FATE PART 1 | CAVE DWELLERS

sub-pt 1, maori.

Maori peeked through the back entrance of the external system suspiciously, searching for any movement he didn't personally trust. His auburn hair laid straight behind his back, his deep green eyes peering up into the skies and poring through them intently. Threat was constant and very, very subtle, creating a need for Maori to be looking everywhere from the cluster of bats fleeing the cave at sundown to find something to eat to the ferns that grew around his ankles, thriving on the water of the nearby hotsprings. Most everything in the area, in fact, thrived on that water, Maori himself being no exception. The water was pure, and in some places, even cool, and while the older parents could cook meat that the hunters brought back to the caves in the morning with those huge, boiling pools of water, the children could also wash themselves and play in the more tepid areas that wound down through the system of caves. Luckily, though, and more to the point, there didn't seem to be anything there which could possibly endanger his people, which relieved him. The male, despite not having to (and commonly being discouraged by his father), was always up here in the evenings and mornings, checking the dark, changing skies for any signs of danger or new, obtrusive landmarks that the adventurers had not yet discovered.

For now, though, Maori's daily adventure bore no fruit yet again, despite his rather childish, eager yearnings for the beautiful landscape to change, even if only a little. His father would probably call him a selfish fool for that, and Maori would probably admit that he was right. After all, change was a broad and confusing term that could be used to describe something catastrophic or something that would forever go down in Cave Dweller history as the most remarkable good fortune that had ever befallen them, and Maori's cautious dad was justified in his attempts to protect the Cave Dwellers from what he could. The man, once a pretentious adventurer in his youth who lost his leg to a swamp creature, now simply shaped tools from obsidian and harknock, completely unmoved by his son's yearnings for that convoluted "change" he never seemed to shut up about. Maori understood his plight but couldn't force himself to think similarly, and so the two always had their fierce arguments, but loved just as fiercely.

The male stepped down from the high rock, climbing down the face of the cave quickly and silently. His hands moved gracefully from one grip to another, his long braid of red hair swinging in time behind him and gently tapping his back whenever he landed a particularly risky leap. This being said, however, Maori had climbed up and down this ledge more times than he could count, and had fallen quite a few times. Luckily, this had never really amounted to a fatal injury or infection. The worst of his failures, one that his father continued to lament for years, was one where he fell around 9 menslengths to the ground, causing his chest bone to snap and hurt like hell until his grandmother, Misha, poulticed it and forced him to stay in bed for a few days. It had been just barely worth it, but even so, Maori didn't want to find himself in that situation again. He was older now and knew how to climb more safely and quickly, taking advantage fully of this ability. As his feet touched the cool, mossy bottom of the crevasse, he calmed slightly, taking a deep breath and letting go of the tension that tended to gather in his back whenever he climbed that particular wall.

The relief, however, didn't last for long, as he realized that the evening sun had left even the highest part of the makeshift tower, which meant that it was probably night time in the dwelling cave. His feet, moving without his permission, began to shove him into a full-on sprint, and he shuttled himself quickly down the tunnel to the dwelling area, sighing angrily when the feeling of fear settled in his chest. Well, no, not fear, but rather nervousness, like the type that a three-year-old might feel when caught with his hand in a cookie jar. The feeling was caused by the knowledge that his father was lenient with home time, allowing him outside for most of the day, on two conditions: A) he could not leave the system without someone guiding him, and B) he had to be home by night time. He scowled slightly as he slid through a narrow opening in the cave wall toward the firelight of his home. The little entrance was a good shortcut into his part of the large village inside of the cave.

Most of the homes were made with stacked rock and clay to bind them, torches lining the outsides of the buildings. Families often built houses adjoined to and even on top of the houses of others, giving the village a cramped but quaintly cute feel to it. The smoke and red light of the pitch and cloth torches betrayed to the naked eye the drabness and dull brown color of the wall surrounding them, but luckily, it did little to dampen the starlight coming from the holes at the top of the little cave that the village had nestled itself into. Maori's favorite thing about the village, aside from its sweet bread, was the view of the stars that one could see when one climbed to the roof in the wee hours of the night. It gave him a refreshed perspective on many things and calmed him when he needed it. He'd slept on the roof for days after his mother died. That first night, he believed the stars were speaking to him, which may have just been a delusion stemming from his loneliness and sadness, but he truly didn't want  to believe that. He felt that, in a way, his mother had somehow become the stars in his passing, allowing Maori to see him and talk to him when he was upset or lonely. 

That was his plan for tonight: wait until his father had fallen soundly asleep and then go up, perhaps taking his little brothers, to the roof, which they luckily still owned. The Ivers family house had been built on top of itself three times since the Ivers themselves were a little bit too poor to barter anything useful for land. That was alright; his family hadn't seemed to mind, but even so, he didn't want to be the one attempting to shove another house on top of this one and watching them all collapse. He was going to avoid that if at all possible.

As he approached the wind-warped driftwood door to his grandparents' house, he sighed a bit, placing his palm square on the wood and struggling with the confidence to knock weakly. Eventually, though, his common sense won out, bringing his hand to the door and hitting it gently twice. "Maman," He said tiredly. "Maman, I'm home."
This, at first, generated no reaction, which was incredibly worrisome for Maori, who didn't want to risk being discovered while sneaking up through the three floors to get to the roof. Much to his relief, though, soon he heard shuffling behind the driftwood before a creaking as the door slowly opened.

"Ah, Maori. I didn't think you'd be home this late," Misha said teasingly, poking his grandson's nose softly, the latter of which scoffed and grabbed the offended organ. 
"I'm always home late, Maman," He replied and frowned slightly. "Every time is late for you."
Misha chuckled and tilted his head, moving aside to let the younger male walk in. "Ah? That's not true; I'd not have minded if you'd come in this morning right after you'd walked out," He said and laughed again. 
Maori sighed and hugged his grandma softly. "Maman, I have to go and do things for the tribe. And.. And also meet my friends again," He said, nodding determinedly. "Otherwise, nothing will ever be fun."
Misha gave a low, joking growl. "You mean I'm not fun? I'm your Maman! I'm always fun. Besides, I'm the only person in this town who'll give you sweets after you stole from them all," He replied and grinned. "You're a little rascal!"