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tribbetherium · 10 months

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The Middle Temperocene: 150 million years + 1000 years post-establishment

Hello, Neighbor: Fellow Travelers

The Longest Darktime had come to an end.

Now the golden glow that illuminated the horizon now brought forth the yellow-sun, not merely a tease like it had before, when the faint light simply returned to darkness. The great yellow sun, dwarfing the scarlet gleam of its red companion, did not rise very high in the sky, nor did it stay for long, but the little daylight it bestowed was relief for those who had endured the horrors of the near-endless night.

Sharpstripe was the first to stir.

The warm rays that dappled upon her spotted coat roused the pack's lead female from a light sleep. She glanced about at the cove which for now they called shelter, at her mate, and young, her family which still lay reclined beside her.

Her attention, however, turned to her two youngest. Now christened Dawn-Light for the female and Two-Blue for the male, they huddled together tightly in a corner, twitching, kicking, crying in their slumber.

She quickly moved to their side, her warm, reassuring form resting against the two.

She could not blame them.

What peace of sleep could a young pup possibly have, when they had bore witness to a horror no youngster their age ever deserved to witness?

Pale-Beard had been the one to reassure the two when they suffered troubled nights. But now, there was only silence.

She could have laid by their side all day, a warm pillow to soothe their inner pain, but the sound of calls-- voices-- in the distance brought her rising to her paws. She gently nudged the pups aside, toward their elder brother Switch-Eyes, before hurrying around the edge of the cove, bearing her wood-tooth, to investigate.

A cry broke from her clenched jaws when she glimpsed the flicker of a glowing flame, waved upon a branch by a strange houndfolk.

Strange-Eyes, her partner in watching over the pack, was alerted by her call and hurried over to where she stood, her back fur bristling and tail held straight up in warning.

"Outlanders?" Strange-Eyes asked.

"Not know," Sharpstripe responded. "Not sure."

It certainly seemed that way, with the manner the passerby carried themselves. Hoisting a flaming branch, that trailed a streak of smoke, it caused both their hairs to stand on end, remembering the terrors of the fateful night.

But something seemed different this time, as Sharpstripe listened to the voices. Her pack had traveled well inland, long before she had met and bonded with Strange-Eyes, and she had learned some of the local dialect.

These were not chants of war, like the Outlanders had cried out before. It was a light, and simple song, whose note was certainly far too cheerful and friendly to be coming from the murderous warmongers of the Longest Darktime.

"Come, yellow-sun, shine above sky,

Come, small red-sun, join friend light,

The long dark is done,

The big night is gone.

Come both suns, keep warm, bright."

It was clearly by no means something the Firethieves would be singing.

Strange-Eyes gave a small relieved whimper, and let down his guard. Yet Sharpstripe remained stiff, fierce, on watch.

They were still strangers whom she did not know, and she was wary.

The southhounds, the grey houndfolk, were not one people, but many. The ones who dwelt in the mountains. The ones who roamed the plains. The ones who lived by the edge of the sea. To say nothing of the lesser factions of each, of packs or small groups of packs that stood apart--and against-- the others.

A divided people.

The travellers settled nearby, and Sharpstripe got a good look at the newcomers. By their pale grey speckled coats, dark brown manes that extended to the tops of their heads and tails striped in three colors lengthwise, she recognized them as the plains folk, a nomadic people that did not stay in any one place for long, and followed wherever food was plentiful.

One bearer of the torch, at the front of the group, noticed the pair hiding by the edge of the cove. She seemed scarcely apprehensive.

"Hello?" she barked in the baywulf tongue, for the wide and far travels of the plains folk taught them many foreign words.

Her tone seemed welcoming, even friendly, but Sharpstripe was not taking any chances. Gripping her wood-tooth tight in her jaws, she slowly, warily approached, seeking to demand their intentions.

"Stop! Not need," Strange-Eyes pleaded, gently biting the blunt end of the wood-tooth and tugging it lightly. "Them peace."

"Not know sure," Sharpstripe insisted.

Sharpstripe made her way over to the new arrivals, and sat down a few paces away, leaving much room between them. The rest of the plains folk seemed taken aback, and mildly agitated at her stern, serious approach, but the leader of the group simply calmly sat down, a gesture to the rest of the pack not to worry.

At last Sharpstripe spiked her wood-tooth into the sand, and spoke.

"Why here?"

The leader paused with a quizzical tilt of her head.

"Come by," she replied, in the baywulf tongue once more, yet heavily accented with the sharp squeaks of the plainfolk's dialect. "Only passing. Look for food."

"Look other place," Sharpstripe demanded.

Strange-Eyes stepped in, realizing the foreigners could understand them.

"Sorry for her," he apologized. "She afraid."

"Have right to be afraid!" Sharpstripe cried. "After Longest Darktime! Very right."

"We not harm," reassured the plainsfolk's leader. "We come peace."

"Make sure," Sharpstripe snarled. "Do not try." She grabbed the wood-tooth once more, and tapped it twice against the sand. As a warning, that she meant business.

With a huff, she wandered off, bearing the wood-tooth, while the rest of the plains-pack murmured among themselves in their own dialect, perplexed at the sudden, unexpected encounter.

That evening, as the yellow-sun grew dim and the red-sun now ruled with its crimson rays, the plains folk settled onto the opposite end of the cove. There, they dug out a small pit in the sand, filled it with twigs, and ignited it with a torch: setting the pit ablaze, around which they gathered for warmth.

Sharpstripe went on edge as she watched their flames from afar.

"Mother, why?" asked Switch-Eyes, sensing his mother's discomfort.

"Nothing. I ok." she grumbled, though Switch-Eyes knew that was not the case.

The shadow of the Longest Darktime still hovered over the pack, Switch-Eyes felt. He, especially, with Whitesmoke's dying yelp still echoing in his ears from time to time. But he could tell his mother had been scarred as well, with the way her fur bristled, the way her tail pointed stiffly behind, as she gazed upon the yellow flames of the newcomers from far away.

The youngsters, however, seemed intrigued.

"Who them?" Brushtail asked.

"Come see," Sunbeam urged, eagerly.

"No! STAY AWAY!" cried Sharpstripe fearfully, but the two had already trotted off in the direction of the newcomers, seeking to investigate.

"Mother call back!" Shade cried, for she, too, had become very wary of strangers.

But Sunbeam and Brushtail were already on their way, curiously headed toward the plainsfolk huddle by the fire. They had been foraging near the coast all afternoon, and had collected a fair catch of seafood, a fair achievement, Sunbeam thought to herself, as they were poorer swimmers than the coastfolk.

"Hello?" Sunbeam shyly piped up, standing a few paces away.

The plainsfolk all pricked up their ears and took attention. Some of them, too, were wary, others intrigued, and still some others paid no heed and went back on their business.

The leader of the pack, the same old torch-bearer from earlier, rose to her paws and came forward to meet them.

"Hello," she greeted warmly. She seemed curious, and inviting, and the two felt safe enough for an introduction.

"I, Brushtail. Sunbeam," Brushtail introduced himself, and his sister.

"Narooo-a," the plainsfolk leader replied.

The two siblings looked at one another in confusion.

"What that mean?" Brushtail asked.

"Not mean none," replied the bemused elder. "Just sound calling me."

How strange, the siblings thought. For their names were words. Words that meant things, that described them, or compared them in analogy to another concrete thing that could be felt or seen. Like a bristly tail, or a warm disposition.

Narooo-a. A sound that meant nothing but a name itself. How different they were.

Yet as they looked at the rest of the pack, eagerly feasting on their catch by the fireside, speaking to one another, enjoying one another's company as they barked and chirped and chattered among themselves in their foreign speech, they couldn't help but see how they were also same.

Sunbeam was just about to ask another question when suddenly, Sharpstripe came bounding over to her side, bearing a wood-tooth, with Strange-Eyes in hot pursuit.

"GET BACK! LEAVE HER!" she snarled at the startled plainsfolk, nudging Sunbeam away.

"WHAT IS PROBLEM?" snapped Strange-Eyes at his mate, finally tired of her unwarranted hostility. "They peace! Leave them be!"

"They carry fire. Like...like--" She struggled to spit out the foul name, "--like Outlanders."

The plainsfolk froze for a moment.

Save for Narooo-a, few of the plainsfolk knew much baywulf. But there was but one word in all the local tongues to name the dreaded ones.

"Us...not them," piped up one.

"Us...right owners of flame," Narooo-a explained. "Us brought fire from roaring sky-light. From storm, touch ground. Then flame."

"Flame keep warm, scare off bad beasts. But not destroy. Them. They steal fire. They use to harm, kill."

"They tell same story, but tell wrong. They tell of gift of sky-light, but tell it for war. Strongest ones. Fiercest ones. Lead all."

"Tell stories wrong. To spread hate."

Sharpstripe fixated her eyes upon the flame.

"Still flame. Flame...destroy. How Us, trust Them? Use flame, like...O-Outlander!"

"Us? Them?" snarled Strange-Eyes.

"If anyone like Outlander...YOU ARE."

The words pierced Sharpstripe like the spearpoint of a wood-tooth.

She was.

Long had she despised the Outlanders for their cruel ways. For the hatred they bore to those unlike they.

Yet was she beginning to hate like them?

"I just want best for Us!" Sharpstripe cried despairingly, yet as she spoke the words she knew she sounded even more like an Outlander.

She angrily threw her wood-tooth against the sand and rushed off, crying into the crimson twilight.

Throughout the evening, Strange-Eyes and Narooo-a traded stories by the fire. He brought over the rest of the pack to meet them, and under the red-sun the two groups mingled, telling tales, teaching words.

The plainsfolk had pups of their own, and Dawn-Light and Twoblue romped excitedly with their new playmates, tussling and wrestling and chasing each other about.

Two peoples, united for a moment.

Save for one.

From a distance, Sharpstripe watched in silence. Never had she felt more ashamed of herself.

Was she wrong for wanting to protect her pack? But was she right for branding all unlike an Outlander? Did that make her like an Outlander too?

Troubled thoughts raced through her mind all night, as she sat all alone on the sand, until, exhausted by painful memories and inner struggles, she at last drifted off into a lonely sleep.

------

Over time, Narooo-a and her pack became a regular sight. They were nomads, and were frequently on the move. Yet an acquaintanceship had been forged, and there was reason to return: and where Strange-Eyes and his pack had at last settled, not far from the cove where they met, the plainsfolk returned, from time to time, bearing gifts of interesting objects, or stories to tell.

Friendships were made between the visitor's pups and theirs. Youngsters, growing and learning, every experience a lesson, they quickly learned one another's words, to which they came to speak both dialects fairly well. Thus was one of the gifts of the plainsfolk, on the move since youth, exposed to many tongues, and speaking several upon adulthood.

Amongst all this, Sharpstripe kept her distance.

She felt she was wrong in distrusting them, yet she couldn't help it. Not after the Longest Darktime. There were wounds that would never fade, like the battle scars she and her young ones had suffered. Or the loss of Pale-Beard, whose absence was still felt.

She grabbed her wood-tooth and sauntered off to the shoreline. Perhaps hunting for some breakfast would help take her mind off things.

South of the cove was a small rocky bay, where the small sea-creatures gathered in the mornings. She was skilled with the wood-tooth, when it came to spearing her quarry, frequently the small shelled swimmers, though the bigger grunting sea beasts that sometimes rested on the shore, shaped like land-beasts but rounder and with fins instead of feet, were a welcome occasional addition when she had assistance.

She headed to the peninsula where an old dead tree stood, its dessicated trunk still standing where the salty sea had now encroached. It had been a favorite fishing spot of hers for some time now.

But today, it was occupied.

-------

From far off, Strange-Eyes heard her calls of distress.

"Sharpstripe trouble", he grumbled. She had been acting strange lately, and it had taken its toll on Strange-Eyes as well, who, for the first time in many seasons, had not gotten along with her and her recent behavior since that fateful night. Yet she was still his mate, and they were a pack, no matter what.

"I come. Help." Narooo-a added.

Strange-Eyes knew his partner well, and where she liked to go fishing. He made a beeline for that spot, with a wood-tooth of his own, while Narooo-a followed close behind, carrying her lit torch in case it was some kind of deadly beast, like a fold-paw, whose kind were repelled by flame.

Yet it was anything but.

It was fellow houndfolk, like their own kin. Yet they too differed: both from Strange-Eyes's people or Narooo-a's. They were taller, and more heavily built, with thicker and shaggier coats. Their ears and tails were dark, their coats were striped, not spotted or speckled, and, most telling, a dark stripe that ran between their eyes, dividing their faces down the middle.

A distinctive mark Sharpstripe remembered all too well.

The mark of the Outlanders.

Strange-Eyes, too, recognized the mark of the unusual intruders, who called out to each other in a language he knew not. Theirs was deep, guttural and throaty, rumbling to one another as they backed off from Sharpstripe, bearing her wood-tooth as she slowly paced backward, reluctant to turn her back to them.

"Stay back. Go away. I warn!" she called. Yet the strangers seemed not to understand. In return, the largest of the group, an old male, put himself between the pack and Sharpstripe, grunting out a few warnings of his own that Sharpstripe, in turn, did not understand.

Yet Narooo-a seemed to.

Hurrying forward, in an attempt to cease the conflict, she called out to the old male, in the same deep notes that he had spoken.

Now, he seemed to understand, and stood down.

"Why? What happen?" Sharpstripe asked.

"They not Outlander," Narooo-a explained.

"They are the snow-giants, the south-folk. The dark-ears. They...peace people."

Strange-Eyes took a pause, and observed them more closely. They did seem different from an Outlander. Their fur quite more brown, their coats thicker and their bodies bigger. Around their necks, they wore cords of dried grazer-beast gut, armed with thorns: fearsome to behold, yet meant to defend--not attack.

Sharpstripe was not convinced. "They look Outlander." she noted.

"Not all different, Outlander!" Narooo-a snapped, even her kind, accommodating self now beginning to lose her patience with Sharpstripe's hostile judgement. "They snowfolk, kind people. I know. Met before."

"They tell many stories. They speak of the stars. Tell time. Tell seasons. Much to learn, if not judge quick."

"Put wood-tooth down," Strange-Eyes advised.

But no sooner had Sharpstripe dropped her weapon did the old male darkear suddenly approach her, sniffing her scent in close proximity. She gave a startled yelp and leapt away, equally frightening the old male who flinched and stumbled backwards.

Narooo-a chirped in amusement.

"He not harm," she encouraged. "Snow-folk stay close. Like to close together."

The darkears were a physically affectionate group, borne of a need to huddle in the colder weather of the south. Yet their lack of sense of intimate space was offputting to Sharpstripe, who was uncomfortable with their close approach.

"It is us different," Narooo-a explained. "Each us differ. Coast folk. Plains wanderers. Snow people. All differ. But same."

Narooo-a made a few grunts to the darkears' leader, who responded in kind, not a single word of what was said coherent to the baywulves' ears.

As a show of trust, the lead darkear allowed Narooo-a to remove the thorny collar he wore, leaving his throat exposed. He gave a few stern grunts and rumbles.

"He says drop wood-tooth then us talk," Narooo-a translated.

"Ask him why here," Sharpstripe demanded.

Narooo-a and the darkear exchanged a few more grunts and grumbles, before Narooo-a spoke in the baywulf tongue once more.

"He is escaping."

"From Outlanders."

The darkears too, in their southern tundra home, had gotten word of the conflict that had broken out in the north-east. A few had moved away, westward and around, as fast as they could. They would not stay and wait for the war to come to them.

"He is Graahahan," Narooo-a introduced. "It mean Star-Watcher in snow-people speak."

Graahahan. Star-Watcher. A foreign sound, like Narooo-a. A meaningful word, like Strange-Eyes.

Names all so same yet all so different.

Graahahan gave a few rumbles to Narooo-a.

"Come," she said. "Something that he want show."

He led them to a small patch of shore where the ground was silt, not sand. The mouth of a river, where fresh water met salt and blended in the muddy shallows.

Strange-Eyes watched as Graahahan, or Star-Watcher, rolled himself about in the muddy soil, all undignified like a playful pup in stark contrast to his earlier, composed self. Finally he was coated all, snout to tail, and he turned to Narooo-a and gave an eager rumbling howl.

"He want us join." she said.

Reluctantly, Strange-Eyes waded out into the mud and, with a knowing nod from Star-Watcher, he too tumbled himself in the mud, though he felt silly doing so. What relevance did such a childish activity, fit for pups, have in a serious treaty of peace?

He glanced aside, and saw Narooo-a doing the same.

At last the three stepped back onto the solid ground, covered entirely in the river mud.

"What is point of this?" Strange-Eyes asked.

Star-Watcher, as usual, gave a few throaty grunts that Narooo-a was all happy to interpret.

"Look in river."

Strange-Eyes did so, and saw three reflections, caked in mud.

It took him some time to see which one was him, until he saw the eyes, one blue, one brown. Yet that brief moment, when all he saw were three houndfolk, was when he realized.

Cloaked in mud, there were no spotted shore-people with the round eye spots. There were no snow-people, with stripes and dark ears and a band across their face. There were no plains-people with three-toned tails and speckled coats.

Their differences shrouded, they were all just...people.

"Do you see now?" Star-Watcher said through Narooo-a's interpretation.

"Why hate another for something mud can hide?"

Sharpstripe, too, began to see.

The hate for the different was what made the Outlanders weak. That made them act as cruel wild savage beasts. Not as story-telling hunt-beasts that knew and acted better.

She did not want to be like them.

And so, in a show of support, she, too threw herself into the mud and rolled in it, much to Strange-Eyes bemusement.

-------

The sun was beginning to set in the late evening, now that the Longest Darktime was far, far since past. Now it rose earlier, and set later, as the days once more became longer.

"Grar-ar-ar," Twoblue babbled.

"Graahahan", Star-Watcher corrected.

The receding orange light cast its glow upon the three packs, who in the time had began to spend more time in each other's company.

Star-Watcher had found a new home.

Narooo-a had found new friends.

And Sharpstripe heart had softened, and her mind opened.

There was many they could learn from each other. Stories, words, dialects, skills. The darkears wove collars for protection, and read the stars. The coast-folk crafted tools and weapons, and told stories and sang songs. The plains-nomads brought song and story from far away, and brought the fire that kept them warm at night. Each brought something new, and all began to become more like each other.

In the fading orange rays of the setting yellow-sun, the colors of the southhounds faded to the same tangerine hue in its waning embers.

It was hard to tell the stripes from the speckles and spots-- for, like with the mud, there were only people.

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#speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative zoology #hamster's paradise #the calliducyon saga

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quinn-firethief · 4 years

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Quinn Firethief

Hello everyone! It’s currently four am but I’ll do my best here. Quinn Firethief is one of my oldest wizards. I made him two years ago after I downloaded the game for the first time in like, years, to play with some friends. The graphics update had me shook, y’all. My friends and I loved roleplaying as our characters (both in-game via voice chat and in our texting apps cause we’re weebs) so Quinn is pretty fleshed out. The problem is is that I’m poor so I’m currently stuck right before Marleybone. Hopefully, I’ll be able to change that once I graduate. But for right now, I’ll give you guys the rundown of his character up until this point. Quinn Firethief is a Prince. His parents are the King and Queen of Dragonspyre. Yeah, big surprise, amirite? When I made his backstory, I made it without knowing the whole story of the world. Bad on my part, I know, but I’m really attached to the idea now. So, how that works is that while most of Dragonspyre is unhabitable, there is still a very small part that is. That's where the royal family and a lot of inhabitants that were too loyal to leave ran to. It’s a very small place, they have a very small military, it’s very much a former shell of the great glory it once was. Because of this though, Quinn is well known among their people because there’s probably, at least, a hundred or two left there. He cares very much about them, he’s a great public speaker, very charismatic, and he just really cares about people and really loves helping them in general. It's such a small place that it's really not that big of a deal that Quinn is a prince, a few people might be like “wow what's it like???” but a lot of questions don’t really apply to him because he did live a comfortable life, just not a lavished one thanks to their current situation. But his family does have very good background to their name. Firethieves were the royal family after all. There’s a big legend that they got their last name-Firethief of course-by stealing fire from the Dragons themselves so that they could harness the power and learn how to control it. Depending on whether or not you believe that, you could say a lot of people have Quinn’s ancestors from many many generations ago to thank for fire magic. Others might say that the downfall of the world is probably the family’s karma catching back up on them if that is true.

Before I go into the next part. I no longer talk to the friend that played the next character that I’m going to be talking about. We didn’t end on good terms. But their character is very vital to Quinn’s story. I can’t just write them out. So I’ve decided to just not put their name. Maybe I will later, maybe I’ll completely change it; we’ll just have to see.

Quinn had a best friend who was basically like a brother to him. He was always at the castle, and people even called him a Prince too. When they were of age to go to Ravenwood and start practicing magic (which, in my opinion, is probably eighteen, maybe as young as sixteen if you’re super good) they went together. Like I said, Quinn’s family has a long history in fire magic, being the royal family of Dragonspyre after all, so Quinn immediately dabbled in fire magic. His best friend went into myth. When they started questing, they ended up meeting a life wizard named Sarai (her last name escapes me rn I’ll get back to y’all on that) who was in the same year as them. (She was played by my girlfriend, if she ever makes a Tumblr for her I’ll definitely link it here) They needed a healer, she needed some harder hitters, so they all started questing together. They became the best of friends. They were well on their way to being able to take down Malistaire. The journey didn’t come without difficulties of course. Sarai got sick with the Krok Plague during one of the dungeons, and the boys had to rush through the last few to get the cure for her. Quinn’s best friend ended up dropping Myth because he was doing so horrible. He did, however, become very interested in Balance thanks to Kroktopia and found he did very well in that. While Sarai was sick Quinn realized that he had definitely fallen in love with the sweet and gentle Life wizard, and while he came very close to confessing his feelings, he didn’t.

Krok ended well. They were able to get the cure to Sarai in time and they finished it all out together, with Sarai cured of the plague and coherent. They all crashed in Sarai’s house afterward and chatted about how far they had come, and how they heard that Marleybone was needing help next.

Now, this is when my friends and I stopped playing. Summer of 2018 had drawn to a close and I was going into my Junior year. We all got very busy, my family ran into some bad financial problems so I obviously couldn’t unlock the Marleybone zones, and then by the end of my Junior year, I was no longer talking to the friend that played Quinn’s best friend. I’m in my Senior year and I’m feeling nostalgic, and like most Wizard101 players I’m getting sucked back into this game(help me). But this is where I take some liberty with the story. The three of them do end up going to Marleybone, but after a good few weeks, they end up running into Morganthe who, at this point, is just starting to plan on getting a little public about her villainess. Obviously, at this point, I’m messing with canon a little bit, but not that bad. She ended up casting a spell that took ahold of Quinn’s best friend's mind and completely turned him against Quinn and Sarai. They tried to free him from the spell but it became very clear very fast that it wasn’t possible. They ended up having to kill him. Quinn dealt the final blow with his bow and arrow (I got it from a pack, such a good drop sorry now isn’t the best time-) and the place they were fighting in exploded. Sarai and Quinn were knocked out and then dragged to safety by some other wizards that heard the explosion. While the friend’s body was never found, it was plainly obvious that he was dead. Quinn and his best friend, who was basically his brother, had known each other since they were kids. Like, I’m talking six years old. they had known Sarai for at least two years at this point since Krok and Wizard City had definitely (in my mind) taken some time to get through and fix. They were a very close, tightknit group. They were well known around Ravenwood and it was rare when you saw one of them walking around alone. So, as you can imagine, having to kill their own friend was very, very hard on them. Especially Quinn. He and Sarai can’t even be around each other anymore because it hurts too much, the wound is too raw. Quinn ends up telling Sarai that he needs some time alone, some time to think. So they stop talking, they stop hanging out, and they both just stop questing in general. It’s not the same without their friend’s lute playing to cheer them on.

Quinn gets very depressed and turns to alcohol. At this point, he’s twenty-one, so it is legal. A favorite of his is Fireball. If he’s not sleeping or studying or practicing, he’s drinking. He has nightmares (and rarely dreams, those tend to hurt more) of his friend constantly. He has to move out of the dorm because they always hung out there and it just hurts too much, there are too many memories. He can’t even visit Dragonspyre because of all of the memories they have there, he’d probably drop dead the moment he walked in because of how hard it’d hit him. So he moves into the Fire House (the classic burning tower with all that lava) and to try and cope, he makes a grave for his best friend even though they never found a body. Yep, you’re right, that’s exactly what my header is. Depressing, right? I had a leftover present from some winter event, so I decided to put that there to make it even sadder. This is currently where I’m picking up with Quinn, where he’s at his lowest and he’s pushing everyone away and he feels completely alone. It really resonates with me because of how I’ve been feeling lately (for like NO reason might I add). I’m super excited to write about it, it’s definitely going to be fun. I hope you guys enjoyed that! I’m sorry this was such a long read lmao this took me like twenty minutes to type up. Mainly because I had to keep fact-checking and I’m so tired. It’s now five am and I need to sleep. If you guys have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask. If you wanna be friends, shoot me a text! I need more Wizard101 buddies so badly right now. I might open one-shot requests if enough people show interest in Quinn and my writings enough, but we’ll just have to see :)

Have a good day everyone!

#wizard101 #wizard101 oc #fire magic #character post #past explanation #wizzy101 #first post #balance magic #myth magic #tw: character death #wizard101 oc: Quinn Firethief #OC: Quinn Firethief

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swanfireprincessmydear · 8 months

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They say time can heal almost anything but it has not healed my pain from losing Neal Cassidy

#neal cassidy #swanfire #once upon a time #ouat #emma swan #baelfire #firethieves #bae & emma #swanthief

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tribbetherium · 9 months

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The Middle Temperocene: 150 million years + 1000 years post-establishment

United We Stand: A Second Encounter

The two suns had begun to fall upon the western horizon, and Wildwind began to prepare.

She was one of the highest-ranking members of the Firethieves, the clan of Outlanders led by none other by the dreaded Ashfall himself. She held more sway, more power over most of the rest of the pack, with even the fiercest of them drooping their ears and tails in submission in her intimidating presence.

Yet she was but second-rate.

For she was Ashfall's second mate since the death of Wind-Storm, the late Whitesmoke's mother. She fought by his side, laid waste to their foes in tandem, and, some time past, bore two pups from him: pups that sported the pale white marks on their faces and upon their backs, like their father had.

Yet she was but a replacement.

She was a competent leader, a fierce but nurturing mother, a trustworthy partner, but she never seemed to be enough. The great leader mourned his lost mate, and now lost son, and Wildwind was eclipsed by the shadows of the dead.

"We come now, Mother?" asked Darklight, the male of her two pups. He perched upon a small outcrop of rock, watching the small specks of the shore-people, the Them, moving faintly in the distance, blissfully unaware.

"Tonight. When dark. We have light. Not Them." Wildwind replied.

The Firethieves and their stolen flame gave them an upper hand. There was darkness, and they could force it away with their light. The enemy were shrouded in it, and would be consumed in the blackness.

The pack of the shore-people were sure to fall, she thought.

One of them had slain Whitesmoke, had not they? The beloved eldest of Ashfall?

Perhaps with their destruction, and thus Whitesmoke avenged...she would finally be enough for him. Worthy of the devotion of the Half-Spirit, the great leader, the mighty warrior who would lead them to victory.

"We go soon," she said, as the last tangerine sliver of the yellow-sun slipped beneath the horizon, swallowed by the dark, inky sea.

-----

"What for?" asked Threestripe, the female of Wildwind's pups, as, under cover of night, the Firethieves began to mobilize.

"We kill them who kill brother!" Wildwind snarled. "We destroy the Them for Ashfall-father!"

Threestripe silently twitched her folded-back ears in resigned agreement. She was but eighteen seasons old, and cared little of what ideas he spoke to all the pack. He was barely a father to her. Whitesmoke was barely a brother to her. They were almost strangers.

And she didn't know why she was now to rush to war, to kill, and probably die, for them.

The Firethieves began their march, slowly, in single file. Back across the same path they had taken not long before, along the coast by the sea. Their paws trod across accursed ground, ground where blood was shed in their fateful defeat, ground where Whitesmoke had been struck down--where, had they taken a closer look had they passed, only small, scattered bones remained: the rest of the once-proud Outlander long since disposed by the wind, the earth and the many small, ravenous creatures that returned death back to nature. Forgotten, consumed and dissipated, like he never were.

Yet while his flesh had long rotted to oblivion, his memory endured in the darkest of ways.

"Here coast-folk home?" Wildwind asked another Outlander.

"Not no more," came the reply, with a sniff of an old, empty cave. There was the faint, old, distant smell of the Them. But the cavern was barren and abandoned.

"They move. We too must."

"MOVE!" howled Wildwind, an urgent command to the rest. There was but one place they could flee, to the north, where the Outlanders had not reached, and she was determind to find their trail.

The suns would not rise with the coast-folk still living.

--------

In the quiet, seaside cove, shaded from the sky by a rocky outcrop, Sharpstripe arose from a troubled sleep.

Beside her, her two youngest pups snuggled close to her warm body. Her three middle pups, Sunbeam, Brushtail and Shade, curled up further back near the cliff wall, while her eldest, Switch-Eyes, lay next to his father Strange-Eyes together to keep watch if anything happened. Tonight, it seemed safe, and both slept-- but lightly.

She, too, felt a sense of unease.

The recent couple of seasons and their unpleasant turn of events had been much for her to bear. She had been lost, confused and afraid. She wanted the best for her pack--but in doing so, had become what she despised.

Almost.

She glanced around at the cove, where nearby, other packs slept, together. On one side was Narooo-a and her plains-folk, gathered warmly around the gently crackling fire-pit, with at least one always awake to keep the fire burning, and on the other side, Star-Watcher and his dark-ears, huddled tightly together in an affectionate pile, packed so densely it was hard to tell where one dark-ear ended and another began.

Her tail began to wag in an expression of joy.

She had once feared them. Hated them, for no reason.

Yet their packs, their differing peoples, had plenty to learn from one another. They had taught her many things, from the tongues they spoke to the manners they lived. And she taught them many things in return.

In time, her mind and heart became more open.

Different ones weren't always to be feared.

Slowly, as days went by, stories were exchanged, and friendships formed, blossoming in the union as young pups learned each other's dialects, the three peoples had gotten closer. They were no longer visitors, but neighbors. And perhaps, even more than just that. They began to feel like extensions of Sharpstripe's own pack.

They were like family.

Sharpstripe's gentle contemplation was suddenly ground to a halt when at the corners of her eyes, she saw something moving. Slowly, but steadily, along the distant, meandering coast.

A light.

A faint, orange light that stirred terrible memories.

She felt the hair along her mane stand on end, but tried to calm herself. Perhaps it was only more plains-folk? Friends of Narooo-a, maybe? She had judged them too soon before, and she had been wrong.

But this time, she could hear the distant cries. The calls of war.

The chants of fury.

The cries of rage.

And this time, her hunch was true.

"OUTLANDERS! OUTLANDERS!" she shrieked with a piercing yelp that brought Strange-Eyes and Narooo-a and Star-Watcher to their feet, interrupting their tranquil slumber. They rushed to rouse the rest of their packs without further delay, and began to arm for battle.

They were asleep, but they were not unprepared. They had awaited, with bated breath, for the unexpected and unwelcome return, for many seasons.

History had repeated itself, in more ways than one, in a smaller scale and in a far greater one, as a force of hatred and violence that wrought fire and destruction rose from the darkest of thinking minds to crush the weak.

But this time, it would not strike unopposed.

As the young pups were herded to the safety of the cove Sharpstripe bounded to the front line, bearing her wood-tooth, honed sharper than before this time for war and not food, joining Strange-Eyes, Switch-Eyes, Narooo-a and Star-Watcher in defending the cove from a familiar evil.

She would fight without hesitation to defend her family, as she had before.

But now, her family was far bigger than it ever had been.

--------

"LET THE FOLD-PAW PUPS NOT GROW!" roared Wildwind, leading the charge. The foul stench of the Them's grew ever stronger, and as they neared the small cove the sound of their panicked scrambling became louder.

Good. They were afraid.

At her side she was flanked by Darklight, her eldest pup, next in line to be his father's second-in-command. Darklight gritted his teeth in determination. He was the son of the legendary Ashfall, after all. Whitesmoke was weak, Whitesmoke was foolish, but he would not be. He would be a worthy successor.

And at the back, trailing behind, was Threestripe.

She did not want to be here.

"DESTROY ALL! KILL!" Wildwind howled as the Firethieves rounded the edge of the cove and poured into the bay's coast like a blazing tide. The panicked scampering of the Thems had fallen silent. They were trapped, cornered like flyer-beast pups in their nest, waiting to be devoured by scaly-creepers and hunt-beasts. They were helpless. This would be an easy victory, for the glory of Ashfall and the memory of Whitesmoke--

She rushed headlong into the fray, expecting to see them cowering, or at the least, vainly putting up a pathetic resistance--

--but instead, found herself face-to-face with the most terrifying sight she would ever see in her life.

A wall of Thems, standing in defiance. Numerous. Powerful. Unafraid.

They bore torches that burned brighter, fiercer, than even those the Outlanders sported. By their smell, she could tell that the torches were fueled by the greasy fat of grazer-beast innards. Yet coast-folk did not know that! That was knowledge of the plainsfolk! The plainsfolk--

--the plainsfolk that now stood among the coast-folk, their unmistakable speckled coats and three-toned tails visible in the brilliant light of the grease-torches.

Grease-torches affixed to the blunt ends of the coast-folk's wood-teeth, some held to one side and some to the opposite side, all ready to cover one another in any direction.

A cry of command broke forth from the foremost of the coast-folk, one whose eyes gleamed with the brownness of the earth and the blueness of the sea, and the Thems, coast-folk and plains-folk alike rushed forth to defend, in numbers easily almost twice that of the Outlanders' forces.

Wildwind was taken aback, but she was no coward.

She had something to prove.

"FIGHT BACK! FIGHT BACK!" she demanded, and the bloodlust of the Outlanders toward the Thems for the moment drowned out their fear and reason.

They sieged forth with fangs bared, but their stealth and ambush were left null by the brilliant gleam of plainsfolk's torches. They were exposed, and visible. Their main tactic was foiled.

They darted low to the ground, in near silence, yet their fur gleamed in the torchlight. And the defenders took notice.

There were gaps in the wall, but those quickly closed as they approached. The defenders could see them!

With stealth left in vain, they switched to what only else they knew--brute force.

Some Outlanders pounced at the throats of their enemies, sinking their teeth into their soft vulnerable necks, only to cry out in pain as they realized too late that their foes were not only prepared in offense, but defense as well. Their bleeding jaws instantaneously loosed their would-be lethal grips upon the necks of their enemies, which were defended by strips of dried, leathery grazer-beast gut, armed with barbed thorns.

But they could not know that, either!

That was a tactic of the snow-folk of the south!

Snow-folk--

--snow-folk who, at a closer look, stood among the crowd, their great shaggy forms towering above the stocky coast-folk and the lithe plains-folk, yet standing by their side.

"THEMS FIGHT AS ONE! THEMS FIGHT AS ONE!" cried a frightened Outlander voice amidst the paltry forces of the invaders, as the defensive wall of defenders began to slowly march forward, jabbing away at any who dared rush in to attack.

Some were struck down as they lunged, as the proceeding column stood their ground, more well-armed than anything the Outlanders have ever fought.

Their weapons were one-sided, and some Outlanders tried to attack torch-side, only to be struck by another defender, who carried their wood-tooth torch the opposite way.

And even those struck by the torch-end hurt, as the blazing grease stuck to their fur.

It was the Firethieves' worst nightmare, and one they never expected to see.

The fiery light of the plains-folk, that left the former advantage of their own fire useless. The collars of the snow-folk that made them harder to kill. The lethal stabbing wood-teeth of the coast-folk to round it all off.

What tactics did they have left, to fight all three, at once?

Why were they united? They were enemies!

To the Outlanders, who divided the world in Us-es and Thems, such an alliance was impossible. Improbable. Utterly incomprehensible.

Yet it stood before them, a testament against their very ideals.

Let the fold-paw pups not grow, they had chanted.

And now it had grown too big indeed.

Bigger than they could have imagined.

"FALL BACK!" cried the Outlanders at long last, some wounded, some smoldering, bailing out on an unwinnable outcome. They dropped their torches and fled. They were not prepared. They were not ready to face the wrath of a foe the likes before they had not seen, and chose their well-being over their leader's agenda--

--save for one.

"COWARDS! WEAK STUPID! RETURN! RETURN!" urged Wildwind, standing her ground, as the morale of her troops began to falter. But she refused.

She would prove her worth, still!

Ashfall will see her as great as his equal!

Whitesmoke would still be avenged!

In the chaos Wildwind tried to find an opening, where she could perhaps steer around, strike from behind, confuse them, break their ranks--

--but found herself being intercepted by a coast-folk with a wood-tooth, her eyes pointed and fierce, and before Wildwind could properly respond, the sharp point pierced deep into her shoulder and locked in tight.

Wildwind cried out in agony and struggled defiantly against the wood-tooth--

--until, with a sickening crack, the tip broke, and she too fled yelping, limping, the broken end of the wood-tooth still embedded in her bleeding shoulder.

As the leader of the charge turned tail, whatever remained of the Outlanders' courage slipped away in an instant, and they bounded off into the darkness, dropping their torches along the way, bloodied, bruised and broken, and defeated once again.

------

"They running. They running!" Narooo-a whooped in joy.

"Safe now?" pondered Star-Watcher, huffing from exhaustion.

"Not sure," Strange-Eyes replied. "Might return. Ready."

A chorus of weary cheers and howls of victory echoed through the cove, and with it the terrified pups of the three packs slowly clambered from their hiding places and were once more met with the gentle, reassuring licks and nuzzles of their elders. Gestures whose message to the young pups was clear.

"You are safe so long we are around."

They had learned much from one another, and stood stronger as one. They had all fought the Outlanders alone before with what they had, and barely survived. But with their skills combined, they had become a nigh-insurmountable force obstructing the Firethieves' path of devastation.

Even the young adolescents, Shade, Brushtail and Sunbeam, who, even in their youth, were no strangers to war, at this point.

A thought that saddened Sharpstripe. They were but children.

The defenders watched as the attackers disappeared from sight, the few torches they managed to carry with them flickering away in the distance like stars waning in the dawn light.

Yet they could feel it wasn't over.

Sharpstripe paced up to the huddle of the victors. "Wood-tooth broke," she said in dismay, dropping the destroyed weapon forlornly in the sand.

It had been one she'd used for a long time.

Strange-Eyes gave her a reassuring lick to the face. "Just stick," he said. "We find make new one."

Today was a victory Strange-Eyes and his pack could truly celebrate. For this time, no lives has been lost. He paused, momentarily, in recollection of his father, Pale-Beard, and of that bitter day. But this was not that day, and all of them were to see the suns rise once more.

All on their side, at least.

On the sand, drenched in fresh blood, several bodies lay, motionless and still warm. Pierced by the wood-teeth, or choked by the collar-thorns that had broken off in their mouths.

In the flickering yellow light, Narooo-a gazed upon them in sadness. They were enemy. But still, the grim aura of death cast itself over the victorious celebration.

Star-Watcher was forced to agree.

"Had to. Must do." he said, his deep, throaty voice tainted with sorrow. For while it was a death borne by necessity, a death of one who sought harm, it was still an ugly thing to behold.

A faint, coughing whimper rose from one of the fallen bodies.

"This one...still alive." Narooo-a remarked, stepping back warily as the wounded Outlander gasped and struggled to rise.

"My turn."

It was Shade, one of Sharpstripe's middle children, with a short, but sharp, splinter of her mother's broken wood-tooth.

Shade, the young, yet hardened fighter.

Who had seen great evil at such an age.

Who had been maimed and scarred for life by the Outlanders in their first encounter, scars that pained even now.

Who had watched, eyes wide with horror, as her grandfather Pale-Beard breathed his last.

Who had witnessed first-hand how her brother Switch-Eyes gave their pale leader his inglorious and well-deserved end.

"My turn."

The wounded Outlander yelped, pleading in a foreign tongue that Shade did not understand and would not have cared to listen. She paced toward him, eyes fixed and unblinking, stride unfaltering.

He struggled to rise, but his back had been broken, his rear legs limp, and he was powerless to resist as, to the shock of those around to witness, Shade threw herself upon the fallen enemy, pinning him to the ground, piercing him again and again with vicious snarls, even as he screamed in terror and pain, even as he went limp, even as the glow faded from his eyes.

She struck for the murdered Pale-Beard.

She struck for her pack and her lost home.

She struck for her newfound family that had suffered under the Outlanders.

She struck against the wounds she suffered in her face and in her spirit.

She struck again and again and again, until she was too exhausted to strike any more, until she was showered in the vile Outlander's foul blood, until the panicked cries of Switch-Eyes finally reached her ears.

Panting, she dropped the splinter of wood-tooth next to the still-spasming body of the Outlander, and looked up to meet her brother's wide, asymmetrically-hued eyes.

Frightened eyes.

"...Why?" was all Switch-Eyes could say.

He had slain Whitesmoke long ago, but it was not something he took joy in.

It felt sinful and apalling, even to this day.

"They Outlander," replied Shade, breathing heavily from the exertion. "Deserve to die."

And an uneasy chill ran down Switch-Eyes's back with the satisfaction he heard in her voice.

------

The yellow sun began to rise in the dawn, obscured and hazy in the morning fog as it cast its warm light onto the spectacle of defeat, both impressive and horrific.

The wounded survivors of the Firethieves slowly, painfully, hobbled back to the valley that had once been the highbrows' home. Now the Outlanders had conquered it and driven them away, and had been feeding well the past days upon the plentiful stolen grazer-beast herds, which Ashfall had fiercely rationed to keep enough to breed more next season.

The great leader himself arrived to the lowlands to meet the returning forces, expecting news of victory.

Only to be greeted by a dreadful and crushing sight.

His fighters came back gravely wounded, some with bleeding mouths and tongues embedded with thorns, some with grisly pierced wounds caked in dried blood, even a few with marks that appear to have had been burns. Amidst them, the wounded, was his second mate, Wildwind, and their two young.

And some had not come back at all.

"What happen? Why hurt?" urgently asked Ashfall with great concern.

"...I am enough good for you, now?" Wildwind replied, given a small bit of joy, in spite of her predicament, at the rare treat of genuine concern Ashfall now finally showed her.

"WHAT HAPPEN?" Ashfall demanded.

"Too many. Too strong," Darklight answered weakly, gazing up in shame at his father with his one good eye, the other injured and swollen shut.

"Coast-folk. Plains-folk. Snow-folk."

"Together."

The last part struck Ashfall like a wood-tooth, piercing him to his very core.

"Not be. NOT BE! Them...enemies! Not just us but each other! Why together?"

Ashfall could not believe the words, and for a moment, he wanted to think that perhaps they were but cowardly, making excuses.

Yet he saw the thorns that the wounded Firethieves were gingerly pulling from each other's mouths. Unmistakably, from the collars of the snow-people, which he had been told could only be attacked from behind.

He saw the burns on the bodies of some, deep charred gashes like if something sticky and on fire had stuck to their coats, burning through the hair and reaching the skin. Like the grease torches of the plains-people, even if they never used the torches themselves for war.

He leaned in to Wildwind's aid, pulling out the embedded wood-tooth tip from her shoulder. She cried out in pain, and Ashfall dropped the tip to the ground.

As he nursed Wildwind's wound with a few gentle licks, he looked at the broken tip, noting its even, serrated edge, like it had been gnawed into shape and given small notched barbs with precise bites--ideal for spearing small prey in shallow water.

The unmistakable mark of the coast-folk.

Ashfall couln't believe it, wanted to deny it, yet all the evidence was there, before his eyes to see. His troops spoke the truth, that they had fought all three at once.

United like never before.

He surveyed another long look at his army. The devastation wrought upon them. He feared the Them, for the threat they could pose. He waged the war for the sake of his Us, or so he thought. Or so he believed.

And for the first time, in a very, very long time, Ashfall felt truly afraid.

From a distance, Dungstain glared at him with contempt, as he often did now. Yet this time, he chose to keep quiet, for the sake of his self-preservation.

Still, he knew all too well what dreadful mistake the foolish, arrogant Ashfall had wrought. He feared the Thems, and attacked them all with reckless abandon.

Now he had given them all a common enemy.

Behind her mother, Threestripe gazed fearfully at Ashfall, as afraid of him as she was afraid with him. She had stayed behind in the battle, and watched from a distance. She didn't want to join the chaos that unfolded. She didn't know why there even was a war.

All she knew was she wanted none of it.

Ashfall gazed into the distance, in horrified realization, as the knowledge of the Them, now too powerful, now more of a threat than ever before, sank in. The rest of the Outlanders crowded around him, equally uncertain, equally anxious, in visible unease and with tails tucked beneath their rear legs. Despite the failure, he was still a leader most looked up upon for direction.

Most.

"What now?" asked one Outlander.

"More."

"Need many more. Too few," Ashfall concluded, after a tense and silent pause. "If together Them fight. Us...need more."

"Where get more?" others asked. "Us...not many."

"Them." he replied, pondering his last resort.

"Other Them. Make fight."

"For Us."

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#speculative evolution #speculative biology #spec evo #speculative zoology #hamster's paradise #the calliducyon saga

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