Guardians by Design - Land

Hundreds of years later.

Ohmlur’s Chamber – The Cedar Homestead.

Before the Guardian’s Departure on their Elemental Journey

A flash of hard, red light illuminated his chamber, followed by a splash of water mixed with blood spattered on the floor. Tufts of hair drifted through the air. Bones picked clean of flesh fell into the puddle of liquid with hollow rattles. The aggressive badger had been disintegrated in an instant.

The expression on the bison’s face told that his heart had leapt into his throat. His heart, or his stomach – Ohmlur wasn’t sure which. It wasn’t important enough to worry about at the time. Either way, whatever vital organ was currently lodged in the Guardian’s chest had made him visibly nauseous. Hands on his hips, the bison turned to relieve himself on the floor. Only gagging and coughing rang between the walls. The smell of iron and rot were in the air. Decomposition, accelerated by his powerful appendage of Reclamation urged the mammals to be sick – Ohmlur could only imagine the scent that burned nostrils and lingered on the tongue.

“I pity him,” he said, returning to his table. “But he knew my location. Those that have been converted cannot be trusted. If you see further examples of aggression, report to me. However, never, ever, bring the perpetrators here again.”

The moose’s emotions were steadfast, but he seemed to be equally mortified. The ram just… stood there, surprisingly. The horned mammal’s chest tight and gaze unwavering, Ohmlur wondered if the sight upset him. Perhaps enough to display his… anger.

Separating Ohmlur and the Guardians laid components of what used to be an omnivore, deconstructed in an instant. Luckily it would be no one’s responsibility to clean up the puddle left behind by the traitor; the floor itself had already absorbed the remnants. Where it was going exactly was anyone’s guess. Perhaps to be recycled into the earth; utilized for the growth of a new plant or the birth of a more civilized creature.

The Designer slithered away from his table towards the wall from which various pelts hung. His head turned smoothly; uninhibited by muscles, joints, or bones. A steady, fluid movement. Blues and purples that swirled from within his translucent skin flared to a fiery red as his gaze met the pelt of the badger. With a swift wave of his air-empowered tentacle, the pelt he had selected flew from the wall like a dead leaf tumbling in the winds of fall. Before it could reach the ground, the pelt burst into flames following another quick gesture of his cinder appendage.

Fine soot drifted through the stale air as the Designer let out a frustrated sigh. Another species down,” he thought, still facing the wall.

“The… opening?” the moose stuttered. “The opening in the tunnel. Near the ‘new resident holding area’, what will you have done with the opening?”

“I will see that it is filled in. You need not worry about such a matter at this time,” the Designer replied, still looking over his display of remaining pelts.

It wasn’t until the most recent pelt was eliminated that Ohmlur realized how many empty spaces there were on his display wall. Once completely populated, almost half was now bare. Spaces large enough to represent bear, raccoon, possum, and now badger were all vacant, like seats saved for guests that would not be returning. He hoped that ‘bison’ and ‘moose’ would remain proudly represented on his wall for good – of all species, he would not allow Maurlynn to claim these.

Turning back to the Guardians, he rolled his smoldering tentacle into the shape of a fist. “Do not worry yourself with these small… mishaps. Get some rest before your departure. I need you both clear-headed and ready to go.” He forced his thin mouth into a contorted, twisted smile, then gestured towards the exit.

Various large boulders grinded and popped as they rolled on top of one another, closing off the entrance to the Designer’s lair following the Guardian’s departure. The light smell of smoke caused by friction from the stone’s movement filled the air. It was astringent and irritating, but only lingered for a moment. Vines forcefully pushed their way through the surrounding rock walls; growing on demand to reinforce the barrier. Silence fell through the humid chamber – broken only by the frustrated mumbles of the mad inventor and the dripping of water.

Ohmlur allowed a silent moment to pass before turning to the wall opposite the displayed pelts. Crossing the room, he approached a single, inconspicuous root that had miraculously breached the smooth stone walls. Seemingly searching for water, it dangled just above the floor, finding none. Ohmlur lifted the root to his face. Despite being less than the circumference of his own eyeball, the root quickly absorbed the entirety of the Designer’s mass. It swelled slightly with quenched thirst as the Designer vanished from the room.

The root system transported Ohmlur to a rocky outlook far above his design room. Circular in shape and smaller than his own chamber, the outlook was dominated by branches of a sole tree. His sudden, and unexpected presence startled the only creature inhabiting the overlook. With a sharp gasp, the lazy herbivore quickly tightened his grip on the branch from which he hung with exaggerated effort.

“Oh! Ohmlur… you don’t knock anymore?” Ermun asked, gently swinging below a thick branch gouged with hundreds of scratch marks. Bark covering the branch was much thicker than that of any other limb of the old oak tree. Mending itself numerous times, the tree had patched itself with layers upon layers of bark to cover old scars – dug in from long, black, hook-like claws. Sticky sap bled from the wounded tree, dripping onto the stomach of the animal that refused to leave.

“As if you would respond to them anyway, Ermun,” Ohmlur replied. “How long have you been asleep, anyway?”

“Only a couple days, I’m sure.” Each of his four limbs were almost longer than his torso. Hanging completely straight and relaxed, they suspended him from his favorite branch using four claws that extended from each of his dirty-blonde paws. The almost comical length of his neck allowed him to turn his head into a level position to address the Designer, even when hanging belly-up.

Drool trailed from the sloth’s gaping mouth and dripped to the floor as he deeply inhaled while facing the ground. “So, fill me in on the Guardians. How is this batch looking?” He released the grip of his hind legs, allowing them to dangle just above the moss-covered, rocky ground below. Keeping his grip with his forearms caused him to swing playfully like a young ape before dropping to the platform of the outlook. The length of his claws prevented him from standing on the pads of his feet, instead turning them sideways, causing him to awkwardly walk on his ankles. His upright posture was only sustainable for a moment before falling forward onto the sides of his fists.

Ohmlur gazed at the hill face that descended from the Cedar Homestead. “Looking better; posture has improved. Hands are almost there – maybe a few more generations. The thumbs, however, have made extraordinary improvements on species I never expected would capable of growing them.”

“Well, lucky them,” Ermun said, forcing a sarcastic smile that extended from ear to ear across his long, wide face below a squared, black nose. The sloth’s eyes gave away his lack of enthusiasm, barely able to open the thin, tired slits to address his company. Even under the overcast sky, Ermun kept his drooped eyes shut as if suffering from sensitivity to light. He sat back on his hind legs, using his wide, flat tail to create a tripod stance to balance his weight to lift his forearms.

With a feigned sense of excitement, he gestured towards his ‘thumb’; yet another black claw that grew from the sides of his paws. It closer resembled a dewclaw than a functional thumb. “Still waiting on mine, after all,” Ermun said, eyes still pinched in a condescending gaze.

Knew he would mention that, Ohmlur thought. “Rest assured, Ermun. I am working on you too…” he promised, gripping the sloth’s paw in his aquatic-based tentacle.

“Feeling good about the bear?” Ermun inquired, turning towards an inconspicuous crevice within the hillside where he typically stored his food – saved for after-nap snacks.

“The… the bear, Ermun? My land… the bear was… generations ago. How long have you been asleep, after all?”

“Hah, oh, oh yes. I suppose I’ve lost track of time,” Ermun said.

“Must I remind you that you reported their deaths, after all?” Ohmlur teased.

His assistant ignored the comment as he turned his back, revealing it to be covered in moss and lichen. The infectious plants had spread quickly over the surface of Ermun’s long, matting fur due to his sedentary lifestyle.

Reaching inside the small crevice, Ermun’s claws lightly scraped against the moist stone. An unsettling noise rang from the rock-walled, door-less cabinet as he procured a small handful of berries covered in a blueish-green mold. He sighed upon finding that none were edible, likely unable to remember when he had even left them there.

“I need you to get motivated, Ermun,” the Designer said with a tone of pity, displeased to find that one of his most reliable creatures had been basically branch-ridden. Ermun was no longer familiar with the surrounding region; he barely left his outlook! A specimen that had been at his side through the harshest eras was now rotting away on a cliff, like the berries he held. “I want you to tail these ones.”

“Wha… again? Are you kidding? You haven’t had me do that in years!” Ermun protested, continuing to rummage for something that hadn’t decomposed. Only waterlogged sticks and crumbling leaves were left – meals that had been passed over numerous times, yet never thrown away.

“These ones are different,” Ohmlur promised, slithering across the level outlook. Simple and clean, Ermun’s resting area was rounded, with eight-foot walls that descended to four feet just at the edge of the cliff. The sloth required no more than a bench of stone, and his favorite tree. No other plant was able to grow here unless permitted.

Ohmlur moved towards a bench that offered a superb view of the western sunsets as he recalled standing on the overlook on the day Ermun lost many of his own species. The day the sky had turned red and the ground shifted violently. It had been the perfect place for the Designer and his companion to stay safe.

Within the outlook, any resident was protected. No species currently alive could possibly scale the cliffs to Ermun’s resting place. Attackers were unable to approach from behind without enduring the harsh elements of the mountainous region or drawing attention. The outlook was another climate-controlled area; its temperature never fluctuated more than three degrees.

Wind, rain and snow would not cross the threshold of the open viewing deck, and the translucent barrier only allowed that which was necessary of the sun’s rays to penetrate. Ermun assured Ohmlur that he had been comfortable here for millennia. Eventually, the oak tree Ohmlur had gifted the sloth grew tall enough to pierce through the protective barrier, exposing itself to the harsh elements of the mountain’s altitude. Its top was a skinny peak of brittle, barren wood.

“How so? What makes them different from the last?” Ermun allowed his lanky arms to fall limply to his side, dropping his rotten meal. He kicked it under an overhanding rock before continuing his protest. “Oh Ohmlur, we’ve been through this. I have seen waves after waves of these ‘Guardians’ leave the Homestead with something great in mind, only to act as fodder… and that’s while I’m awake!”

Ermun made his way to the edge of the barrier. He plopped down to dangle his feet and long legs over the edge. A heavy sigh escaped the sloth’s chest as he gazed at the country laid before the Homestead. Patches of stubborn snow remained stretched against the greenish-brown landscape. Grasses and shrubbery were quickly turning a healthier color on the brink of spring.

“The… the thumbs… I told you about the thumbs,” Ohmlur stuttered defensively – he feared loosing the sloth’s interest on the brink of a new, successful generation.

“I fear this project of yours will be the death of you…” Ermun said, keeping his eyes on the vast field before him, backdropped by snow-capped mountains. The frost was beginning to weaken, melting down the mountain face and into the streams that sprawled through the valleys below.

“This will be the last time I have you do a research run – I promise. I have a different feeling about these ones, Ermun. Like they could finally bring peace.” Ohmlur approached the slouching sloth to rest an appendage on his back. It coursed with power, causing Ermun’s skin and fur to tingle.

“I will not interfere,” Ermun said with a frown. His eyes were now fully closed, scrunched in frustration. “I will merely watch and take note.”

Ohmlur watched eagerly as Ermun crossed the threshold of his resting area. A hint of pity tugged at the Designer as his faithful follower turned to glance at his favorite, scarred branch once more. Wind beyond the barrier deafened all other sounds, and pushing the stench of mold and mildew from Ermun’s fur, finally being exposed to moving air for the first time in years. He didn’t make eye contact with Ohmlur, likely out of resentment before leaping from the vertical cliff face.

***

Ermun swore quietly to himself as he crossed into the land of yellow rocks. It would be days – maybe a week before the Guardians arrived, depending on their navigation skills. Ermun, however, had made this journey countless times. He was able to travel much faster, and knew right where to go. The group of awkward herbivores would end up in this region eventually; the Designer always sends new Guardians to this ‘place of power’ on their first outing.

Ermun had always questioned why it was critical that the Guardians come here, appendage in their possession. Had it really been necessary to re-attune the tentacle, or was Ohmlur expecting each generation to discover something new? A new species of predators? A new trait belonging to the aggressive animals? Some advancements made in shelter or other methods of survival?

No, it’s the same… Ermun realized as he approached a river to rehydrate. It’s always the same.

The vibrant blue of the frigid, moving water contrasted brilliantly against the greys and browns of the ground it ran through. Tall grasses lined the river; most now standing. The snow that once blanketed the plants and froze the river in place had left, allowing life to return to the land of magic. Rolling hills surrounded Ermun and the river, creating a bowl shape that limited his view of the horizon beyond a couple hundred yards.

Howls rang in the distance. Ermun could see them after hearing them. Light blue, jagged lines slithered over the grassy knolls towards the resting sloth, sending chills through his matted fur and into his bones – unrelated to temperature. No matter how many times the sloth had made this journey, paranoia still sent shivers down his spine. He scanned the tops of the surrounding hill sides, expecting a predator to catch his scent at any moment.

Although confident in his abilities, Ermun was unsure how the land would treat him, should he perish. Never being granted the title of ‘Guardian’, his body may not be reclaimed and healed over time. Ironically, the Designer had never granted Ermun the title of ‘Guardian’ as a way to protect him – Ohmlur had known him far too long, and had become quite attached to the lazy companion. The Designer would be a fool to send his most loyal assistant out on a death mission.

Ermun smiled; it was better this way. Though he griped about having to follow generation after generation of gullible creatures all over creation, it was preferable to being an errand-animal himself. He pitied Ohmlur, after all – it was clear that he was losing a battle to a creature of his own design.

The blue streaks caused by the howls pierced the night sky again. They slithered over the hillside towards Ermun like jagged lightning bolts moving much slower than the speed of sound. During thunder storms, if Ermun was to see the lighting first, then hear the thunder, the blue streaks would always follow shortly after. It wasn’t the most reliable method of eavesdropping, but it assisted in pinpointing his target’s location if he was unable to otherwise detect them.

Another howl echoed through the night, this time ending in an exaggerated bleat. There seemed to be three total animals causing the commotion.

Ermun’s muscles relaxed upon hearing the bleat. “Oh, why didn’t you say so?” he mumbled.

“Over here!” Ermun called halfheartedly, approaching the crest of a grassy knoll facing south-east. His light climb over the small hill was quite laborious from walking on claws that had grown much longer than he remembered, and the lethargic nature of muscles that had gone unused for years.

Satisfied to see the sloth atop the knoll before them, the wolves ascended to meet Ermun.

“Why do you start with the howls?” Ermun scolded. “You know I’m not going to reply to them, don’t you?

“I added the bleat…” one wolf retorted defensively. “The howls are just to blend in.”

About the size of grey wolves, the three animals exhibited many similar physical characteristics of the carnivorous pack animals. This pack, however, were herbivores. Each possessed racks of antlers, varying in length and point count that told their age. The oldest was easily distinguishable by an eight-point rack, and was the obvious leader of the other two. One wolf that followed boasted a five-point rack – similar to that of an elk. Finally, the youngest of the pack had a small, four-point rack still covered in velvet perched atop her head.

The wolves did not feature typical canines or other sharp teeth. Instead they had wide, flat front teeth used for pulling at grasses and other edible plants, with flat-topped molars for chewing and grinding. The pointed tips of their black hooves dug into the soft soil of the hillside as they ascended to meet Ermun.

“Yes, the bleat was the only reason I stuck around!” Ermun said sarcastically. “How did you know I was here?”

“We saw you comin’ in,” the four-point said. She scrapped lightly at the short grasses with her hoof to kick up anything edible. Ermun found it odd that she possessed a rack. The first female he had witnessed to sport one. I guess that’s the result of Ohmlur’s hasty design out of spite, Ermun deduced.

The racked wolves were a species designed solely for the purpose of taunting. Frustrated by templates of his creatures being stolen by Maurlynn and turned into omnivores, Ohmlur had done the same with a few of her creations. It was obvious; the Designer’s most common traits were hooves, horns, and flat teeth, after all. Ermun had always pitied them; one of many species forsaken from the Homestead, they were not permitted to seek refuge there ’because they might scare the other inhabitants’, Ohmlur had stated when demanding their departure.

“I guess I’ve become less sneaky in my old age,” Ermun said.

“You’ve come to get us?” the five-point asked optimistically.

Ermun stood on his hind legs, using his flat tail to create a three-point stance, assisting the temporary posture as he scratched an itch at his side. “Heh, no, not exactly… Not this time. Maybe, in the next couple years? When all the drama dies down.”

He usually avoided this subject, knowing Ohmlur has explicitly told him the racked wolves were not welcome back in the Homestead. This new rule angered Ermun greatly. Ohmlur’s actions of designing a species that would eventually be labeled a monstrosity seemed inhumane.

“Just here to tail another group of Guardians,” the sloth added.

“Again?” asked the eight-point as he shook his rack. The sensation of the antlers extending during their spring growth must have been tremendously irritating, Ermun speculated. “How many more of these is he going to send out until the problem is solved? Shoot – make me a Guardian! I’ll go incognito – I look enough like one of those carnivores as it is! I can sneak in, and end the threat from within!”

“Ha! Yeah right!” the five-point mocked. “You don’t think your antlers would give you away? You’ll be someone’s dinner before you reach anyone of importance!”

Ermun was unaware of how much time had passed, but he knew it was growing late. The moon’s rays beat down sensationlessly as it reached its highest point in the night sky. Evaluating time was difficult for a creature that spent most of his life escaping it by sleeping, but he felt the presence of the Guardians approaching.

“Do… do you ever think we’ll be allowed back in, Ermun?” the four-point asked sheepishly. It was a pity that she felt she had nowhere to go. A collaboration of multiple species, she was unwelcome by either party’s standards. They were neither predator nor prey. Furthermore, Ermun feared that should they perish, they would not be sent to the Coppice. They were truly an abomination.

“I will see what I can do, you three. Like I said, when everything dies down. Are there more of you?” Ermun asked.

“Eh, a few, I’m sure,” replied the eight-point. “We’ve been fragmented. Our species clearly lacks the ‘ties’ that other species possess to keep a herd or pack together. The only reason us three have stayed together is out of hopelessness.”

“Heh, hopelessness,” mocked the five-point. “You guys stay with me because you rely on me!”

“If it wasn’t for me, you’d be dead in a week!” the eight-point retorted, turning to his brother.

The two locked horns as they forcefully attempted to turn each other’s necks while growling and huffing.

“Boys! Boys!” the four-point called. She did little to stop the battle. The territorial nature of their elk blood mixed with the aggressive blood of the wolf caused these duels to be a frequent occurrence.

An imaginary clock ticked away in the back of Ermun’s mind. It was time to move. Ermun surrendered himself to a strong breeze moving south in the middle of the night as the wolves remained locked in a stale-mate.