Kapitel 30: Surviving Without Tools
Amukelo limped through the dense forest, his legs aching with each step, and his mind racing with thoughts. The air was cool, the shadows of the trees elongating as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Every now and then, he would glance back over his shoulder, half-expecting the sound of stomping feet or guttural growls. But the forest was quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the chirping of crickets.
"I can't stop now," he muttered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "If I stop... they'll find me. I can't let them find me." His grip on his bloodied sword tightened. The memory of the troll's heavy body collapsing replayed in his mind, a bitter reminder of how close he had come to death.
As the trees thinned slightly, the cliff he had fallen from came into view. He stopped for a moment, staring up at it. His tent and tools were up there, his makeshift home, everything he needed to survive. The thought of leaving it all behind gnawed at him.
"I can't just walk away," he said aloud, as though speaking his thoughts would make them clearer. His eyes scanned the cliffside. The path he'd slid down was steep and unforgiving. "But I don't even know if I can climb back up there... or if the goblins have already taken everything." He let out a long sigh, frustration and exhaustion mixing in his breath.
Looking away from the cliff, Amukelo's gaze fell on the distant horizon. "If I leave now... what's waiting for me out there?" He shook his head. "Mother... what should I do? Is this God's plan for me? To keep running? To survive without a purpose?"
His voice cracked slightly at the last word, and he clenched his fists, willing himself not to crumble under the weight of it all. He looked up at the sky, the clouds tinged with the last hues of twilight. "If this is your plan, God, then... I don't know. Show me something. Anything."
As if in response, a rustling sound came from a nearby bush. Amukelo froze, his heart pounding against his ribcage. His breath quickened, and he instinctively dropped into a crouch, readying himself for another fight. His eyes darted around the forest, scanning for any sign of movement. Slowly, his fingers moved to the hilt of his sword.
Then, out from the bush emerged a small hare, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air. Amukelo's tense muscles relaxed slightly, but he didn't let his guard down completely. "Just a hare," he whispered, his voice low.
The hare hopped closer, seemingly unaware of his presence. Amukelo's gaze fell on the small creature, and his stomach growled faintly. He realized how long it had been since he'd last eaten anything. The blood on his clothes and body must have attracted the animal, he thought.
He slowly drew his dagger, careful not to make any sudden movements. "Sorry about this," he murmured, his voice soft. "But I need to live. If this is luck, or if it's you, God, then... thank you."
The hare crept closer, its nose twitching. When it was within range, Amukelo lunged. The dagger left his hand in a swift, practiced motion, embedding itself in the hare's back. The small animal made a few weak hops before collapsing to the ground. Amukelo approached it cautiously, picking it up and inspecting it to make sure it was dead.
He sighed in relief, his body relaxing for the first time in hours. "I don't know if that was luck or divine intervention," he said aloud, his voice carrying a note of gratitude. "But thank you. I needed this."
Sliding the hare into under his belt, making sure it wouldn't fell, Amukelo readjusted his grip on his sword and continued through the forest. He moved as quickly as his injured body would allow, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the mountain. The farther he got, the safer he felt—or so he told himself. He didn't stop to rest, ignoring the growing ache in his legs and the sharp stabs of pain from his bruised ribs.
As the hours passed, the forest grew darker and colder. The sun had long since disappeared, and the chill of night seeped into his bones. Amukelo hugged his arms to his chest, his breath visible in the cold air. "I'm still too close to the mountain," he muttered through chattering teeth. "But if I keep moving in this cold, I'll freeze before anything finds me."
He looked around, his eyes scanning the forest for a place to stop. "Mother," he whispered, his voice trembling from both the cold and his exhaustion. "What would you tell me to do? Would you say to keep going, or would you tell me to stop and rest? I don't know anymore."
Amukelo stumbled through the forest until he spotted a massive tree with a deep niche carved into its base, likely from years of weathering. The sight gave him a flicker of hope. "This should block most of the wind," he murmured, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. With his body aching and the cold creeping deeper into his bones, he knew he needed fire—immediately.
Scanning the ground, he found a few dry branches. His fingers, stiff from the chill, struggled to grip his dagger properly as he began cutting them into smaller pieces. Once he had a modest pile, he used his dagger to notch a groove into one of the larger pieces, carving a shallow trench for friction.
Amukelo crouched near the tree, his breath visible in the cold air. He positioned a thinner stick into the groove and began rubbing it vigorously, his movements awkward and slow due to the injuries and fatigue. At first, nothing happened. He kept going, ignoring the pain in his shredded palm. His hands slipped more than once, and the stick skidded out of place. "Come on," he muttered, resetting his grip.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. His body was screaming for rest, but he couldn't afford to stop. After another attempt, he touched the wood. It was warm—warmer than before—but still nowhere near igniting. Frustration and fear clawed at him. He clenched his teeth and kept rubbing, his movements growing more frantic as time ticked by.
Sweat mingled with the blood and dirt on his face. His hands trembled, not only from the cold but from sheer exhaustion. His arms felt like lead weights, and his motions became slower, more erratic. Desperation began to creep in as he realized how futile his efforts seemed. He growled in frustration, his breath quickening.
Then, with a sharp crack, the stick he was using to ignite the fire snapped in two. Amukelo froze, staring at the broken piece in his hand. His breathing became shallow, and his chest tightened with despair. He threw the splintered stick aside, his eyes darting around the small clearing. Every piece of wood he'd gathered seemed either too thick or too thin for his method.
Panic set in as the cold became unbearable. His fingers were stiff, and the numbness in his hands made it harder to move them.
That's when his gaze fell on a small, jagged rock near the tree. It was dry, nestled under an overhang of roots. He grabbed it, examining it with trembling hands. "Maybe... just maybe..." he whispered. Holding his dagger against the rock, he struck it sharply near the groove he had worn into the wood. Nothing happened. He struck again, harder this time, but still no spark. Amukelo's teeth clenched as he hit it repeatedly.
Then—a spark. A tiny ember flickered and disappeared. Amukelo's heart skipped, and he froze, staring at the wood. "It worked..." he whispered. Renewed energy surged through him, and he struck the rock again, more deliberately. Another spark flew, and this time it landed on the groove, faintly catching on the wood fibers.
He didn't hesitate. Blowing gently on the ember, he cupped his hands around it, coaxing it to grow. His hands shook so violently from the cold and his effort that he feared he might snuff it out, but he kept at it. The ember glowed brighter, and then, as if by miracle, a small flame sprang to life.
Amukelo exhaled deeply, relief washing over him. He carefully added thin pieces of kindling, feeding the flame bit by bit, his trembling hands placing each piece with precision. As the fire grew stronger, he added larger branches. Soon, the flames danced steadily, casting a warm glow around the niche and pushing back the oppressive cold.
"Thank you, God," Amukelo whispered, his voice cracking. He held his hands close to the fire, the heat stinging his frozen fingers. Despite the pain, he felt a rush of gratitude.
Wasting no time, he pulled the hare from his belt and set to work skinning it. His hands, still stiff and clumsy, made the task slow, but he managed to strip the animal of its fur. He skewered the meat on a stick and placed it over the fire, turning it carefully. While it cooked, he examined the hare's pelt, cutting away the damp and unusable parts. He laid the salvageable pieces near the flames to dry, hoping they could be useful later.
The aroma of roasting meat filled the air, and Amukelo's stomach growled in anticipation. When the meat was finally cooked, he tore into it ravenously, savoring the taste despite its simplicity. Each bite restored a small measure of his strength.
Once he'd eaten his fill, Amukelo lay back against the tree, his body finally beginning to relax. He kept a close watch on the fire, feeding it intermittently to ensure it wouldn't die out. The warmth seeped into his aching muscles, easing the tension and dulling the pain.
As the night deepened, Amukelo whispered into the stillness, "I survived today... and maybe tomorrow, too." His eyes drifted to the stars visible through the canopy. "Mother... I'm still here. I don't know for how long, but I'm still here."
He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, his gaze lingering on the fire. It wasn't much, but for tonight, it was enough.
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein