JFFD : War Of Red Sky

Rogg's hands were bound tightly with braided rattan rope. Even though he had surrendered without resistance, a few of them still struck his face harshly.

Whack!

"Argh!" Rogg hissed as blood dripped from his temple.

"Hey! That's enough!" barked a voice from the group.

The voice was sharp, filled with anger. One of the oldest among them stepped forward with a fierce expression. He shoved the others aside and stood directly in front of Rogg.

"Don't treat him like an animal. He surrendered. None of you died. Show some respect."

The rest fell silent, slowly lowering their hands.

Rogg glanced at the man who had just spoken. His eyes widened in surprise—it was the same man he had knocked out in the forest earlier.

So… he was their leader.

Now, that leader looked at him not with rage, but with something closer to understanding. As if he knew Rogg hadn't meant to kill—he only wanted to survive, just like the rest of them.

"Pick him up. Bring his weapons too," the leader ordered.

One of the hunters retrieved Rogg's spear and knife. He examined them in awe, running his fingers along the carved handle, then tested the spear on a tree trunk.

CRACK!

The spear pierced deep. The hunter recoiled in shock.

"This thing… is insanely sharp," he muttered.

He turned to the knife. The moment his finger brushed the edge, he flinched.

"Almost sliced my finger clean off…"

Another man inspected Rogg's bow, puzzled. None of them seemed to understand the curved weapon. One tried pulling the string, but clearly had no idea how to use it.

"Is this… a weapon?" he asked.

They marched Rogg down a narrow path, one clearly used for hunting. Though dizzy and bleeding, Rogg kept his head high.

After some time, the leader raised his hand. "Rest here," he said.

Two of his men disappeared into the woods. Not long after, they returned carrying a massive wild boar.

Rogg frowned.

A boar?

He knew the animal was common in the south, but the meat… was gamey. Not nearly as good as deer or crocodile. Still, the group looked pleased.

"No complaints. Maybe it's all they could catch," he thought.

They resumed the journey, until they reached a deep ravine with a rushing river below. A bridge stretched across—made from large tree trunks and bound by rattan rope.

Looks fragile… Rogg thought, as he stepped onto it.

But the hunters crossed without hesitation, even while carrying heavy gear and game.

Once across, the village came into view.

Small huts lined neatly. Wooden shelters roofed with dry leaves. Thin smoke curled from clay chimneys. Children ran about, and people gathered to welcome the returning hunters.

They cheered at the sight of the boars and a deer being brought in.

But the cheers faded when they noticed Rogg.

Every eye turned to him.

His tall, muscular frame, long yet well-kept hair, a face rough yet calm... made him look like something from another world.

Whispers spread.

"Who is he?"

"An outsider?"

"His body's like stone…"

Suddenly—Rogg's eyes locked with a pair of sharp, curious ones in the crowd.

A girl. About his age. Long shimmering hair—dark red with hints of gold. Pale skin. A faint red mark on her forehead.

Rogg froze. His breath caught.

He couldn't look away.

She just stood there, staring back, her gaze deep and unwavering. Not angry. Not afraid. Just… curious. As if she could see straight into his soul.

Who is she…? Rogg wondered.

But the silence shattered with the booming voice of the hunting leader.

"PEOPLE OF THE VILLAGE! STAY CALM!"

He climbed atop a large stone, raising his hand high.

"We bring a messenger! A man—from the forest! Perhaps… a chosen offering! A sign from Da', the god!"

Cheers erupted. Some began dancing. Others dropped to their knees, praying or tossing wildflowers toward Rogg.

He stood frozen.

An offering? What were they talking about…?

A hunter nudged him from behind. "Move. To the village center. Now."

Rogg walked slowly, realizing that behind the joyful facade… something wasn't right.

It all felt too convenient. Too orchestrated.

And the girl—still standing in the same place—now smiled faintly.

A smile Rogg couldn't read.

The leader strode confidently toward a circle of village elders sitting beneath a massive tree. He spoke loudly, passionately, using a language Rogg didn't understand.

Rogg stood not far from the gathering, his hands still tightly bound. The villagers erupted into cheers. Children jumped excitedly, women danced with long colorful scarves, and the men shouted in delight while banging on wooden and stone instruments.

He didn't understand a single word, but the atmosphere was unmistakable: they were celebrating something. And somehow—he was part of it.

"What is all this…" Rogg muttered quietly, his eyes sweeping across the crowd.

A small child approached him with a grin, pointed at Rogg's face, then burst into laughter and ran off. The others were too busy cheering for the hunters and their bounty. Rogg remained confused, though he didn't sense any overt hostility. Still, he kept his guard up.

Moments later, one of the elders stood and made some kind of proclamation. The hunting leader gestured toward Rogg, speaking in a tone that sounded ceremonial—perhaps praise, or even a declaration.

Rogg looked up. Am I… being treated as some kind of offering?

A few of the villagers shouted in unison, and the crowd grew even louder. One man clapped his friend on the back and laughed, "A sign from the heavens! We don't have to sacrifice our own!"

Then a shout rang out: "The celebration begins! Three full days!"

The people started preparing for the festival. Rogg was moved to the center of the village, tied to a large wooden post typically used for ceremonies.

"Try not to move too much," whispered one of the men binding him. His voice was softer than the others, maybe tinged with a hint of pity.

Then, several women and children approached, carrying buckets filled with a thick, dark-red liquid.

"What is this?" Rogg hissed, but no one answered.

They began smearing the liquid on his body. It was cold and sticky. The children laughed as they dabbed his face, while the older women looked serious, murmuring prayers as they rubbed it across his neck and chest.

Rogg clenched his jaw. "Is this… part of the ritual?"

Cheers erupted again as his body turned a striking red, in stark contrast to his clean bronze skin. Some villagers touched his shoulders, perhaps out of reverence—or simple curiosity.

Meanwhile, the hunters brought their catch to the center of the village. A massive wild boar was slaughtered on the spot, its blood collected in clay basins.

One man lifted a bowl of the blood and drank from it. Rogg turned away in disgust.

"They're… drinking raw blood?" he muttered.

Others joined in, passing the bowl around. Their faces flushed with euphoria and hunger. Rogg's throat tightened.

I'm thirsty… even that would be better than nothing…

From a distance came more noise—other animals were dragged in: more boars, deer, even a wild horse. Over a dozen in total. One by one they were sacrificed, their meat distributed among the villagers, who immediately lit huge bonfires to roast them.

Smoke and the aroma of roasting meat filled the air. Rogg could only swallow hard.

"God… I'm starving," he whispered.

The crackle of melting fat over the flames tortured his senses. Skewered cuts of meat were spun over coals, sprinkled with herbs, and tasted by laughing villagers. Music and song filled the night. Yet not one person brought him a drop of water or even a crumb of bread.

What do they think I am? A god? A prisoner? A living sacrifice? Rogg closed his eyes.

He tried not to faint. His body trembled, not just from exhaustion, but from unbearable hunger and thirst.

A few children approached, peeking at him from below. One of them asked something in a language he didn't understand. Their faces weren't cruel. Just curious.

Am I going to die tonight? Rogg wondered, eyes lifted toward the darkening sky. The firelight danced in his pupils, and the smoke of roasted pork filled the night air.