He-Who-Mourns-Silently overlooks the now-desolate ruins of the village that was his home after his Rewriting. It has been a year now since the Staves of Man attacked it and slaughtered his people like the animals they considered them to be. The last survivor of his band of mutated outcasts, one who was once He-Who-Hunts-With-The-Wind became He-Who-Mourns-Silently the day he lost what had become his new family.

Situated in a valley in the Crystal Peaks region, his village had enjoyed access to the most plentiful consumable natural bounty in the region, with various streams running through the valley from the crystal peaks above. The geographical position had proved to their detriment, though, when the Staves poured down from all sides and enacted their culling.

The crystal dunes that were once his home are still marked with the graves of his people, dug mournfully after the battle. Though the crystal sands have shifted, the stout carved poles with which he marked their graves remain in place, though tilted and twisted with time. 32 of his fellow Men of Twisted Writ lay low here, and their presence haunts them still.

He didn’t come here to reminisce, though. He’d have rather avoided coming here entirely, honestly. The place gnaws at him like an empty belly, and the sorrow he feels is more intense than it is when he is on the hunt elsewhere. But he’s here now, following the scent on the wind, and so he must pay his respects. His hunt can wait. Remembrance has become his new purpose.

In addition to the marked graves and shattered, dessicated shelters, the graveyard has accumulated his offerings over the months since the massacre, gifts to placate the souls he failed in life. Bones and skulls from his hunts, trinkets from his occasional tradings with the tribe of Raywomen situated further north.

He-Who-Mourns-Silently stalks between graves, withdrawing offerings from the Vertibeast leather satchel he wears at his side. For the tragically young She-Who-Sees-In-Souls, the venom-slicked fang of a Lattisnake. To his best friend He-Who-Lurks-In-Fog, a portion of its skinned pelt. Ever-old and ever-wise He-Who-Works-With-Stone gets the talons of a Kingswallow, a bird he favored in life. And so on. He spends an hour with the memories of his fallen comrades before the winds pull him onwards.

Through the Crystal Peaks He-Who-Mourns-Silently hunts, tracking the scent of a wounded Vertibeast he cut off from its herd some time ago. Though named the Crystal Peaks, most of the region consists of “plains” and “dunes” of grains of crystal sediment. Crystalline “plants” and “animals” consist of the majority of the region’s animate life, though not all of it. His prey departs the graveyard of Twisted Writ, navigates the passes between Peaks, bumbles through thickets of crystalline cacti, and intersects a stream of water that carves through a field of crystal clusters before He-Who-Mourns-Silently catches up to it. Days have passed, and hunger gnaws at him now.

The Vertibeast is a six legged monstrosity with a defensive, crystal adorned scaly shell and a clubbed tail. Its face is wide and hammer-headed, and its maw extends down to its long, thick neck. The Vertibeasts travel in packs, using their maced tails to smash crystallized vegetation and then raking the crushed masses into their gaping jaws, which can extend down to the earth while the beast is standing tall. They are challenging prey, but He-Who-Mourns-Silently has been hunting this region for decades now.

His quarry still bears the marks of their last encounter, primarily a limp thanks to two injured left hind legs. It seems weakened, and is resting at the stream to recover some strength. While He-Who-Mourns-Silently is planning his attack, though, crouched behind a thicket of growing crystal nodes, the beast perks up, looking around in alarm. Had he done something to alert it, unknowingly? Surely he wouldn’t be so sloppy…

No. Not him. He-Who-Mourns-Silently narrows his inhuman eyes, leering at the figures approaching from the south. He hasn’t seen their ilk in years, now, and hasn’t hoped to. The Staves of Man, by their uniforms and gear. A hunting party, not too dissimilar from the kind that eradicated his village, though lesser in number. There are 9 of them, wearing metal-studded leather armor, bearing swords, shields, spears, and crossbows in addition to more sophisticated gear He-Who-Mourns-Silently cannot recognize. Staves, come all this way to hunt a lone Vertibeast?

He-Who-Mourns-Silently slinks deeper to the ground, worked into a thicket of crystals, and allows the wind to carry the sounds to him. The nervous rustling of the Vertibeast, pawing the ground, scattering droplets of water. It’s a wonder it hasn’t fled yet, given its injured state. The Staves are chattering amongst themselves, but what raises He-Who-Mourns-Silently’s hackles is the third source of sound. A third party. The ground is rumbling, and he thinks he knows why the Vertibeast hasn’t turned tail and ran yet.

There’s a horrific, cascading crackling racket as an enormous form erupts from the earth, scattering raw dirt, broken crystals, and sparkling crystal sediment into the air. The Vertibeast screeches and finally breaks, stampeding towards He-Who-Mourns-Silently as a huge, roaring crystal crab-shark makes itself known with a roar and a barrage of blown bubbles.

The beast bears two massive clawed limbs, a scattering of spiked legs to hold it up, and innumerable crystal fins running along its tailed back to help it carve through the earth. Its face, squat and set into its front carapace, is dotted with 12 dark, black eyes, those of a vicious hunter. Its mouth is surrounded by tinier, grasping claws.

As the bubbles strike the earth with enough force to shatter yet more crystal, He-Who-Mourns-Silently sets his muscled limbs to the crystals around him and throws himself clear of the panicking Vertibeast. The Staves, meanwhile, begin to engage the giant crab-shark, which he deduces was their real quarry all along.

Crossbow bolts strike home against the crab’s carapace while several Staves form a front line, menacing with spears while they shield their allies and aim to push the subterranean crab-shark back. A man in the back-line swings a backpack to the ground and begins assembling some sort of larger device, presumably a heavier weapon. The crab-shark, meanwhile, blasts into the frontline’s shields with a continuous bubble barrage knocks them back with the mere force, and swings a claw overhead to send them scattering.

He-Who-Mourns-Silently, revealed but ignored for now by both parties, is faced with a dilemma. His original quarry, the Vertibeast, is getting away. He could chase it, and finish what he’s started. On the other hand, though, the Staves. Back at it again, hunting and slaughtering whatever local “monster” they deem too threatening for humanity. It fills his skull with pounding, rushing rage.

He-Who-Mourns-Silently is a looming, menacing figure. He bears the traits of a lion and a scorpion, a skin of chitin and fur, pawed hands and feet with a curved, arcing tail. His face has the predatory, leering eyes of a lion, blocky mandibles, and spiked antennae. And pockmarked across his body - his forearms, his neck, his calves, his back, are slitted chutes through which he channels and controls the wind. It’s been nearly a year since the death of his tribe, and his failure to protect them has plagued his every waking moment since. He can’t know if these are the same Staves who killed his people, but he can’t help but feel that exacting some retribution here is right.

They wear the same clothes, they wield the same weapons. They hunt and kill that which they cannot understand or control - not for sustenance, but for some paranoid delusion of protecting human civilization. For his purposes, they might as well have participated in the raid on his village. Hatred fills him. Hatred consumes him. The winds begin to howl around him as his blood begins to boil.