Slann
Scalenex
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We got four excellent stories. You only get one vote, so please read all the pieces carefully before voting.
Per usual, the order of the pieces was determined randomly.
If you spotted one or more typos or formatting error in one of these pieces, please send me a private message with the ENTIRE correct story and not just the error portion. It's a lot easier for me to copy and paste a corrected version than to search out the specific error and manually correct it, in fact, I often create exciting new errors when I try that.
Per usual, the order of the pieces was determined randomly.
If you spotted one or more typos or formatting error in one of these pieces, please send me a private message with the ENTIRE correct story and not just the error portion. It's a lot easier for me to copy and paste a corrected version than to search out the specific error and manually correct it, in fact, I often create exciting new errors when I try that.
From the other side
A bright light fell on Ketz-a-petl’s face. Not a sharp piercing light, but a warm comforting light. The sort of light that lighted the halls and chambers every day, it fostered the life for a skink, like him, and the many more around him.
He was allowed to take a short break from work now and then, to soak up as much light as he needed to stay energized and healthy. A mere necessity beside the heavy work load and high pressure the Skinks performed under.
Ketz-a-petl did not remember ever having a day off, if you could speak of days at all. The vast Temple complex he worked in had no outside windows or doors and due to the eternal light inside daily cycles were no part of his life. Oh, how he longed for a natural daily rhythm.
“Ketz-a-petl!” The call of his name broke his short rest. He would have to rest more later. “Your attendance is needed.” continued Oxypatl, colleague scribe.”I will be right with you”.
Ketz-a-petl straightened his face and shook his body to activate it, like shaking a rug to get rid of dust and crumbs.
He turned to Oxypatl and followed him through a couple of hallways and into a room with two Temple Guards at the entrance. Inside the room was a large desk, with an ornate Skink behind it, a couple of cupboards, a flourishing house plant and another doorway, also guarded by two Temple Guards. He was pretty familiar with this room, the front office of the Lord’s main chamber. In his beginning days as a scribe he had many an errant to and fro this room. Nowadays he had been less likely to get in these quarters of the complex.
Both Skinks presented themselves in front of the Skink Oracle awaiting their instructions. Oracle Optlas’pco was occupied with whatever was on his desk seemingly not noticing the two scribes in front of the desk. After a couple of minutes Oxypatl produced a little cough attracting the attention of the Oracle. Optlas’pco raised his head annoyed by being disrupted in his work. “Yes?”
“Ketz-a-petl and Oxypatl reporting for duty”
“Ah, yes. I sent for you, didn’t I,” the Oracle put down his Aggradon feather beside the ink pot and swiveled the stand of his supported spyglass over to the side. He put his hands on top of each other resting then on the desk.
“The Lord has conveyed to me that the Day of Immersion draws near. Preparations are to be made for the ceremony and the festivities.”
“What great news!” replied Oxypatl. Ketz-a-petl shared in his enthusiasm: “Do you know who will be the chosen one this time? Which tribe will he be joining? What task will be set upon him on the other side?”
Oxypatl brought his hand to his forehead and sighed: “So many questions and we have no answer for all of them. Of course not. None but the Lord himself is trusted with that information. Never shall a lesser lizard be troubled with that kind of knowledge.”
In shame Ketz-a-petl felt his cheeks catch color.
“I’m sorry, I got carried away”
Optlas’pco had witnessed the conversation patiently until he got the attention of both of the Skins again.
“As I said; preparations are to be made, so go and make them.”
“As you wish!” they answered in unison. After a small bow they left the chamber.
Ketz-a-petl turned to Oxypatl: “Aren’t you a bit curious to whom the chosen one will be for this Day of Immersion?”
“Yes I am, but that doesn’t mean I am blabbering silly questions like an imbecile."
An apologizing: “Fair enough.” concluded the conversation. Both Skinks set to the task at hand.
Time passed, hard to say how long exactly, and the preparations came to a close. More and more Skinks got wind of the coming celebrations and the excitement rose noticeable. Then came the moment everything had been leading up to.
The main hall was fully packed with all kinds of Lizards and the walls and columns were joyfully decorated with all sorts of green, red and gold sparkling decorations. Light was redirected in many different directions. The Day of Immersion was a day to celebrate the light and it’s source, the sun, the bringer of energy, Chotec himself.
Rhythmic humming and growling rose and fell as all lizardfolk enjoyed the suspense building up throughout the ceremony. Oxypatl and Ketz-a-petl stood side by side admiring the results of their work and the joy all around them. The announcement of the chosen one would soon come and the Immersion directly after that.
At one of the entrances to the hall Lizards parted to make way for Oracle Optlas'pco. Dressed in a feathered cape and crown and wearing a sun staff in one hand, Optlas'pco walked slowly to the middle of the main hall and took place in front of the sacred pool in the middle. The normally calm water was ripling rhythmically in sync with the sounds filling the room.
Suddenly Optlas'pco raised his hands and the hall went silent. He closed his eyes and started mumbling a chant. The lights of the sparkling decorations got drawn to the top of the sun staff, collecting all light.
Then he spoke loudly: “O Chotec, show us your chosen one”
A beam of light emerged from the staff and fell on one Skink in the crowd, it fell on Ketz-a-petl.
He didn't have much time to comprehend what it meant as the Oracle spoke:
“Ketz-a-petl, please step forward. The Radiant One has chosen you to enter the pool of Immersion.”
As he stepped forward he felt that in making all the preparations for this moment he was made ready for this task. He knelt before Optlas'pco as he put out the sun staff and touched both of his shoulders.
“Go and be part of the Temple City Hexoatl and honor your lord well!”
“I shall!” replied Ketz-a-petl aa he stood up. He turned around to face the joyful crowd that started humming and growling again. Then he walked towards the sacred pool and noticed the floor under the surfaces had formed into a stairway leading down. He took a deep breath and started his descent.
Treading lower with every step Ketz-a-petl’s excitement slowly transformed into fear of the unknown on the other side. He looked back one more time and felt the sacred water closing in on him. One step, two steps, another one and the water finally closed above him like the closing of a chapter. In front of him a new chapter waited.
-------
Breaking the surface brought to him a breaking of silence as well. Shouts and growls of great joy erupted from many a Lizard's throat standing around the Spawning Pool. Ketz-a-petl moved forward towards the edge of the pool and climbed out. Fires were lit around the Spawning Pool and in the flickering lights he noticed trees and vegetation. He hadn't seen those before, but he knew their names. He had trouble remembering anything from before he emerged from the water. His memories dropped away like the last drops of water over his scales. A new life started for Ketz-a-petl Priest of Chotec.
A bright light fell on Ketz-a-petl’s face. Not a sharp piercing light, but a warm comforting light. The sort of light that lighted the halls and chambers every day, it fostered the life for a skink, like him, and the many more around him.
He was allowed to take a short break from work now and then, to soak up as much light as he needed to stay energized and healthy. A mere necessity beside the heavy work load and high pressure the Skinks performed under.
Ketz-a-petl did not remember ever having a day off, if you could speak of days at all. The vast Temple complex he worked in had no outside windows or doors and due to the eternal light inside daily cycles were no part of his life. Oh, how he longed for a natural daily rhythm.
“Ketz-a-petl!” The call of his name broke his short rest. He would have to rest more later. “Your attendance is needed.” continued Oxypatl, colleague scribe.”I will be right with you”.
Ketz-a-petl straightened his face and shook his body to activate it, like shaking a rug to get rid of dust and crumbs.
He turned to Oxypatl and followed him through a couple of hallways and into a room with two Temple Guards at the entrance. Inside the room was a large desk, with an ornate Skink behind it, a couple of cupboards, a flourishing house plant and another doorway, also guarded by two Temple Guards. He was pretty familiar with this room, the front office of the Lord’s main chamber. In his beginning days as a scribe he had many an errant to and fro this room. Nowadays he had been less likely to get in these quarters of the complex.
Both Skinks presented themselves in front of the Skink Oracle awaiting their instructions. Oracle Optlas’pco was occupied with whatever was on his desk seemingly not noticing the two scribes in front of the desk. After a couple of minutes Oxypatl produced a little cough attracting the attention of the Oracle. Optlas’pco raised his head annoyed by being disrupted in his work. “Yes?”
“Ketz-a-petl and Oxypatl reporting for duty”
“Ah, yes. I sent for you, didn’t I,” the Oracle put down his Aggradon feather beside the ink pot and swiveled the stand of his supported spyglass over to the side. He put his hands on top of each other resting then on the desk.
“The Lord has conveyed to me that the Day of Immersion draws near. Preparations are to be made for the ceremony and the festivities.”
“What great news!” replied Oxypatl. Ketz-a-petl shared in his enthusiasm: “Do you know who will be the chosen one this time? Which tribe will he be joining? What task will be set upon him on the other side?”
Oxypatl brought his hand to his forehead and sighed: “So many questions and we have no answer for all of them. Of course not. None but the Lord himself is trusted with that information. Never shall a lesser lizard be troubled with that kind of knowledge.”
In shame Ketz-a-petl felt his cheeks catch color.
“I’m sorry, I got carried away”
Optlas’pco had witnessed the conversation patiently until he got the attention of both of the Skins again.
“As I said; preparations are to be made, so go and make them.”
“As you wish!” they answered in unison. After a small bow they left the chamber.
Ketz-a-petl turned to Oxypatl: “Aren’t you a bit curious to whom the chosen one will be for this Day of Immersion?”
“Yes I am, but that doesn’t mean I am blabbering silly questions like an imbecile."
An apologizing: “Fair enough.” concluded the conversation. Both Skinks set to the task at hand.
Time passed, hard to say how long exactly, and the preparations came to a close. More and more Skinks got wind of the coming celebrations and the excitement rose noticeable. Then came the moment everything had been leading up to.
The main hall was fully packed with all kinds of Lizards and the walls and columns were joyfully decorated with all sorts of green, red and gold sparkling decorations. Light was redirected in many different directions. The Day of Immersion was a day to celebrate the light and it’s source, the sun, the bringer of energy, Chotec himself.
Rhythmic humming and growling rose and fell as all lizardfolk enjoyed the suspense building up throughout the ceremony. Oxypatl and Ketz-a-petl stood side by side admiring the results of their work and the joy all around them. The announcement of the chosen one would soon come and the Immersion directly after that.
At one of the entrances to the hall Lizards parted to make way for Oracle Optlas'pco. Dressed in a feathered cape and crown and wearing a sun staff in one hand, Optlas'pco walked slowly to the middle of the main hall and took place in front of the sacred pool in the middle. The normally calm water was ripling rhythmically in sync with the sounds filling the room.
Suddenly Optlas'pco raised his hands and the hall went silent. He closed his eyes and started mumbling a chant. The lights of the sparkling decorations got drawn to the top of the sun staff, collecting all light.
Then he spoke loudly: “O Chotec, show us your chosen one”
A beam of light emerged from the staff and fell on one Skink in the crowd, it fell on Ketz-a-petl.
He didn't have much time to comprehend what it meant as the Oracle spoke:
“Ketz-a-petl, please step forward. The Radiant One has chosen you to enter the pool of Immersion.”
As he stepped forward he felt that in making all the preparations for this moment he was made ready for this task. He knelt before Optlas'pco as he put out the sun staff and touched both of his shoulders.
“Go and be part of the Temple City Hexoatl and honor your lord well!”
“I shall!” replied Ketz-a-petl aa he stood up. He turned around to face the joyful crowd that started humming and growling again. Then he walked towards the sacred pool and noticed the floor under the surfaces had formed into a stairway leading down. He took a deep breath and started his descent.
Treading lower with every step Ketz-a-petl’s excitement slowly transformed into fear of the unknown on the other side. He looked back one more time and felt the sacred water closing in on him. One step, two steps, another one and the water finally closed above him like the closing of a chapter. In front of him a new chapter waited.
-------
Breaking the surface brought to him a breaking of silence as well. Shouts and growls of great joy erupted from many a Lizard's throat standing around the Spawning Pool. Ketz-a-petl moved forward towards the edge of the pool and climbed out. Fires were lit around the Spawning Pool and in the flickering lights he noticed trees and vegetation. He hadn't seen those before, but he knew their names. He had trouble remembering anything from before he emerged from the water. His memories dropped away like the last drops of water over his scales. A new life started for Ketz-a-petl Priest of Chotec.
Spawning Season
The Western Great Jungle is not that different from the Great Jungle as a whole. It certainly has clear borders sandwiched between the Amaxon River and the Spine of Sotek Mountains, but the flora and fauna is pretty similar.
It is also one of the largest areas of jungle that doesn’t have a Temple City in it. This meant Endic and the score of other Skinks under his command were on their own.
Given the long distance from the nearest Lizardmen settlement, the odds of finding rare medicinal or magical plants was much higher. Ostensibly what Endic and his party were here to find. Based on the way the Skink priest who assigned him his duty was acting, Endic suspected his true duty was reconnaissance. They suspected enemy activity of some kind.
Thus far, all Endic could reconnoiter on was lots of noise and devastation. It was the Stegadons’ spawning season. Stegadon bulls were locking horns with each other to compete for mates. The aftermath of these events usually flattened large swaths of jungle around these challenge sites. Sometimes this uncovered plants for the Skinks to find, but usually this just pulverized useful plants to dust.
It wasn’t just the Stegadon’s spawning season. It seemed like the whole jungle was alive with raucous noise of birds, monkeys, and reptiles either mating or preparing to mate. In their wisdom, the Old Ones had spared the Lizardmen from the disorder and noise of this style of spawning. Endic wondered if spawning rituals were why the warmblood races were so susceptible to Chaos.
It was also the Carnosaur’s mating season, but this actually made them less dangerous, at least to Skinks. Spawning works up an appetite, but Carnosaurs don’t normally go after man-sized prey unless desperate or provoked. With so many large beasts in a spawning frenzy, the Carnosaurs had plenty of better prey to go after. This time of year, they pretty much pay no heed to Skinks-sized creatures at all allowing them to get really close.
The Skinks tuned out the noises as best they could and focused on their gathering. After a few weeks the Skinks had gathered a respectable harvest of rare materials when Endic heard something that made his crest stiffen with alarm.
The jungle was silent. The jungle wasn’t quite dead silent, but it was a lot quieter than normal, and Endic knew that never preceded anything good.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Skotch Fieryfist was not happy with his assignment.
Skotch’s clan leaders had a plan to establish a new Skaven holding in Lustria. Instead of trying to take over a Lizardmen Temple City, they were going to build a new hive entirely. Close enough to launch attacks against the lizard-things, but isolated enough for it to be hard to find. Builidng a secret base in the Lizardmen’s own ruined temple cities was not secret base at all.
Skotch suspected that he was sent out to die. Why else would they send him into the middle of nowhere with asmall scouting force. 200 warriors and 300 hundred slaves. Less than a month in the jungle, they were down to 194 warriors and 53 slaves. An unacceptable loss…six warriors!?!
The Skaven party odor seemed to repel a lot of jungle creatures or perhaps it was the warpstone they carried. They killed and ate the ones didn’t stay away.
Skotch’s number two Trak pointed something disturbing. The whole party of Skaven were skilled trackers, but Trak had the best eyes and nose. He stopped and looked at Skotch pointedly.
Very large tracks. Skotch’s nose flared at an extremely pungent lingering odor of lizard urine.
“So what-what? Big claws, Carnosaur-thing, foul piss. Three day old tracks at least.”
Trak pointed to a smaller fainter track near by. “Lizard-things, two days old track.” Only twenty, but if they tell their masters where we are our plan is doom-doomed and we will be harm-punished.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Endic and his men searched around for any signs of what was causing the odd silence and were subject to a very clumsy ambush of a dozen terrified and poorly armed Skaven slaves which fell quickly to blowpipe darts, but the foul creatures let out high pitched squeals before perishing giving away their position.
Before they could recollect their darts, an attack of stronger Skaven forced them to withdraw. They killed twelve ratmen and only lost two Skinks, but they ran out of darts. The Skaven quickly realized this The Skaven were not very good shots, but they now had ranged superiority.
They didn’t have many warplock pistols but they had plenty of sling stones. They forced the Skinks back again and again, killing Skinks in ones and twos.
The Skinks were faster but the Skaven were seemingly tireless never stopping. Making new darts in the jungle is pretty easy for Skinks to do, but the Skaven barely let the Skinks rest, let alone take time to resupply. But the Skinks could move about the jungle better. The skinks agitated as many small predators as they could while fleeing figuring this would cause more damage to the Skaven than to themselves. A few times they even turned around for their own hit-and-run ambushes when the weather and terrain made using slings impractical.
After weeks of inconclusive skirmishes, 194 Skaven and 20 Skinks was reduced to 72 Skaven and 6 Skinks. Both sides were exhausted, but the Skaven were winning. The Skinks had escaped their pursuers, but they knew this was a temporary respite.
Zelpac looked at Endic with tired circles under his eyes.
“We have to stand and fight soon, or we’ll be too tired to move. It’s our only chance At least take a few more out.”
Illux spoke next.
“No more darts. We only have our daggers and clubs. That’s not enough. We have the things we have gathered but it’s not weapons.”
Endic rubbed his crest.
“Maybe we do have a weapon…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Skotch Firefist was elated, they finally seemed to be closing in, the lizard-things were slowing down.
Then to their surprise they triggered snare connected to gourds suspended in trees which spilled liquid upon them.
The Skaven were worried for a second, but then laughed.
The smell was foul, but the Skaven were unhurt. Foul smells is something Skaven are very accustomed to.
“Do the lizard-things think this is poison? What kind of kill-trap is this?”
Trak paused, “I think this is Carnosaur urine. Why make a piss-trap?”
Skotch smirked and bruxed. “Tired lizard-things not thinking straight.” We’ll catch them soon.
The Skinks had stopped weaving through swamps and were running in essentially a straight line as breezes were picking up. Over two days, the Skaven gradually closed the distance then they finally caught up to them in a small jungle clearing. The Skinks looked wary but alert. Skotch couldn’t resist gloating.
“You are dead-dead now! 72 to six. All you have to defend yourself with is urine. Pathetic”
Endic grinned.
“All we have is urine from a female Carnosaur that’s egging, and you’ve been fanning it into the winds.”
“What-what? Nevermind. Ready slings to soften them up then charge. Kill-slay them all, victory begins n—"
An ear splitting roar interrupted his orders. A massive Carnosaur rushed into the clearing waving his muzzle around expectedly, then roared in anger at not finding a mate. It runed to the Skaven that smelled like a mate and quickly reasoned that these creatures had tricked it and therefore needed to die.
72 to six because 72 to 7. And one of those was a Carnosaur.
The Western Great Jungle is not that different from the Great Jungle as a whole. It certainly has clear borders sandwiched between the Amaxon River and the Spine of Sotek Mountains, but the flora and fauna is pretty similar.
It is also one of the largest areas of jungle that doesn’t have a Temple City in it. This meant Endic and the score of other Skinks under his command were on their own.
Given the long distance from the nearest Lizardmen settlement, the odds of finding rare medicinal or magical plants was much higher. Ostensibly what Endic and his party were here to find. Based on the way the Skink priest who assigned him his duty was acting, Endic suspected his true duty was reconnaissance. They suspected enemy activity of some kind.
Thus far, all Endic could reconnoiter on was lots of noise and devastation. It was the Stegadons’ spawning season. Stegadon bulls were locking horns with each other to compete for mates. The aftermath of these events usually flattened large swaths of jungle around these challenge sites. Sometimes this uncovered plants for the Skinks to find, but usually this just pulverized useful plants to dust.
It wasn’t just the Stegadon’s spawning season. It seemed like the whole jungle was alive with raucous noise of birds, monkeys, and reptiles either mating or preparing to mate. In their wisdom, the Old Ones had spared the Lizardmen from the disorder and noise of this style of spawning. Endic wondered if spawning rituals were why the warmblood races were so susceptible to Chaos.
It was also the Carnosaur’s mating season, but this actually made them less dangerous, at least to Skinks. Spawning works up an appetite, but Carnosaurs don’t normally go after man-sized prey unless desperate or provoked. With so many large beasts in a spawning frenzy, the Carnosaurs had plenty of better prey to go after. This time of year, they pretty much pay no heed to Skinks-sized creatures at all allowing them to get really close.
The Skinks tuned out the noises as best they could and focused on their gathering. After a few weeks the Skinks had gathered a respectable harvest of rare materials when Endic heard something that made his crest stiffen with alarm.
The jungle was silent. The jungle wasn’t quite dead silent, but it was a lot quieter than normal, and Endic knew that never preceded anything good.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Skotch Fieryfist was not happy with his assignment.
Skotch’s clan leaders had a plan to establish a new Skaven holding in Lustria. Instead of trying to take over a Lizardmen Temple City, they were going to build a new hive entirely. Close enough to launch attacks against the lizard-things, but isolated enough for it to be hard to find. Builidng a secret base in the Lizardmen’s own ruined temple cities was not secret base at all.
Skotch suspected that he was sent out to die. Why else would they send him into the middle of nowhere with asmall scouting force. 200 warriors and 300 hundred slaves. Less than a month in the jungle, they were down to 194 warriors and 53 slaves. An unacceptable loss…six warriors!?!
The Skaven party odor seemed to repel a lot of jungle creatures or perhaps it was the warpstone they carried. They killed and ate the ones didn’t stay away.
Skotch’s number two Trak pointed something disturbing. The whole party of Skaven were skilled trackers, but Trak had the best eyes and nose. He stopped and looked at Skotch pointedly.
Very large tracks. Skotch’s nose flared at an extremely pungent lingering odor of lizard urine.
“So what-what? Big claws, Carnosaur-thing, foul piss. Three day old tracks at least.”
Trak pointed to a smaller fainter track near by. “Lizard-things, two days old track.” Only twenty, but if they tell their masters where we are our plan is doom-doomed and we will be harm-punished.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Endic and his men searched around for any signs of what was causing the odd silence and were subject to a very clumsy ambush of a dozen terrified and poorly armed Skaven slaves which fell quickly to blowpipe darts, but the foul creatures let out high pitched squeals before perishing giving away their position.
Before they could recollect their darts, an attack of stronger Skaven forced them to withdraw. They killed twelve ratmen and only lost two Skinks, but they ran out of darts. The Skaven quickly realized this The Skaven were not very good shots, but they now had ranged superiority.
They didn’t have many warplock pistols but they had plenty of sling stones. They forced the Skinks back again and again, killing Skinks in ones and twos.
The Skinks were faster but the Skaven were seemingly tireless never stopping. Making new darts in the jungle is pretty easy for Skinks to do, but the Skaven barely let the Skinks rest, let alone take time to resupply. But the Skinks could move about the jungle better. The skinks agitated as many small predators as they could while fleeing figuring this would cause more damage to the Skaven than to themselves. A few times they even turned around for their own hit-and-run ambushes when the weather and terrain made using slings impractical.
After weeks of inconclusive skirmishes, 194 Skaven and 20 Skinks was reduced to 72 Skaven and 6 Skinks. Both sides were exhausted, but the Skaven were winning. The Skinks had escaped their pursuers, but they knew this was a temporary respite.
Zelpac looked at Endic with tired circles under his eyes.
“We have to stand and fight soon, or we’ll be too tired to move. It’s our only chance At least take a few more out.”
Illux spoke next.
“No more darts. We only have our daggers and clubs. That’s not enough. We have the things we have gathered but it’s not weapons.”
Endic rubbed his crest.
“Maybe we do have a weapon…”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Skotch Firefist was elated, they finally seemed to be closing in, the lizard-things were slowing down.
Then to their surprise they triggered snare connected to gourds suspended in trees which spilled liquid upon them.
The Skaven were worried for a second, but then laughed.
The smell was foul, but the Skaven were unhurt. Foul smells is something Skaven are very accustomed to.
“Do the lizard-things think this is poison? What kind of kill-trap is this?”
Trak paused, “I think this is Carnosaur urine. Why make a piss-trap?”
Skotch smirked and bruxed. “Tired lizard-things not thinking straight.” We’ll catch them soon.
The Skinks had stopped weaving through swamps and were running in essentially a straight line as breezes were picking up. Over two days, the Skaven gradually closed the distance then they finally caught up to them in a small jungle clearing. The Skinks looked wary but alert. Skotch couldn’t resist gloating.
“You are dead-dead now! 72 to six. All you have to defend yourself with is urine. Pathetic”
Endic grinned.
“All we have is urine from a female Carnosaur that’s egging, and you’ve been fanning it into the winds.”
“What-what? Nevermind. Ready slings to soften them up then charge. Kill-slay them all, victory begins n—"
An ear splitting roar interrupted his orders. A massive Carnosaur rushed into the clearing waving his muzzle around expectedly, then roared in anger at not finding a mate. It runed to the Skaven that smelled like a mate and quickly reasoned that these creatures had tricked it and therefore needed to die.
72 to six because 72 to 7. And one of those was a Carnosaur.
Standards
The Old Ones bickered about who to blame. The Warp Gates had collapsed and Chaos was spewing into the world they'd built so carefully. The engineers swore their work had been solid, stuffed full of redundancies and failsafes; the construction crews pointed to five rounds of quality assurance forms, each approved in triplicate; the astrothaumaturges patiently reminded everyone again and again that the theory was sound, in fact, no theory in history had ever been so thoroughly proven and corroborated by experimental data. The only thing they all agreed on was that the Gates could never have failed - unless one of the other teams hadn't done its job right.
They didn't call themselves the Old Ones, of course. Odd Ones, perhaps. They only knew each other as an assortment of roles on temporary secondment to a routine, if somewhat unorthodox terraforming project in a remote galactic supercluster. They grumbled as evacuation protocols were triggered - just a swarm of daemons, why all the fuss? - and killed time on the orbiting skyships by forming new and increasingly redundant committees.
The situation on site eventually stabilised - one of the mammalian species had managed to grasp enough thaumaturgy to produce a vortex capable of siphoning away the excess Chaos energies - but the all-clear on the skyships never sounded. Fresh rounds of blame ensued; time was being lost by the decade; the sapioherpetologists were furious about their pets being left without essential training; the biojanitors submitted a litany of ever-more passive-aggressive memos about pest species populations reaching tipping points for containment. Still, all work remained on hold and orbital quarantine continued.
Mortal generations sped by, and finally regional management broke its silence. The project had been terminated. Everyone was to report to their former sites after completion of mothball protocols. The skyships gave a series of overly dramatic sighs. Of course, corporate would be corporate - what a colossal waste. They probably thought they could make more from the planet as a write-off on a tiny line item in some vast galactic ledger.
The on-site guardians - this project had used a reptilian base, bioengineered like always for a congenital devotion to Order - were bred without reproductive systems and would soon become extinct. What would happen to the half-baked world after that was anyone's guess, but it would all be over soon enough. One power or another would exterminate the others, and then consume itself; they always did. The only question was whether there would be any flora and fauna left when it was all over, or if things would return to the sterile, barren state they'd started with. One way or another, this was destined to be a quiet, peaceful world forever.
Thousands of statements, reports, and analyses would be written, a century-spanning inquiry that would ultimately be filed very thoroughly in places where it could be easily referred to and yet would never be glanced at again. The reports would extensively chronicle the various blame games, accusations, and finger pointing. But one oversight was never the subject of condemnation: it seems that no one ever noticed that the mothball teams failed to disengage a certain minor system.
"Some genius forgot to turn off the bleeding hydrogenesis tanks," groaned the Old One Gary, putting a palm to his forehead. He'd come all the way to this foresaken rock for a mandatory ten-thousand-year check-up, required for all projects abandoned after a certain level of terraforming. He shook his head, and peered closer at the monitors in his shabby old company skyship.
"Oh, Regional is going to just love this. We've got whole armies of alpha-class reptilo-guardians still roaming around...decaying mammal civs...spore-based berserkers...Chaos corrosion in almost every species...couple of horrible cases of undeath. Good grief! They must have been killing each other all this time, all balancing each other out - it's the perfect ruddy storm! And all because someone forgot to switch the tanks off when it's right there in the checklist. That's it, I'm officially recommending End Times protocols."
Tutting to himself about shoddy standards, he remained in orbit for several more hours while he finished the necessary paperwork. After that it would be on to the next contract, and the thing would be out of his hands. Even he didn't know who would decide what happened next.
There were many on the planet who paid attention to the night sky. But very few noticed the departing speck as it left orbit and faded away into the great oblivion that waited beyond. In Lustria, the spawning pools began to churn once more.
The Old Ones bickered about who to blame. The Warp Gates had collapsed and Chaos was spewing into the world they'd built so carefully. The engineers swore their work had been solid, stuffed full of redundancies and failsafes; the construction crews pointed to five rounds of quality assurance forms, each approved in triplicate; the astrothaumaturges patiently reminded everyone again and again that the theory was sound, in fact, no theory in history had ever been so thoroughly proven and corroborated by experimental data. The only thing they all agreed on was that the Gates could never have failed - unless one of the other teams hadn't done its job right.
They didn't call themselves the Old Ones, of course. Odd Ones, perhaps. They only knew each other as an assortment of roles on temporary secondment to a routine, if somewhat unorthodox terraforming project in a remote galactic supercluster. They grumbled as evacuation protocols were triggered - just a swarm of daemons, why all the fuss? - and killed time on the orbiting skyships by forming new and increasingly redundant committees.
The situation on site eventually stabilised - one of the mammalian species had managed to grasp enough thaumaturgy to produce a vortex capable of siphoning away the excess Chaos energies - but the all-clear on the skyships never sounded. Fresh rounds of blame ensued; time was being lost by the decade; the sapioherpetologists were furious about their pets being left without essential training; the biojanitors submitted a litany of ever-more passive-aggressive memos about pest species populations reaching tipping points for containment. Still, all work remained on hold and orbital quarantine continued.
Mortal generations sped by, and finally regional management broke its silence. The project had been terminated. Everyone was to report to their former sites after completion of mothball protocols. The skyships gave a series of overly dramatic sighs. Of course, corporate would be corporate - what a colossal waste. They probably thought they could make more from the planet as a write-off on a tiny line item in some vast galactic ledger.
The on-site guardians - this project had used a reptilian base, bioengineered like always for a congenital devotion to Order - were bred without reproductive systems and would soon become extinct. What would happen to the half-baked world after that was anyone's guess, but it would all be over soon enough. One power or another would exterminate the others, and then consume itself; they always did. The only question was whether there would be any flora and fauna left when it was all over, or if things would return to the sterile, barren state they'd started with. One way or another, this was destined to be a quiet, peaceful world forever.
Thousands of statements, reports, and analyses would be written, a century-spanning inquiry that would ultimately be filed very thoroughly in places where it could be easily referred to and yet would never be glanced at again. The reports would extensively chronicle the various blame games, accusations, and finger pointing. But one oversight was never the subject of condemnation: it seems that no one ever noticed that the mothball teams failed to disengage a certain minor system.
"Some genius forgot to turn off the bleeding hydrogenesis tanks," groaned the Old One Gary, putting a palm to his forehead. He'd come all the way to this foresaken rock for a mandatory ten-thousand-year check-up, required for all projects abandoned after a certain level of terraforming. He shook his head, and peered closer at the monitors in his shabby old company skyship.
"Oh, Regional is going to just love this. We've got whole armies of alpha-class reptilo-guardians still roaming around...decaying mammal civs...spore-based berserkers...Chaos corrosion in almost every species...couple of horrible cases of undeath. Good grief! They must have been killing each other all this time, all balancing each other out - it's the perfect ruddy storm! And all because someone forgot to switch the tanks off when it's right there in the checklist. That's it, I'm officially recommending End Times protocols."
Tutting to himself about shoddy standards, he remained in orbit for several more hours while he finished the necessary paperwork. After that it would be on to the next contract, and the thing would be out of his hands. Even he didn't know who would decide what happened next.
There were many on the planet who paid attention to the night sky. But very few noticed the departing speck as it left orbit and faded away into the great oblivion that waited beyond. In Lustria, the spawning pools began to churn once more.
The Last Spawn
Prologue
For thousands of seasons, the Sacred Pool never failed.
Whenever its crystal waters shimmered beneath the twin moons, life emerged. One after another, hatchlings climbed from the glowing depths, their scales glistening with the blessing of the Ancients. They became farmers, priests, guardians, healers, and warriors. Entire generations were born from the Pool, and the Lizardmen believed its will was flawless.
Then the births began to fade.
Thousands became hundreds.
Hundreds became dozens.
Dozens became one.
As centuries passed, the Sacred Pool remained silent, its waters calm as polished stone. Kingdoms rose and fell. Warriors grew old waiting for the next Spawn. Priests prayed until their voices cracked, while the Guardians never abandoned their watch.
Only one prophecy endured.
"When the Final Spawn rises from the Sacred Pool, the fate of all scales shall be decided. Through its first breath, an age shall end... and another shall begin."
No one agreed on what the prophecy truly meant.
Some believed the Last Spawn would become the greatest conqueror in history.
Others believed it would be the savior of their dying race.
On the dawn of the longest day, the Sacred Pool stirred.
Its silver surface rippled.
A tiny hatchling emerged from the light.
Every Lizardman fell to their knees.
***
The Five Colors
Morning light spilled across the Temple of First Waters, where every caste of the Lizardmen had gathered beneath towering stone pillars carved with the names of ancient Spawn.
The Greens filled the outer terraces. Farmers, builders, hunters, and artisans stood shoulder to shoulder, their emerald scales stained with soil and sap. They formed the backbone of the kingdom, yet none dared step beyond the marked stones.
Behind them waited the Red Claws, silent and motionless. Their crimson scales gleamed beneath polished armor, while curved obsidian blades rested at their hips. They existed for a single purpose—to fight. Every Red was raised believing that mercy belonged only to the defeated.
The Yellow Priests circled the Sacred Pool, chanting in voices as old as the temple itself. Draped in golden robes adorned with shells and polished amber, they alone interpreted the will of the Ancients. Their words shaped laws, faith, and even war.
No priest crossed the water’s edge.
That duty belonged to the Blue Guardians.
With pale azure scales and long ceremonial spears, they watched the Sacred Pool day and night. Their oath was older than any kingdom: no claw, king, or priest would ever touch the sacred waters without their permission.
Above them all stood a single figure.
Commander Vaelor, the White Scale.
His ivory scales marked him as one touched by destiny, yet he wore no crown. His authority came not from prophecy, but from every battle he had survived and every warrior he had brought home alive.
To his right stood High Priest Sareth, whose faith never wavered.
To his left waited General Kharz, leader of the Red Claws, whose answer to every threat had always been steel.
As the three leaders faced the Sacred Pool together, the entire kingdom held its breath.
The Last Spawn had awakened.
***
A Heart Unlike Any Other
The hatchling was named Kael.
From the day he could walk, the kingdom watched his every step.
The Red Claws placed wooden blades in his hands before he learned to speak. They imagined a future commander whose name would echo across battlefields. The Yellow Priests whispered that the prophecy had chosen him to save their dying race. Even the Green folk smiled whenever he passed, believing he would restore the glory their ancestors once knew.
But Kael became nothing like they expected.
The clash of steel made him flinch.
The roar of warriors sent him searching for silence.
Whenever the Red Claws trained in the arena, he covered his ears and slipped away before the first sword struck another.
He hated shouting.
He hated anger.
Most of all, he hated the sight of blood.
One afternoon, while young warriors celebrated their first hunt, Kael quietly knelt beside an injured forest glider. Instead of claiming it as prey, he wrapped its broken wing with strips of woven leaves and waited until it could fly again.
Another day, he spent hours helping Green workers rebuild homes damaged by heavy rains, carrying stones with blistered hands while the future warriors laughed from the training grounds.
"That is not how a Spawn should live,"they mocked.
Rumors spread quickly through the kingdom.
Some called him weak.
Others called him broken.
A few even whispered that the Sacred Pool had finally made a mistake.
Only Commander Vaelor remained silent.
Whenever he watched the young Spawn comfort a frightened child or rescue a wounded creature, he saw something the others refused to see.
Perhaps strength was not measured by the lives one could take…
Perhaps it was measured by the lives one chose to save.
***
The Broken Spawn
The warning drums echoed across the city before sunrise.
Scouts from the Azure Seekers returned with grim news. A rival reptilian tribe had crossed the eastern marshes, burning farms and driving frightened families toward the capital. Smoke darkened the horizon, and for the first time in many seasons, the Red Claws sharpened their obsidian blades for war.
General Kharz stood before the warriors.
"It is time," he declared. "The Last Spawn shall fight beside us."
High Priest Sareth raised his golden staff.
"The Sacred Pool has never been wrong. The Ancients chose him for this very moment."
No one dared question the decree.
From that day forward, Kael trained with the Red Claws.
Every morning he learned to wield a spear.
Every afternoon he sparred beneath the blazing sun.
Every evening he returned with bruises instead of victories.
He never struck first.
When ordered to attack, he lowered his weapon.
When challenged, he stepped aside.
When cornered, he defended himself only long enough to protect the weaker trainees standing behind him.
"You hesitate,"General Kharz growled after another failed exercise.
"I refuse to harm someone who no longer wishes to fight," Kael answered quietly.
His words spread through the barracks faster than wildfire.
The warriors laughed.
"The Sacred Pool has given us a coward."
"A hatchling with no claws."
"The Broken Spawn."
The cruel name followed him wherever he walked.
Some Red Claws deliberately shoved him aside in the training yard.
Others threw wooden blades at his feet, daring him to prove himself.
Kael never answered with anger.
He simply picked up the fallen weapons and returned them without raising his own.
Watching from the temple steps, Commander Vaelor remained silent.
He had commanded warriors all his life.
Yet never had he seen someone endure humiliation with such quiet strength.
For the first time, even he began to wonder…
Perhaps the kingdom had misunderstood the prophecy all along.
***
The Measure of Courage
Commander Vaelor summoned Kael before dawn.
Instead of leading him to the training grounds, he guided the young Spawn beyond the temple walls, where the eastern marshes stretched beneath a pale morning sky. The only sounds were birds calling through the reeds and water flowing gently between ancient stones.
"For today," Vaelor said, "there will be no weapons."
Kael looked at him with quiet surprise.
They walked in silence until they found a wounded marsh beast trapped beneath a fallen tree. Without hesitation, Kael rushed forward, lifting the heavy branch despite the strain in his arms. The frightened creature stumbled free before disappearing into the reeds.
Vaelor watched without speaking.
"You risked your life," he finally said.
"It was afraid," Kael replied softly. "Just as I would have been."
The old commander lowered his eyes.
Throughout his long life, he had witnessed countless warriors celebrated for the enemies they had slain. Yet no song had ever been written for those who chose compassion when violence was easier.
"You know what the Red Claws call you," Vaelor said.
Kael nodded.
"The Broken Spawn."
"They believe I have no courage."
Vaelor stepped closer and placed a weathered hand upon the young Spawn’s shoulder.
"They are wrong."
He looked toward the distant battlefield where smoke still rose beyond the marshes.
"Courage is not only the strength to raise a weapon."
His voice remained calm.
"It is also the strength to lower one."
Kael remained silent, letting the words settle within him.
For the first time in many seasons, Commander Vaelor no longer saw a failed warrior standing before him.
He saw a leader unlike any the kingdom had ever known.
And deep within his heart, a question he had buried for years finally returned.
What if the Ancients had never intended to create another conqueror?
What if they had chosen someone brave enough... to end the endless cycle of war?
***
The Day the Claws Fell Silent
War came with fire.
The eastern marshes burned beneath clouds of black smoke as the Red Claws charged into battle. Spears shattered against shields. Blades clashed without mercy. Cries of triumph and agony became one endless roar.
At the center of the battlefield stood Kael.
Every eye turned toward the Last Spawn.
”This is your destiny!” General Kharz shouted.
"Fight!"
Instead, Kael ran toward the wounded.
He pulled injured Red Claws away from the fighting, binding their wounds with strips torn from his own cloak. He carried frightened hatchlings trapped between the two armies to the safety of the riverbank, ignoring the arrows that struck the ground around him.
Then he saw the enemy commander.
The massive reptilian warrior had fallen beneath his own shattered mount. A broken spear pierced his side, and abandoned soldiers stepped around him as the battle surged forward.
General Kharz raised his blade.
"Leave him," he ordered. "Let him die."
Kael ignored the command.
With every ounce of strength he possessed, he lifted the broken timber crushing the commander and dragged the wounded enemy away from the flames.
The great warrior stared at him in disbelief.
"Why...?" he whispered through clenched teeth.
Kael tightened the bandage around the wound.
"Because your life matters as much as mine."
Silence spread more quickly than any battle cry.
Red Claws lowered their weapons.
Across the field, enemy warriors stopped advancing.
They watched in stunned disbelief as the Last Spawn—foretold to become the greatest warrior—knelt beside the very commander he had every reason to hate.
General Kharz slowly lowered his sword.
The enemy commander struggled to his feet. Instead of reaching for his weapon, he removed the crimson war crest from his helmet and bowed his head toward Kael.
One by one, warriors from both armies followed.
Not because they had been defeated.
But because, for the first time, they had witnessed a courage greater than victory.
On that day, the battlefield fell silent—not through conquest, but through compassion.
***
The Last Gift
In the days that followed, no songs of victory were sung.
Instead, the battlefield remained silent.
The wounded from both armies were treated beneath the same tents, while the dead were returned to their families without hatred. For the first time in countless generations, no blade was raised after the fighting had ceased.
Within the Temple of First Waters, High Priest Sareth stood alone before the ancient stone of prophecy.
For years, he had recited its words from memory.
This time, he read every weathered line with trembling hands.
Beneath centuries of moss and worn carvings, he uncovered a forgotten sentence hidden by time.
"The Last Spawn shall not win the final war."
"The Last Spawn shall end the shedding of blood."
Sareth closed his eyes.
The Ancients had never promised the greatest warrior.
They had promised the one who would teach warriors when to stop.
The Sacred Pool had not failed.
They had failed to understand it.
As the sun disappeared beyond the marshes, Kael returned alone to the Sacred Pool.
Without a word, he knelt and placed his hand upon its still surface.
Gentle ripples spread across the water.
Once.
Twice.
Then the entire pool shimmered with silver light for the first time in centuries.
No hatchling emerged.
No prophecy was spoken.
No miracle appeared.
Only the quiet sound of living water flowing once more.
Around the sacred waters, every Lizardman—Green, Red, Yellow, Blue, and White—bowed their heads together, no longer divided by the colors upon their scales.
At last, they understood.
The Sacred Pool had never existed to create the perfect warrior.
It had always existed to remind them why life was worth protecting.
And in that understanding, the Last Spawn fulfilled the oldest prophecy of all.
Not by conquering the world—
but by giving it hope.
Prologue
For thousands of seasons, the Sacred Pool never failed.
Whenever its crystal waters shimmered beneath the twin moons, life emerged. One after another, hatchlings climbed from the glowing depths, their scales glistening with the blessing of the Ancients. They became farmers, priests, guardians, healers, and warriors. Entire generations were born from the Pool, and the Lizardmen believed its will was flawless.
Then the births began to fade.
Thousands became hundreds.
Hundreds became dozens.
Dozens became one.
As centuries passed, the Sacred Pool remained silent, its waters calm as polished stone. Kingdoms rose and fell. Warriors grew old waiting for the next Spawn. Priests prayed until their voices cracked, while the Guardians never abandoned their watch.
Only one prophecy endured.
"When the Final Spawn rises from the Sacred Pool, the fate of all scales shall be decided. Through its first breath, an age shall end... and another shall begin."
No one agreed on what the prophecy truly meant.
Some believed the Last Spawn would become the greatest conqueror in history.
Others believed it would be the savior of their dying race.
On the dawn of the longest day, the Sacred Pool stirred.
Its silver surface rippled.
A tiny hatchling emerged from the light.
Every Lizardman fell to their knees.
***
The Five Colors
Morning light spilled across the Temple of First Waters, where every caste of the Lizardmen had gathered beneath towering stone pillars carved with the names of ancient Spawn.
The Greens filled the outer terraces. Farmers, builders, hunters, and artisans stood shoulder to shoulder, their emerald scales stained with soil and sap. They formed the backbone of the kingdom, yet none dared step beyond the marked stones.
Behind them waited the Red Claws, silent and motionless. Their crimson scales gleamed beneath polished armor, while curved obsidian blades rested at their hips. They existed for a single purpose—to fight. Every Red was raised believing that mercy belonged only to the defeated.
The Yellow Priests circled the Sacred Pool, chanting in voices as old as the temple itself. Draped in golden robes adorned with shells and polished amber, they alone interpreted the will of the Ancients. Their words shaped laws, faith, and even war.
No priest crossed the water’s edge.
That duty belonged to the Blue Guardians.
With pale azure scales and long ceremonial spears, they watched the Sacred Pool day and night. Their oath was older than any kingdom: no claw, king, or priest would ever touch the sacred waters without their permission.
Above them all stood a single figure.
Commander Vaelor, the White Scale.
His ivory scales marked him as one touched by destiny, yet he wore no crown. His authority came not from prophecy, but from every battle he had survived and every warrior he had brought home alive.
To his right stood High Priest Sareth, whose faith never wavered.
To his left waited General Kharz, leader of the Red Claws, whose answer to every threat had always been steel.
As the three leaders faced the Sacred Pool together, the entire kingdom held its breath.
The Last Spawn had awakened.
***
A Heart Unlike Any Other
The hatchling was named Kael.
From the day he could walk, the kingdom watched his every step.
The Red Claws placed wooden blades in his hands before he learned to speak. They imagined a future commander whose name would echo across battlefields. The Yellow Priests whispered that the prophecy had chosen him to save their dying race. Even the Green folk smiled whenever he passed, believing he would restore the glory their ancestors once knew.
But Kael became nothing like they expected.
The clash of steel made him flinch.
The roar of warriors sent him searching for silence.
Whenever the Red Claws trained in the arena, he covered his ears and slipped away before the first sword struck another.
He hated shouting.
He hated anger.
Most of all, he hated the sight of blood.
One afternoon, while young warriors celebrated their first hunt, Kael quietly knelt beside an injured forest glider. Instead of claiming it as prey, he wrapped its broken wing with strips of woven leaves and waited until it could fly again.
Another day, he spent hours helping Green workers rebuild homes damaged by heavy rains, carrying stones with blistered hands while the future warriors laughed from the training grounds.
"That is not how a Spawn should live,"they mocked.
Rumors spread quickly through the kingdom.
Some called him weak.
Others called him broken.
A few even whispered that the Sacred Pool had finally made a mistake.
Only Commander Vaelor remained silent.
Whenever he watched the young Spawn comfort a frightened child or rescue a wounded creature, he saw something the others refused to see.
Perhaps strength was not measured by the lives one could take…
Perhaps it was measured by the lives one chose to save.
***
The Broken Spawn
The warning drums echoed across the city before sunrise.
Scouts from the Azure Seekers returned with grim news. A rival reptilian tribe had crossed the eastern marshes, burning farms and driving frightened families toward the capital. Smoke darkened the horizon, and for the first time in many seasons, the Red Claws sharpened their obsidian blades for war.
General Kharz stood before the warriors.
"It is time," he declared. "The Last Spawn shall fight beside us."
High Priest Sareth raised his golden staff.
"The Sacred Pool has never been wrong. The Ancients chose him for this very moment."
No one dared question the decree.
From that day forward, Kael trained with the Red Claws.
Every morning he learned to wield a spear.
Every afternoon he sparred beneath the blazing sun.
Every evening he returned with bruises instead of victories.
He never struck first.
When ordered to attack, he lowered his weapon.
When challenged, he stepped aside.
When cornered, he defended himself only long enough to protect the weaker trainees standing behind him.
"You hesitate,"General Kharz growled after another failed exercise.
"I refuse to harm someone who no longer wishes to fight," Kael answered quietly.
His words spread through the barracks faster than wildfire.
The warriors laughed.
"The Sacred Pool has given us a coward."
"A hatchling with no claws."
"The Broken Spawn."
The cruel name followed him wherever he walked.
Some Red Claws deliberately shoved him aside in the training yard.
Others threw wooden blades at his feet, daring him to prove himself.
Kael never answered with anger.
He simply picked up the fallen weapons and returned them without raising his own.
Watching from the temple steps, Commander Vaelor remained silent.
He had commanded warriors all his life.
Yet never had he seen someone endure humiliation with such quiet strength.
For the first time, even he began to wonder…
Perhaps the kingdom had misunderstood the prophecy all along.
***
The Measure of Courage
Commander Vaelor summoned Kael before dawn.
Instead of leading him to the training grounds, he guided the young Spawn beyond the temple walls, where the eastern marshes stretched beneath a pale morning sky. The only sounds were birds calling through the reeds and water flowing gently between ancient stones.
"For today," Vaelor said, "there will be no weapons."
Kael looked at him with quiet surprise.
They walked in silence until they found a wounded marsh beast trapped beneath a fallen tree. Without hesitation, Kael rushed forward, lifting the heavy branch despite the strain in his arms. The frightened creature stumbled free before disappearing into the reeds.
Vaelor watched without speaking.
"You risked your life," he finally said.
"It was afraid," Kael replied softly. "Just as I would have been."
The old commander lowered his eyes.
Throughout his long life, he had witnessed countless warriors celebrated for the enemies they had slain. Yet no song had ever been written for those who chose compassion when violence was easier.
"You know what the Red Claws call you," Vaelor said.
Kael nodded.
"The Broken Spawn."
"They believe I have no courage."
Vaelor stepped closer and placed a weathered hand upon the young Spawn’s shoulder.
"They are wrong."
He looked toward the distant battlefield where smoke still rose beyond the marshes.
"Courage is not only the strength to raise a weapon."
His voice remained calm.
"It is also the strength to lower one."
Kael remained silent, letting the words settle within him.
For the first time in many seasons, Commander Vaelor no longer saw a failed warrior standing before him.
He saw a leader unlike any the kingdom had ever known.
And deep within his heart, a question he had buried for years finally returned.
What if the Ancients had never intended to create another conqueror?
What if they had chosen someone brave enough... to end the endless cycle of war?
***
The Day the Claws Fell Silent
War came with fire.
The eastern marshes burned beneath clouds of black smoke as the Red Claws charged into battle. Spears shattered against shields. Blades clashed without mercy. Cries of triumph and agony became one endless roar.
At the center of the battlefield stood Kael.
Every eye turned toward the Last Spawn.
”This is your destiny!” General Kharz shouted.
"Fight!"
Instead, Kael ran toward the wounded.
He pulled injured Red Claws away from the fighting, binding their wounds with strips torn from his own cloak. He carried frightened hatchlings trapped between the two armies to the safety of the riverbank, ignoring the arrows that struck the ground around him.
Then he saw the enemy commander.
The massive reptilian warrior had fallen beneath his own shattered mount. A broken spear pierced his side, and abandoned soldiers stepped around him as the battle surged forward.
General Kharz raised his blade.
"Leave him," he ordered. "Let him die."
Kael ignored the command.
With every ounce of strength he possessed, he lifted the broken timber crushing the commander and dragged the wounded enemy away from the flames.
The great warrior stared at him in disbelief.
"Why...?" he whispered through clenched teeth.
Kael tightened the bandage around the wound.
"Because your life matters as much as mine."
Silence spread more quickly than any battle cry.
Red Claws lowered their weapons.
Across the field, enemy warriors stopped advancing.
They watched in stunned disbelief as the Last Spawn—foretold to become the greatest warrior—knelt beside the very commander he had every reason to hate.
General Kharz slowly lowered his sword.
The enemy commander struggled to his feet. Instead of reaching for his weapon, he removed the crimson war crest from his helmet and bowed his head toward Kael.
One by one, warriors from both armies followed.
Not because they had been defeated.
But because, for the first time, they had witnessed a courage greater than victory.
On that day, the battlefield fell silent—not through conquest, but through compassion.
***
The Last Gift
In the days that followed, no songs of victory were sung.
Instead, the battlefield remained silent.
The wounded from both armies were treated beneath the same tents, while the dead were returned to their families without hatred. For the first time in countless generations, no blade was raised after the fighting had ceased.
Within the Temple of First Waters, High Priest Sareth stood alone before the ancient stone of prophecy.
For years, he had recited its words from memory.
This time, he read every weathered line with trembling hands.
Beneath centuries of moss and worn carvings, he uncovered a forgotten sentence hidden by time.
"The Last Spawn shall not win the final war."
"The Last Spawn shall end the shedding of blood."
Sareth closed his eyes.
The Ancients had never promised the greatest warrior.
They had promised the one who would teach warriors when to stop.
The Sacred Pool had not failed.
They had failed to understand it.
As the sun disappeared beyond the marshes, Kael returned alone to the Sacred Pool.
Without a word, he knelt and placed his hand upon its still surface.
Gentle ripples spread across the water.
Once.
Twice.
Then the entire pool shimmered with silver light for the first time in centuries.
No hatchling emerged.
No prophecy was spoken.
No miracle appeared.
Only the quiet sound of living water flowing once more.
Around the sacred waters, every Lizardman—Green, Red, Yellow, Blue, and White—bowed their heads together, no longer divided by the colors upon their scales.
At last, they understood.
The Sacred Pool had never existed to create the perfect warrior.
It had always existed to remind them why life was worth protecting.
And in that understanding, the Last Spawn fulfilled the oldest prophecy of all.
Not by conquering the world—
but by giving it hope.
