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Being home on Ayr was no cakewalk. Red was being watched – she knew it. It was almost time for her to undertake her trials to join the Wild tribe, and the others knew it.

There had never been any question about whether she would be joining or not. She would, as her mother and father and sisters and brothers had done. The Tribe was her family, their world was her home, and she would join them as she had always dreamed she would.

Yet, she didn't ask the tribe leader for the trials. Every time she got up the courage to do so, as was her right and obligation (you had to ask to receive, nothing would be given freely, you earn what you get with your own two hands, and so forth), she would lose it all only a few steps from their door and run, angry and frustrated, into the wilds until she calmed down enough to return. This had happened several times and Red didn't know what in Oblivion's name was happening to her. She was sure but not sure, ready but not ready, and she hated it.

She had tried again that day, and had fled again, and had ended up here, deep in one of the green gorges of Ayr, kicking the rock she sat on with deep frustration. Red did not like feeling this way. Uncertainty and fear were not in her nature, but their wholly alien emotions scraped along her like claws anyway, making her shudder like the string of a bow in a nervous hand.

What was she scared of? It bothered her that she didn't know, but was afraid anyway.

A startled hiss made her leap to her feet on the rock and turn, to see a red, rabbit-like bipedal creature staring at her. Red smiled, a slow grin that grew until it seemed to stretch from ear to ear. “Hey. You.” she said, though of course the beast would not understand her. It was a Darvithri, after all, a mere animal... though it walked on two legs and bore worked blades. “Fight me.”

And, just to make her message clear, she pounced, her ice claws shimmering into existence. A hasty block with its sword and an answering strike that Red easily dodged: it understood.

Red attacked and parried with ice until she found an opening to wrestle it to the ground, shoving its weapon away with a forceful manipulation of her fingers. They wrestled on the ground, punching and kicking and clawing, until – with a punch to its furry head – it lay still. Red pulled back, disappointed, and stood, noting from the rise and fall of its furred chest that it was only unconscious. “That was boring.” she said to it, “Get better, so that you can give me a proper challenge.”

And with that, Red returned to the village, restored by the fight. It had been exactly what she had needed.

Though... she did not think she would try to talk to the chief again. Not for a little.

(513/300)

Red had forgotten – mostly – about the issues that surrounded her rite of passage.

Worrying about it would not, she knew, help her and – since she still could not go near the chief's tent without tensing up – she figured it would be best to leave things be for a little while, at least until she felt a little more confident. She felt ready, sure, but maybe she wasn't.

Vetertov, after all, still hadn't come back.

Red wanted her brother to see her inducted, to be with her when she went through the trials. She missed him so, even though it had been many years since he had disappeared into the Mara war. She refused to believe what the others said: that he had died, that he was buried out there in the vast battlefields as a casualty of the rock monsters.

But no one had seen him die – not even her father, who had been with him – and so Red still held out hope. Her brother was not dead. Something was just holding him back, although what could hold Vetertov – such a strong and able hunter – back, Red could not say. Whatever it was, it had to be big and bad, and maybe he would need his sister's help – she liked to fantasize – to defeat it. Or, maybe, he would get through on his own.

Maybe he would come back yet.

She had thought of this one night, after fighting the Darvithri in the gorge, and had decided that it was a good a reason as any for her reluctance to speak to the Chief. It was more likely than her being afraid, after all – she wasn't. She didn't think she was, anyway.

She was just waiting.

And with that, some of the urgency with which she had been trying and trying and trying again to speak with the chieftain faded away. She'd wait for Vetty a little more. And then she would be ready.

With that out of the way, Red did other things that didn't involve rites of passage. The villagers gave her strange looks, to be sure – she was of age, after all – but for the most part they shrugged. Everyone there was an individualist, after all. Red would do it, or she would not, and she would do it on her time. It was none of their business when she did it.

In the meantime, Red went hunting. She had heard that Magbit fur was great for channeling electricity and, despite her chosen clan being Aiskala, she was fond of the unpredictable heat and fury of lightning. So, she collected and killed.

Her hunting efforts of that day were rewarded with two large magbits, full of good fur to use – and fat. She headed back for the village, stopping to clean the carcasses along the way to make them lighter, though they were small and thus fairly light already. They were good eating, Magbits, and Red was looking forward to a delicious meaty meal by the fire in the village.

Suddenly, a undulating shriek echoed through the canyon, and she raised her knife just in time to strike a figure that fell upon her from the upper rocks – a red-furred, bipedal figure with a sword. She dodged out of the way of the blow, dropping her knife in favor of her claws as it turned to face her.

“What!” she challenged it, “You wanna fight, huh?”

It brandished its sword and chittered something, before charging at her again.

“Guess so!” she said, jumping over it's head in an acrobatic flip, kicking it as she came down, “Well fine! I'll take you on!”

She dodged it's return slash and pounced, laying into it with her claws. It struggled to hold her off, and finally shoved her away, picking up it's blade and going for her throat. She dodged it with ease, though she felt a burning pain along her face. She touched her hand to it, and came away with a trickle of blood.

“Oh hey, look, you got me!” she acceded, grinning, “That's better than the other one's got...” Red squinted, “Wait.” she said, surprised, “You're the same one as before...” she frowned, “And the one before that, too.” It had the same pattern etched beneath it's eye, the same band in it's ear. “Damn, we keep running into each other.” she grinned again, “Guess that means you keep getting better.” she licked some of the blood from her cheek as it dripped into her mouth, “I like that.”

She pounced again, feinting and dodging before punching in at it with an icicle-spined fist, connecting with it's shoulder. It yelped, it's fur bloodied by her attacks, and she hit it again and again until it was on the ground again. She freed it's sword from it's grasp and tossed away before laying into it, punch after punch, until it lay, beneath her, quivering.

“I like that.” she said again, standing, “Because it means, if I keep you alive, you'll get better still, and I'll have better and better fights...” she looked down at it, almost friendly, “You weren't half bad this time!” she complimented, nudging it with her foot as she carelessly wiped away the blood on her face, “Tell you what.” she said, “Clean yourself up, train yourself up, and we'll fight again.” she laughed, joyfully, “Won't that be fun?” she said. She dropped a cleaning cloth behind her and walked away, waving. “See ya later!” she said, her mood greatly improved.

(1965/1800)