Building a New Home

After the griffin retreated, Amukelo stood motionless for a moment. He didn't trust that it had truly fled. He remained crouched near the rocky outcrop, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. Finally, after a longer time, he let out a slow breath and relaxed slightly.

But he didn't dare stay in the open for long. He avoided the more exposed areas where the griffin—or anything else—could spot him easily. 

As he edged along a narrow trail that clung to the mountain's side, Amukelo's gaze was drawn downward by a flicker of movement. Squinting, he peered over the side of the cliff and froze. Far below, a group of goblins trudged through the rugged terrain. Unlike the solitary encounters he'd had before, this group seemed to move with purpose. Their crude weapons glinted in the fading sunlight, and their numbers suggested a more organized effort.

What caught his breath, though, were the trolls among them. Amukelo instinctively pressed himself against the cliff face, his heart pounding as he watched the massive creatures lumber through the rocky valley.

"Wouldn't want to fight that thing," he whispered to himself. Coupled with the goblins, he would surely be dead if he encountered them. He quickly moved away from the edge, putting the group out of sight. "Better to stay invisible," he told himself. "If they spot me, they'll hunt me down, and I don't think I'd make it through the night."

With that sobering thought, he pressed onward, choosing his steps carefully as he ascended further up the mountain. The air grew thinner and colder the higher he climbed, each breath becoming a little harder to catch. 

Eventually, the mountain path widened slightly, revealing a plateau. Amukelo's eyes scanned the area, taking in the view. He spotted what appeared to be a small cave near the top of the plateau. Its entrance was narrow, partially obscured by an overhanging ledge and a cluster of scraggly bushes. Amukelo approached cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he peered into the darkness within.

The cave was shallow, its interior visible from the entrance. He stepped inside. The walls were rough and uninviting, but the space was dry and surprisingly free of any signs of previous inhabitants. A faint draft carried the scent of the mountains, but there was no trace of animal musk or droppings.

"Not bad," he said aloud, his voice echoing faintly against the rocky walls. He dropped his pack near the entrance and crouched, running his fingers along the cold stone floor. "It's not much, but it'll do."

The realization that he'd found a temporary shelter brought a small sense of relief. He sat near the entrance to rest. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline that had carried him this far was beginning to fade, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Still, the sense of safety was fleeting. The narrow entrance of the cave was a vulnerability. If something—or someone—approached during the night, he would have no time to prepare or defend himself.

Amukelo stared out at the fading light of the sun. "I need to build something to block the entrance," he muttered, running through possible plans in his mind. A makeshift barrier could buy him time if he were attacked in his sleep. "But not tonight," he decided. "It's too dangerous to gather materials in the dark."

He leaned back against the wall of the cave, his gaze fixed on the darkening sky. The stars were beginning to appear. Amukelo sighed deeply. "This will have to do," he murmured, pulling his cloak tighter around himself as the chill of the mountain night set in.

The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight seeped into the cave, Amukelo stirred from his uneasy rest. He sat up, rubbing his arms to warm them.

"This has to be done today," he muttered to himself. 

Amukelo set to work immediately. His first task was to gather materials. Slinging his sword over his shoulder and taking his dagger in hand, he ventured into the thinly wooded area below the cave. He walked cautiously, scanning for dry, sturdy branches that could serve as the foundation of his barricade. 

Whenever he spotted a promising branch, he tested its strength with a firm shake before adding it to his growing bundle. His arms grew heavier as the hours passed, the weight of the wood and his lingering fatigue making each trip back to the cave harder than the last. Still, he pushed himself, determined to complete his task.

By midday, he had gathered a sizable pile of thick sticks and branches near the entrance of the cave. He paused to catch his breath. "This should be enough," he thought.

Amukelo walked into the cave and began planning the placement of the wall. He noticed that the natural rock formations inside offered a unique advantage. On one side of the cave, a jutting rock provided a natural support structure, which would allow him to secure the logs more easily. He decided to build the wall slightly inside the cave, reasoning that this would conceal it better from anyone—or anything—passing by.

He began by marking the placement of a doorway, arranging vertical sticks to outline where it would be. With the framework in place, he started layering the logs horizontally, fitting them tightly together like puzzle pieces. Whenever there was a gap too large to ignore, he filled it with smaller sticks and packed stones into the crevices. The work was grueling. The logs were heavier than they looked, and the uneven ground inside the cave made balancing them a challenge.

As the hours stretched on, his hands became raw, his shoulders ached, and his patience frayed. More than once, a poorly placed log tumbled from its spot, forcing him to start over. But Amukelo persevered, driven by the knowledge that this barricade could mean the difference between life and death.

By the time the sun dipped lower in the sky. Amukelo stepped back to examine his work, brushing sweat from his brow. The barrier wasn't perfect, but it was sturdy. "It'll hold," he murmured, though his stomach growled, reminding him that he had neglected to eat all day.

He glanced at the doorway, which remained unfinished. To close it off, he would need to fashion some kind of door, but the idea of not having food to eat was worse then not havind the doors during the night. His strength was waning, and the gnawing hunger in his belly had become a constant, dull ache.

"I'll finish it tomorrow," he decided aloud, though a pang of guilt tugged at him. "I need to eat first."

Amukelo descended down the mountain, his eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of prey. The forest was quiet, save for the rustle of leaves in the wind. The stillness unnerved him, but he pressed on, moving lower and lower in search of something to eat.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spotted movement ahead. A hare, its small, twitching body barely visible against the undergrowth, was foraging near a patch of grass. Amukelo's heart quickened. He crouched low, gripping his dagger tightly as he inched closer. His movements were painstakingly slow.

The hare remained oblivious to his approach, its focus entirely on its meal. Amukelo steadied his breathing, raising his dagger. He was only a few feet away, his muscles coiled like a spring, ready to strike.

Then, his foot landed on a dry branch hidden beneath the leaves. The sharp crack echoed through the forest, and the hare froze. Its ears twitched, and in an instant, it bolted.

"Damn it!" Amukelo hissed, lunging forward and hurling his dagger after the fleeing animal. The blade flew wide, embedding itself harmlessly in the dirt. Cursing under his breath, he retrieved the dagger and took off after the hare, his frustration fueling his chase.

The hare led him on a chaotic pursuit, zigzagging through the forest as Amukelo stumbled after it. His hunger and exhaustion slowed him, but he refused to give up. The chase carried him farther and farther down the mountain.

Finally, the hare broke free of the forest and darted onto an open plain. Amukelo skidded to a halt at the edge of the treeline. He crouched low, peering through the bushes as he caught his breath.

His eyes widened as he spotted movement on the plain. The hare had run straight into a group of goblins. There were at least ten of them, their crude weapons and snarling faces illuminated by the dying light of the sun. Among them, one goblin hefted a makeshift club, slamming it down on the hare.

Amukelo swallowed hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. "That could've been me," he thought. Remaining perfectly still, he watched as the goblins bickered over their catch, their guttural voices carrying across the plain.