed out with his arm at the last moment to avoid colliding with a tree, nearly fell anyway, and scrambled to keep running.  How long had he been running now?  Had they gotten away? Just how fast could those plants move anyway? He didn't dare stop to look.  The future didn't lay behind him.  He had to keep running after it.

All his life, he'd played by the rules.  He knew his place in the universe and kept his head down; born a slave, he'd live a slave's life, and then he'd die a slave.  His spirit would find rest in Darmok's wide arms; his mortal remains would continue to be a slave, a puppet for some newly sprouted Xylanth.  This was the circle of life as all on Sylv knew it.

Then he'd met Nelston.  An immigrant from Skrom, he'd moved across the border to settle in Farling's fiefdom.  Under Xylanthan rule, the three human kingdoms, their various nobility, and assorted landowners were all irrelevant.  All belonged to the plants, and the humans kept what they had by the graces of the Xylanth.  But there was no mistake that all were subject equally to The Green Law; nobles and lords were slaves too, just better dressed than most.

But the humans did hold onto one thing, one thing even the Puppeteers could not take away except in death: their hatred for one another.  The undying hatred the three kingdoms held for one another had not fallen to the Xylanthan forces and lived on, nurtured by distrust and differences.  It was a hatred that ran deep and and took root like an ancient oak.

So Nelston, a stranger from another land, had not even received what little welcome there remained to give.  He was treated poorly, when he wasn't totally ignored, and would probably have continued to be an outcast had he not met Dlain.  Ever practical, Dlain had decided to give the foreigner a fair shake - and they'd become fast friends.  Not long after, Dlain discovered Nelston was in the business of bootlegging liqour, a contraband substance that had led to his quick exit from his previous home; that, and a misunderstanding concerning the local prefect's daughter.

Nelston was considerably more welcome in town soon after.  It was foul, it was flavorless, and it was illegal under The Green Law, but nothing took the edge off a life of slavery in the mines like hard liquor.  That it constituted a minor rebellion was an additional bonus.  Alcohol was forbidden due to the deleterious effect it had on the condition of a body.  As was nearly always the case under The Green Law the punishment was death.  However, it was usually possible to bribe quisling enforcers to look the other way; love of alcohol and corruption hadn't been forgotten under Xylanthan rule either.

Deep in their cups, Nelston had spun a tale of an island far to the south-east, an island nation of humans untouched by the Xylanthan dominion.  An island where humans still lived free.  Everyone knew of it; no one believed it.  The island did exist, as did the human nation - records of its existence, as well as maps, remained in libraries and archives.  Their ancestors had known of the islanders, but thought it a waste of time to conquer.  But no one truly believed  that the islanders remained, or retained their sovereignty.

It had led to talk of poaching.  Capturing wildlife or seed before the Xylanth did whatever it was that made them healthier and addictive.  To cultivate and grow food so that one day, the children of man might reclaim their sovereign right to personhood - this was the unspoken dream of every human in the three kingdoms.  Poaching  was a capital crime, punishable by summary death and implantation.

And now he ran for his life, Nelston somewhere alongside him, chased by a Xylanthan ranger.  Their attempt at poaching had met with little success all morning; it had been impossible to find game or fruit bearing plants.  They'd finally spotted a rock hopper when Dlain had caught a curious scent in the air: sickly sweet with a hint of fiery spice.

Xylanthan pherotongue.  He'd never learned enough to understand it, didn't have a head for scents, but it'd struck him that something was angry.  In the end, it didn't really matter: they'd been found out, trespassing deep in a forbidden forest, attempting to poach.

They ran.

No amount of talking or bribing would save them; only the fleetness of foot and wit could now.

And without warning, Dlain heard Nelston cry out, and the sound of rough impacts.  The fool had tripped.  That will slow down pursuit, Dlain thought as he kept running.  A moment later though, he was skidding to a stop and scrabbling back towards Nelston, prone on the ground, arm outstretched, calling for help.

"Up fool, up!" Dlain could barely get the words out.  "It'll be on us any mo-"

There was nothing behind them.  No sound of chase, no mysteriously moving foliage.  Only the sound silence marred by heavy breathing.

"Balls of the blood god, I thought I was done for!" Nelston wheezed.  "Do you think we lost it?"

Dlain shook his head, unable to speak.  At long last he looked around - in their mad dash, they'd gone even deeper into the forest, and he had no idea where they were.  More fool me for listening to you and stopping to save you! he cursed in his mind.  But he couldn't smell that distinctive scent of rotten flesh that heralded the presence of a Xylanth.  "We should get out of here," he managed at last.

"Trees thin out a bit over that way," pointed Nelston.  "Might be the edge of the forest.  Could make a run for the nearest town, hide out. What do you think?"

I think it sounds familiar, thought Dlain.  Still, it was their best, only, option at the moment.  He nodded, stood up and helped Nelston to his feet. Their was a vague sense of disquiet in the back of his mind as they walked, trying to regain their strength.  He brushed it off as paranoia; the whole day had been terrible enough to spoil any good luck they now found.

And then they saw the Xylanth in front of them, no more than 20 meters away, at the edge of the wood.  Dlain whirled around as Nelston took another shocked step forwarded.  There were more behind them.  He couldn't tell if their original pursuer was among them; they all looked alike to him.  He cursed his lax guard, even as he sniffed the air.  How did I miss them? How did I miss this overwhelming stench?  All at once, the stench of death and rot hit him, and with it understanding.

He'd been too exhausted.  Starved for air, his body reacted naturally for more air once he had relaxed.  Damnit! I've been breathing through my mouth this whole time! No wonder I couldn't smell anything! He took another breath, nearly retched.  The scent was too overpowering to be caused by a handful of Xylanth.  Had they stumbled upon a vineyard? Were these Xylanth protecting a creche of seedlings, rows of newly implanted growing and feeding on scarecrow-like corpses?

It was too much to process, too overwhelming.  It didn't really matter anyway, as his fate, their fates, calmly strode forward.  A pulse of rapidly shifting scents seemed to swirl about them.  They are discussing something.  Is there still hope? He'd never bothered to learn the Xylanth pherotongue.  Few did.  But many could speak, after fashion, the body - signing language the Xylanth also used, particularly with humans.  Dlain was not such a one.  He resolved to learn as much pherotongue as the local administrator would teach him, and vine language, if he survived.  He took a step back towards Nelston.  Survival was all that mattered now.

"I'm sorry Nelston," he whispered.  "But this is all your fault."  In a single motion, Dlain shook free the knife he'd had on his wrist and stabbed Nelston in the chest.  The knife was heavy, but blunt from use.  Nearly everyone carried one to cut dried meat, fruits and bread, cloth and twine.  He hadn't been sure it would cut Nelston's throat.

The motion had turned Nelston to face Dlain, shock and confusion playing across his face as blood seeped from the wound and his mouth; Dlain had missed the heart and punctured a lung.  It was not the quick death he'd hoped to deal. He stabbed again, aiming at the side of the neck.  "Just die damn you!" he shouted, all the fear and fury he'd felt bursting out at once.  He grabbed Nelston by the shoulder, turned him to face the Xylanth, and kicked him to the ground.  Blood quickly began to pool beneath the twitching body, coloring the ground.  Dlain dropped his knife, dropped to one knee, bowing parallel to the ground with arms outstretched in either direction.  It was the only body sign, the only vine language, he knew.

Submission.

The Xylanth had stopped moving, had watched the curious human drama play out before them, and now seemed to be debating its meaning.  "Please!" Dlain begged.  "It was his idea! He's the one you want! I am loyal, I have seen nothing, done nothing! Please take him and let me go!"  He knew the plants understood the human tongue.  He continued to kneel in submission; he didn't dare look up.

The silence seemed to drag on interminably.  Still, he couldn't risk looking up, risk communicating defiance.  He knew it wouldn't matter anyway; he couldn't read their movements, and there would be nothing else to see.

At long last he heard the lone xylanth in front of him pick up Nelston's corpse, heard it dragging it towards the clearing.  He dropped his head and arms in relief; or rather, would have.  It was then he felt the vines wrapped around his tense being, keeping him in submission.  With a strength he could no believe plants could, he felt himself hauled upright and carried forward.  Fear washed over like a frozen wave, sapping him of energy and resolve.  He couldn't cry, couldn't shout in protest.

He soon found himself beside an empty scarecrow, a metal frame that would support his corpse while a seedling grew, tunneling through his remains and wrapping itself around his bones.  A quisling stood beside it, though he couldn't see Nelston anywhere.  The quisling, one of the humans who worked with the Xylanth, seemed to understand and explained helpfully, "You ruined his body, so they can't use it for a new crop.  Still useful though - makes a great fertilizer for the new thing they are growing."

The quisling glanced at him askance to see if he was listening.  "It's actually quite exciting you know! For what it's worth, you and your friend will be working together.  In a way, as it were."  They were strapping Dlain into the scarecrow; he found he had no energy to resist, was glad that he would be dead soon, before the seed was implanted.  "They're growing some kind of giant vine, bigger than we've seen, one that will reach beyond the sky into the heavens!  Well, they call it 'space'.  That's what the fertilizer is for, some gigantic tree and vine."  The quisling continued amiably, oblivious to Dlan being bent over backward to expose his face and throat to the sky.  "They wanted me to tell you.  You'll be among the first Xylanth to head up there! Imagine that," he said with awe.  "Isn't that exciting?"

Dlain found his view of the sky eclipsed by a dark figure - the xylanth was preparing to implant him! Wait! I'm not dead yet! he tried to shout, found that he couldn't even though his mouth was held open.  He tried to struggle to show that he was alive and found that he couldn't move a muscle. Suddenly he understood - the scarecrow.  A small blade was part of its design and severed the spinal column, ensuring the corpse was dead.

Dlain was dead; he just hadn't died yet.

As the xylanth bent over him, his sense of vision blurred.  He could feel its vine tendrils burrowing deeper and deeper into his throat, felt the seedling latch onto the end of his trachea and begin to send tiny tendrils through his veins and arteries.  The pain was unbearable.  A small, distant part of his mind wondered if his spinal cord had not been fully severed, or if certain nerves still communicated with the portion leading to his brain.

Mostly his mind screamed in pain.

He could feel the tendrils pushing out from behind his eyes, trying to push them free of their sockets.

Death couldn't come quickly enough.