Thus Spake Zaraborgstrom/FirstAgeNight

A tale of the importance of the Night Caste in the First Age

They had seven heads and thirteen arms, and they wore necklaces of looped entrails. For all that, their scent was disturbingly clean.

They were on a pilgrimage, such as they made every aeon, to the east. There, they would stomp their feet and the infinite trees would merge into one. Then they would pull out their sharktoothed blades and saw at it, until the tree collapsed and Wyld consumed the wood. Creation would tilt and sink. Then, thought Sten Iron-Hand, Adorjan would ring her bells, ding-a-dong-ding; and the Primordials would turn their cold attention to the east; and the Ebon Dragon would rise hissing from the world. They would run! Then, they would run. But they would return, when the next aeon came, to destroy the universe again.

"A village," said Morbol.

"Good. I'm hungry. How many?"

"A few hundred. Some sheep."

"We'll make a great cauldron," said Sten, "and melt their houses down for wine. We'll make the humans dance for us, and we'll rest, and drink, and gorge ourselves on sheep. Then we'll leave, and let the humans think they've survived, until they go to sleep and their souls fall out."

Morbol grunted.

They set up the cauldron. They made their wine. They grew drunk on the victuals of human accomplishment and dreams. Sten picked up a young lamb, hissed at it to shrivel off its wool, and prepared to eat.

Sten realized two things simultaneously. First, one of the humans present was not dancing. Second, she was standing less than an inch behind him, one of her arms curling around to hold a massive golden blade against all seven of Sten's throats.

"You make pretty good wine," she said, and he realized he could smell it on her breath. "But I'm going to have to ask you to put the sheep down and go home."

Sten roared and moved to stand.

Six heads. Five heads. Four heads. Twelve arms. Sten sat hastily back down.

"I'm sorry," said the woman. "But your kind aren't welcome here any more."

Rebecca