He had no name. He was born in the Outlands—no sire, no dam. He was born from the earth, and it flowed through him, hot in his blood. From the stone had come his bones, from the dirt had come his flesh. His scales and his fur all had come from the ground, his fangs and his claws carved from black glass. Even his eyes were winked from the jewels that glittered in the ground. Mud had made his blood and the many voices of the earth had whispered his spirit into him. All of this he knew, for the earth had told him. All of this he knew, certain as the lifeblood that flowed through him.

He belonged to the earth by birth, and it belonged to him. All of it. The wind that blew against his fur in the morning, crisp and cool as it ruffled his coat in greeting. The earth that cracked under the weight of his steps, throbbing with a familiar pulse not unlike his own heartbeat. The red stars that cast their pale light on him at night, gazing with unblinking eyes, brilliant gleams against the neverending black. Even the dry, yellow grass that grew in thin patches on the ground, ragged but tough and far hardier than any prey he hunted. It was all his. He was no one, but everything was his. This land belonged to him, and he claimed it as his birthright.

He was quiet, but therein lied a cold strength. Perhaps for now his territory was only in the Outlands, but he was not afraid. He was not hesitant. He could feel this world calling out to him, the earth yearning to hold him in its strong embrace once more. He could feel its pulse, its desire fervid and wanting. It was the pulse of the world, from the roiling seas that tossed waves against rocky shores to spiraling mountains that cut reams into the sky. It all called out to him, and the vibrant flame that burned in his chest gave scorching reply.

He could wait. Wait and grow stronger, until all that challenged him broke in a fountain of blood and gore. Until none dared resist. Then he would claim all of this earth, as his birthright and inheritance demanded by law. He lived by the cruelest of laws, after all; he lived by the laws of fang and death.

When the boundless red plains met the rocky hills, he knew that it was not far until his den. The grasslands were dry and arid, but they grew the knee-tall grasses that murak loved to eat. So, he walked the distance to go hunting, to stalk where the prey thought that they were the safest. Perhaps others would have to follow the tracks of their quarry, but he had no need. He felt in in the ground, as much a part of him as his teeth and eyes. He felt the light dance of their hooves as they circled a rare watering hole. He felt the low thrumming of their heartbeat, felt their gentle heat. It was easy as a breath, as mindless as a thought. He felt, and the earth gave reply.

All this, he knew as he walked with the corpse still strung over his shoulder. The beast that he had killed earlier was now food for corpse birds. He left it as a reminder, as a declaration to any who had gotten too bold in his lands. What the weak had, the strong took. That creature had nothing even worth taking.

As he mused, the dry, cracked dirt of his hunting grounds under his feet slowly grew a downy covering of short grass and outcroppings of stone. He picked his way among the crags with a familiarity that came from years of experience. The stones were jagged and looming, sharp as any talon, but he passed through without effort. Indeed even if his eyes were blinded with blood and a leg broken under him, the earth would still give him a way home. It was not confidence, for confidence implies possibility of uncertainty. For him, it was an unquestioning surety. For as long as there was stone under his feet and earth around him, he would not die. It would not let him.

The hill with the ring of bluegrass around the slanted rock spire shooting up to the sky, that was his. It was obvious enough, rising above the rolling hillocks and wearing a crown of teal. This den he knew since his birth, for he was the one that made it. He had shaped it from formless stone by black claws, carved it with bone and scale. It was his declaration of territory, his mark on the land. He circled around it three times, sniffing at the earth until it was sure that he did not scent any trespassers. It was done with the dulled movements of an old habit, but he never forgot to be on guard. A dim throb in his right arm attested to that, even if the scar had long since faded.

He strode over to the side of the hill where three heavy rocks rested in form, blocking entrance to his cave. Dropping his kill on the ground and rolling his arm a few times, he braced his right shoulder against the uppermost boulder and heaved, left foot digging into the grass, right leg pushing against the stone to his back. Although it seemed unyielding at first, he gritted his teeth and heaved, muscles straining. With an effort, the rock shifted, groaning, exposing a hole two arms wide, large enough for both him and his kill. It was his den, dug into the earth, where the land surrounded him, protected him, held him on all sides. here he called home for the longest of times, for all his life. When he was born, this was where he slept that first night. When he was injured, this was where he hid to lick his wounds. It was his gift from his progenitor, a home, and most importantly, it was his.

Inside, it was not dark. When he was born, the hole was as large as he was, for it was where the earth had made him. But that night he dug into the rock with his claws. With each strike he claimed the land as his, and the land yielded itself before his prowess. He killed, he ate, and he grew, and his home grew larger with him. The rock and stone parted before his claws until his den was as large as the hill itself, a cavernous mass of tunnels and rooms growing under the earth. Such was the gift that the earth had given him. The land was him and he was the land. All that he wanted, all that he wished, he knew he would have it. When he needed light, the land gave it to him. The grass that creeped into his home shone with blue light at night that tranced him to sleep. When he needed food, the land gave him food. The grass that surrounded the hill drew prey in abundance, and he feasted with the rancor that only the strong could have. He belonged to no one but the earth, and the earth belonged to him alone.

Laying his kill down in his den beside him, he struck the ground beneath him, scraping it until flakes of black came free. There was no one to teach him this, but he knew because the earth had told him. The black he burned with sparks from two rocks, and the fire he fed with the grass and the carcasses of trees. His kill was ripped apart, the meat cooked over the flame, the bones he cracked open and the marrow slurped out. The guts he held onto to mash into a bait for hunting. In a manner of moments the corpse was reduced to a pile of shattered bone with some ragged bits of flesh. The murak calf was a good kill. The meat was lean and strong, he would take its strength. It was the law: what the weak had, they gave to the strong. He claimed it, for the weak belonged to the land, and the land belonged to him. Such was his birthright. Such was his will.

With little effort, he tossed the bits of bone outside for the flies and maggots to feast upon. His stomach full of food, with his body now growing tired, he readied himself for sleep. Stepping outside, he took in a long, deep breath, smelling nothing on the air. He knew these lands; he was confident that none would be able to kill him in his sleep. Even still, the blood throbbed in his head and he released a chilling howl into the wind, deep and warning. The earth returned his cry with fading echo and only then did he turn to rest.

That night he slept soundly. He had no fear of the shadows, for the earth would warn him. He had no fear of death, for the earth would warn him. And the earth did not speak, so he did not wake. The red stars gazed upon the ground outside, the light blue grass shining in reply, and the cool mist that was carried in the wind drifted like his dreams.

He dreamed of his birth, of how the earth whispered its secrets into his ears as it gave him form. How it spoke of the spirits and how he would rule them. How it showed him the steady pulse of the spirits around him, that he could feel in his heart without eyes or ears. How it told him the coarse words that the beasts never spoke, and how it painted swirling pictures of lands far away. It had promised him that they would be his in time as well. He knew that those lands would be his, the earth gave this to him. With the black Maes lines that adorned his body, it had made him. It gave him his form and it gave him power.

Power did not belong to the weak. But he was not weak. He was strong, and he would claim his birthright. Such was his will.

He woke all at once, something rousing him from his sleep. His mind was sharp, clear, shedding the drowsiness of his sleep with ease. With a raging fire in his stomach, he rose from his slumber, rolling onto his feet with the ease of instinct and shaking the blood into his muscles. His body was on edge, his limbs tense and heart speeding. Hot fire burned through him as he took in a deep breath, trying to calm the enraged primal part of him.

He woke because of an uneasiness in the air. He felt it in the earth around him, a new presence. Here. On his lands.. He could smell it, the scent in the air. It was faint, tainted with the traces of sharp, metallic blood, but he could tell it all the same. Here. In his territory. His. Territory.

That primal part of him swelled in rage as the need for control, that base instinct of dominance sent his blood into roiling storm. Seething anger swallowed all reason as affronted pride filled his body with flame. His fury left nothing uncertain, left no other path for him to take.

He could see it now in his mind, see what would happen with surety. He would sniff out this intruder and tear then apart. He would gut them from neck to stomach and watch them squirm as his hands closed around their throat. Blood would spill out and cover their front in glorious color, their failing heart rough and wonderfully weak as he would hold it in his palm. They would plead and beg with their glassy eyes and he would break their bones in response.

His heart was racing now, his breaths short and ragged as his muscles clenched in barely restrained glee. His claws tightened in anticipation, flexing over an invisible noose as he ran a dry tongue over deadly sharp teeth. He saw this all, certain as stone in his heart. Here lay the penance that they would pay for their arrogance. He would send a message to all, send a message that these lands were his domain. He would send a message of the blood toll that all would pay.

With a low growl, he followed the scent, every nerve in him on edge. The cords in his neck were taut as he prowled, scanning the air with the practiced movements of a natural hunter.He was a predator, and every fiber of him attested to that. He had no need for weapons, no need for armor. His claws, sharp as any dagger, were all he needed. His skin, tough as leather, was all he needed. His body, strong as stone, was a gift from the earth. It was all he needed to survive.

He smelled the intruder on the wind, the smell of metal and blood and leather and weakness, and could not resist letting loose a wild howl of elation. Running now, powerful legs driving plumes of dust behind him. Wind cool against fever-hot skin, blood racing just under the surface. This feeling, this unrestrained feeling. The freedom. This power. He loved it, this tension and this nervousness that drove him into a blazing pyre. It was rapture and euphoria, the wild, unfettered hunt. This feeling was what he lived for. He was made for this. Built for this.

Made to hunt. Built to kill. Made to take. Built to conquer.

He could feel its spirit, pulsing faintly in the distance. The stench filled his mind as he closed his eyes and turned his head, sniffing the air for that distinct smell. He had followed the scent through the green hills, and now onto the flat plains. He had followed the scent past the herds of murak and past the fresh corpses with birds and gnats buzzing about them, far until he reached the edge of the Outlands. Far until the green-fog air grew thinner and clearer, far until the smell of death loomed on him like a stifling mist. He suppressed that bestial fear and walked closer, swatting gnats and eying carefully the circling corpse birds before he saw a distant figure on the dried, cracked earth.

Eyes narrowing, hackles raised, he howled, letting loose a guttural cry to warn others what would happen when they entered his lands. He would make them into an example. They would pay for this challenge, this insult, with their lives. Such was what he vowed. He expected a reply, expected a flicker of terror that always came when he reached the end of his hunt. He received nothing in return.

Enraged and affronted at the figure on the plains, he tensed, hesitating for only the barest of moments before charging. There was no room for falter in the hunt, no room to err. If it was an enemy, he would meet it in combat. If it was merely prey, he would kill it and take its meager strength. There was nothing more, nothing else. Those weaker were killed. Those stronger were the ones who killed. That was the law of the Outlands. That was his law.

He darted over to the thing lying on the ground, arms open, claws ready to swipe, but something struck him before he could get close. It was a wall of sheer terror, sending the back of his mind screaming to retreat. It was only after he pushed down the urge to bolt that he felt his hammering pulse slowly calm. And then he realized that he knew this feeling. That he had felt this before.

It was the terror of the Fells, the panic that came with it. When the purple bolts cracked through the sky, all of the earth felt their wrath, felt their power. It brought with it death, and so naturally hysteria ran ahead to bring news of inevitable fate. It was not the dampening aura of dominance, or even the cold pressure of futility. It was the uncontrollable, primal madness of the Fells.

And that same madness surrounded this thing.

He rallied himself cautiously, eyes and ears listening for anything to give away an attack. Sensing none, he pounced, claws outstretched, feet ready to tear and rip, spittle flying from his mouth. He did not know what this power was, did not know what this fear was, but it was strong. And it was in his lands. There was only one meaning for that in his mind, and no challenge would go unanswered. He raised his claws, about to swipe.

Suddenly he stopped, limbs going limp and heart plummeting as if he had cracked his head on stone. He felt his face go slack and his arms fall to his sides. His eyes blinked, shock blurring his vision as his mind froze with incomprehension.

The markings on its face, he knew them. He recognized those black patterns, their sharp curves and lines like the teeth of so many small horrors.

They were the same markings as his own.