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Death.
Artificer had experienced it many times, too many for her to ever count.
From a lizard's jaw she couldn't dodge,
from a lucky shot a King Vulture happened to land,
from a swarm of scavenger's stray spears,
death was never permanent.
Almost.
It was permanent when the spear went through the first pup.
It was permanent when the second disappeared into the water, unable to fight the leech's pull.
It was permanent for all of the creatures that bathed in the void fluid, from what she knew.
She wondered if her children were exempt from the cycle the moment they were born.
Why wasn't she?
Why weren't the scavengers?
Why was nothing else?
There wasn't enough time to question it.
There never would be.
Artificer stepped into the large dome again.
She'd been here many times.
Died here many times.
The Chieftain scavenger sat atop its throne, as it always did when she came.
Usually it starts attacking as soon as it sees her.
The first time it tried to show her mercy.
It hadn't spotted her yet.
Artificer raised her spear.
She assumed she wouldn't live this time.
The spear makes contact and the chieftain turns.
That the shelter's soft grass would tickle her awake again.
A bomb's blast sends them both back.
That she'd have to trek back here on an empty stomach like before.
Artificer's fangs sink into fur.
Death is random.
Random, but not permanent.
Usually.
It was permanent now, she knew.
The mask felt heavy.
It wasn't made for her.
Still, she would wear it,
she would wear it with pride,
knowing the loss of such an important member would cause the scavengers grief.
That was only fair.
Even with this, though, they'd never go through what she did.
So, Artificer collected spears,
and she left.
The scavengers didn't try to stop her.
For once, her bitter rage cleared into glee.
She won.