Bites-at-Air winced as she and Two-Tongues were led to and forced to kneel before the Matriarch, her left leg had been injured during the earlier fight, a thin strip of inflamed skin laying visible where her scales had been torn loose from the impact from one of the crude stone hammers wielded by one of the young warriors who had attacked her. The wound would take months to heal and would have ensured that even the slightest of movements would be filling her with regret.

Not that she would have long to worry about that, she thought as she chewed at the gag in her mouth. The toothy smile of the Matriarch had made that fact more than obvious.

The young warriors of the tribe using their bodies to form a circle that surrounded her and the remnants of the old warriors, a barrier to keep the others of the tribe from interfering with what was about to happen.

Not that any of them would. They had long since been cowed into submission by the Matriarch’s followers and would offer no resistance so long as they were left alone.

It had all been her fault, her stupidity and fear had driven her to act irrational and forced the Old Warriors to act before they were ready, fouling their plans to turn on the Matriarch and her brain-dead followers.

That morning, as the tribe continued their journey ever-downward into the accursed, horror-filled underground, they had entered into a cavernous area, the sight of which had frozen her to the bone, more so than the cold of the underground ever could.

Her nightmares had been made real.

The rocks, the smells, the damp, even the forsaken shadows were the exact same as that had filled her nightmares. So much so that she could have shut her eyes tight and still have been able to give an accurate account of her surroundings.

More frightening still were the beasts, the monsters that had caused her so many restless nights, the creatures that had driven her near insane with visions of her people’s demise, she could barely see the floor for all their number, a horde to end all hordes filled the area. More than enough to wipe out the tribe.

And each and every single one of them lay dead.

As if to spite all her endless nights of worry that had been tormenting her during her endless days in the dark, the beasts just lay there, not a single sign of life to be seen and no indication of what had caused their demise but for a strange blackish mucous covering their faces.

The Matriarch in her usual disregard for anything not having to do with herself simply ordered the workers to begin harvesting the bodies.

It was then that something in Bites-at-Air snapped. Something within her that had been drawing taught ever since the tribe had entered the unwelcoming tunnels had finally given way and she began raving.

She could not quite remember what she had yelled in her panic, but she remembered accusing the Matriarch of failing her duties, of betraying her people and blindly giving in to her own vanity.

The Matriarch took it about as calmly as one would expect of the self-worshipping fool.

Angry words had quickly given way to angry actions and the warriors both new and old were soon at each other’s throats.

They may have still had the day despite her idiocy, but she and the old warriors had been betrayed at a critical moment by one of their own.

Bathed-in-Mud.

The foul wretch that she was stood beside the Matriarch, her allegiance clear as the nearly forgotten day, looking down on her and the other captives with a smug grin.

The female had used her gifts to breathe a paralysing wind over many in the rear of the old warrior’s side which included all of the gifted. It had been a one-sided slaughter after that, with only the key members of the rebelling side being spared.

Momentarily spared that is.

Bites-at-Air had expected some sort of speech before their execution, but the Matriarch just nodded. Two of the guards dragged Two-Tongues forward, the old warrior’s beaten body offering little resistance. One of them pushed the old warrior’s head down as the Butcher approached.

The Butcher. A male who lead the workers in charge of butchering and preparing meat for the tribe. The title was not due to his position, however, he had had a normal name once, but people had long forgotten it as the male worker overindulged in his chosen craft.

There was something wrong with the male. Not in the same way as one of the children who had fallen on their head too many times, no, something in that male was just broken, it had been that way since the day that he had been born.

Bites-at-Air had never held much importance in mating herself, but from what she had heard from the few females who had approached him, more for his status than any attraction, the Butcher much rather preferred cutting into a warm body than its company. Bites-at-Air had always ignored the rumours, though, as it had stunk of the same bored imaginings that had come from the same type of people that had accused her of preferring the company of females due to her lack of interest in any advances from the few warriors that had dared to approach her, but the sight of the Butcher’s tongue snaking out and running along his teeth as he looked down on Two-Tongues sent a shiver running up her spine as she waited for what came next.

The butcher held aloft one of the few metal weapons belonging to the tribe, a large cleaver taken from one of the scaleless giants from the clear lands, and with a sure and steady grasp, he brought it down upon Two-Tongues’ neck.

The swing had been slow but powerful enough that it had broken through the old warrior’s toughened scales and skin, even digging into the thick muscle beneath, but it had been far from enough to cut clean through his neck or even just sever the old one’s spine. A large spurt of blood sprayed from the vicious wound, far from the amount that she would have expected, but clearly enough that he would have soon lost consciousness if left untreated. Unfortunately, she realised, it would not be soon enough to spare Two-Tongues from further suffering.

The butcher continued, bringing his cleaver down again and again much to the pleasure of the Matriarch and those that stood with her. Some would have attributed the need for the repeated attempts upon the dull, rusted edge of the poorly maintained blade, but the look in both the butcher’s eyes and those of the Matriarch’s told Bites-at-Air that it was by both her instruction and for both of their pleasures that the Butcher took his time.

Eventually, finally, Two-Tongue’s head fell to the floor, his body following soon after. Not once had the old warrior cry out, not once did he give the Matriarch the pleasure of knowing his pain. Bites-at-Air wished that she could have possessed such willpower, but she knew that her turn would be far from being as respectable as Two-Tongues had been. A few amongst the crowd let out a cheer, more out of fear than actual joy. It was a dishonourable end for such an honourable warrior, but Bites-at-Air could do nothing to change that. Nor did she have the strength of body or spirit to do anything even if she could, the horror of her situation having broken her.

The Matriarch nodded again and the next of the captives were forced forward. And as the execution began anew, a sharp, unheard whine clouded Bites-at-Air’s mind, driving her deeper within herself.

Everything seemingly to be far away, more so than should have been physically possible, with the distance growing even further as the internal whistling grew louder. And the executions continued.

A small part of her mind brought her back to reality as Bites-at-Air became aware of a strange feeling in her legs.

From her position of kneeling on the ground, she could feel a near-constant vibration begin travelling up through her bones. At first, she had thought that she was merely shaking from the fear of her imminent execution, but as it grew in intensity, she realised that it was far too strong for that, no, it was the same type of vibrations that she had experienced when she had witnessed the great herds passing along the grasslands.

There were no such herds down here in the dark of the underground, at least none that she would have ever wanted to encounter.

Realising the danger, Bites-at-Air attempted to call out, but one of the fools standing over her belted her with the butt of his spear, silencing any warning that she may have given.

Bites-at-Air heard the now-familiar thump of a body hitting the floor before another small but more enthusiastic cheer filled the air. The others of the tribe had obviously begun to get into things now that their choice in allegiances had been made for them.

The celebrations were short-lived, however, as the vibrations in the ground were now strong enough to be felt by even the most unaware. A short, high pitched scream sounded out before being cut short as a horde of beasts crashed into the gathered crowd.

Chaos ensued around her, the people of the tribe and the creatures of the underground swirled around her like raindrops in a storm, the air filled with screams of rage and pain as the cavern was filled with the sounds of combat.

As the had been on the outside of the circle of warriors at the time and the first to meet the incoming danger, the non-combatants of the people, the workers, the non-gifted females, the children…they were decimated.

Her visions had been real, her tribe was falling and she had failed to stop it, the Matriarch had failed them.

And Bathed-in-Mud.

Bathed-in-Mud had betrayed them.

Bites-at-Air felt a cold rage filling her. A haze came over her mind as she rose from the earthen floor.

Two others of the old warriors who had yet to be executed rose with her, the guards watching over them now preoccupied with joining the rest of the young warriors in defending the Matriarch. The old warriors threw themselves at the monsters. Already injured and weaponless, they soon fell before the beasts of the underground. A seemingly pointless gesture, but they, like Bites-at-Air, realised what the others surrounding the Matriarch had yet to. Even if the matriarch and her lot survived, without the main body of the tribe, specifically, the women, the children, and those with the most valued skills, the tribe was already dead and the only thing that anyone could do now was to make sure that their enemies would remember them, if the beasts were even capable of such a thing.

She may have chosen to join the old warriors in their sacrifice, but she would not settle for uncommon beasts when she had her real enemies before her. No longer under watch, she pulled her hands free of their crude restraints and began pulling the gag from her mouth.

Her efforts were drawn short as one of the hairless rabbits came at her from the side, its huge jaw clamping down upon the arm that she had raised to defend herself.

She breathed in then let loose with a breath of last resort. It was considered such not because of any inherent risk in the gift itself, but because of the range of the breath or lack thereof, requiring the gifted to be within a few hand widths of the intended target.

Bites-at-Air watched as the beast eyes burst out of its skull, its brain having exploded from the immense pressure that had suddenly formed within it.

A rush of pain nearly overwhelmed her, her right arm was destroyed, now no more than dead weight. Had she the ability, she would have discarded the limb to lessen her burden, instead, she rode the wave of blood boil that began filling her veins, forcing herself to stride forward in spite of the pain.

The creature had not been her enemy, just a dumb beast. What she wanted were her enemies. Where were the enemies of her people, the destroyers of her people?

Bites-at-Air screamed in rage.

Where were they?

They had overwhelmed her and the old warriors with their numbers, but now they were nowhere to be found. Where were they?

Bites-at-Air wailed, unleashing the utter despair in her soul.

“Matriarch”, she screamed, where is the Matriarch?