Nakrin's, like their elephant ancestors, used low rumbling pulses to communicate, a language that persisted deep into their elven ancestry. It wasn't long before chatter broke out amongst the elves. From what Orca could tell, the four of them hailed for the same family, though passed at widely different times.
Their chatter flooded into Orca's head, a consequence of using myou myaku to create nocturnal servants. He tried to communicate with the four elves;but, he failed at capturing the Nakrins dialect, muddling their communications.
Where his "words," had failed, symbolism was sure to succeed. He pointed to the tree, just behind the chuckling mammoths. This species of tree, which was now just a bloody mess scattered across the desert, was a lone survivor of a ancient genus from vescrutia's prehistoric era. The eleven servants quickly realized what was missing and as their heads whipped around with questions, orca raised his hands to the sky, where a beast who coiled the bloody winds and loomed over the sands with wings of terror made for an easy villain. Neither his juvenile understanding of their language, nor his poor dialect could distort this message.
Orca had made great use of his time, using the subtle distortions in his Prey's perceptions to muster the Naten needed to resurrect such a pristine specimen and with his team prepared to avenge their cultural losses, he directed his attention to the air just a few hand seals shy of responding to Soaring prey
A smile creeped across his face, a sign of weakness to anyone who understood what was happening within the mind of this hunter. He fell to the floor, just a single mudra shy of completing another volley of paralyzing soundwaves. He staggered, falling to his knee and gripped his head in agony, a familiar scene to the winged prince of blood. The black void that filled his pupils and sclarea reseeded like the shifting tides of the ocean, revealing a more approachable amber brown iris. He gasped for air, as if he'd been denied such a luxury and were on the verge of asphyxiation. Through bated breath he surveyed his surroundings, observing in great confusion the blood stained sands, howling winds and the figure of a man with bloodied wings. "....What have I done?" He whispered just seconds by a blaring and triumphant shout filled the desert.
The sound of the mans fury alone sprung his hands to action, compelling him to weave a short sequence of hand seals and opening a tiny pocket between space and time- a dark slit, between himself and the Spear. Aiming to intercept the weapon while it was in mid flight. If his instincts and impulses were fast enough, than the spear would seemingly vanish into thin air once it collided with the hairline thin presence of his arbiter, leaving the boy unharmed.
3d6