<i>Stone.  
Stone, stony, the stone within the clump which holds bigger stones together. Stony things for   
holding up another clump of clumps of stone held together. All the stones which, placed on top of   
one another, will keep the heads of certain sods dry and protected from the weather.  
Of course, the stones may hideaway the secrets, which many which keep from the abode of   
creatures eyes. So too may the stones hideaway the souls from the hope of this thing collectively   
called, starry skies. Light any sort cannot penetrate stone, light which is what is needed to see, to   
be awake, a lack for which no soul can remain sane, forever.  
            </i>  
            Buried under a pall of stone, beneath fluttering flags of a tyrant, and contorted faces of   
cruel men, lay a group of such souls. The difference was, despite everything, their sanity was still bravely   
in play, but lack of the light of sun or star was a drain, which was slowly whirling their spirits away. The   
light of candle or torch, is no substitute for the freedom which they so needed.  
              
            Awakening. An already clouded outlook on life had turned quite dark.  
            As was the world that the life was now in. A life, a fate intertwined with others with   
whom there was absolutely no certainty as to what could be done to help.  
            Help, now was reduced to the warm, but fleeting comforts that came with that ever   
present, ever necessary, but equally as fleeting concept of hope.  
            Neera needed hope in a way she had never needed before. Several weeks since the   
increasingly aggressive humans had ransacked her thatched and wood home, and carried off her and   
dozens of other captives, they now found themselves in an old stony storehouse now doubling as their   
prison.  
            Above all, she needed to provide home towards the others; their captors were beyond   
capricious. Firstly, they had been Order troops. Knights and half brothers of the Order, who were   
capable of cruelty, but not always. Their leader did not stop the lowlier levies from ransacking what little   
Neera's clan had, but he did stop most of the murder.  
            A sound thing perhaps, since most of the village had evacuated anyway; Neera was   
with an unlucky group that was cut off from the rest of the families and fighters. A handful of surviving   
warriors surrendered on condition of their families safety; the knights held their word. Then the Order   
handed them to a fief owner… to wash their hands of having to care and feed 53 wolf prisoners.  
            The fief owner was by the name Hezardia. Her black coated henchment violently   
separated the men and women, and put them to work. Neera noticed the relative lack of human field   
tenants, and saw how the Countess (that was what they titled her) kept the miserable wheat fields   
growing. The place was once packed with slaves, some of whom had been there for several years, with   
no place to sit or lay except on the bare stone brick floor.  
            Neera held her knees up to her chest, shuddering at what she saw the last time she had   
been outside. Loud shrieking and threats filling the air. It was autumn, and the harvest was complete.   
Now there was little for the slaves to do, except bleed. For reasons that the wolves could not fathom,   
the guards began beating the slaves, as well as starving them of what were previously decent rations.   
            She shuddered again, remembered seeing one of her cousins, a once strong young man,   
whipped til his thinning skin separated, and the ribs were exposed white to the sun and the horrified   
prisoners. At the top of her lungs, she pleaded, along with most everyone else. Pleadings for mercy to   
the laughing guards turned to low voiced prayers for this quaint thing called justice. It never came.  
            "'Justice is for the meek.'"  
            Neera turned to her left, leaning up against the brick wall, a dark eyed girl shaking from   
chills that certainly were not from the thick, warm air. Neera scooted right next to her, running an arm   
around her shoulder, feeling the tattered blanket that was all she could wear.  
            "Who told you that lie, Kare?"  
            "One of the humans. They took me back to their rooms..."  
            "You should have told them to take me!" Neera said bitterly; she was not going to let   
the humans play the others around if she couldnt help it. Kare was almost young enough to be her   
daughter.  
            Eyes unable to form tears, Kare simply said "... they said they liked me a lot. I begged   
them, told them this was unjust..."  
            Neera's rage began to condense deep in her chest. "Kare, we have to fight them; you   
must not give in to-" she stopped. Anger filled her, but mostly at herself now.  
            "They said that if I didnt, they would kill..." Kare looked like she was about to scream.   
            Neera wanted to too. She hugged her forcefully. "Im sorry Kare, Im sorry!" She looked   
across to the other side of the room. Another girl was taking care of Kare's baby boy; Kare couldnt   
while the humans had her. The human’s capacity for blackmail was truly horrifying; an ominous feel of   
desperation and despair simply enveloped the whole room, day by day...  
              
              
              
              
            The woods held things both of dark and light. By cloudless day, the shadows contrasted   
with beams from the sun. Today was not cloudless, a chilly fog having filled the gaps between the pines.   
Still, as far as Grigor and his band were concerned, it was a bright day. It would have to  be.  
            "Grigor, I counted 72 at arms with us today, not counting those with the Hunters and   
Laggy’s mounts." So said Grigors friend Fennis, his fierce red mohawk looking merely blackish in the   
gloom.   
            Grigor nodded, pleased at how many had agreed to join his raid. Otherwise, he would   
have had only 20 fighters, which would have only been good in terms of logistics. If they were planning   
on capturing a fortified manor though...  
            "Fennis, how are the Hunters feeling about this?" Grigors scarred face could not hide his   
tendency to be concerned for details and others opinions; a more stereotypical warrior would certainly   
not.  
            Fennis grinned, his yellowed canines appearing  predatory. "They're thirsting for hot   
human blood Grigor! They're waiting off in the woods to the north for our signal."  
            "Oh, they have a plan of their own I presume?"  
            Atop his scoutsmans horse, Fennis turned to the side facing off to the north. They both   
looked past a group of wolf warriors, many of them passing the time with small talk, putting on war   
paint, weapons checking and the like. Looking towards the deeper, darker section of the woods where   
the "Man Hunters" were awaiting.  
            "I would assume so." Fennis turned his horse back, the graceful but dumb animal   
looking at Grigor blankly. "I was about to suggest we go and ask."  
            "They seemed pleased with the idea. Its not like we're trying  to take a keep or   
something of the like."  
            "No, but Chief, I..."  
            "Im not a Chief yet Fennis." Grigor smiled. "I am the son of one, so I would be a   
Chiefson." Grigor's rebuke was accompanied with a playful finger wag. "Note the difference."  
            Fennis smiled back at his mistake. "The plan seems fine enough. Cause some trouble in   
the fields outside the manors gates. Lure out most of the guards, whom the Hunters will lure and   
dispatch. Our main group will attack the manor from the opposite side."  
            Grigor nodded. "In the meantime, Laggy's fighters will patrol the road to the north,   
towards the village. Once we attack, we have to assume that someone will hear word of the manors   
distress. No doubt that the militia will be mobilized quickly."  
            "Thank goodness that the Order has no presence this day. They're spread far too thin,   
and are too busy fighting the Poles to worry about us."  
            "Indeed." Grigor looked towards the manor. “The Order troops are excellent warriors,   
we should only fight them if the field is to our advantage. This is hardly a field where we can withstand   
them in force, not with barely a hundred of our own.” He turned back to his scout. "Fennis, you will be   
with Laggy's fighters for this fight. If the militia is too strong for his warriors, have them return to the   
woods, and inform the hunters to give them cover."  
            Fennis laughed. "I think the Hunters may as well slaughter those peasants, do Laggy's   
work for him  eh?"  
            "A last resort. We need the Hunters focused on Hezardia's men. Still, in the end, all that   
matters is that we breach the manor from the opposite side. We're here to strike at one of our enemies   
most poignant houses, and rescue our brethren enslaved within."  
            Fennis smile vanished, an undertone of anxiety in his voice. "When I last checked   
yesterday, there were wolves gathering up the last of their harvest in the fields. They were looking more   
unfed than last week."  
            Grigor looked at him. "They will be well fed soon. And free."  
              
              
              
              
            "Chiefson, we are ready."   
            A younger ‘lieutenant’ (in truth, his title was more of a ‘higher shield brother’ with a   
command level analogous to a company… but titles mattered little in a small, informal society such as   
the clans) gave Grigor the announcement with barely contained excitement. The warriors faces had eyes   
glistening between black bars painted across their faces, streaks of crimson (a dye of blood and ochre)   
leading from the eyes, strips along the muzzles. A few had bare arms and shoulders, which they painted   
patterns on. A few were shirtless, and took advantage to paint there as well. At Grigors insistence, the   
men (and a few women) who would fight first had to wear the hauberks that they had, though many still   
wanted to show their bravery and virility through reckless exposure to the enemy’s arms. If they were to   
die, they would do so with pride, or so they told themselves as they worked at psyching themselves up   
for the perverted orgy which was soon to take place.  
            “We will slay them all Chiefson! Shall we go now?”  
            Grigor nodded. He always reacted to such statements with a silent, confident nod. That   
alone told the fighters all they needed. He had divided his attacking group in three, one group of   
warriors on foot, one on horse, and another of archers and skirmishers. Grigor then arranged the group   
with the horsemen on the right rear, mainly as a temporary guard in case human militia fighters came   
appearing from that direction. His footed warriors, armed with sword ax and spear, were arranged with   
the men with shields at the front, forming a protective wall from arrows. The first 20 men carried a large   
log that was long as that number of men shoulder lengths placed together. They were to make a running   
dash to the gate, and use it to make a polite knock on the gate door. As with all requests for entry,   
should the first knock receive no reply, they would knock again (politeness has its limits). Whether or   
not the humans answered the door, the wolf warriors intended to open it. Archers would fire flaming   
arrows into manor to brightly illustrate their intended objective, while the skirmishers would wait to   
support the melee warriors with their darts and javelins. If no human reinforcements arrived, Grigor   
would have the horsemen join them in storming the manor.  
            It was about as simple a plan they could muster. For all they knew, there were over a   
hundred humans at arms inside, but if they could overwhelm them with the sheer awe and shock of their   
audacity…  
            He looked around towards his deployed fighters. The band was still in the trees, and   
they had a good deal of distance to cover over open ground. Alread the bells were tolling out the alarm   
of the Hunters attacking on the opposite end of the manor.   
            "The humans think they can stomp us into submission. I say..." he drew out his sword,   
spinning it on his side for effect... "we turn the favor back." White fanged teeth were showing themselves   
in predatory smiles all about. He returned with his own. "Vengeance is ours, forth!"  
            With a loud roaring shout, Chiefson and his band charged from the trees, wolfish cries   
being howled in evenly terrifying tempos. Silence would do them little good, since they needed the   
bloodlust to motivate them to carry their battering ram to the gate. The Chiefson was sprinting in front of   
the log itself. After what seemed an eternity, the wolves were standing before the walls of the manor. It   
was a building that could best be described as a fort, but without so much emphasis on withstanding a   
seige. The walls were stone, but they were the walls of a monastary, not a keep. The gate was for   
keeping out bandits, not determined warriors.  
            Panting, Grigor pointed his sword at the gate, not paying attention to the poorly   
crenellated walls from which a handful of stupid looking servants looked. "They've been so unkind as to   
lock the gates. Lets show them are ingratitude!"  
            Winded, but smiling fighters almost dropped the ram as it slammed into gate with a full   
run. Arrows started drop down amongst them, but as the warriors reoriented to run at the gate again,   
other fighters with shields ran up with their shields facing the walls. In the meantime, fire began raining   
into the manor.  
            "Alright again!" Grigor snarled, pushing a warrior with a shield towards the others.  
            "Chiefson! You need a shield from the arrows!" The concerned warrior yelled.  
            "No, what is important is taking this manor! Guard the ones with the ram!"  
            The warrior ran off and covered a gap in the shield wall. The arrow volleys were weak,   
and the human archers were terrible. Scanning the walls (ignoring a few bolts that landed less than a   
meter away) he noticed that there could only be a half a dozen guards covering the walls. One of the   
archers caught a flaming arrow, and burst into flames, falling out of sight.  
            It only took 5 rammings to break the gate. Grigor screamed in jubilation. "Go, go, for   
our loves, for our children, for the people! Charge!"  
            The roar was deafening, and the entire band scrambled through the gate, the archers   
putting out their flames to join in with their daggers. Leaping over the log, Grigor was unable to brag   
about being in the lead this time. That honor belong to the men who carried the ram (damn was he   
always proud of his fighters!). A dozen or so guards waited at the immediate entry way.   
            "No mercy for the human murderers!" someone screamed. The helmeted guards ran in   
panic, while human servants scrambled to get away, knocking over barrels and crates that packed the   
sides of the avenue. They were unintentionally breaking up what could have made a useful barricade;   
their minds were mostly on simply running. Not that it would do them much good; if all was going to   
plan, their only escape route was through the opposite gate, where the Hunters were waiting. The   
Hunters did not miss, being that they were a grim bunch of forest nomads who had shot bows since they   
learned to walk.  
            Grigor stopped his run shortly past the gate entrance. Looking about with eagle minded   
eyes, he noticed the lack of serious resistance. There were possible tricks up the enemies sleeves, there   
had to be. He pointed at an outdoors stairway with his still unbloodied sword. "Take the walls, there   
may be a company of soldiers hiding somewhere." A group of fighters broke off and ran up to the walls.   
Turning around, he saw several dozen of Hezardias men forming up down the throughway leading   
through the manors innards. Shields at ready, they formed something of a phalanx, with a handful of   
skittish looking archers firing away from their sides, barely enough room to make their shots.  
            "Reform the line, get those shields up!" Grigor screamed. "Get back in the group!" His   
fighters enthusiasm had backfired... running about in tiny bands of no more than 5 or 6. Several of his   
fighters fell, and were hastily dragged out of line. The 'battlefield' was no wider than 30 shoulder widths   
with crates, barrels, and a few carts offering obstructions to both sides. Suffice it to say, it what was a   
rather tight fit. Grigor had to shove himself to the front, where he was expected to lead. He observed   
more humans gathering down the throughway.  
            "So, I guess we didnt give them enough to time to answer our knocking. Another   
misfavor that needs repaying."  
            Some of the fighters laughed, but most were in too much of a state of repressed   
bloodlust to do anything but gnash their teeth down the path.  
            "Charge!" And Grigor charged, with only his sword in front to guard him from the   
arrows. The manor was not defended by any sort of crack military contractors like he had been   
expecting; mercenaries always tended to be men with experience in their trade… and he had a respect   
for that. The human archers and crossbowmen were clearly addled peasant levies, the men at arms   
where glorified watchmen wearing armor that was in obsolescence. Grigor did not like the peasants;   
idiots who had only themselves to blame for letting their masters push them into the mud. The wolf clans   
would never let a feudal master put a yoke on them, not without most of their shoulders being broken   
asunder. The slaves their masters held were a whole other matter.  
            The thought of those in bondage raised his anger, and blood, as he approached the line   
of guards. He didnt even hear himself screaming, the roar of the wolf men around him creating the sound   
of a large beast about to devour its prey.  
            The wide eyed guard he ran into first wore a hauberk beneath a black tunic, donned an   
old faceless helm, and was gambling his worthless life with a poorly maintained sword and shield. Grigor   
leapt onto the shield, slashing the humans sword away long enough to kick him in the face. Another   
fighter went at his flanks with an axe… while Grigor jumped onto the guard behind him. The sheer   
shock of the assault sent the other guards reeling back, as Grigor plunged the sword into the mailled   
chest of the guard. Blood splattered onto his muzzle as he then snapped back to dodge a few skittish   
lunges from the other humans. Squatting like some fiendish imp from dark fiery realms, he looked up   
and gazed around at the human guards around him. The sight of their eyes white with fear brought a   
sadistic, bloodied grin. He stood up, watching his fighters catch up around him.   
            He then joined the fight anew, blood boiling over as he slashed a spear away from his   
torso, grabbed it with his free hand, and partly pulled the human toward him. The sword went through   
the humans belly, the maille could not resist such a close jab, with all of their bodies moving into such a   
perverted sort of embrace. Grigor briefly locked eyes with the human, savoring more of the fear he was   
causing. Grigor then withdrew the scarlet blade, kicked the dying human back onto another human, then   
ran screaming into the confused fray that was breaking up before his parties arms. The orgy went on til   
there were no humans left to slay.   
            Such was the price the humans paid for not answering the door.  
            Actually, they would’ve paid for letting them in anyway.  
            Panting, his senses slowly returned. Sword at his side, he, blood all over his body, he   
barely even noticed his erection beneath his own shorts. His blazing wild eyes were that of a monster   
from old tales; in any other situation, he would have been a homicidal madman that needed to be put   
down. Such was the way with warriors of old, where emotion and bravery triumphed over all else, for   
better or for worse.  He noticed that the humans were back up against the opposite gate, which they   
had locked shut. They knew the Hunters were on the opposite end, and most likely knew they were   
doomed. Nothing to pity for Grigor.  
            "O... open the gate." Several fighters went to the task, rushing past him as just as he   
abruptly winced. He had several nasty cuts on his person, though nothing to worry about since he was   
not feeling lighted headed. Most of the blood on him wasn't his.  
            His fighters had scattered to pursue a few guards who had run off along the walls. There   
were screams begging for mercy. These troubled him not; even amongst the humans, it was expected   
for there to be no quarter for a successful attacker in a siege. Grigors people were not human, so why   
would they expect it to be better?  
             He heard his name, and turned back towards the gate which they had entered to see an   
excited young fighter running towards him. Out around the ramparts, Grigor could see some of his   
warriors running to check some of the short guardhouses attached to the wall. Another company of   
warriors was fanning out into the rest of the manor, checking all of the alleys, buildings, nooks and   
crannies, while most of his warriors who had been the first to fight took to their wounded and tried to   
catch their breaths.   
            "The manor is ours Grigor, its defenders are dead, and the survivors are at our mercy."   
The breathless fighter almost tripped on one of the dead guards, stopping to haunch over and catch his   
breath.  
            "Awesome day isn't it?" Grigor bellowed, slapping him on the shoulder. "What of our   
brethren. We know they have them imprisoned here."  
            The warrior nodded. "Yes Chiefson, but not nearly as many... as we'd have hoped for."  
            "Umm." Grigor looked off to his left to see his fighters gathering together prisoners. If   
there were human women and children here he would have told them to avoid slaying survivors, but he   
didnt see any, and so he did not care much of what happened. "Lets go to them."  
            The fighter nodded, and led him off the manors main throughway down a narrow muddy   
alley flanked by stores and shops for what Grigor assumed were for wood working. They passed a   
stocky tent that had a stream of blood leading out of its entrance, the flaps hiding what was occurring   
from view. Human shouts from inside told all that Grigor needed to know (that all was well). Finally,   
they reached their destination; an ugly old brick building that was partly surrounded by a large wooden   
enclosure, the building was embedded with the walls. It was probably the manors main warehouse   
originally, now it was dungeon. Already clan fighters were milling about, though their luster for fighting   
was gone. Disappointment, and a hint of melancholy in their eyes.  
            The enclosure was sizeable, perhaps once having been a pen for beasts of burden. A   
site for slaughter. Here and there, wooden posts were set up, set up in pairs that apart were about twice   
the length of a man’s arms outstretched. Reddish ropes dangling from grooves on their tops. The ground   
between them was muddy, with sharp streaks leading about in the mud. Footprints then streaking   
tracks, the likes as though somebody had been standing then suddenly fallen and dragged on their belly.  
            “I don’t like this…” Grigor caught himself saying.  
            The warrior leading him was too breathless to express shock, judging how when he   
looked back his face looked more dazed than anything. He said nothing, and led on.  
            Grigor’s hair rose as they walked past a cart, it’s tongue sticking into the mud. The bed   
was mildewy with stains and smudges of blood, piss, and shit. Worse though were metal cages stacked   
on top of each other right next to it. The place smelled horrific.  
            "Where are the prisoners?" Grigor demanded of a fighter, who stood by idly by the   
gate.  
            "Inside, we're trying to open the gates to their cells."  
            Grunting, Grigor went in, the younger fighter leading.  
            "The only ones we found are in here." The voice was as grim as the scene. A few male   
wolves lay dead in a corner of the bare entryway. They were naked, exposing bony emaciated figures   
that looked as they had been backed into the spot and slayed. Further down were rows of barred cells,   
which several fighters were noisily working on opening. He briskly strolled to the cells, looking into them   
to meet faces that were not as happy as he would have hoped.   
            It didnt help that they were all female. His scouts had consistently reported seeing large   
numbers of men out collecting the harvest. What had happened to them? He looked back at the dead   
wolves at the entrance. They were almost unrecognizable, but were indeed all male.   
            "Hold on, we almost have it opened..." a grunting fighter said. A few smiled reassuringly.   
One of the fighters, a woman herself, was trying to chat up the prisoners. Grigor walked over.  
            "... yes we have plenty of food for all of you, put your hearts to rest... Chiefson." The   
female fighter, haunched over holding the hands of a girl past the bars, looked up with deeply unhappy   
eyes.   
            "Rezea, what happened?"  
            Rezea bit her lip. The fighter was normally quite ferocious, and too intimidating for the   
male fighters to even bother flirting with. This was the sort of situation though, where hardness fell away   
for the necessity's of compassion. "The men and boys were... taken."  
            Grigor knelt down, looking towards the woman behind the bars. "Where did they take   
them? Trust me we will find them and you all will..."  
            The prisoner’s eyes were utterly blank... from someone who had had enough of life and   
could not bear to even bother feeling anymore. They had been better fed than the dead males, but   
Grigor knew the sinister reasons why. He felt like pressing another question, moving over as another   
fighter moved past to reach the remaining cells, but was not sure how to pursue it. He asked it anyway.  
            “Where did they *keep* the men and boys?”  
             She shook her head, mouth going agape slightly. She didnt want to say it, but they   
knew. It didn’t matter where they were kept, not anymore.  
            Grigor grimly turned back to Razea, who no longer needed to comfort the prisoner on   
the other side. "Are there any others here?" A creaking noise; the cell doors were buckling. There were   
some voices of praise and excitement.  
            Rezea pointed down the line of cells leading to a corridor. "There are others, we're still   
getting them out." she didnt want to say more.  
            A loud thack sounded as the fighters finally began breaking the locks. The newly freed   
wolves looked dazed. In their eyes, he could tell that they were amazed at being alive. Mostly   
unclothed, they showed signs of abuse, and Grigor knew what sort it entailed. Still, he smiled   
reassuringly as they started sorting out of the cells, a few rushed, but many were slow from cautious   
disbelief. "You're all free," he said simply, and brushed past them down the cell block to the corridor. A   
few rooms remained to be opened, but in a minute that would change. Razea led him down a dark   
corridor narrow corridor that had to be illuminated by torchlight.  
            A few minutes later he exited the building, and then walked out of the disturbing   
enclosure, where he was greeted by a group of human prisoners crowded onto the side of the main   
throughway. Grim faced, Razea followed, helping a badly injured prisoner hobble out to freedom. The   
clan warriors that guarded them looked visibly shocked, the former prisoners who were busily gorging   
themselves on food rations that had been placed out for them, looked up with sad looks. There was no   
shock or surprise in them.  
            Grigor walked up to the humans, huffing in rage.   
            In his arms was a nude wolf woman. She had been found in one of the deepest cells,   
locked behind a thick door. Unspeakable tortures had been brought onto her; Razea and another fighter   
found her in a deep dark store room. A room with chains and bloodied hooks arranged on a table, and   
other things that altogether would haunt their nights for all of their remaining lives. It was a place where   
there had been weeping and gnashing of teeth. Grigor affectionately stroked her filthy, bloodied har,   
ignoring the fact that she had passed on. She looked at peace now, but when Razea had found her, the   
eyes were wide in horror and agony. Razea had dutifully closed them long before Grigor had arrived…   
Grigor did not need to know that, Razea decided.  
            He stepped up to one of the humans, assuming that the fatter ones were more likely in   
charge.  
            "Why?" he snarled.  
            The kneeling human, wearing the outfit one would expect of a barkeeper, only bubbled   
some meaningless words that couldn't get much past his esophagus. Snorting, Grigor moved on to a   
human to the right. Not fat at all, but something about him drew Grigor to him. His scent. He could smell   
the man on her.  
            Grigor glared at the human. The humans short cropped hair wouldnt hide his wide,   
shaking eyes, staring off into space.  
            "Look at me" Grigor ordered, leaning forward so that his breath would heat the humans   
face.  
            The human’s eyes didn’t comply.   
            "Look at her." The girl Grigor carried was directly in front of him.  
            The human looked at her, and started crying.   
            "Why did you do this?"  
            "... I... I didnt..." He sobbed. Grigor knew the lie; the aroma was indeed on her. Her   
scent was on him too.  
            Grigors own gaze seemed to be slowly killing the man, as though invisible daggers were   
carving into his mind. Just invisibly, unlike the carving in the flesh of the wolf Grigor carried.  
            "What sort of thing would one have to do to deserve this?"  
            The man was too busy crying to respond.  
            "In horrific pain, dying alone and scared. And for what? Ahh, I see. Because you could   
get away with it, you knew that, and so did as you felt."   
            Grigor looked around at the other humans. "Not that it mattered enough for any of you   
to stop it."   
            Clutching the girl in his arms, Grigor trudged off past the hopeless eyes of the humans   
towards the nearest gate. The fighters moved in and drew their weapons to finish their work.   
            Grigor did not hear anything of it. An old tune came to his mind as he approached the   
gate. It was something he had not thought of much, but now… it made sense.  
              
<i>Star, oh precious star  
My precious star which I treasure  
The star in the night which I always see  
In the times which are so dark  
That you precious star provides light for me  
Yet then morning comes  
And I find you’re star does not shine forever  
My precious star

            </i> He felt a tap on the shoulder shortly after leaving the gate.  
            "What?" he snarled, then saw his more peaceful thoughts had been interrupted by one of   
those he had rescued. An older woman, wrapped in a tattered blanket that was held together by string.   
A younger girl, a daughter perhaps, sheltered under her arms… and a tiny baby was held in her arms. It   
was 3 generations of survivors standing right in front of him, and when that realization hit him he felt a   
chill.   
            "Are you the leader?" the woman asked. She was excited, but quickly subdued by who   
was in his arms.   
            "Yes." Grigor said disinterestedly. His mind was on other things.   
            "We... we can’t repay you for doing this, we..." she had tears in her eyes, but Grigor   
was clearly in another place. His universe had a star that was never going to shine again.  
            Undaunted, Neera pressed. "Whe... where are the men?"  
            Grigor wasn't sure what to say. This wasn't something that he had expected. Didn’t the   
other prisoners know?  
            "Where are they?"  
            "They're dead." He looked at her. “Didn’t you know?”  
            “We hoped… prayed that the others were wrong… that maybe you had found them   
someplace else…”  
            Grigor was silent.   
            Neera, briefly, felt like dying at that point, but having Kare at her side bolstered her. It   
was Kare, and indeed the others, that had given her strength and meaning. It had also given strength and   
meaning to the male prisoners...  
            They were trully fortunate to be alive. As Grigor turned back to his lonely path, she   
asked "What is your name?" Neera.  
            "Grigor, Chiefson of Elder Chief Tirilnadro, of the Krellavic." He slowly turned back to   
her. "What is yours, and your clan?"  
            "Neera, of the Belshavai..."  
            "Bah! You fools adopt the human ways of farming and wonder why they always attack   
you." He turned back to the unseeable path he had been taking. Then he paused. "Why did my daughter   
end up here?"  
            Neera didnt know that answer. "She was treated like the rest of us, even though, she   
said she was related to a chief... and that is why you came?"  
            "No... I thought she was dead." He looked down at the wolf he cradled. "And now I   
know she is." Grigor said it bitterly, yet so matter-of-factly that it shook Neera.   
            Kare was too busy trying to process it all to notice. Being free, not having to worry   
about filthy humans running their hands over them anymore, it was all so much. Neera held her close,   
watching the sad chiefson walk down the road, passing a group of brutal looking Man Hunters, who   
were busily piling human corpses, while sifting through their equipment. Razea then approached them   
from the manor, which now had smoke coming from within its walls.   
            “I want to thank you for doing this…”  
            Razea looked exhausted… and angry “I know, we were hoping though that these   
bastards would not have slaughtered so many of our people…” she stopped, not wanting to tell them   
about the dead they were finding outside the stone walls, over in the offal dumps. The grim resting place   
for their kin could not have been far, and it wasn’t.  
            “If you hadn’t arrived at all, we would not be alive, that is still every bit a blessing.”   
Neera was rocking Kare, not realizing the maternal instinct was kicking in. After everything that had   
happened, Kare did not wish to part from her even as she had a maternal instinct of her own. The baby   
shifted around, trying to hide its face from the brightness of the outside world.  
             “What will happen now?” Kare asked abruptly.  
            They all looked out toward Grigor, who was sitting over by the road, his daughter laying   
in the grass in front of him. A Hunter was standing guard nearby, but looking away. He didn’t want   
anyone to be near him.  
            “If you ask me,” Razea said after a sigh, “we’ll be regrouping and waiting for Hezardia   
to hit back. Our strength is not enough to hold this place.” She gestured to the manor. “So we will take   
all we can and burn the rest. The stone walls and buildings will mostly survive, but it will take a lot of   
time and money for the humans to rebuild this place, if they do it at all.  
            “What of us?” Neera asked. She did not like the sudden feeling that they were still going   
to be at others control. She was tired of it.   
            Razea sighed. “I suppose you can join us, the Krellavic clan. You’re elders are most   
likely…” she paused, suddenly eying Kare, and her baby.  
            “They are all dead, aren’t they?” Neera answered. She understood why Grigor was   
being so matter of fact with his pronouncement. Emotions had to be put aside, the facts needed to be   
brought forth, as harsh as they were.  
            Razea nodded. “We haven’t found too many from your clan who survived, at least as   
far as men go. They were all ones who escaped into the forest. If you wish to reform your clan, you   
must know that we will not go out of our way to protect you on your farm and rangelands.” She eyed   
Neera sternly. “Your lands cannot be protected.”  
            Neera, Kare took this in for a while, uncertainty being that wild thing that reigns   
supreme in times of distress. The little one in Kare’s tender arms was not sure what to think at all.  
            “We would be honored though if you joined us.” Razea smiled, looking back to the   
manor, eying the column of horses, wagons rescued prisoners, and fighters that were starting to wander   
out. There was noticeably more smoke coming from the interior. It was surely an ominous backdrop to   
say such a thing, even with cheerful sight of rescued Belshevai riding on some of the horses. A few badly   
injured ones were sitting in carts, but otherwise it looked as though everyone was able to move on their   
own. And that was what mattered most.  
            A figure appeared from the gate. Razea knew him, and turned to face the fighter. He   
was the same one who had led Grigor to the prisoner enclosure.  
            The tireless fighter was shouting. “Where is Grigor?” He was excited, happily so.   
            “He is over there, what is it?”  
            “Great news! We have found another survivor, in one of the other guardhouses!”  
            Neera and Kare beamed their smiles onto the friendly stranger. “A miracle, but we   
were all kept in the same building.”  
            “No, this is a man, he was in a lone cell.”  
            Neera eyed him. “Who is he?”  
            “Whoever he was, he wasn’t starved or slaved out in the field. He’s a conditioned   
fighter, and he wants to speak to directly Grigor. He wants to get his revenge on the humans, and he   
knows their weakness.”  
              
*And so rise those with hearts of stone.*