‘I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

…The brows of men by the despairing light

Wore an unearthly aspect … some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;

…And War, which for a moment was no more,

Did glut himself again…’

                       - Lord Byron, Darkness

In a distant land of distant suns, amongst the vast expanse of desert plains, there sits a dark figure. A strange dark figure in a strange dark land. The shape moves, bursting into two. The smaller shadow departs itself from the top corner of the figure, settling to sit lightly by its side. They look at each other, then proceed to stare out into the blank darkness.

There is not much day on this side of the sands. Mostly night. Too much darkness. The larger figure shivers. It does not care much for darkness. In its youth it had been frightened by the dark, as one of the carriers of monsters and other unimaginable creatures of the night. Beings that had haunted its dreams. Beings that would eventually rise out of those dreams and haunt it in the sparing night, finally emerging into the last rays of daylight to snatch it away to this world, this endless nightmare.

It sighs.

The little figure beside it sighs as well.

The violet moonlight reflects off their flickering ribbons, revealing a shimmer of crimson in the woven material.

All alone in this strange, dark land, they stare at the endless night and dream of day.

Circa. 643 T.D.

He watched as the strange, smooth-skinned two-legged creatures stumbled across the plains. He was crouched low, wary, ready for whatever conflict may ensue. He had heard things about humans.

He belonged to a tribe of supposedly ‘ancient’ beasts, winged centaurs and fauns coexisting in the vast expanse of Northwood. No strangers ever crossed into this part of the forest, and none of their own ever ventured any further than the shore to the west, the Silent Plains to the south, or Middlewood to the east.

This was something entirely different, and it frightened him.

As the humans neared, he saw in their eyes that they were distressed. They looked exhausted, and near hollow-cheeked. He scanned their general appearance. The slightly smaller one was milk-skinned, the taller one a deep brown. Tattered clothes of dusty red, strips of material wrapped around their heads, bundles of this same cloth binding large humps on their backs and shoulders.

They were almost upon him. He thanked his lucky suns they’d not yet seen him.

A great gust of wind blew across the plains, bending the grasses low against the earth, and he almost feared for a moment they might see him.

The wind knocked them back a little, and blew the material aside from their heads, leaving the strips of cloth hanging down from their necks and whipping around their shoulders.

A long tangle of maroon hair washed around their faces, snatched up in the wind. He stirred as he recognised them from the stories.

Southerners.

According to the elders, they were a race that generally posed little threat. He allowed himself to stand tall in the grassy plain’s edge, his youthfully toned centaur body a steady force again the wind, and the figures slowed their already hindered progress, staring.

Two species stared at each other in curiosity. Two tribes from the far reaches of the lands.

He spread his wings and lowered them to the ground as he bowed his head, offering a trusting, humble greeting. The strangers halted before him and bent forwards at an angle momentarily, dipping their heads forward, a cloth-bound hand reaching up as though to sweep dust upward from their chest, to their forehead, and out toward him, open-palmed. 

This must be their traditional greeting, he wondered to himself.

The one on the left bore deep-red hair from his head that reached around and clutched at his face. The other’s hair was longer, face softer and without chin-hair, and she had slightly larger, soulful eyes. This one not only had her back-hump bound in cloth, but also bore another lump of cloth at the front.

This lump moved.

He recoiled. What sorcery was this?

But the woman moved forward, to show him this front bundle. It was not some cursed growth pulling on her body.

It was an infant.

The man spoke to him, and he was surprised to hear a similar language to his own: same origins, but more rough and crude. He explained to him that they had been travelling across the sands for weeks, and had run out of food a few days ago. The creatures appeared desperate. They removed their back humps – called ‘packs’ – folded their long, pale legs, and grounded themselves. They called it ‘sitting’, and asked if he would care to do the same. He bent his haunches and settled on the ground beside them.

Moments later, he was absorbed in their tale of loss. He watched as the woman’s face seemed to tighten, and water streamed from her eyes. He was concerned for a moment, but was told that reaction was natural for their kind, particularly in moments of distress.

He heard a rustling from beyond the Plains, and his eyes darted up and across, scanning the bent grasses. There was another strangely formed creature struggling through the harsh wind, also wrapped in the faded red cloth of these people – although this one was shorter, and with more hair. The others seemed to recognise it, as they shouted in elation.

They all watched as this new figure approached, still several junaar away, but even in the strong gust it appeared to be moving much faster, a little more erratic.

A second later, several other figures appeared, only a few junaar behind the new companion. However these creatures were very different, and he watched as his childhood nightmares came to life, stories told by the Elders of beings beyond the south, blacker than night, who knew no sun and no warmth and no soul, and he realised why their friend was frantic in its advance.

The brown-skinned man beside him let out a primal roar, surprisingly strong for one so weak. He pulled a twisted blade from his detached lump of cloth, about the length of his forearm, and rushed out into the Plains toward his hairy kin.

The woman looked over at him, pushing the bundled infant into his arms, and from her pack she pulled two smaller blades, only a little longer than her hand span. With shocking speed and desperate strength she followed her companion into the field. The other cried out to them, and he watched as the man connected with a black creature.

He was frantic. He wanted to help, but he was still small for his age, and had not yet undertaken his Rite of the Spear. Unarmed and inexperienced, he would be more trouble than help. He glanced down at the messed bundle of red cloth and milky, infant flesh wriggling sleepily in his arms.

There was a flash nearby, making him jump. The pale woman was locked in battle with three of the creatures with the hairier Southerner attempting to help her one-handed, whilst the other hand gripped a smaller bundle to its chest. There was another flash as the woman thrust out her blade-tipped hands, plunging them into the dark creature. It crumpled into a black heap, opening a path for the two of them to move closer to him.

They had almost reached him when they heard the largest of the black creatures let out a guttural roar. The man had severed a forelimb, and the creature was writhing in pain as he jumped away and began running back to his mate.

The woman exchanged a few words with the hairy one, who then came bounding toward him, arms outstretched, holding its bundle out to him. He quickly scampered forward, catching the creature, and she frantically pulled away, pushing her bundle into his free arm and telling him to run for the cover of the trees. He looked down and saw another infant, only with more hair, and a dark simian face. Its mother turned toward the fight, brandishing a small blade with her long tail.

There was a sudden burst of grass and earth and she screeched. Before she could turn and attack she was overcome by a twisted black creature, pulling her back and winding itself around her. It wrapped long limbs along hers, entangling her, and began to constrict.

He stifled a scream and made a dash for the trees, hoping he could blend well enough. Meanwhile, in the distance, the giant black beast was rushing toward the pale woman, who in a fiery rage was charging in its direction, blades clenched tightly in her hands. He looked to the ground and saw the man lying in two parts, soaking the surrounding grasses with a seeping pool of crimson blood.

The woman’s throat rumbled as she let out a screeching roar to match the creature’s growl, running and jumping over dead black heaps. She ran stealthily up a jutting rock and leapt into the air, back arched, arms stretch and bladed hands pulled right back. He watched as she sailed forward, struck by her sudden grace in the midst of attack, before she collided with the creature’s face. Her bladed hands retreated and fell, continuously, as she stabbed and slashed at whatever she could find. The creature bellowed and thrashed, throwing her about, and she rolled and glided down its back, dragging her blades behind her. Black essence bubbled and spat from its spine.

She landed, rolling to break her fall, and, finding her feet, she broke into a run.

The black beast turned, and as he watched it gain on the woman he saw that its face was dripping with black essence from her attack. It thrashed, but followed her quickly, drawn to the sound of her movement through the Plains, listening for her panting breath. It sniffed and snorted, tossing its head, its movements erratic.

She had blinded it.

She smeared a dash of her blood across the rock face where they’d met, and turned to watch the creature halt in its tracks. She bent slowly to pick up her sack and threw it out to land off to the creature’s left. She then called out, a desperate gasping cry, as though she herself had stumbled and fallen in that place, and the creature looked off to its left and scrambled after the sound and scent.

He stared at the woman in admiration and fear. True enough the wind could carry a voice a few junaar from its origin, but she had sent the sound quite a distance. She had somehow completely thrown her voice.

A wisewoman. She was a witch of the south.

He had heard stories about witches, but realised now that little was truly known about them. The ancient tales made them out to be horrid, misshapen, haggish creatures, whose voices could charm a sea, or stoke the fires of the Underplace. This woman seemed like any average female southerner, just with a few added talents. Clearly they were misunderstood creatures.

She turned and quietly, swiftly, approached him. The only adult survivor of this battle, she was a marvel to behold.

She sat with him a moment, taking her infant into her arms again. The child nuzzled into her chest.

The woman suddenly gasped for breath, coughing, and a fleck of crimson landed on the infant’s rosy cheek. She looked up at him, a red trickle appearing at the corner of her mouth. She handed the child back to him, desperation staining those brave eyes. She doubled over, coughing again, splattering specks of blood upon the ground.

There was a grumble in the distance. The black creature, by now weak and bled almost dry, was being showered with arrows. A mass tangle of deep-red centaurean bodies and wings swarmed the creature, finishing it off with their spears.

He heard familiar hardened hooves, many of them, approaching. To his left, a group of his kin appeared, wings fluffed, with two females among the throng. One was his grandmother, the other her halfling apprentice.

They spotted him, down on his haunches, cradling two small bundles, and beside him the sickly southern female.

Those at the front of the group recoiled at the sight, cautioning him, but his fearless grandmother approached to examine the woman. She knelt like him, pulling the suddenly frail creature into her arms, cradling her like a babe, listening to the gasping pleas as she told his grandmother what had transpired. She gave him special mention, and gestured to the infant bundles in his arms. She whispered a few instructions, growing weaker by the second, worn out from her starvation and the efforts of the conflict.

She reached down into her redcloth and pulled out a shimmering crimson crystal the size of her hand, woven into a thin rope that looped around her neck. She pulled it free of the netted cord and handed it to his grandmother, muttered a few words, and sighed, her energies wasted.

She cast him one more glance, nodded, closed her eyes, and fell limp.