The long grass wavered in the breeze, intermittently obscuring Org's view of the alien settlement. The creatures, both very similar and very different to Org's kind had arrived on Neanderthalis a short time ago. They were a strange lot, productive and complex.

Their presence had stirred many Neanderthals into flight; several familial camps lay abandoned, and there were now areas of Neanderthalis that the First Men dared not venture. Instead they resolved to move away from the new comers, but they were running low on places to run to.

Org had come to investigate matters himself. He was a famed and beloved huntsman of his peoples, and sat in the patriarchal chair of a sixteen strong family.

The children weren't all his; eight had come from two other females whose mates had befallen ill fortune. They offered Org their bodies, and in return he protected them, and raised their offspring as his own.

And so it was, that this champion and beloved father, sat watch over the new comers for three days and three nights, analysing them and determining their threat.

He knew that at some point his peoples would need to confront the new comers, and when that day came, he wanted them to be ready.

But first, he would greet them. He eyed the sacks of dried berries beside him, and hoped that the strangers spoke the same currency as the First Men.

Anunon brought his horse to a stop, flanked by several riders under his command. When a minor commotion among the villagers had been made just minutes before, concerning some "subhuman on the hill," he resolved to ride out and make sense of it for himself. They were not wrong; before him and his men stood a squat, hairy creature. Its features were rugged and broad, and they reminded Anunon of the less civilized ogre clans that lay to the northeast of the Sotraeca.

"D'you think he can talk?" one of Anunon's riders wondered aloud. "Looks like a subhuman alright, but he's not a halfling and he's sure not an ogre. He's hardly wearing anything either."

"Let's find out," the veteran replied, leaning over the neck of his horse. Anunon pointed a finger at the satchels that sat at the stranger's feet, then made a gesture that resembled popping a berry into his mouth and chewing. After the round of charades, he pointed at the brute and opened his mouth to speak.

"Berries," he said, matter-of-factly. "Did you pick these?" His men exchanged quizzical looks and shifted in their saddles.

Unkempt grass tickled Luster's crackled leather boots as he walked side by side his Chieftan, Chieftan Brine. "With all due respect sir, what exactly is the aim of this mission, sir?" asked Luster, choosing his words carefully. "Reconnaissance. Strictly reconnaisance. I want you to make sure you and your group don't stir any shit in the pot, you hear me?" responded Brine. "Yes sir. Understood." replied Luster.

The Chieftan studied Luster with his shrewd eyes. His face was tan and leathery, age warring a personal battle with him. He seemed to be almost sizing him up, taking him in. "Alright," he said, patting Luster on the back, and promptly turning around and walking back to his tent. "Well, time to get on up," Luster muttered to himself.

---

The scouting team had nestled themselves into a bushel, twigs and brambles caging them in. Their spot was high up, atop a forested hill. Luster turned to his comrade Trig, asking him, "What in Paxia's name are those?" pointing at the hooved creatures that these Sotraceans rode on.

"Horses," replied Trig, curtly. Luster waited for Trig to say more, but he said nothing more on the matter. "Huh," mumbled Luster.

Org stood tall and proudly as the strangers approached, doing his best to hide his bewilderment of their beast mastery. He grasped a straight and narrow wooden spear in one hand, sharpened at both ends, but the weapon felt infinitely inferior to those worn by the beast-men. Their whole attire was alien to Org, and its origins was something beyond his comprehension.

He looked down briefly at his loose goat-skin that covered his genitals, and realised there and then he was parleying with mightier beings than he.

Their lead rider, Org made him as some kind of patriarch, approached and exchanged a few words with those closest him. The stranger's language was odd, not entirely different to the Neanderthal tongue, but not similar enough for him to understand. Then the patriarch said something to Org, and pointed at the sacks of dried berries, uttering something unintelligible. The stranger's face showed no emotion, and certainly not fear. Curiosity perhaps, but not a respectful kind.

Org beat his chest with his free hand, "Org," he said in a guttural tone. Then he pointed at the berries, and then at the beast-man. "You take, and you leave me and my peoples in peace."

Realising his language was probably gibberish to the strangers, as theirs was to him, he made an attempt at sign language. He pointed at the rider, pointed at the berries, and then gently placed the flat of his palm against his chest.

"Friends," he said. "You take these, you no hurt my people."

Not sure whether or not he was making sense to the beast-man, Org decided it was time to leave. He gave a curt nod, and then turned abruptly and began marching himself away. He'd learnt enough of these strangers, enough to know that sooner or later, they were going to become a problem. They were something altogether unworldly, and their bizarre settlements were growing at alarming rates. All of Neanderthalis, the new comers were spreading inland. Soon, Org's people would be forced to stand firm and say "no more", lest they be driven from the island.

Still, for now, Org needed to know more about the strangers. Diplomacy would continue, and who knew? Perhaps if Org stayed the course, an understanding may arise. He doubted it, every primal instinct told him to rally the menfolk into some kind of large hunting party, but the refined part of his brain was too curious... or too afraid.



Life was harsh for a Neanderthal female. Beyond the age of ten, they were often fought over by neighbouring males, or traded by their own fathers for certain gains and rights to hunting grounds. After this, they entered a brutal cycle of child birth, gathering, child rearing, and more child birth. Many died in this hard life, their bodies eventually eroded by the strains of labour, and they weren't always treated well by their mates either.

Being weaker and smaller in stature, they made themselves easy victims of all kinds of abuse. Not all of this abuse was tolerated of course, and some family groups were more progressive than others, but generally speaking, being born with a penis was a much more beneficial blessing in a Neanderthal's life.

Not that this was a bad thing of course. Many Neanderthal females gladly accepted their role in the family groups, and many loved bringing children into the world. Death through complications, or through general exhaustion, of such a life, was simply the way things were.

Life however, was especially harsh for a barren female. Era had been with six mates in her seventeen year long life, and had produced a child for neither of them. As a result, she had been cast out, or rather, driven from the gene pool. Being barren was akin to a hunter using a broken spear with which to bring down the game. Being barren was useless, a non-asset.

Barren females did not live long in the wild.

Except Era, who unbeknownst to many, was perhaps the First Men's only one and true real warrior. She had killed the menfolk as often as she had the beasts of Neanderthalis. She wasn't aggressive by nature of course, but a barren female was fair game to some of the First Men's more violent members, and she found herself repeatedly facing situations that demanded her to fight or die. She became notorious in this way, feared across the entire island as something other worldly and dangerous.

And that's why, she had found herself deep within the new comer's territory. It wasn't easy, traversing the massive landscape and evading what appeared to be a heavily militarised peoples. However, a barren female doesn't share an island with hundreds of potential killers without learning a thing or two about remaining unseen.

The strangers were a bizarre gathering; Neanderthal, but not. They were more wiry, less robust than her kind. She'd seen their females too, and decided that should the gender of both species come to conflict, then the Neanderthals would surely win. Their menfolk however, were fearsome, and using weapons composed of materials not known to Era.

She'd arrived in the land to at first study the new comers; perhaps join them, if they proved friendly enough. As the days went by though, she became all the more horrified by the rate they seemed to spread. Already they numbered more than her own peoples, and their settlements were expanding daily.

And that's why she travelled to the coast, to find the Stone of Zoog, so that she could gaze upon the inscriptions written centuries ago. She hadn't seen the stone herself, but she knew the stories surrounding its origin. She knew that the Second Men had driven the Neanderthals from their home many, many years ago.

She wondered, if these strangers were Second Men.

And she had to know. Not for herself, not for her peoples who had forsaken her, but for her own morbid curiosity. Was she to see the end times?

After avoiding another wandering patrol of the creatures, Era made her way towards the edge of a sandy beach, and looked across at a weathered rocked that stood an impressive thirty feet in height. Casting a glance left and right, she broke from cover, and darted over to the rock. The inscriptions were heavily worn, and barely legible. She brushed some seaweed aside, and tried to make out the images of her peoples' past, a past that they had so easily forgotten.

A breeze carried across from the sea, washing over her exposed chest and thighs. It brought with it the smell of salt, but also, the smell of them. She peered around, looking back at the greenery at the edge of the beach, and saw no one. After a few seconds of quietly watching for movement, she returned to her study of the rock, hoping to find some kind of image of the Second Men, and how it was that they came to war on the Neanderthals.

Anunon couldn't piece together the subhuman's language, which was simple in pronunciation and sparse in its number of syllables. However, this "Org," as he called himself, had seemingly intended to give away the sacks of fruit. Maybe an offering? A simple gift from a simple creature. Anunon had hoped Org wasn't here to barter; a few butches of berries didn't mean a whole lot to him, and he hadn't the slightest idea what he could provide this fellow. Before he could respond, though, the subhuman had turned away, his spear bobbing as he went back the way he came.

"Ey, where's the fellow off to? Did he really come all this way just t'leave us some fruit?"

"Seems to me like a peace offering," Anunon remarked. "Certainly didn't want any trouble. I'm curious what the Matriarch will make of this."

The riders promptly tied the sacks of berries to their saddles and rode back to the tribe, leaving the lone humanoid teetering back to wherever he'd come from. Anunon allowed himself a last glance at the subhuman, whistled into the air to catch his attention and took off, waving a palm over his head.


"And that's all?"

"Yes, Mistress. Gave us these sacks and took off without a second thought. Didn't mean us any harm, not that he could've done much if he tried."

The Matriarch's eyes lingered on the cavalrymen for a moment before she shrugged her shoulders and eased herself on the top of the stone that was her perch. She was flanked at either side by her two Spellsisters, seated atop similar roosts. The three of them were seldom clothed, save for dark pelts that matched their inky-colored locks, in which were woven totems of bone. Their eyes were shadowed with ash, giving them a sullen visage, and bands of precious metals lined their ivory limbs.

"They are not like the halflings, nor the ogres," she declared after a minute of contemplation. "It would seem, from your description, that they are far behind even our subhuman allies in their development. It is only natural they be afraid of man."

"Then what do we do about them?" Anunon asked.

The Matriarch gave the rider a wave of her hand and said, "This one seems to understand the balance of power tips against his favor. We need not do anything - I doubt they would risk the prospect of open combat. But it is only fair we repay this Org for his gift. It would be rude to do otherwise, don't you think?"

-The next time Org visits the Sotraecan lands, he may find a cart set aside for him, full of linens and furs. Perhaps the first step towards civilization is clothing?-

Yaki looked down from his horse, the clouds were shifting widly, the ancestors where unsure. These omens certainly looked bad but he kept his composure, remembering how he was teased as a child when he grew too concerned about the Spirt Winds. With his bow in hand, he spurred his horse into action, despite it being a young one, the horse way steadfast and loyal even in the face of the greatest bears.

"Adla," Yaki waved to the War Chief of the Courier of the Dragons who was enjoying a pleasure ride from his highly ornate mount, stone armor glimmering in the sun, "Tracking deer. I excuse myself."

The middle aged man nodded, despite his wrinkles, Adla proved himself more than a capable leader. Yaki dipped his head and headed off. There was game to be hunted for the horde, a deer and a fat one at that. Surely he would be able to receive some reward, perhaps a new lance of bone to use or a new bow. He heard that the bow maker had found some wood that made for outstanding bows but only gave them to outstanding fellows.

As his head amused itself with the prospect of reward, he saw something in the distance. Curiosity exploiting his young mind, Yaki rode over and saw a someone on the ground. He jumped off his mount, his lance in hand incase it was a trap, and shuffled over to the person on the ground and poked them with the blunt end of his lance, "You, you awake? You are hurt?"

The girl's head throbbed with a pain as she stirred back to life. Around her the short plains grass waved around in the small breezes that did come in little huffs. She tried to recall what had happened. What did she do to get herself laid out flat on the ground? Then it came to her in flashes, flashes that made her little head throb even more. Her mouth, Izuzu, had been frightened by something out in the distance during her first solo recon mission. She had attempted to force the poor lizard-beast into walking towards the unknown anamoly, but it was having none of that. It panicked and reacted much the way a wild animal would. It threw her off saddle and that's when she remembered it all going black.

She groaned now at the jabbing to her side and back. Iona stirred before pushing herself into an upright position. The day was bright and the sun brighter. The tribal girl used one hand to her eyes from the sun and looked to the person that poked at her now. That's when a fright took hold of her. Who in Imara's name was poking her, and why out here at that? The young woman jumped to her feet and regretted that instantly. The rush that came to her head nearly caused her to black out again, but instead forced her into a heavy stagger. "Get away!" she said in a hoarse voice in her Ethicarian language.

Her hands went to her head where she gripped it attempting to stop the pulsating pain. "Away, please," she said now in the Common tongue. Her hair, usually long and flowing like a river of red, was matted and caked with blood. Still, in fear and determination, she searched for her spear. The grass proved to be a good hider of such things and the weapon that she so dearly held was no where to be found. "My spear," she whispered before placing her eyes on man in front of her again. "Where am I?" she asked before the pain won against her conscienceness. The girl felt herself fall but didn't feel the impact from the ground.

Yaki looked at the fire-haired girl, he recognized her dialect from a trader who passed by the horde some years ago, "You are located in the land of Rizu Horde." He stabbed his spear into the ground, keeping it in close reach as he extended a hand to the girl on the ground, "Requiring help?"

In the camp it was often joked that his words sounded like a young boy who never grew up. The occasional actions that Yaki took only reenforced that notion. A certain situation involving a lance, a broken clay pot, a dead goat and a local shaman would only seal his eternal youth. For years now he was said that he was just a child, but now he showed mature, genuine concern about this fire-haired girl from a land beyond. He was no medicine man, but he could tell she was in bad shape, noting several cuts and bruises just by glancing at her.

Once again he repeated his words and shook his arm, "Requiring help?"

Paxia's Stronghold, Aerodu Main Island
War General Talonclaw

Talonclaw sat on his oak throne which stood in the center of the back compartment of his war tent. Two Aerodu Chieftans stood before him presenting him with a freshly cut papyrus scroll. On it were battle plans, inked onto the scroll with black dye, detailing an invasion plan onto the coast of the island. "General, we are the superior tribe here. We've sent reconaissance teams all over, and we are the superiors. War is imminent, let us be the victors," said one of the Chieftans, laying out his case. Talonclaw rubbed his face, fatigue showing in his facial features. This would make the Aerodu tribe the new Asacharans, the mighty and noble tribe that united everyone under their righteous banners.

But wasn't that what had angered the gods in the first place? Talonclaw did not know what do. This would recquire the advice of the Elder Bird.
"I can not make this descision on my own, and that's final. Now out of my tent."
"But --"
"Now."

The Chieftans left, and the Aerodian War General looked off into the distance, very worried.

"If we do not act, they will kill us all. It is written on the Stone of Zoog!" Ack cawed for what must have been the fiftieth time. "They are the Second Men, there is no doubt!"

Org gave his eldest son, a boy of sixteen, a weathering look. "And you stood with Zoog as he fought these Second Men? Come, tell me how it is you know these strangers for Second Men?"

Ack shook his head violently. "Don't patronise me father. Such things will not be tolerated when you are old and weak."

Org brandished his spear, and stalked towards his son with the menacing gait of a hunter tracking wild boar. "You may be my first born son," Org muttered under his breath. "But I'll kill you now if you threaten me again."

Kren got between the two, his weathered features and full stubble making the eleven year old appear not so much younger than his father. "Enough," he cried. "There are too few of us for pointless threats."

The Neanderthal patriarch considered his second son, and nodded. "It seems you continue to be wise, Kren," he said, lowering his spear. "A pity Ack does not follow you in such things."

"Wisdom will not save us from the Second Men," Ack cut in. "Only spear, and club, and axe, and stone!"

Before Org could back hand his son half-way across the cave, Kren appealed once more for calm. "Give me to them father."

Org raised an eye at his second born. "What?"

"Give me to them," Kren repeated. "I will learn of their origin, of their purpose."

Ack spat into the dust of the cave floor. "They'll skin you alive and eat you. That's what Second Men do to our kind, you fool!"

Org mused over Kren's offer. The outlanders didn't seem overly hostile, and perhaps they'd be willing to allow one of the Neanderthals to settle with them - to learn. Knowing the strangers' language would certainly be an essential tool for the coming confrontation. Then again, why would they allow Kren to stay with them? Perhaps Ack was right. At best, they'd chase Org and his son off, or at worst, they'd feel either threatened or insulted and kill them both.

Maybe a daughter? Did these strangers value females as much the Neanderthals? From what he'd observed over the three days of watching them, he figured it a possibility.

"Ack," Org said suddenly. "Fetch Enn."

Ack recoiled. "What? Why?"

Kren was not quick enough to stem his father's temper, or perhaps he simply wanted to see Ack get disciplined. In any case, Org's first born son fell backwards with a crack; a bloodied hand print fresh on his cheek. Org's spear tip fell at his throat in short order.

"Get your sister, or get dead, son," Org said.

Ack scarpered off, his pride stung. Kren merely sighed, and looked at Org with a pitiful smile. "He'll kill you father, one of these days."

"Bah," Org said with a laugh. "He can try."



The Stone of Zoog revealed little. The markings were simply too faded, too hard to track and follow. She'd used her flint knife to try and re-etch some of the lines, but this aided little in giving clarity to many of the pictures. She sighed, and stood back, defeated.

All she'd gleaned from the stone, was what she already knew. Her peoples once numbered in the thousands, covered the known world, and lived a merry life of hunting and foraging -- as they did now. Something happened, the Second Men came, although the Stone omitted any details of their appearance. A great battle took place, and the Neanderthals lost terribly. There were a few depictions of Zoog the Last Elder, who according to the stone, stood well over twelve feet tall. Other than this though, she had discovered little else that may confirm or deny the suspicions surrounding the outsiders.

All of what the Stone of Zoog offered, had already been passed on through the workings of the Neanderthal tongue for generations; her efforts to achieve more knowledge were apparently fruitless.

As she turned to leave, a rare thing happened - she lost her footing on a unseen rock, half submerged beneath the sand. Falling forwards, but recovering into a forward roll, she looked back at the trip hazard as a man would look at his murderer. And then she frowned.

There was an engraving on the rock.

She marched over to it, tried to pick it up, but found it much too heavy. Instead, she used her flint knife to dig into the sand around it, until more was revealed. Looking up at the Stone of Zoog, and then down at the rock, it was apparent that the two were at some point one in the same.

Buried beneath the sand, the rock had fared better than its parent, and it held a couple of very clear images.

One image was of Zoog talking to a man much smaller and thinner than he, atop a mountain. The second image, was of Zoog walking into the sea.

Man on a mountain.

Realisation of her discovery's significance dawned on Era, and she stood and turned to face the Neanderthalis mountain range that sat off in the distance. No one had ever spoken of Zoog's meeting with the Mountain Man, before. Maybe that part had been forgotten, but how? The rock that had fallen off the Stone of Zoog was hardly hidden beyond reach.

Then again, she mused to herself, how often do my people actively pursue stories of the past?