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The late comers arrive with great labor
In the forest faker where they rest
Nautren favor hearing their prayers
Until the forest greet the guests
With undead
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Boom,
Boom,
The drums and chanting echoing from the warm lit clearing. Its great campfire searing through the night of drizzle and snow. But within the forest around the floral and cobble decorated stalls, the barbarians wearing blankets and cloaks over their swollen bellies. Their lumbering adding to the wincing as contractions ripple through their bodies. Some are unable to continue walking but told to stay strong as they find themselves a patch of moonlight around sparse leaf ceiling.
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All three elders as the young men to scout ahead before tending to the women and having them sit to nearby tree stumps. Trees watching over them. With adorable ball shaped Nautrens springing up from the firm damp ground or entities that gently climbs down from the trees. The entities’ faceless yet fetus shaped features are feared by the children, but nonetheless welcomed by the elders who recognize their also swollen bellies—Fetals, as the books described them. The elders kneel and adoring the great entities, adding with their requests in an ancient language that communes with these Nautrens—asking them to help their laboring and expectant mothers.
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The Fetals gestures for the little adorable sprites to gather some things, before they gesture for an object that can collect water. Which calls for the elder to order the children for buckets. Sprinting around like juvenile squirrels. And the young native barbarians shakily offer the wooden buckets to the taller, fetus shaped entities. But gets teased with the entities’ stubble fingerless hands, patting their round faces and heads---and the children scream, dropping their carry before running away silly.
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Looks like some of those children will have a staff spanking, but the elders quickly turn to the strained groans and muffled screaming of a woman. Her face contorting in pain. One of the Fetals have their hands spread across a swollen belly like veins—pulsing red with life and soothing the laboring to properly breathe in and out, with her muscles adjusting quickly and spreading nicely. Rich bloodily fluids flow out of the laboring’s vagina, allowing for a smooth and relieving process.
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The little sprites who have been ordered returns carrying fruits over their heads. All ripe and laid around the laboring women, before they also assist in cushioning the coming baby’s head and body. So as the elders to easily carry them and wrap in the blankets used to cover the mothers.
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The mother’s blood coating and warmly embraces. And they celebrate, lifting the newly born baby for the moonlight to bless their raw skin. Offering praises to the Gods, May spring and Mægfæge. The elders smile in glee, the children do not care—except for some, and the young men—startling everyone as they burst out of the bushes, saying that they have to run back and get out of the forest. Which the Nautrens shake their heads as all the women are laboring.
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They cannot go back as well, since the Mægfæge is 100 steps away from the clearing. Which is why the young men are going crazy trying to convince the elders, their eyes wild as if they have seen death itself. Literally, as an undead horde shambles out like snails from where the young men came. The fetals flinches at the sight of hanging rotten flesh, the tiny shaking at the frightening eye hollows of the dead.
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Their march heads and claws for the laboring women. As the young men frighten themselves shitless and asking for the frozen elders to run. But the elders do not, scolding at the young men for being cowtits and running away from the non-living. They ask for the young men to take up arms, and protect the expectant mothers. More so when the Nautrens are watching them, giving pride to the elders’ voices as they have newborn life in their arms. Their excitement palpable before but their rage now considers worthy as an earthen entity bursts forth underneath the undead and bites a chunk of their masses before diving back down and rising again at unpredictable surfaces without breaking the land—only bending and rippling the ground like water.
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Fear still etches on the young mens’ faces and the elders have enough. Considering these front tailed men to be indeed cowtits hence why they are with the women and elders. And at that, some of the young men clench their fist. The elders’ continuing to scold them while their backs face at their fears—slowly turning to courage from shame.
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They take up arms. Shouting at the elderly that they are not cowtits, before foolishly charging towards the front. A variety of Nautrens bonding with their courage and making sure that none of the young men gets bitten or injured.
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The dangers of a rotting undead has the elderly yelling at the deaf young men, telling them to keep distance. Of course they keep their distance, only because being close up with a corpse is not something they see early in their years and beheading these low-class snails undead takes them two hands instead of one. “DUNG BORNS!”, the elders yell out in their own language, “DUNG BORNS!”
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But these pathetic young men yell to a battle cry. The marching dead calls for a great tree entity to wake from its slumber, earning them a branchful of their long arms and fanning away from thick leaves. Feral animals with translucent bodies join in and bond with the young men’s pathetic courage.
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Every cry of a newborn flickers every Nautren’s body alight. Over shining and flashing against the undead and shadows. With the young men hacking off limbs after limbs. Those who get bitten or injured are swallowed into the embrace of a transparent slug entity. Squeezing out the muscles of the men from the black rotten blood in their system.
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Most charging forward, their weapons raised, screaming battle cries that echo through the forest. Their rage being born from the word ‘Pathetic’ from angered elders. Whom, with the rest of the entities, have their expressions despicable for this nonliving. To have them march around Mægfæge, utterly despicable. And eventually, the Nautrens fade out along with the number of undead.
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The sound of laughter and cheers reaches their ears. The young men pause, confusion mingling with their anger. They turn to see a crowd of festival-goers watching the fight, their faces blooming with amusement and excitement as if they are watching the greatest show of all time.
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The young mens’ eyes narrow in confusion. Wondering where these audiences’ faces of hilarity and entertainment is coming from. One young man hacks an undead and the audience cheers and claps…They are cheering for them, rather, finding the hacking and beheading—their rage being found amusing.
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Frustration mounts on the native barbarians already around the crowd especially for the young men who fought their lives on the line against undead. Laughter and cheers blaring through their eyes and greeted teeth. Before eventually, letting rage consume them, burning them in the light of this false Mægfæge.
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