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The smell of smoke stung the air with its tinges of blue-grey and wisped up through the expansive trees that shrouded a canopy over the camp. Morning sunlight streamed through the open areas and basked the ground in sweeping rays of early heat, gracing across grassy dew and cool rock. The small flat portion of forest, tucked right against a small buried boulder over thirty feet wide, was home to the indigenous life that now roused weakly from slumber. The hunters had already left before sunrise, keen to set up traps and take up their positions before light clipped the horizon, and so all who remained were those who were too slow to let their minds work at their fullest.

Stevarn however was not one of these people.

The wolf, with placid grey eyes and a thick winter coat, sat in his hunched position staring with intensity into the flames of the fire. His gaze did not abate as he watched the amber dance, another sleepless night as he had awoken far before the hunters themselves. He had sat in pallid moonlight, nursing a sputtering fire, with the icy chill of memory running through him. Yet more bad dreams, dreams of lives he did not understand, let alone lived before; furless creatures with blunt faces, and wearing odd animal skins who talked in a tongue not unlike his own, seemingly spanning back generations to a point that shook him with fear - an unspeakable moment that would seem to terrify even his darkest nightmares. The physician of the tribe had tried many medicines and the high priests had done the best they could with every prayer to the Gods, but still these unnatural images plagued him. Sleep was no longer a comfort; it was torture.

Rising from his seat, Stevarn shook himself down from the cold ache that accompanied the rise from night. Absently he thought to perhaps finding some alternative to sleep and opting to take some nightly tasks so as to not become an absolute burden to his pack. The tribe grew weary of his stories, he knew, and whilst he was adamant he was not insane he had to concede that perhaps he should relieve their ears from hearing of such fanciful tales. Casting his head skyward he breathed in a frozen breath, letting the chill permeate his being and fill his core up with the shivering vigour of the day. When he opened his eyes, he was met with the ever present sight of the God Star - the only celestial entity that shone forever, come day or night, never ceasing in its intensity. It was the only beacon of hope and founding of faith within a wild land. The wolves had not ventured much further than the valley itself, though they had settled upon a plateau not far from its base, but the God Star was a symbol that there was more out there they were yet to see. Every now and again a team would be assembled, an expeditionary force collected with hunters, priests, and the like, and they ventured off. They were usually never seen again. Any who returned spoke profusely that the world was just the same beyond what they saw, enveloped by the seas from all sides. This was our world, shared with few others, but the God Star would disappear every now and again as it dipped below the horizon only to emerge from the opposite direction several moons later. The Iubar-Phan cycle was much faster than the Umbra-Phan one, but between the two moons the God Star kept a balanced position.

Stevarn brushed down his coat, feeling the coolness of his fur against his paws, running them through the thick pelt of ash-grey and mottled white. He was, as most of the young men in the tribe, rather fit for his age, though he knew his sire would have wanted a more commendable child; his height was short though, as whilst his fellow pack were all near to six feet if not over, he himself reached only an adequate five foot nine. His build as well was frailer compared to his friends, being only suited to a lithe frame that may have been excellent for running and flexibility gave no merit to strength and power. He lacked the muscles that usually came with a boy's rite of passage where he spent a year alone in the wilderness where one might incur a rival tribe or a savage species - Stevarn had heard tales that across the seas a herd existed that resembled a likeness to the horse tribe over yonder of the mountain range, but were instead coloured with black and white, striped in their markings; such tales were clearly made up stories, but it did lead one to think.

Often it was commented though that Stevarn would have been mistaken for a female youngling if it were not for the bulge at his loincloth - the clearest sign of true manhood. It many a time drew much embarrassment and attention to him, but he had to agree with them. When down by the river washing, he could catch his reflection in the running water and he would compliment the familiarity between himself an a more slender form of a girl not yet reaching her prime. Of course, he did counter back to them that some of the women looked like men, were it not for their chesty bosoms.

His clothing though, whilst in line with the tribe's traditions, did veer away from the orthodox. Unlike many men his age, he did not wear the warrior's vest made from dried leather that encased one's chest and abdomen in a thick, firm girdle, nor did he partake in the ritualistic ceremonies that awarded great tribesmen with feathers to show their status. He had resigned himself to knowing he was the lowest of the low, and that he always would be. He had tried before to become more than what he was, even daring to brave the husk of night to hunt and bring back meat for the tribe, but his attempts met with eventual failure. Though he made himself useful as best he could, he knew that to them he was nothing more than dead-weight that sapped on their strength. Barely an adult himself, having just passed his eighteenth solstice, he was only kept around for his parents' comfort and for the intended reason that he may some day prove beneficial where others weren't. At least by any means he would could be killed and roasted should an especially harsh winter came along, he thought with grim humour.

"Stevarn!"

The young wolf looked up from the flames, glancing across the plain to where the voice had called from. The chief's underling, his elder son Aibra, waved at him curtly. Already the wolf knew something was amiss, and judging by the grave and disgusted look upon Aibra's face he figured that, in some way, it would be his own fault to blame. He walked over, weaving between shuffling tribesmen who had risen early enough to catch the dawn. Some were even naked, having disregarded the need for clothing so early and left their dens in full nudity. Even some of the men whose turn it was not to go hunting wandered about sporting a morning's announcement with as little care as they could. Stevarn, whilst accustomed to the tribe's genuine disinterest in nudity and seeing it only as the true natural form, did his best not to look downwards to sight these samples of large men; he was not prude, not by any means, but he did hold a dark secret he wished no one else to know.

"Harin'kal; what is it, Aibra-Vu?" The full name, of course, had its terms of address, and Stevarn was not about to unwittingly insult the chief's son when he looked so revolted serious. He added on the greater wolf's last family name so as to keep up pleasantries, just in case he truly was in trouble, and made the polite greeting of hello.

"My father wishes to speak to you." No return of politeness; even between strangers and rivals, a greeting must be reciprocated for the sake of retaining civility in the face of barbarity. Stevarn's ears lay back flat against his head and his tail tucked itself just a little more between his legs. Aibra seemed not to be in the mood to attend formalities. His fur bristled with some unseen anger or hatred that Stevarn had never quite seen before. Seldom did any of the tribe get truly enraged over anything. The last time he had seen Aibra in such a state was when a local mountain lion tribe raided the village and raped his mother - she was still a shell today. Absently Stevarn pondered if his aggressive nature that had developed was acquainted to those events, that circumstance had turned him hostile.

"What about?"

"Find out yourself!" Aibra spat with such vehemence. He stormed past the bewildered wolf, their shoulders crashing together as he surged away, striding off deeper into the camp. Stevarn watched him leave with great confusion. He had to admire the man, despite everything that lay between them; he was probably going to take the title of chief some day when his father finally took his last breath and then claimed by the goddess Stamenia, laid to rest in the overworld. He was a giant of a wolf, standing at the tallest of all the tribe at near six and a half foot, with muscles that Stevarn had seen make boulders crack with their sheer force. His coat, whilst brown with hues of golden blonde, was dark when not in the light, giving him perfect flawless camouflage whenever he went out to hunt, or worse. Much like his younger brother, Aibra shared the same face and build, and so naturally the Vu family had held the prestige of chief for many, many solstices and through countless of generations, dating right back to the earlier days back upon the meadows beside Lake Gemino where Stevarn's family had first joined the tribe.

Sighing, the wolf looked to the central chief's hut. Position at the absolute centre of the encampment, better built than the rest of the dugout dens the other tribesmen had for themselves, the hut served as both a meeting hall for all the elders, high priests, and other important members to congregate and lay judgement to all beneath them. They controlled the ration of food, clothing, wood, and much more, whilst also dictating how wolves should lead their lives according to the Creed of Gods, a tattered tapestry depicting their struggle to shape the world, ultimately sacrificing themselves so that their land may live. Stevarn always wondered about their faith, but kept his questions to himself. He was outgoing enough and too much of a perversion to the norm to oust himself further. Any more and he was certain he himself would be cast out - he would bring shame to his family name of Ko, not to mention he would not last one Iubar-Phan cycle.

All was still relatively quiet in the calm of morning, though Stevarn was not sure whether this would bode well for him or not. What choice did he have though? If the chief called, then duty was to obey, regardless. He trudged his way towards the hut, hearing a murmur of hushed voices from inside that grew belligerent and snapped in tone. When they heard the crunch of his paw-steps against the smattered ground of twigs and flecked bark, they stopped and coughed. He stood by the drape that hung across the entrance, waiting for permission to enter whilst he glanced shiftily about. Meeting with the chief, alone especially, was never a good thing.

"Come!" The clipped, gruff voice of the chief called, and warily Stevarn entered.

The interior was by no means primitive; the chief had adorned the place as best was possible with the banners of the tribe hanging down from the ceiling by the beams that held the roof up. A rounded wooden table, whilst uneven, sat at the centre of the room and about it were seated the high priests, Stevarn's parents, and the chief himself. All of them had gaunt, dark faces. Stevarn didn't want to be here. Either side of him two of the hunters, clearly being fashioned to act as guards, stepped in on either side of him. They carried brutal looking swords with vicious serrated edges and gleamed in the firelight from the standing braziers. Both towered above Stevarn already, so escape at this point would be impossible. Whatever it was this council wanted, it would certainly have him trapped and ready for the consequence.

"Harin'kal, Stevarn-Ko." They spoke in unison, the intonation flat and emotionless.

"Harin'kal..." Stevarn responded dumbly, automatically acting on impulse of the greeting. He stood their gormless and waited for what it was they had to tell him. The chief, a brute of man though more stout than one might have expected for a tribal leader, rose from his seat and leant forwards onto his knuckles, his fists clenched tightly and pressed against the rough wood,

"Stevarn-Ko, we have brought you here to face trial for the crimes you have committed against the Gods."

Stevarn's gut dropped. Not a simple fear, as though one might be afraid of heights or when standing up against a foe bigger than you, but a fear so deep and primal that he froze in fear. It was as though someone now held a very cold and thin blade to his neck, and he could feel its burning touch venerating his nape. The tension become worse, as though a thickness had settled upon his soul and made him feel clammy and suffocated. He spoke hoarsely, reluctant to speak at all though he knew he must,

"On what charges?"

"You stand accused for the corruption of the natural form; you have slandered the good divinity of life," One priestess jutted in, speaking as though she were reading from a parchment or scroll but with iciness in her voice, "You were witnessed to be caught within the carnal acts of another male. We have a testimony from the man himself; thus we find you immediately guilty."

"What!" Stevarn whimpered, his voice scratched and panicked, "What do you mean? What testimony?"

"You will be quiet, demon," The chief bellowed, a growl emanating from his throat, "You have no words to say that could even begin to justify what you have done." Stevarn's mother let out a muted sob, drawing the wolf to glance over at her. She was hunched up, his shoulders scrunched against her neck as she leant against the body of his father. He just looked on with contempt at Stevarn, rubbing a soothing paw along her bicep as she wept into his chest.

"Issak-Vu has confessed to committing the act of life with you. He claims you came with willing consent and instigated the ritual."

"Lies!" That wasn't true; Stevarn had been approached by him. It wasn't the other way around. The chief roared again, bearing his fangs at Stevarn,

"Silence!" He slammed a heavy fist down against the table with such force that the very ground the accused wolf now stood upon shook, "Issak has admitted to you using forbidden charms and tricks to beguile him. He said you lured him into a trap whereby you made him believe he wanted it! That can be the only explanation!"

Then, things clicked for Stevarn. Issak wasn't betraying him; his father was.

It had happened only a short while ago, barely a few months at best but it had rapidly escalated. First, it started with small nudges, friendly gestures and greetings of 'Haluun'kal', which then descended into boisterous hugs in spurred moments followed by scuffing up the other's fur. Issak had just appeared friendly, perhaps attempting to reach out as Stevarn had taken it, so he had allowed himself to grow close to the wolf. It wasn't uncommon for two men to share a friendship as deep as any other mate - it was considered the greatest bond of warriors, sanctioned by the god Proliak himself. But then it happened one night...

Issak had shuffled closer whilst they sat star-gazing on a verge far off from the village. It was a quiet spot the wolf had found one day whilst hunting, and he had been insistent that Stevarn come see it too. With little choice, he'd agreed to go along, and they spent a great deal simply talking about life, what they believed their destiny - their peractia - was to be. Issak thought fondly that he might stand as second-in-command to Aibra, just as would be expected of him when his father passed, but he doubted whether he'd become chief himself. He did speak warmly of how he'd long to be the head hunter, and to be in charge of the village's security, ultimately. When he'd asked Stevarn though what he wanted in life, the wolf had fallen silent. He had no answer. It pained him to no end that he welled up with tears and claimed he had no peractia. Issak would have none of that though, and to this day Stevarn remembered this moment to its fullest. He cupped the wolf's chin, turned his head to face him and told him to remain strong, and that he would find peractia in the most unlikely of places. He remembered whispering a thank-you, but that's when it happened. Suddenly he found Issak's lips against his own, his tongue pressing against his mouth and delving inside. Stevarn knew what it was like to be with a female, and he hadn't been entirely infatuated with the principle of it. He had thought, like most things in his life, that his sex too was merely defective, that he must be some degenerate being casted away by the Gods. But within him swelled this fire, something he'd never felt before and it burned brightly into a ball that he'd later stake to be passion. He reciprocated, reared on by this newfound energy as he kissed Issak back. The next few hours went by in a fanatical blur, but it was time filled with naked body pressed closed to another - where warmth was shared and bodies were experienced to their fullest. Both of them reached their peaks time and time again, culminating in Stevarn's rump being seeded as though he were a bitch many a time. He had thought it impossible at first, concluded to be resolute in his head when the pain started, but it grew easier until soon he began to enjoy it. When he breached his pinnacle and shot across Issak's chest it was, to this day, his best climax he'd ever witnessed without even so much as touching himself.

From then on, they met regularly when they could, though that was seldom often, but they were forced to keep this sordid love affair a dark secret. Neither of them admitted to liking men, but it seemed so right and natural to Stevarn that he just accepted he was somehow a defective bitch instead of a sire. Happy in his new role, all he had to do was keep up appearances to the tribe as a normal man who longed for the company of women though to his benefit no woman wanted him. But what they were doing was the act of Life, an intimate, private and highly sacred rite between a sire and a bitch whereby the Gods gifted new life unto the world by a joining of two mates, loved forever. For two men to even attempt such an act was considered a great revulsion of the faith, and a crime against nature. It was forbidden. Anybody to even be considered of having done such a thing was the ultimate dishonour one could bring upon themselves.

So here Stevarn was now, standing accused of it, when yet he knew the chief had saved his son's hide, and in the process his own, by passing all the blame to him. Stevarn could have argued all he liked, even implicating Issak further with the countless other times they met when Iubar-Phan and Umbra-Phan were rising high into the sky, beneath the God Star - they had never tried to stop them, so Stevarn wondered why it was so wrong to do - but he always held his tongue. What good would it do? His family were already bearing enough of the guilt for having failed their son in his upbringing, by allowing him to become evil; what good would it do to destabilise the whole tribe and tear apart their order.

Perhaps this was his peractia. Perhaps it was his destiny to sacrifice himself so that Issak may lead the tribe and uphold it for generations to come.

"You are to be immediately exiled, cast out into the wilderness where even the Gods cannot save you. We are agreed unanimously." A high priest rose from his seat, nodding to the guards that stood either side of him with a terse nod, "Take him and throw him down the trench."

"Wait!" Stevarn knew of only one last thing he could do which might just about save his hide, though not entirely to the extent he would have preferred, "I wish to speak to the chief alone, please..." His voice came out cracked, breaking as he fought back the realisation of his predicament. His request was met with a haughty laugh and an indignant snort of derision,

"This bold nature is surprising of you, fiend," The chief waved his heavy paw, chuckling, "Go, all of you; I will meet this fool's end if he so wishes it."

Obediently they all rose from their seats and left, sidling past the guards and Stevarn with haste, all with varied looks of disgust, pity, and dismissal on their faces. They passed out quietly though, shortly followed by the two hunters who were waved off by the chief. Soon, all that remained in the hut was the chief, glowering from across the table at Stevarn who shifted nervously on his footpaws, accompanied only by the crackling fire and heavy scent of smoke. The chief, unlike most of the tribe, wore the ornate dressings of his title; a harness that cross over his shoulders and met between his pectorals, going down in another strap straight across his navel bore the tribe's emblem embossed in gold. It was circular in shape, denoting from Stamenia's orb of life, but it held within it the eclipse of the two moons, so that there was a crescent with a smaller circle within the portion that had been cut out. The wolves were, for some unknown reason, obsessed with the moons' relation to the planet, and so much of their culture took from it. It seemed therefore only fitting that the chief wear it with such pride and honour.

"Well!" He snapped irritably, "What do you want?"

"I want provisions to last me in the wilderness," The chief scoffed, but Stevarn pressed on regardless, "And I want equipment by which to defend and care for myself and a head start before you send the pack hunting after me; that is, unless you would like to me to go kicking and screaming, shrieking to the tribe of what your son and I did beneath the Gods' gaze?" The chief's expression fell grave, almost fearful of Stevarn. His threat was adequate enough. Even if he would be cast out into the wilderness, he could take Issak with him - though Stevarn believed with certainty that Issak would wish to follow anyway. "Listen Mykeel-" The chief bristled, interrupting loudly,

"How dare you refer to me by name!"

"I'm no longer part of this tribe, am I?" Stevarn quipped back defiantly. If he was to go down, he would go down fighting, "If you don't want the family name of Vu to be forever tarnished and if you want your son to remain within the tribe, then you'll allow me these simple requests, or else I would destroy your good name." Mykeel, the chief, stared the smaller wolf down, but Stevarn had literally nothing to lose. He was already being stripped of everything he owned, had, and ranked, so he was therefore a meaningless animal to them now free to wander the wilderness until sooner or later he met a fate worse than what the wolves could have brought upon him. Mykeel was outraged,

"I could have your throat slit from ear to ear and have you hung from the tallest tree in all of our territory to show you how we deal with abominations against life."

"You could," Stevarn agreed reasonably, his tone sly, "But then you'd be going against a council decree, and the pack would call into question the severity of the execution - my death would sour your authority. Simply killing me won't solve your problems. Issak will rebel against you anyway if you don't let me talk to him and I'll expose the truth anyway if you don't bow to my request."

A savage snarl licked at the chief's lips, his eyes burning with barely contained fury, but he was right; he had enough room to bargain for at least a chance of survival, even though it would take a lot more than a few days' rations and some tools to get him by. But he was certain he could push for no more than that. He'd have to barter and negotiate too for what he might be allowed, though what that might be Stevarn had no idea. He wasn't the most adept of survivalists. When you get excluded from the pack's hunting, you miss out on core skills to living beyond in the wildernesses.

"Very well..." Mykeel grunted, waving a dismissive paw, "You'll be discreetly given a sack of the bare essentials, and I'll give you until sunset before I send hunters after you... You have a short while to speak to Issak, then there will be an official excommunication of you from our pack." He snapped a glare to Stevarn, eyes wild and vicious, adding with a final yell, "Now get out of my sight you foul beast before I decide it bear to gut you here and now like the sordid pig you are!"

The wolf backed away, giving in under the chief's relentless willpower. Part of him was terrified to his very core, knowing that realistically, even with supplies and tools, his chances of surviving for more than a few days were hopelessly slim. He was by no means survival material. He could barely light a fire, so long as the weather was dry and the winds weren't blowing. The winter was descending upon them too soon; for now they were settling through a bleak autumn, with markings showing of a harsh snowfall coming in. But, deep down, behind that fear and anxiety, Stevarn was gloating to himself, knowing now he didn't have to lie about himself. It was a bitter vindication, but he'd pulled the wool over his pack's eyes for so long that he was proud now that everything was exposed. Still... He worried for Issak's future. Whilst being the chief's son granted him certain privileges, and the elders would most certainly make attempts to cover up his wrongdoings, his actions would colour his family's opinions of him for years to come... He knew Issak didn't like women, but he tried so desperately to fit in amongst the other men that he shared their collective tastes. But would he ever be happy? Stevarn would never know, he guessed, since they would most likely never meet again, unless peractia would intervene.

Issak would most likely be waking up and preparing for the morning hunt with the fellow hunters. They shouldn't have left, not yet at least. Stevarn strode out onto the crisp air of a bitter dawn, looking to see if anybody was about now. Still there was only a smattering of individuals who had broken forth from their tents, and they looked just as bleary-eyed as one did when waking from slumber. He had time. Stevarn strode off for where the hunter's would ready themselves for the morning's chase, down by a stream where they could wash themselves down and clean their gear. It was a short walk away down a gentle incline, so it gave the wolf a moment of quiet to himself. As he picked his way across the forest floor, he couldn't help but wonder how exactly he'd break the news, nor would he know how Issak would react. They'd never had the most intimate of relationships. It had all operated upon a level of need that neither of them could find elsewhere. Through the bramble already he could see the crowd gathering for the morning hunt, the flash of cold iron in the morning shafts caught the wolf's eyes every now and again.

Suddenly he felt very alone, and very much scared. The insurmountable feeling of an inevitable fate was dawning upon him, soaking down his spine and nesting in his gut. The fur on the back of his neck was raised as his heart raced now, wandering ever nearer to what would be his final moments in a safe place. They'd kick him out the instant he'd said his dues to Issak, and they wouldn't let him drawl on for too long. That and any sign something was wrong to the rest of the pack would result in an uproar, it would spoil the hunt, and he'd then face a sentence far more severe than just exile.

As Stevarn touched the fringes of the gathering, he swallowed back his pitiful cowardice.

The larger wolf stood up just ahead, pointing to some spears that were propped up against a boulder emerging from the grass surrounding it. He was a handsome wolf who would have no trouble finding a mother for his cubs, regardless of for which tail he chased. Much like his father, his belt was a light black, deeper than the common shades of grey that the tribe shared, and tinged with white on his chest as a testament to his mother's blood. He was taller also, though whether that was a sign of greater strength or just age Stevarn wouldn't know. He was still the lesser of his brother, but they shared much alike. He had a very strong face too, something which the wolf had first noticed when they'd begun to court each other secretly. His muzzle was quite angular and his ears very pointed; he often recalled simply running his paw across the lines that formed whilst they rutted amongst the plants, marvelling at how firm he appeared to be. Right now though he seemed to be in deep argument with this other wolf, a grizzled look warrior with the scars to match his heckled face. Just as Stevarn came near to them, he overheard their heated spat,

"They were sighted not too far from here!" The other wolf snarled. Stevarn believed his name might have been Horvay-Pi, but he couldn't have been sure, "We need to take more than just these." He gestured to the spears, then swept his arm across the mass of furs who assorted the gear.

"They've suffered enough these past few Phans," Issak hissed back, people sneaking a peek whenever they could as they past. They often bumped into Stevarn who had slowed to an almost halt as he approached the two, "We have more than enough supplies now to last us until snowfall; we don't want to antagonise them and have them wear us thin."

"A decisive blow to a herd near our territory will send a message to tell them to keep away!"

"We risk losing good men to their hooves! I will not have another war on our paws so close to the last lion's campaign. We have all suffered enough." Issak glared down to Horvay, bearing his teeth. Despite the brute's much larger size, his tail cowered between his legs. "Am I understood, Delta?" There was a short moment as Stevarn saw Issak risk his status, placing his authority open to challenge. A lull of silence broke out around them as people finally turned to look properly, instead of delivering sidelong glances. Horvay scanned the crowds to see how it might turn out, but nobody seemed to give him any support. He held up his paws in defeat, backing off,

"Fine, you win, but you've gone soft these days. Sooner or later, Stamenia shall call you to bear arms, and should you lose... I won't pull your tail from the fire. You may be the chief's son, but I am not your wet nurse." Horvay cast an ironed stare to Stevarn as the fight seemed over, then he huffed, walking off to go berate some younger wolves for their inefficiency in ordering today's weapons. The mood calmed then, and the hum of noise and bustling footpaws through the dirt returned, leaving Issak to breathe a sigh of relief. He turned around, startled by Stevarn's presence but quickly broke out a smile,

"Stevarn! Harin'tol!" He chuckled, looking back over his shoulder to watch carefully the haggard form of Horvay as he spat orders at others, "I'm surprised to see you here, how much of that did you see?"

"Harin'tol, Issak, and enough to know you've got things under control." Issak grinned wider at that, his tail beginning to wag behind him. The larger wolf leaned down to whisper in Stevarn's ear,

"You like a man to be in charge, don't you?" Stevarn bristled, knowing very well people could be watching, especially in such a crowded place. He shoved the wolf back a step, growling low in his throat,

"Stop it, this isn't the time."

"You're right... later tonight then?" He waggled his brow, letting loose a sly, lewd smile that did anything but make Stevarn lust for him. If anything, it filled him with sorrow and misery. In a few moments he'd be hustled off and sent away by this wolf's own father for nothing but a measly act of love, whilst Stevarn himself would ultimately suffer at the cruel paw of nature, Issak would be left behind to mend his broken life and live under the shadow of his father's oppressive doubt and mistrust.

"No... I can't tonight." Stevarn rubbed his forearm, glancing about nervously for the signs of Mykeel or his muscles. It really did feel like he could at any minute become nothing but a memory to everyone around him, all at some whim of Mykeel . Was his existence really that tiny that by decree of an ancient law he'd be left to die and become a carcass or slave to another tribe? Usually, when Stamenia claimed a wolf, they were given a ceremony to mark their death. It was a whole tribal affair; food was cooked to serve a banquet, the family was honoured to sit with the orderlies to remain close to the gods, the body was burnt upon a pyre filled with ash-ran leaves which when burned produced a blue smoke. It was believed that the smoke carried away the soul of the deceased and lifted it up to the God Star and then formed the sky in order to protect the people through the day.

Issak looked confused and he waved off a wolf who had come to pester him about something or another. She lingered for a moment until she glanced to Stevarn, exhaled a low growl, before wandering off again,

"What do you mean?" Stevarn saw the small figure of Mykeel in the distance. The hunt was getting ready to leave. He didn't have a lot of time between Mykeel arriving and the hunters rushing off to go find some prey and supplies to haul back,

"I can't see you again - ever. You can't be seen with any male either." Mykeel was approaching faster than Stevarn had anticipated. He'd reach the clearing in little time at all, "They found out about us... But they think I just influenced you, so you'll be fine so long as you don't give them a reason to kick you out as well..." Issak's face had fallen, a dark shadow falling across the smoky blackness of his fur.

"They know...? Shit, what did they say about me?"

"Shizha... Think about yourself, why don't you?" Stevarn cried softly, "You're not the one being exiled." Issak's face grew darker still, his eyes suddenly wide and glistening,

"They're not... They can't, I won't let them. Let me talk to my father, surely I can convince him to-" Stevarn held up his paw to halt him before he could go any further. His shoulders were rising and falling rapidly as he hyperventilated, fear and panic striking him at once in an evil blend of savagery.

"It's already been discussed Issak... They've decided. I saved your tail though, just know that. But you can't rebel or go against him anymore. Just find a girl, become mates, and live out the rest of your life in peace." He hung his head low, already feeling the throes of bitter worthlessness. He was nothing but an afterthought to Issak, an object for his pleasure. A last resort, if he were to be absolutely frank. There would never be another male he could sate his desires with, so he was the next best thing. He was the only best thing. His departure simply marked the finality of what they did together and nothing more.

"I don't want that..." His voice whimpered, the façade of his authority finally slipping as the cracks finally revealed a lost puppy beneath. Stevarn was more than done, but he had little choice. He had to make sure Issak wouldn't turn against his father or else he'd be hunted down,

"That's what you've got. Take it or leave it. You can't come with me because then the tribe will want to keep me too, but then they'll have to find out about what we did. Then we'd be executed for an abomination to the good divinity of the Gods." Issak's ears lay back against his head and his whole form sagged, as though what strength he had seen in him was now sapped and gone. His eyes glazed over with a clouded tint as he too began to realise what this meant for him. A life now without peace, of constant ridicule from his father unless he conformed to every order and every request made of him. Find a mate, raise some cubs, look after the tribe, and die a warrior's death. It all became so formulaic and routine. There would be no taste of male flesh or the feel of another so close to him that he could love back. Any female would have to be truly smitten by him to ever ignore his alternate favours for men.

"When do you leave?" His tone was defeated, an imperceptible quietness to those around, but Stevarn heard all the same. Mykeel was walking briskly towards them, guards on either of his sides with a look of loathing upon his muzzle. Stevarn looked over to see him approaching, now spotting the fatigued outline of his parents just holding back, his mother still much distraught and his father staring on coldly.

"Now... it would seem."

Issak looked up, turning just in time to see his father join the throng of hunters, striding up to them with purpose. He nodded gruffly to his son, barely concealing the snarl that tugged at his lips before he directed the rest of his vehemence onto the smaller wolf. Issak opened his mouth but a solid, swift piercing glare from Mykeel sent his voice to the depths of his conscience where Stevarn doubted it would ever rise again.

A pack was brusquely shoved into his chest and Stevarn instantly grabbed onto it as he tumbled back a little,

"There's a day's worth of food in there, some flint, and a dagger," Mykeel said, his voice curt and irritated, "That's all you're getting demon."

Stevarn looked down to the worn pelt the pack was made of, the traditional style of his tribe. It had the coloured feathering of his family's colours, which only made him realise that his parents had dug out possibly their oldest heirloom to give to him. He squeezed the material between his paws, feeling touched if only for a moment; even in the bleakness of it all, they at least looked past the shame and granted him on last connection to his heritage. He flipped open the satchel, rummaging through the measly contents inside. There was nothing but a Qualiar fruit - an oval, ruby coloured egg big enough to fit within one paw and with a smooth, unblemished skin - a handful of dried nuts and seeds in a pouch, and one canteen of water; it would all last him a day, perhaps two if he were lucky, but it would leave him incredibly hungry. Alongside this was the serrated knife, curved slightly upwards that extended out by less than a footpaw. Across its faces were engraved the tangles of something teal, the traditional symbol of Stamenia's Smoke. A knife designed to kill then, for hunting. It was at least something, so that he didn't have to abandon his gods even when out in the wilds. He fastened the satchel back up and slung it across his shoulder, making sure the straps were tight. Dressed simply as he was, with the tribe's loincloth and now armed with this makeshift survival kit, this was as good as he was ever going to be.

The hunters were all moving off now, leaving behind the small grouping of Mykeel , the two guards, his parents, Issak and of course Stevarn. There were some wolves calling for Issak to hurry up and join them before they got too far off. The larger wolf looked between Stevarn, then to his father, before gazing back over his shoulder to the pack as they rushed into the density of the forest. He didn't have much choice as his father barked for him to leave. Lingering for a moment, his eyes cast once more solemnly to Stevarn, water threatening to break as he took in the final sight he'd ever see. Then, as he turned his back, he was gone, sprinting off as though the very nature of what was happening forced him to flee with all his might, leaving behind a silent and growing fear in Stevarn. The quiet began to envelope the scene, as the humdrum from before died down to nothing but the wail of wind through trees and the odd snap of a twig. It was a one-sided standoff between the abomination and the righteous. Mykeel spoke first in an unfeeling and empty tone,

"Stevarn-Ko, you have hereby banished from the Holy Lands of our Gods, and left to wander the wilderness until Stamenia welcomes you back unto the fold; when that day comes only then shall you be repented for your crimes of good divinity." His mother was weeping quite openly now, as though she was suffering the greatest loss of all. It was not her life being placed into perpetual and ever-mounting danger, but merely her pride laid on the line and the loss of a child. If anyone were to be crying, it should have been Stevarn, "By the mercy of my leadership, I shall grant you one day's safety before we will kill you should the hunters ever come across you. Now go... I strongly suggest you head east, so that nobody runs into you on the way back from the morning hunt."

Mykeel turned around and growled at the two guards. They swung into action, each taking one of Stevarn's arms and began to haul him away, far from the settlement. His mother cried out for mercy, blabbering on to the gods in some archaic prayer, even for them, as his father held her back. Stevarn just numbly watched on, feeling his paws drag lines through the dirt as he watched the village become nothing but a blur within the trees. Further and further away they took him, until he lost his bearings and began to feel distinctly lost amongst strange woods. The morning light grew dimmer with each passing minute, the canopy swallowing it up until they came to an almost mimicking darkness of night. That is when they stopped, in all the evil shadows that shrouded them now, and they threw Stevarn to the floor. He didn't recognise their faces clad up in the spiritual masks, but he figured they were the eunuchs made to serve as protection to the village, their sole purpose as defence and nothing more. One turned to walk away, but the other decided he wanted to enact his own anger on the smaller wolf who shivered amongst the damp leaves, kicking him brutally in the gut and winding him. Stevarn howled out in pain, doubling over into a foetal curl as he felt his gut erupt into a fiery grinding agony. The two simply chuckled, running off as he moaned into the moist forest floor and left to recover. His world became silent as Stevarn battled furiously, not wanting to die out in the middle of nowhere, alone and afraid, but the darkness took him swiftly until his mind went blank.

He passed out with a thud, his head hitting the hardened soil and his limbs falling limp, and he dreamed of pastures green.

~ ~ ~

Deep within the forest, miles away from home, lost in a murky sea of stupor and dizziness, Stevarn awoke with bile and terror rising in his throat. He lurched up suddenly as the acidic taste burnt his tongue, heaving up what little he could onto some sodden moss. Coughing and spluttering out the dribbling gloop, he shivered uncontrollably, unable to stop himself as every small movement or tiny sound sent him on edge. His paws fuddled for the strap of his satchel, gripping onto it tightly as though his last vestige of home would keep him safe.

All he had now was the dagger, bundled inside which he now searched for. His paw delved into the sack and fuddled around until he clasped the hilt, wound tightly in a strap of cured leather then fashioned with iron. He wondered how long it would last without being treated or sharpened, but that was ahead in time of the wolf. For now, he at least had something to defend himself with and make an attempt to hunt.

First call though was to find fresh water as far away from the wolf territory as he could - he had no knowledge of building any form of shelter, so he'd have to just find a cave somewhere and hide out in it until morning light the next day. Without any sight of the Phans or the God Star though he had no idea which way he'd be heading. He didn't even recall which way he'd been dragged... His mind was still washed with a sickly swirl of nausea and pain. Stevarn didn't even have any clue as to how long he'd been passed out amongst the dead leaves. For all he knew, he'd spent most of the day teetering upon unconsciousness and rousing himself up. Unsteady of his footpaws and with barely any strength to him, he looked aimlessly about for a direction to pick. The further he headed downwards the greater chance he'd have of finding water. If he were to assume he was still in the valley, which seemed to be the best option, then sooner or later he'd come across a river or stream.

The area he'd been left to rot in was on a gentle downward slope, where rocks had fallen away to reveal a cliff not too far from him. Stevarn saw it as possibly his best direction to head off in; he brandished his knife with as much courage as he could muster as he shuffle-stepped down. Picking his way through the forest's blend of rugged cliffs and rock faces mixed with thick trees that packed so closely together was his idea of a nightmare. He was used to the subtle and gentle sight of his people's huts, the large spaces, the familiar smell of tree sap and burning wood... He longed to be back there now, even if it were to be waiting for his execution. At least then he wouldn't be living out his final days in solitude and fear.

He staggered and tumbled his way through the thicket, not knowing particularly where he was going but determined to put some distance between him and where he woke up. Most likely, in the back of his mind, he knew he was leaving tracks, but hopefully some other creatures would come along and destroy them for him. Right now he cared very little as he plundered through foliage and overgrowth, tears stinging at his eyes as he really began to think about the horrifying injustice of it all. Surely if the gods were that mortified by what he and Issak did, they would have put a stop to it? If they were all mighty and all knowing, they'd have even prevented the act before it had begun to dwell in their minds, let alone in their paws as they enamoured one another. What good was it then to preach the word of the gods when they sat back and let them do whatever they pleased? There had to be a point where sins could only chalk up to as much resistance as an individual could manage... why was he allowed to be so arrogantly rejected simply because he was expendable to the tribe, yet Issak got off free of accusations. His life won't be the best, but it'll be safe and warm, with food, water, and shelter... He could carry on living a lie whilst Stevarn had to starve for it.

He came to the edge of the forests that led to a sharp drop that plummeted several feet into a craggy ravine. Stevarn stopped in his tracks as he finally had a vantage point to observe where he was. Looking up he could see it was still early morning, but later than it might usually have been. He hadn't lost that much time thankfully, but that just meant more hours to be awake and hunger. Sighing bitterly, he looked down to see if he could spot any familiar markings in the land. His village was nowhere to be seen, and he wondered whether he'd headed in a directly opposite path away from it or if he was unable to see it through a heavy canopy. In either case, it truly meant he'd been ousted from his own people and now left to survive on whatever he could. It must have put him on the fringes of the territory, to where it dropped off this raised plateau which acted as a good natural defence. The fain t lick of a river was also seen from where Stevarn stood, and he remembered its name from the vagueness of his delirious mind to be something dubbed the River Barathok which ran from Lake Gemino. The lion's had since claimed a great portion of the river as their territory, position encampments along its twisting length that were dotted with vast fires which would light up at night. Should a light go out, then their roars of war could be heard for miles as they assumed the worst, sending a swathing army to recapture what was supposedly taken. Everyone feared the lions, for they dominated the lowest part of the valley and kept all at bay from reaching the richer resources and sacred plains that lay just beyond. Sadly for Stevarn, it was his best chance of fresh water... though he much disliked the idea of risking his life for water; he knew it'd be a quicker fate than to let himself thirst in pitiful conditions. If he were lucky, though evidence would suggest otherwise, he might stumble across a stream somewhere and save himself the dangers of traversing Barathok.

Where he was standing must have been the conjunction between what would the territory of the wolves and then that of the horses, for he had never seen such meadows that sprawled out towards the river before. He was used to the sight of woodland and giant trees than to see open lands covered with ebbing grass. It sent a chill down his spine to think of being in such an exposed and vulnerable position out in those meadows, as unlike the horses the wolves did not possess such strength and speed when it came to charging. They were a more tactile and stealthy species, whilst the horses boasted impressive strength and confidence in their ability. He had heard tales of their great demonic forms, with elongated heads that would haunt dreams and fiery nostrils that snorted such great smoke. He grew up on these nightmares of their neighbours, finding much to fear in them, from their billowing manes that resembled the tentacles of Stamenia's Smoke to their thunderous hooves cracking the very earth they trampled on. They were not the only thing Stevarn had grown to whimper at, but they had always been so prominent in his life due to the two tribes' closeness in proximity.

For now, Stevarn would head for what looked like a corridor of trees that had been scattered along a field's edge. It was some distance away, but the thought of attempting to traverse the meadows unprotected and with little cover was both uncomfortable and gut-wrenching. Already whilst his footpaws were sore from all the walking and climbing, he would rather travel the extra distance than risk his tail so early on. If he was to survive, he'd make a good job of it rather than failing at the first step.

His gut growled in dissatisfaction as he realised he hadn't eaten anything before leaving... Perhaps that was bad planning on his part, but it seemed now the best time as any to eat his Qualiar. He plucked the fruit from his bag as he made his way along the jagged edge, looking for a suitable way down. Biting the skin of the Qualiar rewarded him with a sharp sour tang, a good sign it was fresh, and the tore away a chunk of rosy flesh. It was soft to chew, at least providing him a little comfort as he picked his way down a shattered wall of rock, weathered away by wind until its weight had become too much to bear. He slipped down the softer sanded stone until he tripped, sending him careening down the slope until he finally came to a stop, bruised and cut in one or two places, with an ache that radiated through his bones. His fruit, half-eaten had come to a roll somewhere amongst the grass, and he raced to retrieve it before something took it off again. It was dirty, but it was all he had, so he dusted it down as best he could and licked clean the filth, spitting out the earthy juice so he could save the sweeter taste. He sighed, taking another bit of the battered fruit, feeling it had lost its original freshness and now speckled with sand and stone it was no longer appetising. He finished it off with a forced swallow, knowing it could be the best food he'll have for a long time. He would save the dried nuts and seeds for when he was getting desperately low on energy, that way he'd preserve his strength for longer.

He was down on the level of the meadows now, and he could see their rolling and sweeping hills from where he stood, all the way to what could have been the river's edge. Simply just looking out across it was enough to make him cower, fearing if he so much as stepped near it he'd be hunted down instantly by lookouts. Without having any idea of what sort of system they operated in regards to intruders, Stevarn would be running blind from here on out, at least until he gathered more intelligence about the area. Someone must have spotted him by now though, he figured, so he was determined to keep as low a profile as he could without provoking any attacks. Maybe if he made himself to be as insignificant as he could, they'd figure he wouldn't pose any threat to them and they'd allow him to pass through. It wasn't likely, but it was as good a guess as any.

The path of the tree line was some walk away, so Stevarn hugged the cliff wall, keeping as close to it as he could whilst he kept an eye out for any approaching hunters or attackers. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he was being watched right this instant, a sensation that prickled along the back of his skull and down his neck, but he could do nothing but ignore it for the time being - though it was a hard feeling to ignore, with a clamping tightness about his chest that made him feel so encased and trapped. Occasionally he'd catch a glimpse up ahead of shadows moving, but it must have been the grass rustling in the winds, for if it was anything else then Stevarn would have curled up there and then and waiting for whatever it was to come kill him. He wanted nothing more than to right now just give up and let his peractia consume him until he died. But he pressed on, despite his heart wanting to leap out of his muzzle any second, and ignored the warnings of fleeting shadows.

He could feel the ground shaking, like a tremor only it felt softer, more constant and growing ever louder. He knelt down to the floor and felt his paw along the crusted earth and listening intently, hoping it was just that and not anything else. But he was right; the sound was growing, reverberating into a great roar that soon it became impossible to ignore. The shadows were moving faster, encircling him against the cliff face, and Stevarn felt his instincts kick in. Fight or flight, which was it to be?

With no strength on his side and a pathetic dagger not suited to combat, he had little choice but to run. He knew not who was chasing him, nor did he know if they were faster than him. All he knew was that he had to get away, that some deeper urge was telling him to flee for all he was worth. He lurched forward, breaking out into an exhausting sprint as he focused in on the trees, knowing it would be best to hide out there if anywhere at all. He heard thunder rolling behind him, shadows jumping into the light as great beasts barrelled after him, braying out a loud war-like cry. The sound was so alien, and it unnerved him. He stumbled and staggered across enough ground that shook with such a tremendous force, leaving his legs weak and jittery. But he was determined to live, not wanting to be captured, and it was that which drove him on despite all the tumbles he took. He ignored the pain from his fall, he pushed aside and quashed his hunger, bringing up all that he could within him to power his legs as they pounded against the ground. He sped along at a speed that even surprised him, but he could see up ahead that monsters were attempting to cut him off, and before he had chance to even alter his course or take evasive manoeuvres, he tripped and was sent hurtling through the air before scraping along the ground the final few feet. Something ensnared his footpaws, wrapped tightly around him and keeping them fixed tightly together and as he tried to pick himself back up, spitting out the dirt from his bloodied muzzle, he felt his legs were immobile.

The beasts all gathered round him, panting hard and picking themselves into a circle to all stare down at his prone form. They all bore weapons unlike the wolf had ever seen, one carrying a great axe that curled up over itself like the crescent of the Phan, whilst another carried something which he recognised to be a bow, only that it had a sharpened edge that glinted in the sunlight. It was even coloured oddly, instead taking on a brighter grey than what he'd seen before. Stevarn looked up, just as one approached him, and gasped with frightened eyes.

They truly lived up to the nightmares he'd had as a cub, from the rumours that circulated between cubs and then the stories that were told late at night to ward off the children from straying from the territory. Stevarn felt his inbred fear rise up within him and cloud his mind as he stared into the face of a true demon.

The horse was much taller than he'd envisioned, towering above even what he considered a normal male's height, and blotted out the light, leaving him in a lingering shadow. Its face was long, just as he'd been told, with two large nostrils that huffed in air sharply before exhaling it in a hot flush. His leathered lips remained tight as it examined him, its eyes cold and glassy as it looked into his own. Stevarn turned his attention to the might this beast possessed, looking across his impossible muscles that seemed to bulge and ripple with every little movement it made. There was no heavy pelt of fur, instead it was covered in short hairs, copying what fur should look like but being something entirely different. It was a dark brown colour, with a bedraggled mane that ran down its back, finishing off with a flicking tail that barely resembled Stevarn's own. Its body, much like those around it, was matted with sweat and dirt, so it glistened in what light there was, showing off every definition that would have otherwise been unnoticed. The wolf cowered beneath this beasts, looking further down to see their loincloths, whilst different in design, appear to be larger than what he would have seen back home, followed further down by their legs which might as well have been tree trunks for their girth and sturdiness. Whilst he had paws, he could see that they all had hooves where their footpaws should have been, which appeared dusted and scratched from their hunting. But what was most remarkable about them, despite their terrifying size, was that each one of them had some kind of unusual marking on different parts of their bodies. Stevarn would have assumed they were natural markings had he not heard about the horse's infamous tattoos. Pin-pricks of needles fashioned from spines on trees, they would soak them in dyes before slowly and painstakingly colouring their bodies in permanent hues of black, purple, red, blue, and green. The larger the tattoo, the higher the status, or so stories were told. The one that reached down now to grab Stevarn by the throat had one that encircled his waist, snaking down one thigh before creeping up along his chest to his neck, once more looking like Stamenia's Smoke - the wolf felt it fitting, considering his lungs were being starved of oxygen.

As he hung their limply, grasping at the heavy arm that now held him aloft, swatting it with weak fists that did little damage, he heard them talk in a heavy tongue he didn't quite understand. Firstly something was directed at him, but he just looked confused as they then shared a remark or two, laughing at each other.

Then one spoke up, and the others seemed shocked, taken aback by whatever it was he'd just said. Stevarn looked across with wild, desperate eyes to see a lighter brown-coloured horse, one with black tattoos that hung about his side, arm, and waist, and was arguably larger than the horse who gripped him now in a vice. He repeated himself. Abruptly, Stevarn was left to drop to the floor, sucking in ragged gasps of breath as he lay there in the dust, knowing his life had been spared,

"You lucky, wolf," his saviour spoke, attempting his best at the wolf's language, "We don't like your kind running round here. Filthy spies are slaughtered."

"I'm sorry," Stevarn whimpered as he looked over, "I don't want to be here, but I've been banished... I'm an exile, I swear." The horses murmured between themselves, giving Stevarn a chance to look about him. There were four in total, one stood before him now whilst he was addressed by one that stooped over a rock. The wolf now wished he'd paid more attention to when cubs were taught about other tribes, so that he might know at least a little of their language to know what was going on,

"So your pack rejects you, yes?" Saviour said, is tone intrigued, "They will not care what happens to you?"

"No..." Stevarn said, defeated and wanting his nightmare to end, to just wake up and be back home in front of a fire. Why couldn't he just be having a bad dream?

"Then you will be ours. A slave." Stevarn's eyes went faint, his mind screaming at what was happening. Death was better than enslavement, he would refuse. "I am Aydame, and I need somebody like you."

"No!" he cried, trying to get to his feet. But it was no use; he looked down to his legs and saw a thick, tightly-woven rope that had curled around his ankles again and again, carried on by heavy ball bearings that acted as weights, lassoing him into a state where he could not easily escape. All was not lost though... Stevarn's paws tightly gripped around the knife that was in his satchel - it was useless for fighting in paw-to-paw combat with beasts who weiled far superior weapons, but it was not useless for cutting through rope. His finger traced across the ridged serration, knowing he could make light work of it if he were quick. He just needed a chance...

"You have no choice, little wolf. You are mine now. Either that, or they will kill you." Stevarn didn't want to die, so he just hung his head, knowing that it would be better than nothing. If he died now, that would be it, but he could escape later, possibly even strike up some kind of deal if he took a hostage. It was all so absurd to him, such foreign and wrong thoughts, but he was growing accustomed to now improvising, having to think tactically. He hated it. He hated all of it, having to become some fine-tuned warrior, but it was a new life now and he'd have to embrace it.

He was about to be picked up though when a fifth horse came running towards them, galloping at such a speed that Stevarn wondered if it were even possible. His face looked panicked, distraught as he careened towards the scene, shrieking at the top of his lungs and pointing to the skies. They all seemed distracted by whatever it was, and the one proclaimed as Aydame snapped over them, bickering at them all in some alerted commands. He saw his opportunity and seized it. Whilst they were arguing and shouting amongst themselves, he whipped out his knife and immediately set to work on the ropes. It was tough, for he had little strength left in from whatever reserves he had, but he managed to pluck one strand loose. Backwards and forwards, running the blade along the twines until they frayed, snapping and falling away; he looked up, seeing if anybody had noticed his prone and smaller form, but they all seemed enraptured with this new arrival, all barking at him like they would a child. Stevarn, once free to move his footpaws, stole himself away, about to get up and run when he realised what they were arguing about.

Stevarn looked up, just in time to see a huge fire soaring through the sky. It was unlike anything he'd seen, and already he could feel the ground shaking far worse than any quake he'd felt before. He could feel its heat, powerful enough to suck the air from his lungs and leaving him short of breath as the fire curled around and headed towards them. The horses scattered, just in time as the fireball ploughed across the land, sending wakes of dirt and ash outwards in a great cone, burning all before it. Stevarn barely had a moment to flee himself, running away only to feel his body get picked up and thrown out of the way by the magnitude of the blow. The world flipped up over itself and began to spin and twirl, as though the gods had reached down and flicked the globe as though it were child's toy, as though it was a pebble ready to be cast across still waters. His mind lurched, his gut sickened and wrenched about, his hunger now serving him better as nothing had a chance to heave itself up. He felt weightless, his ears ringing in the sound of a horrendous fire that consumed all his senses, until the ground rushed up to slam and grind against his face. Stevarn became acutely aware of impossible heat surrounding him, but seeing no fire. Just lying there in the dirt, pain swallowing him, he willed himself to get up, fearing he might have broken something important or tore his flesh to a worse condition. It all happened so quickly, leaving him groaning in a wreckage of the land with his ears singing loudly in a high pitched tone and his muscles all sore and stretched from whatever it had been that had attacked them.

Slowly but surely, noise returned. Normally he'd fear it, refuse it, even push it away, but for once he welcomed it as though it were a forgotten friend. It meant he was alive, and reasonably conscious enough to recognise his state. But he had to move though. He had to run, even if the fire had just ambushed them, he still had to flee from his captors, regardless of the situation. He rose unsteadily to his footpaws, unable to find his balance as he looked about. He was greeted with nothing but desolation. The sweeping meadow he'd seen before was now partly ablaze, rippling with the gases of fires that licked from patch to patch. All the horses were gone, save for the one that had saved him before. Stevarn wondered if he should help him considering the service he'd done to at least spare his life, but he didn't want to risk capture again - that and the man had been more willing to put him to be a slave than give him the mercy of Stamenia's grasp. At least then he might have been forgiven for his 'sin'. But, in any case, the horse was out cold, his face buried into soft dirt with no visible signs of injury. The stallion's tools, armour and weapons lay scattered about the place, something which must have happened because of the great explosion, Stevarn concluded. Whatever it had been that had passed over them, it must have been quite distant not to have hurt them too badly, but the extent of its destruction made the wolf shudder with the thought of what it actually was. The air felt thick with ash and smoke, and it was difficult to see too far. All that seemed to take any shape were the dancing flames that lit up along the horizon, silhouetting the edges of the trees and turning the meadow from a pleasant pasture to an even more terrifying menace of sweltering heat as a firestorm brewed away.

The trees appeared to be relatively intact, if not a little scorched along their branches and swaying more precariously than might have been normal, but it didn't bother the wolf. He rushed up to a singed trunk, feeling for a foothold before hoisting himself up. Scaling the tree with ease, finally his childhood bearing helpful skills he could use. As a cub, he'd climbed many trees thanks to his size. He'd been mocked back then for doing something so petty and unproductive, but now it seemed he was proving them all wrong. He reached the top and found himself a sturdy branch to stand upon, looking out across the land from the high point.

In a straight line away from them, heading down towards the river, was a trough of burnt devastation. All about them the plants had been singed and trees buckled over to the might. A cloud of earth still hung in the air from where the impact had been, darkening the sky as the sun was shrouded in smoke. The sky was tinged with a dark hue of black that spread further and further, curling across the expanse until it began to shade the world beneath it. The Phans were barely visible now, not that Stevarn expected to see them around this time, but it felt peculiar being unaware if they were there. But what frightened him most of all, perhaps the most horrifying sight he'd ever seen in his life, was that there no longer was any God Star. From where it usually shone up in the sky, it was vacant, leaving nothing but an empty part of darkness that filled him with great dread. He quickly came to the one conclusion that seemed only logical, looking down this line of death towards the crashed ruins, with only one thought on his mind.

The God Star had fallen.