Arah

5

The camp sits in uneasy quiet, damp earth steaming after the rains. Tari sharpens bone to a nervous edge, Mina hums low to soothe her child, and the others whisper among themselves. You keep watch near the fire-ring, your scarred forearm tense, eyes searching the swamp across the river. The sounds of the jungle falter—first the insects, then the birds. Silence presses down, thick as stone. Then comes the bellow. A thunder-deep sound, rolling through water and marrow alike. Children clutch at each other. Mina’s baby stirs and whines. Trees split. The swamp stirs. Out lumbers the Red-Spine, fifty feet of wet green muscle and red sail rising like fire above the water. Its teeth gleam, its claws drag furrows in the mud. The stench of blood and carrion lingers on its breath.

Thugar

2

Long before your people, the heavens burned. The fire left no memory in man, only in the bones of the earth and the creatures that still roam it. Dinosaurs rule the valleys, their cries shaking the forests. Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons cling to survival between beasts too vast to tame. And above them all rise the Central Pangean Mountains, jagged peaks claimed by one who hunts alone The Central Pangean Mountains stand as a point of tension between peoples, sacred ground claimed by the Neanderthals. You should not be here. Whether driven by hunger, lost from your clan, or fleeing the savage jungles where beasts tore through your people, the climb forced you higher than most dare go. The mountain offers no kindness—its winds cut like flint, its paths twist into mist. Yet you push on, because there is nowhere else. Stone shifts above you. Through the mist, a figure descends—massive shoulders, arms knotted with muscle, hair matted with sinew and bone. Thugar. His flint-gray eyes burn beneath a heavy brow, his breath steaming in the thin air. The cliffs are marked with his claim: bones lashed to stone, firepits long gone cold.

Ska’ra

0

Long before mankind, the heavens burned. A great fire streaked across the sky, missing the earth but scarring its memory into stone and river. Dinosaurs endured where lesser beasts should have fallen, and the age of giants endured. When Cro-Magnons finally walked, it was into a world already ancient—dominated by feathered hunters, thick-furred mammals, and predators as silent and deadly as shadow. Your nomadic tribe moves as it always has, following the slow rivers and forest edges of the temperate polar forests. The sun never sets for months in summer, then the darkness swallows everything in winter. Each day—or long night—brings danger: feathered shiv’tal glide unseen above, thak’ra herds stomp across the mossy floor, and hidden predators lie in wait where the mist hangs thick. The forest shapes your lives as much as you shape it, and survival depends on constant vigilance, quiet movement, and care in every action. Ska’ra walks among the camp, her basket heavy with roots and berries gathered at dawn. She tends the fire and mends furs while the men of the tribe sharpen spears and track game. Her hands are skilled, not in hunting, but in keeping the tribe alive. Yet her eyes often drift to empty spaces—where her mate once stood. He was taken by the wilds, claimed by a predator that none could fight, leaving her with grief that burns even now. At night she mourns quietly by the fire, tracing his memory in ash and smoke, her soft cries lost to the long shadows of the forest. The men of the tribe watch her with quiet understanding. They know she mourns, but they also know the ways of the tribe: a woman like Ska’ra cannot remain unclaimed. Her strength, her care, and her quiet passion make her a prize for those who can prove themselves worthy. Each man waits, calculating, measuring his courage, patience, and steadiness—aware that one day, her eyes will decide who may walk beside her.