Jackal Among Snakes

A small party of four navigated across a treacherous and narrow valley road where rockslides seemed liable to happen at any point. Their feet crunched when they fell upon with the loose basalt fragments beneath. They had the inhuman, alabaster-like skin of the people native to Vysenn. Their wizened yet large leader bore a staff which he leaned upon heavily to walk. Most of his body was exposed to the elements, though not indecently so. His red tattoos were densely packed as to give the impression he was wrapped in something.

The narrow pathway did eventually open up. An austere temple was the first thing to greet them. The structure was made of polished volcanic rock and made to seem a natural fixture to the mountain. The volcanic gases expelled from most of the earth had been pathed through loose stone bricks so as to grandiosely shroud some of the building. The three escorting the old man looked up in wonder, yet he led on without sparing a glance like he’d seen it all before.

Inside, the old man’s staff echoed through the halls, and they all walked in silence through the dark and poorly lit halls of the temple. The walk was quite a long one, and as it carried on, the man leaned on his staff more and more. In time, a brighter light emanated out ahead, and a wave of heat assaulted the four of them. It was powerful enough that it seemed to distort the air. The three escorts paused before entering, kneeling down and placing their heads upon the ground.

The room ahead was known as the heart chamber. It was a place of worship where only tribal chieftains could enter without special exception. The heart chamber was carved from the earth, fashioned into a crude circle. There was a large ring that acted both as railing and a table. It blocked any from falling into the titanic, uneven hole bubbling with magma far below.

The old tribal chief looked about, witnessing all present. There were many other chieftains here, but none so old as he. They sweated from the all-consuming heat of the heart chamber… but not all of their sweat seemed to come from that, he thought. There was nervousness and fear in the air. His eyes fell upon a young boy, who had the least tattoos of all present. He looked hollow and shaken.

“Why are you here, boy?” the old chieftain asked before any words were exchanged. “Where is the Blackweb?”

Another man stepped in, almost shielding the young one with his staff. “The Blackweb died, Firevein. The boy has abandoned his old name and taken his father’s position, now.”

The Firevein narrowed his eyes. “The next Blackweb was not so young.”

“They all died,” the other continued. “He’s the oldest male of his bloodline.”

The Firevein clenched his staff a little tighter. “He cannot even wield a weapon…” he sighed and stepped inward. “And we must deal with the Webspinners’ folly? Ridiculous! They deserved what they got. Their tribe is dead, scattered to the wind, to be absorbed by the others.”

“But we have to deal with the repercussions,” another called out from across the gaping pit of fire between them.

“And why?” the Firevein rebutted.

“Because when disease infects one member of the family, the rest are sure to grow ill. We may blame the sick for their weakness, yet the disease must be dealt with all the same,” he said proverbially, leaning onto the table until the light from the magma illuminated his blue eyes. His tattoos were white, and so provided a very peculiar effect upon his already-pale skin that made it seem textured. “The chief of the green lands beyond has come seeking retribution. His spirits claimed hundreds of the Webspinners, and he brought with him the one who hunted their tephramancers—the Stormdancer.” He stepped back and slammed his staff upon the earth. “Gather, everyone, and let us discuss.”

Everyone focused and shifted closer to the table with light, uncertain steps. The Webspinners were among the strongest of the tribes in the region. Despite this, their numbers had been culled until they were the weakest overnight. All survivors of the battle in the green lands spoke of the Stormdancer. Equally pervasive was the one who’d slain them after with all the rage of nature, yet he had not been given a name.

“Their leader is the one who called the spirits?” another chief asked.

“What does it matter?” the Firevein waved his hands. He had a grudge with the blue-eyed chief, the current Snowrock, who’d spoken and did not care to see his point taken so seriously.

rhymes,” the Snowrock said simply. “What happened before can happen

two alone repeat such results indefinitely?” the Firevein scoffed. “Then why have the green landers not conquered the world by

blue-eyed chief rebutted. “Do you care

off-yellow tattoos stepped in front of the Firevein, breaking his gaze. “Come. Cease this bickering. The chief of the green lands has come seeking amends for the intrusion upon his lands.

the side,

speaker stepped around the table. “Those in favor of repelling

None spoke in favor.

our decision,” the Snowrock leaned away from the table. “All

concurrently all realized its importance. In the end, the heads of the most prominent and ambitious tribes elected to go, if only

the Flames, and the Tender

wrath of Vysenn,

in

asked incredulously. “Boy… step away from the heart. Would those you’ve left behind want

interrupted. “He is a chief and has a duty to this land and its people!” he pointed his staff. “A chief whose tribe is dead, at that. The best he can do is offer repayment to those his forefathers wronged. We must do penance—so should he. If he can calm the earth and appease the gods beneath, that

a chief,”

a rough ring around the pit in the earth, striking their

then… he stepped

#####

and laid eyes upon the waiting green landers. Prudently, they had chosen to meet outside of Vysenn. Things might have gone differently had these outlanders recklessly gone into

and he breathed deeply to calm himself. Barring the guards armored in metal, the people there were more

his hair long. “Standing can be regained, but death is forever. I don’t

then, they stepped out across the grassy hills on the edge of Vysenn…

on airs, and did not

greeting in much the same fashion. The Snowrock dared a glance at them. The Stormdancer was incredibly tall, and the chieftain even more so. His hair was like the black glass formed from the

my lands,” he began in a clear, somber voice. “You sought to kill my people. You

“Chieftain—”

in steel declared, guttural voice more terrifying

Majesty,” the Tender lowered his head obediently, bowing until his hands needed to support his weight. “Please. One of our tribes acted alone. We ask for