[center][h1][b][color=#2b2b2b]💀[/color][color=#8b5a2b] Garga [/color][color=#2b2b2b]🗡️[/color][/b][/h1][/center]

Garga was smaller than most Ur-Humans but no one mistook her for weak and those that did, didn't last long. She moved like a thought given legs, quick, sharp, always a step ahead of danger. Her eyes missed little, tracking shifts in wind, posture, tone, the subtle tells that decided whether a moment ended in flight or blood. The scars along her arms, face, legs and body were not trophies, they were lessons, each one earned and remembered. The tribe followed her not because she was the loudest or strongest, but because she survived everything that should have killed her.

She led without ceremony. No speeches, no sacred paint, no empty threats. Garga watched, listened, decided. Orders were short and practical. If she told someone to run, they ran. If she told them to wait, they waited, no matter what. Survival came first, always. The tribe hunted when it could, scavenged when it must and crossed into cannibalism when the land gave nothing back. It was not reverence, nor hunger for cruelty, just another line they crossed.

Unlike many ur-humans, Garga did not rule through terror. She punished mistakes and never ignorance. Those who learned were kept close, those who refused were sent away. The way she taught was her people was simply, strength mattered but cleverness kept you breathing. The tribe reflected her values, lean, alert, adaptable, more willing to withdraw than to charge headlong into death.

The tribe moved like slowly for days. There was no word from the advanced scouting group that was sent a few moons ago. Garga walked near the front, eyes scanning the horizon as the ground dipped toward the wide valley ahead, the place where the advanced scouting group was sent. That was when one of the outriders raised a fist, movement spotted.

A figure slipped into view moments later, breathing hard, one of their scouts from Gamberdise. He dropped to a knee before Garga without being told, head lowered more from habit. His eyes flicked back toward the valley as if expecting something to rise from it. “No word,” he said plainly. “Not from Fangs. Not from the others we sent after him.” His voice carried the weight of days spent listening for signals that never came.

Fangs was one of hers. Not in loyalty, not in affection, but in use. He came from her tribe, shaped by the same hunger and where others saw a problem, Garga saw a tool. He was violence given direction, a blunt force she could point and release when subtlety failed. She did not like him, did not trust him but she understood him and that was enough. A hammer does not need to think, only to strike where it is aimed.

She kept him at the edge of her plans, never far from the fight. When intimidation was required, Fangs went first. When fear needed a face, it was his. Garga remained clean of the worst choices while still benefiting from their outcomes. If he broke, she would replace him. If he turned, she would deal with it. Until then, he served his purpose and in Garga’s world, purpose was the closest thing to mercy anyone could expect.

Garga did not react. She crouched, dragging her fingers through the dirt, thinking. The scout continued, careful with his words. Fangs’s crew had descended into the valley when they spotted movement there. They were supposed to return with signs, with meat, with something. They did not. No smoke. No runners. No screams carried on the wind. Just the absence of all that.

The tribe shifted behind her, unease rippling through the group. Valleys swallowed people sometimes, that was nothing new or so the legends said. Still, this one felt wrong. Garga rose slowly, eyes fixed on the distant dip in the land. Fangs was a hammer, but even hammers could shatter if struck against the wrong thing. She gave no orders yet. Not until she understood what, if anything, had struck back.

Garga listened to the murmurs ripple through the tribe before she cut them off with a gesture. “It isn’t worth it,” she said, voice final. Heads turned toward her, some in disbelief, others in dread. Fangs had been part of the advanced scouting group, sent ahead because he was fast, vicious and hard to kill. If he had not come back, then whatever waited in that valley was not prey. It was a death.

The reaction was immediate and ugly. Voices rose, frustration spilling out after weeks of constant movement, empty bellies and too many nights slept with one eye open. Some cursed Fangs for failing. Others demanded they go after him, that they could not just leave the people he took with him behind, friends or family. The idea of turning away after coming this far felt like another loss piled onto too many others. Fear and anger mixed, a dangerous thing in a hungry crowd.

Garga let it burn for a moment, then stepped forward. “If we go down there,” she said, louder now, cutting through the noise, “we don’t come back.” She met their eyes one by one. “Not all of us. Maybe none.” Her tone softened, but the words did not. “We didn’t survive this long by charging at every unknown. Dying is easy. Living is the hard part and it’s the part that matters.”

She straightened and pointed east, away from the valley’s shadow. “We go around. All the way around. It’ll take longer and I know you’re tired.” A pause. “But you’ll still be breathing.” East it was. Around the valley, not through it. Fangs, the hammer, was gone and Garga would not break her people trying to retrieve what the land had already claimed. 

[hider=Summary]
We shift attention away from Villagxor, Alechior, Adria and Fangs to focus on the tribe Fangs belonged to, a nomadic group led by Garga. A short Ur-Human, Garga leads through caution rather than force. The tribe has been on the move for weeks when they encounter a scout sent ahead to learn why Fangs has not returned. Upon reaching the valley, the scout reports that Fangs and his group have disappeared. Ever cautious, Garga decides to abandon the search and lead the tribe around the valley instead.
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