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.

Snowrock said simply. “What happened before can happen again…

scoffed. “Then why have the green landers

we know, except Vysenn,” the blue-eyed chief rebutted. “Do you care to

came to blow, someone with 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. Unless others have alternatives… we approach this

the side, and the heart chamber

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

None spoke in favor.

from

All seemed to loathe the idea of this duty, but concurrently all realized its importance. In the end, the heads of the most prominent and ambitious tribes elected to go, if only so that they would be able to

of the Snowfalls, the Firevein of the Flames, and the Tender of the

wrath of Vysenn, and to combat the misery my tribe has brought upon our people…” he stepped up to the ringed table,

the room. The Firevein nodded in approval, while the Snowrock looked greatly

the

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

is your right as a chief,” the Snowrock

drummed it upon the earth. In time, all gathered in a rough ring around the pit in the earth, striking

then… he stepped

#####

green landers. Prudently, they had

deeply to calm himself. Barring the guards

brethren, he did not bother with tattoos and kept his hair long. “Standing can be

Firevein looked at the strange chief, then nodded their heads in turn. And then, they stepped out across the grassy

knee. He saw no point in putting on airs, and did not trust the Firevein to do the same—so long

was incredibly tall, and the chieftain even more so. His hair was like the black glass formed from the volcano. He had eyes gray as stone…

a clear, somber voice. “You sought to kill my

“Chieftain—”

steel declared, guttural voice more terrifying than the rumbling

bowing until his hands needed to support his weight. “Please. One of