I finally did it! I’m so excited to share with you all my OC Aisha’s backstory in this fic titled “Specimen: 415#4” 🥰 This is only Chapter 1 so far and tags will update as I update it (for spoiler reasons 🤭) but it is Explicit still so mind the tags!!
The extent to which someone is spreading lies about me is just deeply hurtful. Their ego is so massive that they think I did what they’re accusing me. It’s just shitty fucking behavior. I’m going to stand strong and upright in confidence knowing that I didn’t commit that, nor have I admitted guilt I do not have. If I were a meaner person, I’d be waging war, but it’s okay. That just shows I’m the better person here. ✌🏻
For years, she has been on a lonely hunt to track down Sa'hesh, a Xeno Queen she foolishly had a hand in creating. The failure of a one fateful hunt resulted in her friend's death and later, the birth of the Queen.
She is driven by guilt and need of revenge but their fates are strangely intertwined beyond just mutual hate. (toxic yuri time lets gooooo)
Yautja have gotta have their own version of YouTube or something where they store all the hilarious stuff they see on their hunts, or gag reels of hunting fails.
Happy Father's Day everyone :')) A little late post with papa Solus and newborn Sol'veig,, he loved her very much till his last breath protecting her, he deserves the recognition for this day <//3
Synopsis: In the heart of Yautja Prime, A’kib-Ha (Wolf), a newly Blooded Hunter, and Vetani, a brilliant and guarded Forge-Master, find their destinies intertwined by the demanding traditions of their people. While A’kib-Ha earns his status through legendary hunts, his true trial becomes winning the heart of a female who refuses to be treated as a mere trophy.
Note: This is currently a Tumblr exclusive prequel story to my main fic, Crimson Skies (that you can read here on A03). This is a story about the Predator Wolf and explores how he became a legendary Elite Hunter by the time of AvP Requiem, which is when my main fic takes place. In my story, Wolf’s true Yautja name is A’kib-Ha, an archaic Yautja name (non-canon) that could be translated as “silent shadow of the hunt” or “he who shadows prey without sound.”
On Yautja Prime, in the heart of the desert regions, was an oasis of striking contrasts; an expansive valley of vibrant tropical forest, nestled within a colossal embrace of rocky, volcanic terrain. Named Lil-Ka’s Cradle, this sacred land was claimed by Clan R’ka-Thwei, an ancient clan whose roots could be traced all the way back to the days of Kaail and his legendary uprising against the Amengi.
The clan’s forge lay deep in the heart of one of the many surrounding volcanos. The air in the armory was hot and thick with the smell of superheated metal, molten lava, and the bitter tang of coolant. For A’kib-Ha, still carrying the adrenaline of his recent Chiva and the grime of the temple floor still dusting his scales, this was his first time in this hallowed space. Only those who had successfully passed their trials were granted the honor of visiting the forge to have their own personal armor and weapons crafted for them as newly Blooded Hunters.
It was a bit disorienting, to go from the frozen, blood-stained Chiva Temple on Earth to this pulsing furnace of creation. He stood tall, his posture rigid, trying to ignore the tired ache in his muscles, as he watched streams of liquid magma bled down the dark stone walls that bathed the armory in a flickering, crimson light that danced across the vast chamber.
A Yautja approached him. A’kib-Ha caught her scent before he saw her - a musky sweetness that cut through the metallic heat. She was a head taller than him, her hide a mottled tapestry of emerald, amethyst, and obsidian, with luminous purple eyes that seemed to hold the cold brilliance of distant nebulae. She moved with a graceful, predatory fluidity that made the other Yautja in the forge seem clumsy.
“You are A’kib-Ha, yes?” The female’s voice was a low, melodic rasp, vibrating against his chest.
A’kib-Ha gave a sharp, respectful nod. “I am.”
“I have been expecting you. I am Vetani, the Forge Master,” she said, her mandibles clicking with an undercurrent of pride. She gestured to a stone bench near the main forge. “Sit. We will craft your armor to match your newly Blooded status.”
A’kib-Ha’s golden eyes widened. So this was Vetani. He had heard the whispers of her renowned skill, but standing before her was different.
He followed her to the main forge. As A’kib-Ha sat, he found his breath hitching as Vetani loomed over him. Up close, she was striking - a powerful, muscular frame forged by years of hammering steel, yet her movements were soft, almost ethereal. Intricate jewelry—etched bone and refined alloys—dangled from her long quills, catching the firelight and scattering it like captured stars.
She stood silent for a long moment, her eyes sweeping over him, dissecting his form with the cold precision of a veteran huntress.
“It is said that you were the sole survivor of the Chiva,” she murmured, her voice sharpening. “That you purged the Hive alone after your brethren fell.”
A’kib-Ha felt a familiar, hollow ache. He looked toward the stone floor, his mandibles twitching. He had emerged victorious, yes, but at a cost that felt heavy in his marrow. “It is true, D’ja-di,” he rumbled, his voice barely audible over the roar of the forge.
Vetani tilted her head, the bones in her quills tinkling softly. She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, her intensity stripping away his defenses. Then, with a fluid motion, she picked up a sleek silver scanner, the red light casting a crimson halo around her face.
“Do not let your ka’rik be troubled, young one,” she said, her voice softening. “By surviving, you bring honor to those who fell. And you will continue to honor them with the excellence of your future hunts.”
The simple grace of her words settled the storm in his chest. He watched her, transfixed, as she circled him. The red light of the scanner hummed as it traced his limbs and recorded his measurements, but it was her eyes that held his attention. Her presence felt strangely grounding, a calm center in a world of violence.
“You are well-versed in melee, surely,” she continued, her focus shifting back to his equipment. “But what style of weapon feels the most natural to you? What does your spirit crave?”
"Versatility," A’kib-Ha replied, his voice deeper than he intended. "Reliability in the chaos. I favor the serrated whip. It allows for control when the distance closes."
Vetani paused. She moved to stand directly in front of him, the scanner lowering. A’kib-Ha felt his pulse quicken as she reached out, the tips of her talons cool and steady against his jaw as she tilted his head upward. Her purple gaze locked onto his golden one, searching for something hidden.
“Versatility,” she repeated, a ghost of a smile touching her mandibles. “You look for the weapon to be an extension of your own thought. A wise choice. You let your actions do the talking, I see. Interesting...”
She released him, and as she moved back to her console, A’kib-Ha’s attention drifted to the walls of the armory near her forge. It was a chaotic, beautiful gallery. Primitive stone blades hung beside jagged, electrified alien shock-spears; heavy, brutalist plasma cannons sat nestled against delicate, ancient ceremonial daggers.
"This collection," A’kib-Ha noted, gesturing to a blade forged from a violet-hued alien glass. "They are not of our craft. Why keep them?"
Vetani’s expression shifted, the hard edge of the smith dissolving into something reverent. She walked to the wall, her finger tracing the hilt of the glass blade.
“Steel has a memory, A’kib-Ha. If you listen closely, it will tell you its story.” She turned to him, her eyes bright with a sudden, infectious enthusiasm. “This blade was forged to defend a city on a moon that no longer exists. The fear in the hand that held it—it still resonates in the weight of the crystalline glass. I keep them to study their craftsmanship and to honor the histories they contain.”
For the next hour, the roar of the forge vanished. Vetani spoke of civilizations he had only ever seen through a targeting reticle, describing them not as prey, but as craftsmen and great warriors. A’kib-Ha found himself leaning forward, mesmerized not just by the weapons, but by the fire in her mind—how she saw beauty in the tragedy of a lost culture. He had expected a weaponsmith; he found a philosopher of war.
As the session drew to a close, Vetani stepped back, her gaze lingering on him with a depth of interest he hadn't seen before. “It is rare that I find someone willing to listen to the stories these weapons hold, especially someone so young. It is…refreshing.”
She motioned toward her anvil. "I will craft something that honors your path. Come back in two cycles. We shall see if the finished steel speaks to you."
A’kib-Ha stood, dipping his head in a gesture of profound respect. As he turned to leave, the armory felt suddenly cold, the air hollow. He walked toward the exit, already counting the moments until he could return—not for the armor, but for the one who gave it its soul.
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The borderlands were a jagged expanse of obsidian spires and suffocating dust clouds—the grim, neutral scar separating the lush, volcanic cradle of Clan R’ka-Thwei from the sun-scorched, unforgiving wastes claimed by the Tarei’hsan. The two clans were locked in a cycle of blood that dated back generations, a visceral conflict fueled by the desperate scarcity of resources and fundamentally opposing philosophies of strength. For the Tarei’hsan, might was the only law; for the R’ka-Thwei, might without honor was simply slaughter.
Any Tarei’hsan scout daring to encroach upon these spires triggered the proximity alarms, and a patrol would be launched with a singular, grim purpose: to claim the intruder’s skull as a trophy.
A’kib-Ha moved through the shadows with the lethal, fluid silence of a born hunter. Even as his bio-mask’s thermal sensors scanned for the tell-tale heat signatures of Tarei’hsan raiders, his mind was leagues away, anchored in the scent of molten metal and the melodic rasp of Vetani’s voice.
He found himself replaying their meeting, obsessing over the analytical precision of her gaze and the way her jewelry caught the firelight. She was a paradox—a huntress who possessed the soul of a poet, treating the lethal tools of their trade with the tenderness of a mother toward a hatchling.
A sharp, intrusive pang of insecurity pierced his focus. A female of her stature—so skilled, so fiercely intelligent, and so strikingly radiant—could not possibly be unattached. The thought hit him with the force of a plasma caster: she was almost certainly the matriarch of a sprawling, established ni’vhe, her home filled with the chittering of ky’aratoi and the protection of a high-ranking mate. A dark, possessive jealousy coiled in his chest, a sensation entirely foreign to a hunter who prided himself on absolute self-control.
"Your focus is drifting, A’kib-Ha," a gravelly voice rumbled, shattering his reverie.
A’kib-Ha stiffened, his quills twitching in annoyance. He hadn't realized he had slowed his pace. Pa’rral, his mentor—a battle-scarred veteran whose very hide was a roadmap of a thousand skirmishes—was watching him from behind his bio-mask.
"It is nothing, ch’ba," A’kib-Ha replied, his voice clipped.
Pa’rral came to a halt, his heavy, clawed fingers twitching against his thigh-plate. A low, warning growl rumbled in his chest, vibrating through the stone beneath them. “Do not lie to me, A’kib-Ha. I have sharpened your blades and watched your back since you were Unblooded. You are distracted, and in this wasteland, that is a death sentence. Speak.”
A’kib-Ha exhaled, his mandibles clicking in frustration. He trusted the elder with his life, but this felt like an intrusion into something he was only just beginning to understand. He kept his masked gaze on the horizon, watching for movement in the dust. "I visited the armory," he admitted quietly. "To prepare for my status as Blooded. I met the smith, Vetani."
A subtle shift passed over Pa’rral’s scarred body, a softening of his rigid, predatory posture. The tension in his shoulders seemed to evaporate. "And what did you think of the Forge-Master?"
"She is..." A’kib-Ha hesitated, searching for words that didn't feel inadequate. "She is unlike any other. Her mind is a sharpened blade." He turned his gaze toward his mentor, curiosity overriding his habitual stoicism. "Tell me, Pa’rral... who is her mate? A female of such standing must have a powerful ni’vhe."
Pa’rral let out a low, rumbling chuckle that echoed against the obsidian spires, a sound devoid of mirth. "You think so?"
"She is unmatched in skill. It is only logical."
"Logic is a poor substitute for the truth, yautja’ya," Pa’rral said, resting a heavy, clawed hand on A’kib-Ha’s shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding. "Vetani has no mate. She has birthed no ky’aratoi."
A’kib-Ha stood frozen, the desert wind whistling through the spires. "None? How is that possible?"
"She has not found a male worthy of her fire," Pa’rral explained, his tone tinged with a long-forgotten, bitter ruefulness. "She has turned away more suitors than there are stars in the sky. Including myself, many cycles ago."
The news sent a jolt of electricity through A’kib-Ha’s veins—a dizzying cocktail of relief and a sharp, burgeoning ambition. She was free. The thought felt like a tether pulling him toward her forge.
Pa’rral squeezed his shoulder with a mixture of sympathy and hard-won wisdom. "Do not waste your time, A’kib-Ha. It is a lost cause. She is the pinnacle of our craft; she would not give the time of day to a newly Blooded hunter. The pursuit will only bring you wounded pride and bitter humiliation."
A’kib-Ha remained silent, his jaw set in a firm, unbroken line. He didn't offer a rebuttal, nor did he nod in agreement. As he turned his attention back to the perimeter, a quiet, resolute flame took root in his chest. If she has not found one worthy, he thought, his pulse steadying, then she simply has not met the one who will strive to be so.
He would return to the armory. And he would ask her why the world was not good enough for her—and he would prove that he was not just another hunter, but something more.
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The air in the armory felt thinner this time, charged with a static anticipation that made the very atmosphere hum. When A’kib-Ha entered, Vetani was waiting, her workbench cleared of all but the essentials. Spread across the stone slab was his new set of armor, and for a moment, he could only stare. It was a masterpiece—the plates were dark, finished with a matte, light-absorbing sheen, and etched with intricate Yautja sigils meant to bless the hunter who wore them.
"It is time," Vetani said, her voice steady and resonant in the cavernous room.
She guided him to the fitting station. As he donned the pieces, his breath hitched. The breastplate and greaves were impossibly light; he felt as though he were wearing nothing at all, yet he knew the alloy was dense enough to deflect a direct plasma blast. The vambraces hummed with active circuitry, their haptic feedback loops calibrated with such precision that they felt like an extension of his own nervous system.
Then, she presented him a whip.
It coiled in his hand like a living thing—a segmented, articulated spine of super-tensile fibers. Along its length, thorn-like micro-spikes protruded, glinting with a lethal, wicked purpose. He tested its weight, giving it a subtle flick; it hissed through the air, perfectly balanced, a strike waiting to be commanded.
"You have outdone yourself, D’ja-di," he murmured, his voice thick with genuine reverence.
"The forge only shapes what the spirit demands," she replied, her eyes tracking the movement of his hands. She moved closer to adjust the seals on his shoulder plating.
As she worked, the radiating heat of the forge seemed to transfer to her proximity. Each time her talons grazed his scales, a sharp, electric shiver raced down his spine. It was a physical reaction he couldn't mask—his mandibles twitched, and the scent of his own musk intensified, an involuntary admission of his mounting desire. He watched her work, noting the focused line of her brow, the way her intellect seemed to vibrate in the silence between them.
He knew he shouldn't push, but the ghost of his mentor’s warning—and the fire of his own ambition—drove him.
“D’ja-di?” he started, the honorific tasting heavy on his tongue. “Can I ask you something?”
Vetani froze mid-motion, her fingers stilling against his plating. She tilted her head, her purple eyes narrowing into slits of brilliant amethyst. “What is it?”
He forced the words out, ignoring the nervous flutter in his gut. “Why have you not mated?”
The silence that followed was absolute, filled only by the distant, rhythmic hammering of other smiths echoing from deeper in the mountain. Vetani looked at him—so sharply, so piercingly—that he felt his heartbeat thrumming against his ribs. She didn't look offended; she looked guarded. She continued her adjustments in silence, her indifference so cold it made A’kib-Ha feel like a fool. He felt the heat of shame rising in his scales, certain he had just ruined the fragile connection between them.
When she finished, she stepped back, turning away to stare into the blinding, white-hot glow of the plasma energy feeding her forge.
“Many come to me thinking I am just another suitable dam for the continuation of their bloodlines,” she finally said, her voice dropping to a low, jagged rumble. “They see a smith who can ensure their victory, and they see a female who can ensure their legacy. I do not want to be used merely for breeding, then tossed aside and forgotten until the next estrus. Many females are content to be a footnote in a male’s history. I am not.”
A’kib-Ha stood perfectly still. The depth of her frustration hit him harder than any training spar. He saw it then—not just the huntress, but the female who had spent cycles surrounded by warriors who never once asked what she wanted, only what she could provide. She deserved a partner who viewed her not as a trophy, but as the architect of their own success.
He didn't speak. He knew words were cheap, especially in the mouth of a newly Blooded hunter. He simply bowed his head, letting her know he heard her, and that he understood.
"You look like a hunter worthy of our clan now," Vetani said, her voice returning to its professional, cool register as she turned back to appraise her work. "Take care, A’kib-Ha. May the ancestors guide your blade. My forge is always open to those who prove themselves in the field. Return when your steel needs sharpening."
He turned to leave, his new armor fitting like a second skin. He paused at her anvil, his hand resting on the heavy, blackened stone. He turned back, his eyes locking onto hers one last time.
"D’ja-di," he rumbled, his voice resonant and sincere. "Someday, I hope you find someone who is worthy of you."
He didn't wait for her response. He stepped out of the forge and into the harsh, bright light of the surface. His path was clear. He was a Blooded Hunter now, and every scar he earned, every trophy he claimed, and every act of honor he performed would be a stone in the foundation he was building—a path to prove that he was the one she had been waiting for.
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Canonical and non-canonical / made-up Yautja words used:
R’ka-Thwei - Fire Blood
Tarei’hsan - Scorpion
D’ja-di - a specific term of respect for females of high-rank / elder status
Ch’ba - a term of respect for anyone of higher rank such as mentors and Elders
Yautja’ya - an informal or familiar term of address, especially to subordinates
