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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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