Tribes and Dinosaurs

#Central Region: Red Rock Tribe - Hunter The sun, having crested the horizon hours ago, finally reaches the point where its light sweeps across the interior of the great canyon. The smells of bread and maize cakes already cling to the walls of the canyon itself, where dwellings and workshops have been hewn into the very rock. Communal fires burn at the base of the cliffs, where women attend to various crafts and watch after the village's children. With the light and warmth of the sun, the children burst into cheers and play under the watchful smiles of the women. The hooting bark of a Crest-Back (Spinosaurus) sounds in the far distance, echoing back again moments later from the far cliffs. Some of the children freeze at the sound, while older ones more familiar with dinosaur calls and distance laugh and mimic the calls back to the canyon to the best of their ability.

Pulling aside the bison hide that serves as a door to your cliffside home, you are greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of the tribe waking up. The air smells fresh and clean today aside from the hunger-inducing smells of baking, and no clouds mar the sky threatening to choke the light from the canyon interior or promising rain. Instead, all you can see when you look up is the brilliant blue of the sky framed by the craggy cliffs and the ever present, always beautiful Ring. It twinkles even in the daylight, flowing across the sky like a heavenly river perpendicular to canyon itself. A fine day to hunt.

A lush forest follows the winding river, and blocks it from view here at the base of the cliffs, but it's dull roar is a constant companion to the people of the canyon. The river would promise many prey, but just as many could be had in the forest, and an enterprising hunter could find rarer game if they were bold enough to climb the cliffs to the prairies above. In the absence of the Long Winter, something your own grandfather had described being born into and that had gripped your ancestors for generations, great prosperity had bloomed. New animals and dinosaurs were always appearing, carried by the river or flying from parts unknown. New peoples, too.

Along the base of the cliffs you can see many others emerging to go about their days, including other hunters who gather to speak or otherwise attend to their tools or themselves in anticipation of the hunt. As people pass you going about their tasks they bow their heads in respect, honoring you for your contributions to the tribe. A passing craftsman slaps you on the shoulder with a grin, silent encouragement to perform well. Someone else, a woman, stops you only long enough to push a warm packet wrapped in leaves into your hands. Inside is a hot stack of maize cakes, fresh from the fires. Someone in the nearest group of hunters makes eye contact with you and raises a hand in greeting.

#Central Region: Red Rock Tribe - Shaman The green glow of the little moon paints the canyon basin with a sickly light, pushed back from your dwelling by simple oil lamps your people trade maize for with the people of the south. The flickering light of the lamps catch on bone ornaments and woven reed decorations that hang from the ceiling, and cast dancing shadows about the room. The sounds of nocturne: insect chirps and buzzes, occasional dinosaur hoots from deep within the canyon forest, the everpresent rush of the great river, they all form the foundation of your ritual. An ancient chant, taught to you by your master, fills the small space of your stone dwelling hewn from the very rock walls of the canyon. Your apprentice, a young woman who was put into your care for her queer demeanor that was off-putting to many in the tribe, places a wooden bowl before you filled with burning incense and sacred herbs. The smoke fills your lungs, acrid and potent. The girl sits on her heels beside you and rests her hand on a snoozing Small-Horn (Protoceratops) she keeps as a pet. Her face is impassive, for it is rare that she shows emotion, but her eyes take in the ritual with intense focus though they never meet your own.

It is a sacred night, one you have awaited for many cycles of the moons. Tonight only the green moon will be in the sky, and many refrain from going outside without the larger moon's white light to combat the evil influences of the sickly moon. A night like this happens only a few times a year, and without the influence of the larger moon on its little brother the spirits are more free to commune with the world of the living. The chieftain has asked for you to seek the wisdom of the spirits, for traders have begun speaking of a strange people from the far West that bear a strange kind of copper your people have never seen, and proclaim worship to the moons themselves. As your tribe's shaman it is your spiritual and material duty to appease, commune and work with the spirits of the land to ensure the prosperity of the tribe. Outside your window, down at the base of the cliff, a great communal fire fights back the green light and in it's warm embrace huddle the chief himself, as well as the elders and many other important members of the tribe as they await your word.

#Central Region: Red Rock Tribe - Coppersmith Thick black smoke curls around the top of the mound of dirt that contains all the wood you've spent the summer cultivating from the forest around the river. In a few days time the fire will burn out and you will be left with dozens of sacks worth of charcoal, a critical resource for your craft. For now, though, it only requires a wary eye to make sure no embers float away on the wind into anything more flammable. The rest of your workshop, an alcove carved from the base of the cliffside with a large wooden awning, was still cold and dark like the stone itself in the predawn. Aside from you, there are only two other coppersmiths who dwell in the canyon that you know of. People traveled for days to trade for your tools, or have their copper tools fixed or honed. As you start to go about getting ready for a day of work, the chittering of insects over the muted roar of the distant river was slowly replaced by the chirps and complex songs of birds, as well as the occasional bark or hoot from a dinosaur. Your assistant yawns and scrubs his eyes as he carries firewood from the stack outside to make a smaller pile by the the forge for the day's use. Above the growing pile, a rack holds your tools in dark silhouette. Though as your torchlight fills the workshop the copper heads gleam with the flicker of flame, as if the fire itself was captured in solid form.

Other tribespeople start to gather around communal fires at the base of the cliff: bakers preparing the day's maize cakes, women weaving baskets and watching over children already chasing each other around in play, and hunters clustering together in small groups as they prepare to set out. Domesticated Hammer-Tails (Ankylosaurus) grunt and mew in their pen as tenders arrived to feed them and lade them with packs for travel. The Eastern tribes had finally arrived at the great plaza, and your people were eager to trade maize and some of your copper tools for the black glass-stone they brought and called obsidian. You have the opportunity to travel with the caravan to the plaza and trade for more copper to supplement your reserves, and perhaps see what else might be new. But at the same time, traders from the plaza and elsewhere often come to you seeking services on their tools, or for new ones. As you consider, the sun finally crests the lip of the canyon and its light spills across the valley.

#Central Region: Red Rock Tribe - Chief The bonfire roars, it's voice louder than even the river. Your people dance around it, chanting traditional songs as others play complex rhythms on hide drums. The smells of roasted meat and baked maize fills the air mingling with the incense of herbs that keep insects away. The shaman leads the singing, shaking rattlers and bells in time with the drums, her eyes rolled back in ecstasy as she channels the good will of the spirits into the festival. Fermented maize drink flows liberally and foods reserved for special occasions dazzle on the hide mats for people to eat and enjoy. The dancers stomp in time with the music and laugh as revelers join or leave the circle. Embers from the fire float up in the smoke and join the stars in the sky.

You sit cross-legged in your ceremonial spot, resplendent in the traditional garb of your station. The impressive feathered headdress spills over your shoulders, every feather arranged into an appealing gradient of color. Sweat beads on your forehead from the heat of the fire plus your heavy fur-laden robes, but it is perhaps the easiest of the burdens you bear for your people. Far heavier topics weigh on your mind, even as you enjoy the sight and sounds of the tribe's jubilation: Not but a few days past your shaman confided in you that the spirits whispered of a danger from the West, beyond the fever-jungles. And rumors from your traders at the great plaza whisper of strangers bearing tools and ornaments of a strange kind of copper never before seen, that supposedly does not shatter or bend. That's to say nothing of the every day worries that are a constant weight upon you: the logistics of survival, advising your people, engaging in diplomacy with other tribes, and the unfortunate attendance to things like death and injury.

A boy smiles a gap-toothed smile as he offers you a bowl of a fermented and spiced maize drink before bounding off. Out in the darkness of the world beyond, a distant Long-Neck (Brachiosaurus) moans a lonely song deep enough to pierce the sounds of festivity. The Ring scintillates across the band of stars overhead. The large white moon with its image of a hand on its face banishes the green light of the lesser moon tonight, and for now things seem well. But tomorrow looms just a rest away, and with it would come new burdens.

#Eastern Region: Ash Born Tribe - Hunter Ash falls and carpets the craggy highlands, giving the landscape an indistinct patina and obscuring perils of the rocks and cliffs your people have mastered over generations. Your feet find the sturdy stone and avoid the crevices and cracks that can claim an ankle or a life. Despite the dangers, the ashfall makes the tracks of your prey so apparent a child could point to them, though that will fade in a matter of minutes if the ash continues as it is. Great clumps of the stuff drift through the air, defying the gravity of their apparent size until they find something else to cling to. It covers your body, and those of your hunting party. Glancing over your shoulder, they appear like ghosts as they stalk among the rocks. The gray ash is a stark contrast to your sun darkened skin, though even in times of rest and the green of new life your people still mark their dark features with gray or white clay markings.

The wide splay-toed footprint of a Cliff-Runner (Cedrorestes) slowly fills in beside you, leading down the rocks and towards a copse of trees so full of ash that a stranger might mistake it for growing there. Off to your right the titanic supervolcano looms on the horizon, it's caldera belching smoke and ash more vigorously than usual. Because of its size it appears much closer than it is but in fact it is so far that no one of the Eastern tribes you have heard of has ever reached it by boat, and many have tried. The sun struggles to pierce the veil of smoke and ash, and your companions carry torches which only lends to their ghastly appearance as the light flickers over their features.

The heaviness of the ashfall, and the general vim with which the volcano had been darkening the sky lately had made game sparse. The hardy vegetables and stores of maize and grain your tribe kept would only last so long, and despite taking many hunting expeditions in as many days this was your first sign of a beast worth hunting. Your tribe needed the meat, and it was your duty to provide it. Even if this hunt goes well you may still need to range further West where the ash does not reach, though it would take days.

Turning your attention back to the path of your prey, you see movement by the copse of trees.

#Eastern Region: Ash Born Tribe - Bone Speaker The sibling moons, as different as brothers from different fathers, hang high among the backdrop of stars. The supervolcano far off the coast was unusually placid of late, its constant smoking now merely a lazy stream of ash that blows out to sea. Uncommon were the skies so open and the ground so free of the ash that defines your people. The fullness of the moons lend their light to the proceedings, almost as illuminating as an ash-choked day at noon. The green tint of the smaller moon was mostly washed away by the clean white light of the larger moon, though the subtle way the color still clung to highlights and lowlights alike added a surreal edge of the night.

You stand before a stone bier in the center of a rocky depression. Upon the bier is the body of the chief's wife, who's life was given so that their son could live. He stands to the side, his arms holding the son, barely a day old, to his chest and his face dark with the stoic grief of a man used to presenting a strong facade. Djirri, the deceased woman, is dressed in fine fur robes and her arms are crossed over her chest in the traditional repose. Her eyes are closed and her face is freshly decorated with white clay in the patterns she wore in life. Around the bier a ring of tribespeople kneel in the scraggly grass that grows here, heads bowed in respect. Your pet Little-Wing (Microraptor) squeaks softly from your shoulder as you conduct the funeral rites. It is the only sound beyond the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs hundreds of paces below, and the soft whistling of wind as it passes through the rasp of stone spires jutting from the cliffs.

A torch flickers weakly in the breeze as you work, awaiting the final rite. Djirri's body will be committed to flame and returned to ash. As the ritual proceeds, the mourners gathered begin to weep and wail openly. Their collective grief rises in volume until it drowns out your own words and even the crashing of the sea. The chief, for his part, does nothing to hide the tears flowing openly from his otherwise stoic face. His eyes rest upon the remains of his beloved wife, and do not leave her until the last of her blows away in the wind.

#Eastern Region: Ash Born Tribe - Diver The morning fog clings to the surface of the sea in the small cove your people launch boats from. Beyond the jagged rocks forming the protective wall around the cove, the disquieting silhouette of the supervolcano is an empty void against the lightening gray of dawn. The tang of the sea mixes with the sweetly disgusting smell of rotting seaweed and other refuse the ocean had deposited on the beach. Fishermen of your tribe ready nets on the beach, or affect last minute repairs on their boats, or else simply laze on the beach in loose clusters smoking tobacco brought by traders from the Canyon tribes. Your own boat is a rugged canoe made from carefully burning out a hollow in a large log, and crudely shaping ends with the copper axe all the fishermen shared.

The tide is already rising, but it would be several minutes yet before it cleared the shallow rocks at the cove entrance. The fishermen called them the Teeth, for they looked like the jagged maw of some horrid creature. The bone chilling cry of a Cliff-Screecher (Pteranodon) echoes against the rocks from somewhere above, making more than a few fishermen flinch if only from the sheer volume. One of the smokers yells back a curse, to the laughter of his mates. The Bone Speaker predicted sunny skies today and no ash, which meant the light would penetrate the sea better and illuminate the shallower areas where you frequently find pearls. Pearls are less prized than the obsidian that is highly sought after by other tribes, but still commands a lot of bartering power for use in jewelry and other accessories. Diving is not without dangers, however. Beyond the threat of getting lost in a cave or coral growth, the seas are rife with dangerous animals from sharks to Swift-Biters (Dakosaurus). Most of your peers are content to cast nets or individual lines from the relative safety of their boats. You did often yourself, of course. Fish was always welcome on your own plate or the communal fires. But traders from the Delta were due to sail in from the Northern coast any day now. Combined with the opportunity provided by the weather, pearls are an obvious choice for today's catch.

Whistling from down the beach echoes off the high cove walls and signals the risen tide. Fishermen all along the beach rise and begin loading their boats or else already pushing them into the water.

#Eastern Region: Ash Born Tribe - Chief You sit upon the stone chair that has been hewn directly into the rock of this ceremonial space. The natural amphitheater before you was formed after eons of constant wind, laden with the salt of the sea and scraped over the rocky surface. Yet the work of your tribe's ancestors to shape the stones into rows of benches occurred over the course of only a lifetime. And here they would remain for another thousand years or more. Such are the thoughts that tumble through your head as you gaze out upon the dozens of people occupying those benches, all with their eyes on you. Motes of ash drift through the air already hazy with the smoke of the supervolcano behind you, though it is hardly the kind of ashfall that would even garner the term. The murmur of those in attendance is punctuated regularly by the crash of waves hundreds of paces below, and the occasional shrill cry of a Cliff-Screecher (Pteranodon) nested in the cliffs.

Before you kneels a middle aged man from the Delta tribes, two of your warriors standing over him in guard. He had been found a day's walk to the South, near a murdered forager woman who had been out collecting obsidian from the cliffs. In his possession were the obsidian shards the forager had collected, though according him the woman had already been killed and he did not know it was forbidden for outsiders to take the obsidian. Your head trader, Naru, stands to the side between you and the kneeling man, translating his words for you and yours for him. The forager's husband stands among the benches, face red with grief and apoplexy. The disgust in his voice makes plain the contempt he has for this foreigner when his words are translated. He believes the man guilty, and loudly calls for his execution. Naru, on the other hand, warns you in a low volume that executing foreigners is a sure way scare off potential trade caravans in the future.

The tribe depended on trade, it was true. Was it worth potentially cutting off your people from their source of grain, to say nothing of other goods from the North? That risked more lives than just the one already lost. But to eschew justice for your tribe was just as untenable. Not only would you earn the ire of the murdered woman's family, but also potentially undercut your authority as chief in the eyes of others. The metaphorical spear of justice lays across your lap, bestowed upon you by the trust and love of your people. The accused's crimes have been recounted, but the man himself has yet to speak on his behalf. Will it change your mind? Does it matter?

#Northern Region: Reed Whisperer Tribe - Hunter The heat of the noonday sun bakes the desert, and the white sands of the immeasurable dune sea only serve to reflect the heat back into the air. Sweat beads your brow, and is absorbed immediately by the white headwrap you wear as you lead your hunting party through the dunes. Just on the other side of the nearest dune is a sprawling savanna stretching from the sands to the sea, where a thick herd of gazelle had been spotted some days ago. Such herds were often prime game for predatory dinosaurs, but this far West of the Delta the plains were sparse of trees or obvious watering holes, and so tended to attract grazers who thought the absence of thundering predators meant safety.

The water from your drinking skin is warm, but cuts through the grit of the sand and slakes your thirst all the same. The call of a distant hawk sounds from somewhere beyond your view, pulling your attention in that direction. You catch movement: a frantic burst of sand at the top of a dune... but the big furry ears poking up over the crest belong to just a fennec fox, curious about your procession.

The ears are startled away by a sudden commotion from the savanna, however, and one of the younger hunters jumps almost as high as a startled Sand-Hopper (Compsognathus). He earns a few grins and chuckles from the other hunters, but a serious concern quickly blankets them all. With you all crawling on your bellies up the dune, you eventually poke your head over the crest to survey the mayhem. The herd of gazelle you had been hunting was in a frenzied stampede Eastward, and several appeared to be injured or covered in a thick black substance that slowed them. Surrounding a fallen one is a pack of predator dinosaurs you have never seen. They are perhaps shoulder-high and walk on two legs, though their most distinctive features are a V shaped crest on their heads and a large frill made of stretched skin around their throats that flaps and shivers as they chirrup and challenge each other over pieces of the corpse. One challenges another more aggressively, its frill expanding to frame its head in an explosion of bright colors as it hisses. The other responds in kind and they begin to circle each other before spitting the black substance at each other and lunging. They fall in a tangle of gobby spit and talons and blood, screeching and howling as they fight. The rest of the pack ignores them to feed or watch passively.

These creatures are not native to the savanna, though you have already come to think of them as Frill-Spitters (Dilophosaurus).

#Northern Region: Reed Whisperer Tribe - Farmer The flooding season is ending, and as the great river slowly retreats back to its normal levels the field basins would need to be drained and the fields plowed in preparation for sowing. The rich silt of the river blessed your soil with abundance once properly mixed during plowing, and your fields did not suffer needing to lay fallow periodically. A more or less continuous growing season just magnified the abundance that every farmer in the Delta enjoyed. The flooding of the river was as regular as the phases of the moon and the path of the sun each day. It dictated the rhythms and cycles of all the Delta tribes, and through careful cultivation of the land has the tribe formed a symbiotic relationship over millennia.

Outside the window of your modest adobe home you can see the bottoms of clouds begin to burn with the light of the day. A cookfire crackles softly in your kitchen, the only sound beyond the gentle tinkling of bone chimes hanging outside, the constant buzz of insects and the ever present rush of the river. A copper cezve heats finely ground coffee in the fire, a luxury brought to the Delta by traders from the West. Your own crops, often wheat, are traded to all comers often for good barter, as your cezve can attest. Outside your domesticated Three-Horn (Triceratops) moans, a reminder that she needs to be fed before leading the plow. The famed horns had been blunted to stumps for safety when she was a juvenile - and before she had come to you - but in your experience it had never been necessary. The creature is a placid sweetheart, happy to pull a plow or uproot a boulder for a share of the grain she helps grow. She has been a loyal companion to you for years, now.

As you look again out your window, you can see the distant figures of your neighbors already emerging and setting to their tasks. New sounds of rushing water join the sounds of the river as field basins begin draining. The distant flicker of torchlights from the town disappear as the sun's own light sweeps over it and the chief's palace upon the hill seemed to gleam as its rust-colored roof stands out starkly against the surrounding pale sandstone. Birds begin to join the sounds of insects and the river. The smell of the coffee fills the room as it comes to boil, a savory aroma that cuts through the often pungent, musky smells of agriculture. You consider whether you want to make breakfast to go with your coffee before getting to work.

#Northern Region: Reed Whisperer Tribe - Trader A scroll of papyrus in your hand contains the abstracted numbers that represent the many urns and wooden crates you are overseeing being loaded into your large boat. Numbers were a fickle thing, and their manipulation infinitely moreso. Few mastered them, far fewer had much use for them at all. For many among the tribes, both in the Delta and abroad, simple groups of ill defined quantity was enough; A few, many, lots, many lots, and so on. But for you, numbers are a raw force that can be wielded to the benefit of you and the tribe. An urn of saffron could be traded for a copper tool or two and some maize. Three sacks of salt equals a large fine fur from the South, or a few smaller ones. Through commerce the spoils of distant lands could be had comfortably at home, and you serve as the conduit. It was an arduous journey, even with the aid of barges and scouts, but the renown and material wealth it brings to you and your people is beyond compare.

The sweaty musk of the laborers cuts through the salty tang of the sea, though the most powerful stench comes from the Barge-Pullers (Diplodocus) and their dung. The gigantic, long-necked dinosaurs were perfectly suited to pulling the large trading boats upriver but their smell was something you had to get used to. The one attached to your boat stood placidly in the water, scratching it's leg with its teeth as it patiently waited for the order to move. Upon its back was an ornate howdah where the great beast's handler was perched, idly lounging until you give the order. The cacophony of the docks before a big caravan set off was a din rarely heard, and many of the farmers coming with their grains and saffron to be loaded winced at particularly loud sounds, and generally appeared assaulted on all sides. It was a discomfort they endured so that they could return swiftly to the peace of their fields. To their credit, it was an awful racket. To you, however, it is the sound of wealth accumulating.

Beside you, an assistant tabulates a running total of several goods on a large abacus. Occasionally, she reports a ware and a total for you to mark down on your own scroll. So far, it would seem the season has been especially prosperous. You don't need to hear the numbers to see the way the barge sits heavy in the water. Perhaps next time you will need two barges! The sheer labor involved would require every favor you have stocked up, to say nothing of acquiring another Barge-Puller. The imagined, overlapping clacking of abacus beads being counted at rapid speed drowns out the latent anxieties over cost. A touch on your arm from your assistant startles you back to reality, as she repeats a number.

#Northern Region: Reed Whisperer Tribe - Chief You watch from the balcony of your adobe palace as the last of the farmers lead their pack beasts away with the setting sun. They had come to deposit their weekly harvest, entrusting the fruits of their labor to your administration. Such was the system in the Delta: all who produced goods would bring the excess to the palace of their chief, where large underground vaults were used to store every manner of thing. Then lesser functionaries would distribute the pooled resources to people on the basis of need, and then want. Your people were allowed to enjoy the sweat of their backs, of course, but the wealth provided by the fertile soil of the Delta meant that most grew more than they could manage themselves, and through pooling resources in this manner not only are those on hard times provided for, but the tribes of the Delta can command better barter power with the other regions.

As you consider the burdens of your position, you look to the Southern horizon directly out from your place here on the balcony. A huge Great-Wing (Quetzalcoatlus) glides over the river, far to the South away from the tribe, probably hunting game watering at the river. As the sun slides behind the wide-spanning tops of distant trees the brilliance of the Ring becomes the dominant feature of the sky. Its scintillating surface glitters as the light from the sun dances across it. This far North, its broad plane can be easily seen and a keen eye could even make out that the Ring itself was comprised of smaller rings beyond counting. Your traders have described to you how as one travels further South the Ring's plane becomes narrower until eventually its vanishes from sight all together, only to reappear on the other side of the sky miles later. The world contains many wonders and mysteries.

Another glints in the pale green light of the smaller moon as it slowly slides from behind the Ring: a metal medallion of a strange brownish kind of copper you have never seen before. The craftsmanship is exquisite, beyond anything your people are capable of and, indeed, beyond anything you've ever seen before at all. The metal is hard and does not bend or break, but the engraving is fine and masterful. It was brought to you by a hunter last week, found while she was ranging far to the south where the savanna's odd copse of trees turned into a thick jungle. She claims to have found it beside a strange stone structure that she guessed was a lookout tower, though the stones used were of impossible size and cut evenly. You look down at the strange medallion, upon its face is an intricate depiction of a circle containing the hand of the large moon, and within that hand an open eye.

#Southern Region: Rime Walker Tribe - Hunter Snow and ice crunches under your snowshoes as you tromp through the rapidly darkening taiga. Your hunt had taken you far - a stubborn pack of Furry-Runners (Leaellynasaura) had evaded your traps and led you further from home than you had planned. Overconfidence had cost you in time, when you should have simply let them go and found new prey. But now, two of the creatures were field dressed and ready for butchering, hanging from your pack. You lose hope of making it back to the village before nightfall. The thick sealskin parka keeps most of the chill from your core, but you nevertheless still long for the comfort of a fire in your igloo and some whale meat in your belly. The only sounds are the rasp of the wind as it cuts through bare trees, the crunching of your footsteps, and the occasional lone hoot of an owl.

One foot in front of the other. Focus on your breathing. The puff of your breath before your face fades to invisibility as the light retreats, and instead the eerie green light of the smaller moon lends the landscape a sickly pallor. The air somehow becomes even colder, prickling your lungs like inhaling a cloud of tiny fish bones.

Eventually you emerge from the thicket you had chased the Furry-Runners into, and you can see that the moon isn't the only source of ethereal green light. The brilliant ribbon of the aurora dances across the Southern twilight, balancing the sparkling mauve of the Ring that spans to the North. It's greens shift to an arresting violet, briefly touching orange and red as well before coming back to green. The color moves down the length of the celestial ribbon like a cosmic wave.

A flickering firelight catches your eye amid a stand of trees in the distance. It's still too far to be someone from your village, but who else could out here at night? Your own home still lies beyond the ice fields. A fire meant an opportunity for warmth, as well as discovering who could be out here. They might even need help, if they are not of your tribe. On occasion your people have found the remains of other tribespeople who came South seeking something or other, only to succumb to a harsh environment they did not prepare for or understand.

#Southern Region: Rime Walker Tribe - Shaman The spirits speak to you from the frosted whispers of the wind. An eddy from some far beach stirs and builds into a gale that blows across the great expanse of the world. The wind's breath passes the ears and hearts of many beings on its journey, and entities living and beyond all have things to share. By the time the wind reaches you here, in the far South where the great ice wall gleams as blindingly as the sun, it is but a crawling thing gasping its accumulated secrets before finally crashing against the great wall. The whispers of the wind have become more strange and incomprehensible of late.

They speak of an ever-watching eye, and a hand that seems to embrace when actually it crushes. They cackle as they describe a mountain made by men, and a man who is also a god who sits upon its apex. Visions are shared of men with serious eyes and gleaming armor riding Great-Tooths (Tyrannosaurus Rex), the terrifying predators somehow under their command. But at the same time, they tell of verdant new growth and prosperity beyond imagining. And it was true; the traders described the lushness and warmth of the North, and even here the springs seemed to come a little earlier every year. The tales passed down to you from your grandmother, and her grandfather before her were of a never ending night known as the Long Winter and described the great ice wall as a mountain unto itself that extended well to the North. Even in your own lifetime, you recall as a child when the wall was taller than the mountains behind it, but today their peaks can be seen clearly.

You open your eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the low light of the oil lamp burning to one side of your igloo. The pungent smell of sacred herbs and burning seal fat fill the interior, cloying and thick. When your eyes open, your assistant snatches the bowl of herbs and tosses the smouldering pile outside into the snow. Seal bone charms clack together from where they are pinned to the snow-packed ceiling as he moves. Seated on the far side of the igloo watching silently is the chief. He doesn't speak, but his gaze is intent on you as your assistant brings you water. Your communions with the spirits are important in helping guide the tribe and the chief takes your advice seriously, though it is rare that he attends the ritual personally.

#Southern Region: Rime Walkers Tribe - Animal Trainer The new clutch of woolly Pack-Beasts (Pachyrhinosaurus) bark and tumble with each other in play among the scraggly brown grass, and nip at the vibrant purple flowers that speckle the field. The spring came early this year, and already the landscape that spends so much of the year under a blanket of snow is breathing and growing anew. The Pack-Beasts were all born hale and in good timing, for they would be large enough to begin pulling sleds in teams by the time the snows fell again. The sun is high and it warms your face and arms, an often unfamiliar feeling as your people practically live in their parkas year round. The unusual warmth troubled many, but delighted many more. Who wanted to be cold all the time? It certainly made your job easier. The Pack-Beasts, and all the animals your people domesticate, are well adapted to the cold with thick furs for fat, but even so you still lost a couple to exposure every year. Fewer and fewer are lost as time progresses and the climate warms, however.

As the pups play around in the field, the rest of the tribe are gathering in small groups to go out foraging and hunting. Other groups watch over playing children in much the same way you tend the pups. The training for Pack-Beasts was much different from teaching children, however, and in a lot of ways more frustrating. You could explain to a child what it did wrong. Nevertheless, the manner of training passed to you from your parents was proven over generations for its effectiveness. If another clutch comes along - and there are signs that it might - you will train them separately and in a different manner for they will be bound for trade. Northerners, as it turns out, have little use for sled pullers. It is your understanding, though, that other tribes will shear the coats from woolly animals for use in textiles. Certainly a novel idea here in the South, where taking an animal's fur would certainly doom it.

The Pack-Beasts were beginning to show signs of wearing themselves out with their morning energy. After a short rest, it would be time to start the day's training proper. A sled and pack harness had already been laid out, and today's lesson was simply getting used to wearing the harness and being all connected.

#Southern Region: Rime Walkers Tribe - Chief The old longhouse your people built and maintain serves as an anchor for the tribe, who often migrates around the land throughout the year. It is a symbolic structure, large enough to house the whole tribe for feasts, if not for actual lodging. Today, the long stone hearth down the center burned hotly with cuts of whale and Furry-Runner (Leaellynasaura) roasting on spits, and the smells of other spiced meats mingled all together with the wood smoke. A rowdy boisterousness of the occasion lifts many spirits, and fermented milk is flowing liberally all around. Sealskin drums serve as a communal heartbeat for the festivities, and a few revelers even dance drunkenly to the encouraging cheers of onlookers.

For you, however, the proceedings mask a more somber reality. The shaman's foretellings and communions with the spirits of the land continually reaffirm the same thing: the world is changing. The warming climate had initially been a great relief for your people. The endless night and scarcity of the Long Winter had been extremely hard on the tribe. Entire familial lines had been lost to the snows, starvation and predation. The people that emerged in the first dawn of generations was not the same people that watched the final sunset, many generations prior. Hardened, both physically and emotionally, against the toils and travails of living in an unforgiving environment, the snow and ice were a part of who you were as a people. To change, and adapt to new conditions was not only daunting but threatened to erase your identity and supplant it with something new and alien.

As you brood from your place at the head of the hearth, a resounding CRACK suddenly accompanies a shaking and shift of the longhouse. The walls splinter and a few scream in terror, others as their bodies are peppered with flinders. It's over as suddenly as it happened, leaving cries of distress and injury in its wake. A whole section of the longhouse seems to have moved independent of the rest, now canting at an angle both to the longhouse itself as well as to the ground. One corner is sunk into the ground at such an angle that it's captured several stools and many plates and bowls and even a few stunned people. The shaman and several others recover quickly to help those who were injured or otherwise incapacitated.

Outside it looks as if the ground under part of the longhouse has simply collapsed; a gaping maw of earth seemed to have choked on the structure. A few men crouch around the exterior and poke at the soil while muttering. The consensus is that the permafrost under the longhouse had thawed, and the muddy mixture had given way into a sinkhole below. The shaman approaches to report on injuries, but takes the news of the melting permafrost with a look of growing concern. She shares a private look with you, a silent acknowledgement that change was already upon you.

#Western Region: Vine Stalker Tribe - Hunter The incessant patter of rain through the canopy, though it had ceased falling from the sky awhile ago, covers the sound of your and your companion's footsteps as you stalk through the jungle. A Long-Tooth (Smilodon) had tried sneaking into your village last night but a trusty guard dog's barking alerted the tribe and collectively were able to drive it away. But when the dawn broke, it was decided that such a dangerous creature could not be allowed to threaten and harass the tribe. Such a hunt is extremely dangerous, and most in your party have never faced such an awful predator. The fear and anxiety in their eyes when you glance back at them is obvious. Some chew a special leaf that sharpens the mind and senses, at the cost of fatigue later. Others grip their spears tipped with flaked chert, specially knapped for this hunt, with grips so tight that their knuckles whiten.

Frogs join the cacophony, a counterpoint from the ground to the din from above. Your party halts to find the frogs and harvest their potent poison to your darts, for use later on the Long-Tooth. Every advantage would be needed. But also to delay the inevitable, though no one is brave enough to even joke about it. No one speaks at all. As you silently work, a roar from deeper in the jungle snaps heads up. Everyone listens for a few moments before exchanging glances when no further sounds of your quarry are apparent. With a wave, your party continues on. Before long, one of you companions trills a short song belonging to a bird not of this area: a code meaning I've found something. You and the rest trod over to see a set of prints belonging to your prey. The stillness in your companions as you all regard the sheer size of the prints mirrors the icy chill tugging your stomach. A well impressioned print in the mud is as broad as an entire man, with deep furrows where its claws dug in for traction. One of the other hunters crouches next to one of the furrows and is able to slide an entire, shaky fist into the hole. Panicked whispers erupt from the others about the impossibility of your task, a few even insisting you'll all be killed. The panic threatens to unravel your whole party, and make you even weaker with a gigantic beast prowling around. Your numbers and discipline would be your advantages against such an terrible beast, you cannot afford to falter now.

#Western Region: Vine Stalker Tribe - Slave Coarse ropes of woven plant fiber bite against your ankles and wrists, rubbing the skin raw and and bleeding. The ropes tug constantly, rubbing the abrasions and inflaming new pain, as the Lunites ruthlessly lead you along. Any who fail to walk or keep up get dragged, wearing on the others as well as eventually leading to the death of the one dragged. Only then are they cut free - when they are dead weight. The lash stripes the flesh of your back yet again, seemingly for nothing but the sadistic pleasure of its wielder. You think you feel blood oozing from the wound, for surely it isn't sweat. You haven't sweated in an hour or more. A film of white gathers at the corners of your parched lips, and your tongue is constantly at work around your mouth trying to coax any kind of moisture from within. You trudge along through the jungle in a line of other slaves, the agony of simply existing in this moment narrowing your perceptions simply to the woman's back in front of you and the dirt in front of your feet.

So narrow is your focus, you run into the woman in front of you when she stops. You realize the Lunites have stopped everyone, and you are before a structure that makes your mind reel. A wall stands twenty feet high, its stones as long as a man and a third as high, that stretches in both directions into the dense jungle. Directly before your group is a massive gate of carved stone and wood reinforced with bronze. Beyond the top of the wall you can see streams of fire smoke and the tops of multistory buildings of stone. The gate slowly swings outward under the power of several slaves, and the march begins again.

The interior of the city is beyond anything you've ever imagined. Your people have heard of the Lunite city, of course, as they have been a looming threat since the Long Winter. Your ears ache from the sheer volume of so many people in one place, so many animals and crafts and things gathered together. The smells are no better, a constant assault of foreign and alien scents that you have no context for. The short, pale skinned Lunites pass around your company without so much as a second glance. Many wear piercings or adornments of turquoise and lapis and painted markings on their faces that emphasize their natural features. Eventually, you are forced with the others into a wooden cage in a large yard of other such cages. Some are filled with those meeting a similar fate, while others were empty. Some contain the remains of slaves who expired and were never taken away. Lunites leading tame Toe-Claws (Utahraptor) on leather leashes patrol the pens.

A pair of Lunites bring water and a thin gruel in buckets, and dump them into wooden troughs on separate sides of your cage. Your fellow slaves immediately scramble to either side in a frenzy for sustenance.

#Western Region: Vine Stalker Tribe - Potter The trickling of the stream is a pleasant counterpoint to the living sounds of the jungle; screeching birds, barking dinosaurs, croaking frogs and every manner of thing. Its cool waters wash the clay from your hands even as you dig more from the bank. Several baskets sit behind you, full of precious clay mud, as you finish filling the last. The stream is a modest source of clay and water for your tribe, and one could easily wade across it. Traders claim the stream grows into a great river before joining an even greater one in the great canyon. Looking at the slow flowing stream before you, it is hard to imagine. There is a lot that is hard to imagine from their tales: the canyon's sheer size, the ash that falls in the east like rain, or rain so cold it falls from the sky as ice like in the south. But everyone agrees it's all true, and certainly you could not say.

With the last bit of clay packed into its basket, you begin affixing some of the baskets to your helpful Beak-Nose (Protoceratops) and carry the rest yourself. Several other foragers and craftspeople greet you as you pass, either heading into the jungle or back to the village. Your workshop is a simple wattle-and-dab hut with two open sides, a simple wooden rack for your tools, and some furrowed trenches dug into the earth for water for working. Behind it, a patch of cleared ground reveals a number of pits dug and shaped into the ground that act as kilns. When your work is shaped, the malleable forms are placed inside and buried with flammable materials before being set aflame. When the fires burn out, what is left is durable and hard pottery.

The smells of spiced meat and maize from the Canyon tribes drift to you on the wind as others tend the cookfires to make the meals of the day. As you watch, the cooks are even pulling ingredients from pots you made last year. Sure, they were simple things of utility but also the most important things you make. The fancy engravings and designs you have begun to master now take more time, but the tribe's traders always desire more for they say the tribes of other regions trade readily for them. Apparently the clay of the jungle is superior to elsewhere. The thought brings a smile. But even here at home, many of your people who care to enjoy your wares in their homes as decorative pieces.

#Western Region: Vine Stalker Tribe - Chief Tobacco smoke curls from the glow of your pipe to mingle with the thatch of your hut before eventually dissipating into the air outside. You sit in the middle of your hut, puffing pensively about the travails of your tribe. The Moon Kingdom was growing more aggressive in their raids for slaves, and you fear some of the lesser tribes may have all been taken or wiped out. Your own people were starting to whisper in worried tones, a few even going so far as to suggest the tribe flee the jungles and seek refuge elsewhere. Preposterous. Your people have dwelt in the jungles for generations beyond counting, certainly from before the Long Winter. Unlike the Lunites, who appeared mysteriously during the days of darkness and cold and quickly crushed the jungle into submission with their skill at masonry, and the terrible metal they wield called bronze. Now they appeared to seek the submission of everything, and everyone, as well.

Outside the open frame of your doorway you can see some evidence of the daily life of your tribe play out: children playing and chasing after the juvenile Tall-Backs (Ouranosaurus) your tribe domesticates for labor and meat, knappers sitting in a loose circle with various kinds of stone and shaping tools, and the smoke from the pit kilns of the potters drifts overhead. These were sights that warm your heart and that had graced the vision of many chiefs before you. These were the things the Moon Kingdom was threatening to take away, or crush underfoot.

To flee, as some of your people suggest, would be to abandon not only every tradition your people rely on but all your knowledge about the environment and how to survive. Other tribes may take yours in, but then you would no longer be your own. But to remain would also require a significant change to how your people live. The Moon Kingdom is relentless, and will eventually find you. You would have to become nomads within the jungle, always ready to pick up and move if it seemed like the Lunites were near. It would require tremendous sacrifice as well, for much of your livelihood is dependent on stationary living. The cocoa you harvest and the pottery your artisans make are traded for goods that supplement the things you cannot find here. Your stomach sinks as that thought leads into the next most logical: a nomadic life would mean intermittent trade at best.

The question lays heavy upon you as you gaze through the blue smoke of your pipe, out into the small piece of the world your people have managed to tame.

#The Moon Kingdom - Hunter Your Long-Tumb (Iguanadon) shakes its hide, and snaps at some dragonflies that buzz around you in the stand of trees. Beyond, and the subject of your vigil, is an expanse of grassland that marks the end of the jungle. The Ring is but a ghost in the sky at this time of day, but even so with it behind you know that you face South. This is the first time you have journeyed beyond the jungle, though as traders have returned to the Great City in recent years and told of great prosperity elsewhere many young Lunites have set out alone or in small groups to seek their fortunes. In your case, the tales of big woolly beasts and rich furs and pelts to be had in the frigid Southern region seemed a promising challenge and ripe for profit. No one wanted to face the harsh winds and frigid cold that you knew of, though the stories of ribbons of light dancing in the sky or how a tree could explode in the chill temperatures tickles your imagination as well.

Staring out now at the comparatively barren steppe gives you pause. There is not so much as a hill in sight, just the endless grass that vanishes into the horizon. You have heard tell of many grazing dinosaurs and other animals out here, though for the time you've been sitting here you have seen nothing but birds and bugs. It is about as a far cry from the jungle as you can imagine, except perhaps the ocean. It is disconcerting in the absence of... everything. Your Long-Thumb is laden with all manner of kit that you thought might prepare you for the journey, including cold weather gear you had specially commissioned. You also have a tent with long bronze stakes to hold fast against the wind of the steppe, and a crudely drawn map of your route on vellum. But even so, the scale of your objective is starting to truly dawn on you.

As you contemplate the adventure before you, a herd of gazelle resolves from the far distance as they approach close enough for you to discern. They appear completely unbothered, and a few pause to nibble at tufts of grass before trotting to catch up with the larger body. A kill now, and some rudimentary preparation to preserve the meat, would certainly start your trek off on a better foot. Your Long-Thumb catches their scent on the breeze and snaps its head up, and mewling softly.

#The Moon Kingdom - Priest of the Hand and Eye Tonight is perhaps the most important night of your life - the most important night of many lives. For the first time since your people have come to this place, during the Long Winter, the celestial spheres will be aligning in a precise orientation. The Eye will be temporarily obscured by the Hand, and its watchful gaze blinded to the events of men. Such an occlusion will allow a ritual on the edge of profane to be performed, of which you are a part, that will allow the High Priest to connect to the collective minds of the Gods and hopefully foresee a future of dominance for the Lunar Sovereign.

Sacred incense fills the air of the temple complex, thick and cloying. The chamber in which you meditate in preparation is ornately decorated: flowing murals wrap around the walls depicting scenes of Lunite mastery over their environment, a gilded chandelier hangs overhead illuminated with a dozen candles that cast their flickering light over the room, and exquisite tile work on the floor is threaded with golden reliefs. Before you is a simple stone altar upon which the charred remains of your offering still smoulder. You entreat the Hand to shelter your kin and the High Priest, and ask forgiveness for you know that what you do is akin to a child taking his father's dagger with the intention of claiming ignorance to the danger. Other priests kneel before their own altars in a row beside you, heads bowed in prayer. The spiritual rigors of the ritual are unknown, though the whispers among the priesthood were that surely it must be great to be able to glimpse the future.

The high, slitted windows of the room were designed just so, directing the light from a setting sun against a mural on one of the walls. The blade of light slowly ascended a depiction of the temple pyramid until eventually it slid over the form of the Lunar Sovereign upon their throne, and beyond to the celestial realm. It was then that the priests praying in this chamber knew that the moons would be on the rise. This evening, however, just as the light begins to highlight the Lunar Sovereign, a minor temple functionary appears with a small bronze bell and rings it two times before proceeding on. The priests around you rise silently, faces somber and set to the task. Several make adjustments to their ceremonial vestments and headdresses briefly, before filing out of the chambers and heading to the apex of the temple where the ritual will be conducted. The lone, distant roar of a domesticated Sharp-Tooth (Tyrannosaurus Rex) from the city far below was the only sound beyond the low howl of the wind.

#The Moon Kingdom - Emissary The wind caught in the sails of your barge, here conveniently channeled through the valley of the great canyon. And truly, it was great. The walls spanned hundreds of paces high, if not a thousand in places. A whole army could be marched on either side of the river, men abreast, and have room to spare. Words alone could not properly convey the majesty of these lands. The morning sun had been a constant companion along this stretch of the river as you sail Eastward, though soon the tributary you had been navigating was said to join with the larger river. Then the forward scouts had said the river only received sunlight for a portion of the day when the sun was properly overhead. You would follow the river Northward from there, to the plaza where the various tribes met to trade.

Your barge itself was a prime example of Lunite design and engineering: It was far larger than anything the tribes fielded for one - larger even than their largest trading barges from the North. But it also featured bronze nails, fixtures, and reinforcements that glinted in the sunlight and projected the technological power of your people. Slaves worked the oars in tandem with the winds, speeding you along in good time, and the rhythmic pace of the drum used to synchronize their strokes had become something of a meditative aid. Beneath the decks were an assortment of wares meant to display superior Lunite craftsmanship and culture, as well as a variety of bronze weapons and tools. The bronze were for display only - a projection of wealth and power. Let the tribes see the inferiority of their own crafts with their own eyes.

It was through manipulations such as this that the Moon Kingdom would come to dominate the continent. It was the Lunar Sovereign's wish that the submission of the tribes come as bloodlessly as possible, though a certain amount of latitude was given in practice. Your class of bureaucrat was trained from childhood on proper etiquette and diplomacy, ultimately for this purpose. Through the Lunar Sovereign's decree, spoken from their mouth directly to your ears, was to display the grandeur of the Moon Kingdom and establish relations with as many of the tribes as possible. Favors and promises may be given in exchange for their submission, but for now violence should only be used in self defense. Should a tribe refuse to bend the knee, you are to simply send word and at a later date the Lunar Sovereign would ride out with his armies for the final conquest.

A Cliff-Shrieker (Pteranodon) cries the shrill song if its namesake as it glides above, wheeling in the air before diving down near the river. It emerges again carrying a small creature in its talons, off to the cliffs. As you watch, the barge comes around a river bend and you can see where the tributary merges into the larger river.

#The Moon Kingdom - The Lunar Sovereign You sit resplendent in your ceremonial garb upon your throne of shaped starmetal. It was an ancient thing, brought with your people by your ancestors to these lands during the Long Winter. Said to have fallen from the sky and devastated the lands of your people's ancient enemies, the strange metal bequeathed to your dynasty by the Hand had been fashioned by the finest craftspeople into a symbol of your dynasty's primacy and power. It was an uncomfortable seat, both symbolically and just physically as your rear can attest to. The back fans out behind you in intricate filigree, like a crest blooming from your divinity. Large bronze braziers flank the room to provide warmth and light, illuminating walls featuring patterned mosaics and bas-relief.

The court is assembled before you, standing in a large disorganized mass of wide eyes and gaping mouths. Your royal guard flank your throne replete with decorative and functional armor and long spears affixed with wide blades of bronze. Your tame Spear-Mouth (Smilodon) lounges at your feet, lazily thumping its tail against the stone floor. The stench of fear permeates the air, cutting through the incense that seemed to cloud the very air. At the head of the crowd kneels four of your Emissaries, recently returned from their missions to the far corners. They wear fresh ceremonial robes and had been given a day's rest, but even so they looked changed. Not only were they all more sunbaked, but their faces were weathered by the rigors of travel and much skinnier than when they had left. Each was marked in some way unique to the travails of their specific destination. All were eager to hear their reports, for few ever left the holy city for more than a few miles. Traders and scouts exploring in the wake of the retreating ice and warming climate had reported many other peoples and lands beyond the jungle. People, your priests had noted, who were ignorant of the true purpose of the Hand and Eye. People, you had noted, who were without the guidance of your leadership. These were things that needed to be corrected. And would, of course, in due time. But first, one needed to learn of the people whom they were destined to rule over.

The retractable dome above the throne room was open, and the Eye gazed down over the proceedings with its persistent viridescence.