[h3][color=f7941d][b]Years Ago in the Mojave[/b][/color][/h3] A host of brahmin-skin yurts encircled a great fire deep within a desert valley. Night had fallen on the Mojave, and strange figures danced around the amber glow of the flame, casting menacing shadows which twisted in the flickering light. Each of the dancers were dressed in various animal costumes and horned headdresses, representing individual spirits or demons equal parts worshiped and feared by the tribe. One figure stood out above the rest, a great headdress surmounted by the effigy of a snake twisted around it. He held out a gnarled staff and raised his arms high to the sky. “Great Serpent, hear our pleas! Blessed be your servants here gathered. The Slither Kin! We praise you and beseech you to drive out the enemies of your people.” A young girl, auburn haired, looked on at the proceedings with fear. Her bright green eyes wide with fright while her arms hugged tightly at a well-worn homemade doll. Someone wrapped a comforting hand around her. The girl looked up and smiled, seeing the reassuring matching green eyes of her mother. “Be still Little Viper,” She cooed, “It will all be over soon. You must be brave.” “Old windbag,” A gruff voice added and a fat figure sat down next to her, “Great Serpent this, Great Serpent that. Oooooo...spooky. Ha!” The man grinned and looked down on her with a glowing smile, “But you ain’t scared of that old pruny shaman are you?” The girl giggled at her father’s joke, “No! But Penelope is!” She continued sadly, holding up her doll. “Ah well I can help with that!” He said, grabbing the doll and hugging it tightly. The girl laughed at her father’s antics, but her mother shot him a glaring look. “You shouldn’t make fun during the ceremony…” “Beh he does it everytime we go on hunt. He just likes hearing the sound of his voice.” “Great Serpent, protect your brave warriors!” The shaman screeched, and with a resounding thug he cracked his staff against the ground. The costumed figures around the fire immediately stopped their dancing, and fell down in heaps on the ground as if struck dead by some magic. The girl looked up at her father, who mouthed a “Finally….” And she couldn’t help but giggle again. Just as the Shaman had finished his ritual someone stepped into the glow of the circle, another member of their tribe, “They’re here,” He announced solemnly. The girl looked up at her father, and his expression turned dour. Which immediately set her on edge. “Little Viper run to your tent and go to bed,” her mother urged, “Do as I say, now…” Without waiting for explanation, the girl leapt up and ran to their yurt. Rather than hiding under her covers, she peeked out the cloth door, watching intently as her father and several other men of the tribe rose to meet whoever was coming. She held her breath as their guests stepped out of the shadows, and she had to hold a hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming. A host of nightmarish warriors entered the campire circle, pale skinned and covered head to toe in cloth stitched with innumerable bones. They wore masks carved from human skulls which covered the top halves of their faces, giving them an inhuman visage. Much to her terror, she saw that some seemed to be dragging sacks which oozed blood like a gaping wound. To the young girl shivering in fear, they were nothing less than living monsters. A woman, seemingly their leader, stepped forward. She had on a particularly gruesome skull mask with goat-horns sewn ontop, and wore a bloodied cloak made from human skin draped around her shoulders. She was hauntingly beautiful yet utterly terrifying, the image of a demoness right out of the tribe's mythos. Her father stepped forward, unafraid of the demon woman’s presence, “Welcome, would you care to share our fire?” The demon woman shook her head, but did not reply. “We’d offer to share a meal, but it looks like you’ve already brought some to go,” Her father said, pointing at the sacks. That elicited a few, nervous, chuckles from his fellow Slither Kin, but then the strange woman hissed back a threat, “Perhaps, you wish to become our breakfast?” Slither Kin warriors reached for their weapons, as did the cannibals, but no-one made a move. Her father motioned for them all to be calm. “Where is your Chieftain?” The woman snarled. “Out on a hunt,” Her father replied quickly, “But I can speak for our tribe here. We all know what needs to be done…” “The Boot-Riders are becoming a problem,” Her father continued, “They need to be dealt with. Harshly.” “You propose an alliance,” The woman hissed, “We don’t ally with prey.” “Nor do we,” He snapped back, “Watch yourself, those little underground burrows of yours are not so-secret to us, and it wouldn’t take much to smoke you out. We’ve done it before, or have you forgotten the taste of our poison?” Several of the cannibals snarled, baring sharpened teeth like cornered wolves, but the woman ignored her fellow tribesman's anger. She raised a hand revealing a bladed gauntlet streaked with still-fresh blood, and ran a finger along the crimson ichor before bringing it to her lips and sampling it with a devilish grin. “Never.....very well Slither Kin, what is it you plan to do?” Her father returned the expression with a grin of his own, “Wage war.” —----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Lucy awoke suddenly with a start, her brow was streaked with sweat and she was panting hard. Memories she’d never truly forgotten had come flooding back to her, and she stared up at the ceiling of her Penthouse suite in Gomorrah. Images from her dream morphed into her vision, and for a brief moment, she thought the plastered ceiling was the animal-skin roof of a yurt. She sat up and got out of bed, walking over to a nearby chest. She flipped open the lid and rummaged around inside. Her hands gripped a small object, and she pulled it out. It was a doll, well-worn and covered in the dirt of the road and faded from the burning sun. She held it tightly against her. “Some things never really change,” She whispered to it softly.