In the Ruins of what might have been a bunker//New York

Between the rubble and dust, there was a humming. Not a loud noise, the weak sound of some electronic machinery. Than suddenly there was a louder noise. A few rats ran away. The sound of something opening.
A relic of times long past opened itself, a testament to human science. But only a corpse was inside. The next capsule opened, but nothing else, the third capsule however seemed to be working. It opened and gave the life starting shock to the human inside. A young woman, still in the capsule took her first breath in years...

At the Bargha Tribe

Tandom sat outside his tent, a strong wind was blowing and it was cold. The winter would be coming soon. The shaman of the Bargha just read the fallen leaves. The Omrojo tribe was the one who cursed Tandom he said. It made sense. They would attack. Tandom was strong but the curse was making him weak. "Omrojo must have powerful witches.", Tandom looked at the leaves. The spirits of the wind do not lie, the Omrojo wanted his tribe. He could try to talk to them. Perhaps.
"The Omrojo hunt our deer and pick our plants. They need to leave or we make them.", he said to the other elders. "They will curse that they ever met us if they dare to attack!"

"You have to go in sometime."

Aishla looked up from her work to see Koric standing over her. His face and shoulders shown with newly painted red and black symbols. That was wrong; they should have been white.

"We are not headed to fight. Unless you have changed your mind?" she didn't acknowledge his first comment, instead returning to wrapping hide around the hot wax keep holding the spearhead to the staff. Her husband only grinned down at her.

"No, but there had been a change, Norti and your father confront the outsiders today."

Aishla didn't respond, looking down at the newly made spear in her hands. All the more important they leave soon then. The change in shadows warned that Koric had shifted to beside her.

"You worry about him fighting?" that caught her off guard, and she jerked away, suddenly angry. How could men be so blind? Her father was old but to imply the war leader was no longer battle-worthy was offensive to the extreme.

"No! I-" she stopped. She found it difficult to explain her worries to Koric in the recent weeks. More than anything else, he was her friend, even before they married. But now that they where she could not express herself. Unjustly or not she blamed her sister for that as well. If Shytora had not been such a child there would be no rift between them, and Aishla would be able to speak with her husband. But there was a rift, and the goddess of family would never grant her a child if did not make peace with the family she already had. She stood, bowed her head and raised an open palm to Koric in supplication.

"I apologize husband, the stronger winds of this pace make me uncertain. I will go make final preparations." He touched his forehead in acknowledgment and began to inspect the contents of the pack she had left open on the ground.

The sanctuary was at the far end of the tribes camp. In the place, they had found an uncovered building with three walls. This layers of hide and fabric closed it to the rest of the camp, in an effort to contain the smell. It wasn't terrible these days, they where not yet at war so there where fewer here for treatment. Not that there only being the very sick and elderly made the place any more appealing to Aishla. Death was one thing, the slow slipping away that happened here was something else. She scanned the room quickly until her eyes landed on one of the women holding a water basin.

"Shytora," she raised her palm in greeting but did not lower her head "I leave to discover learn of the neighboring outsiders, I would asks for the gods blessing." Her sister knew perfectly well why she was here. But there was ceremony, and a possibility she would want to be difficult.

Night time, New York
--The Moth--

The man unsheathed his stone knife and carefully gripped its leather hilt in his hand, bringing its wickedly sharp blade to rest against the thumb of his opposing hand. After a moment of hesitation, the blade nicked his flesh and brought blood welling up to the surface; his blood was dark and thick, a symbol of his poor diet in recent times as well as lack of constant hydration. Moth was unwell, his sickness was causing him trouble once more- but he dare not approach someone, nor dare he approach a tribe, for help. The Glow had weakened him physically ever since his initial incident out west

The blood ran down his hand and pooled in his palm. He stood there for several minutes, using his hand to nurse his thumb and milk it for his blood until a small amount had spread down his hand- then he swiftly brought his hand down to the center of the trap he had just laid, where he smeared his own blood on the bait he had set in the midst of a snare he had disguised. Immediately following came the process of binding his thumb in cloth and pressing the wound until the blood stopped flowing.

His left hand's fingers were all bandaged in this way, a sign of how frequently he did this method of baiting his traps.

His resources were running low, in regards to provisions, and thus he had risked setting traps in this inhabited territory in full. Whether his snares and pitfalls caught beast, man, or abomination, he'd come out with a way to sustain himself in the end.

The Moth sheathed his knife and picked up his spear in his right hand, balancing its haft on his left hand's palm as he latched the Atlatl onto the end of the spear, and cautiously set about picking his way back to his camp through the night. He had placed many traps under the light of this moon, and all that remained was to be patient, and stay safe.

Current time, New York

Moth, under the light of the sun, has camouflaged himself In a tree's branches to sleep, awaiting nightfall- or an intruder's disturbance of his camp's loud, jarring, alarms [In the form of tripwires that trigger metallic objects and stones to clatter to the ground noisily]- to awaken.

Shytora watched with gloomy eyes as the girl drank the bitter fluid she had handed her. If she hated something it was the gods taking a young soul back into their arms. The girl had been brought to her by terrified parents who woken the shaman in the middle of the night. The fever had taken over the little body. It was obvious that the child wouldn't survive the illness. Only very few did. All Shytora could do now was comfort her and her parents.

With a caring smile she stroked the hot cheek. "There now. Breathe deeply, the pain will be gone soon." Turning to the parent's tear stained faces she placed her palms upon their heads, offering comfort and protection as was her duty as shaman. In a low voice she spoke: "The gods are merciful. They have seen the weakness in her and chosen to spare her a death of suffering during the winter." A soft sob was heard as the mother closed her eyes and grasped the hands of her husband even tighter. In a softer voice Shytora added: "The gods will keep her soul close to be reborn into a stronger body. She will be in no pain."

With all said and done she stepped away to wash her hands and face in a bowl. She felt sad and angry. This was unjust! Had the parents somehow offended the gods? But why bless them with an offspring only to take it away again? She hated the world for being so cruel. Either you survived or you died but who was chosen seemed to be picked randomly. She shook her head at that thought. Nothing happened without reason. Nothing happened without the gods having chosen for it to happen. Even curses could bear a kind of blessing without it being obvious or clear at first. It was still cruel!
Just at that moment she heard the voice of the one person she really couldn't deal with right now. "The gods shall bless those who nourish and protect the tribe." She answered in a sigh as she stepped towards Aishla.

The shaman had set up her colours and blessing stones a few feet away from the sanctuary, knowing how uneasy most people felt being there. She led the way to the tall tree beneath which she had set her bowls and stones and where a scythe rested against the trunk. "Come here so I may bless you." And she motioned towards a short piece of log that provided as seating. The paint had dried a little so she added a splash of water to the mixture. While she was reviving the paint made of blood, berries and water, she took in her sisters appearance. "Are you eating enough? You look weak. A scout should be strong!" Aishla looked skinnier and though Shytora would never admidt it she was worried. A sting started in her chest. Lately she always got this when dealing with her sister. The hurt was still present and the shaman couldn't help but think that the gods would punish her for causing so much trouble in the past. Then again, who married the man your younger sister had fallen in love with? No wonder the gods hadn't blessed the marriage! If however her current one should be Shytora sure hoped she wouldn't be woken to treat Aishlas child because of a fever. No one deserved that kind of suffering, not even her so loathed sister.

Aishla followed obediently, doing her best not to notice the small girl on the floor and the grieving couple looming over her body. The sisters remained silent, aside from Shytora's traditional phrases. It was good to be outside again. The air was cold here, as far as Aishla knew this was the farthest north the tribe had ever traveled. Winter here would be difficult. She sat on the log opposite her sister, moving in reflex rather than conscious thought. Her sister's hands moved quickly among her various tools. It reminded her hours spent on wasted lessons in her mother's hope that both daughters would be wise women. That wasn't a comfortable memory.

" Are you eating enough? You look weak. A scout should be strong!" Aishla looked up and blinked at her sister then frowned, dropping her gaze back to Shytora's hands. If it was mockery, it stung coming from her own sister. She involuntarily crossed her arms over an all-to un-rounded stomach.

"I came here out of respect for tradition, not to be chided at by my younger sister." If that was the part she was going to play, Aishla would simply leave. More tensions here would distract her out there, time was too short for that.

Of course she had taken it the wrong way! A sigh left Shytoras lips. "As a shaman it is my duty to care for the well-being of the tribe. If a scout doesn't have enough to eat it should be brought to the tribe mothers attention." Her voice was a drawl as though she were annoyed by the comment of her sister.

Regardless she now knelt before Aishla, brought her paint covered fingers to her face and started covering her skin in the traditional markings for scouts. While she did this she started singing in a deep voice, the words her mother had taught her now part of her. After she had finished with the paint she set it aside and went to get her stones. On her return she suddenly halted and raised her eyes to the sky. A gust of wind had brought the browning leaves to whisper in their excited manner.

Concern glinted in the young shamans eyes as she then looked from the tree to her sister. She came closer to hold her hands bearing the stones over Aishlas head. "You should be wary of the woods. The trees whisper in foreboding. Let the other scouts know as well." Then she continued with the blessing, letting the stones jump in her hands to clutter softly while she spoke the words of blessing.

Shytora lowered her hands with her final sentence. A brief moment worry could be seen in her features, but it vanished as fast as it had appeared. Her boots seemed to shovel over the floor as she brought her stones back to their bowl beneath the tree. Something was wrong, but she couldn't place it. She didn't know what was wrong. Irritated she his a yawn behind d her hand. Perhaps she was just tired and the wind was playing tricks on her. Perhaps it was something? In any case she'd best look for tribe mother or her any other shaman to scatter her thoughts.

A smile came to her lips as she looked at her sister. "Good hunt." She said briefly, that perfect smile part of the mask she was expected to have as a shaman. Not that she had ever had any problems with concealing her emotions. Quite the contrary! Yet she stood reminded of the importance of it ever so often.

Maria gasped. The smell of years of nothingness filled her nostrils. She opened her eyes; she was overwhelmed by the light. She squinted and tried to make out any objects near her. Piercing her body were all sorts of tubes; some she recognized and some she didn't. She struggled to remember where she was and what was going on.

Maria soon realized this was an entirely different world than the one she left those many years ago. Adrenalin and fear filled every facet of her body, before she felt a quick jolt of pain and began to relax. A small needle had punctured the side of her arm and administered some sort of medicine. She felt at ease and clear-sighted, if not a bit drowsy. She managed to pick up some sort of pamphlet. She could barely understand the words, but the pictures she could easily follow.

She flipped through a few pages of the booklet before she found out how to seperate herself from this machine. She carefully disconnected her body from this contraption; it was a rather tiring task. She looked at herself carefully. She wore a getup reminiscint of doctor's scrubs, with white pants and a white shirt. On her feet she found a comfortable and leightweight grey shoe. This and the pamphlet she found was all Maria had to her name.

Maria slowly managed to step out of the capsule; she was careful not to misstep and fall flat on her face. The room around her seemed bleak and morose. There was no welcoming party or anyone to greet her as she was reborn into this new world. Maria struggled to make her way around; the drugs were taking effect. Despite this setback, she was still careful enough not to fall, although she did lose her balance quite a few times. She looked for anything of use, finding only a locker with a pale white winter coat.

"This could be useful," Maria muttered to herself as she gently grabbed the coat. She searched the pockets of her newly found treasure. Nothing. She looked throughout the decrepit facility. She managed to find an exit, after a good while of searching. The exit was covered in rubble, but had enough room for a human to crawl through. Maria realized that people had probably searched this facility before her. She felt strange and alien in this new world, thinking of the many things that had previously escaped her. She managed to crawl through the space with ease.

It wasn't until she looked upon the world that she felt fear.

Some found blessings peaceful, an act of meditation. It was rare for Aishla to feel such reverence, and she recognized only the tedium they made. But today was worse, more than a simple impatience. Something twisted in her stomach as her sister's voice chanted softly. Sweat began to dampen the hair touching her neck, despite the cold breeze. She closed her eyes, and breathed, trying to find the meditative state others went to when in communion with the gods, and failed. The nausea persisted; a blatant refusal from the gods to grant her safety. Aishla was standing again before Shytora could bid goodbye.

"Good hunt" Aishla only nodded in response, lips pressed to a hard line, turned, and walked away quickly. The grip on her stomach didn't loosen until she came into sight of Koric, and even then refused to let go completely. Still, she found herself breathing again as she approached where he was sitting, in a quiet conversation with Jeel. Her husband looked to her at the sound of footsteps and stood in greeting, Jeel remained seated, it was Aishla who bowed her head and raised a hand to her forehead, half greeting and half apology for interrupting. Jeel only nodded in response, barely glancing at her before nodding at Koric.

"You will be going then" The middle aged man said, stood, and walked away without further acknowledgment or explanation. Before she could speak, Koric was handing Aishla her spear and guiding her away; both their packs in his other hand.

"It's past time we left" This earned him a frown, but Aishla trusted her husband enough not to make a scene in the center of their makeshift village. People were already looking at Koric. With no other ceremony, they left. A few moments out from the tribe she tried to ask.

"Has something happened?" Her mind went first to her father. Which wouldn't make much sense. He would be with a large group, slow moving. They wouldn't reach their destinations for at least another two days. Koric ignored her question, instead walking ahead of her, still carrying two packs.

"Koric" she called, slight annoyance quickly igniting to proper anger. They hadn't even begun their journey and there were to many ill omens for Aishla to be anything but on edge. Still he remained silent, and lead. That too was an insult. Koric was no scout, a warrior as all men. It was to her to lead, he wasn't even meant to come.

She stopped after nearly an hour she stopped. It took Koric a few moments to notice; his own footsteps so comparatively loud. But he did turn eventually with a look of consternation to rival his wife's. Aishla didn't flinch, instead waiting for him to return to where she stood.

"We need to keep moving," Aishla tilted her head, letting a few beats pass before speaking.
"What did the Jeel say to you?" Koric's face twisted further,  it wasn't only her he seemed angry with. Aishla relaxed her posture and took her bag from him.
"If it is something about today I need to know." she softened her voice and sat down.
"We don't know where outsiders may be hiding, speak quick and quiet." Koric did not sit down, but sighed and finally began to speak.
"It is the All - Leader.  Jeel believes he is crossing his bounds"
"What bounds?"
"Jeel says he is too involved in the outsiders to the east." Aishla frowned, those they would be attacking withing the fortnight, business of the war - leader.
"How so?"
"He forbade Jeel to follow your father, among others. Told them it was to strengthen the tribe."
"In what way?" Koric shrugged,
"No specifics, though he mentioned something about good fortune in battle. Few feel at ease in the place- so much left by the ones before, and the cold-"
"That is the task of shaman and the tribe mother"
"There are other rumors-" Koric stopped as a sudden sound came from behind Aishla, who was standing spear in hand barely a moment later. She signaled him to remain quiet. Her stomach twisted again, something wasn't right; but whether it was the conversation or the noise she could not tell. The panic was quickly drowned out with anger as Koric again took lead. His steps loud and ignorant to the twigs and rocks they hit.
She reached out to him, but stopped, breathing in sharply as he tripped. A loud noise followed, Aishla looked to her husband, who was inspecting something twisted around his ankle. She held out her spear, eyes darting the surroundings as her husband freed his ankle and began to stand again.

The Moth awakens, as if a smooth transition from sleep to awake through a gradient scale rather than a jarring leap to alertness. Something had jarred a few of his traps. The alarms had rung out and awoken the Moth. He shut his eyes and inhaled slowly, once, as he let his ears pinpoint on the noise's origin, then he rose up as if water; he was fluid, maneuvering first with his hands on the branch he had decided to lay up. Then the rest of his body shifted in the same graceful manner until he was crouched on the branch. He carefully pulled the cloak of leaves and twigs about him, then began to pick his way through the branches.

It was apparent that moving like this would give away his position, but the camouflaging- while simplistic and rudimentary- would assist in his form itself remaining unnoticed. At least, in theory.

The man moved to the edge of his current tree and lowered himself down to the branch, carefully. He had strapped his spear to this branch for various reasons, and thus he needed to retrieve it. Slowly untying the weapon was a deft process, and soon enough the Moth hugged the branch and twisted around it to fall softly to the ground below, gripping the spear tightly in a bandaged hand while he hugged his cloak of leaves about him.

It was time to find the cause of the noise, leaving his fake camp behind on the ground.

---

The Moth, first interaction

Two humans, a male and a female. It was groups like this that Moth often encountered. The Male was rising up from a simple snare he had come into the bad graces of, and the female bore a weapon. As the Moth studied them, he deliberated on what to do. If a fight broke out, these two could easily overpower him. A few seconds later, and the male on his feet, Moth cleared his throat and called out in his gruff, travel-worn, voice;

"You're not beasts. I set traps for beasts, and people fall into them. Didn't realize this was tribe territory."

This, he hoped, would calm them enough to not instantly attack him as he rose up and cast off his camouflage, allowing his lean, small, form to become visible to the duo, his spear held low in a non-hostile manner.

"Many apologies, strangers. Noise to alert, trap to hold, spear to kill. Beasts, not people, are my prey."

Watching the scout leave she let her thoughts scatter. It truly was troublesome to see her sister this slim. Perhaps she had worries? Shytora would ask another shaman to visit her - just in case. They couldn't afford to loose more scouts or warriors! War was upon them if the war leader's quest to negotiate with the other tribe failed. The proud Shytora would never admidt to herself that it was honest concern for her sisters well-being that made these thoughts sprout in her mind.

With a sigh she took her scathe and headed to the dream house, as everybody called the tent in which the shamans would gather. The tent was located near the sanctuary in case of any emergencies. The tribe always came first! In the past even rituals had been interrupted and revisited to a later time when shamans were needed. The young woman stooped deep, holding the fox fur to her head as she entered the tent. The air was filled with the strong scent of incense that originated from the firebowl made from a piece of metal who's origin was unknown. A woman looked up from the fire. Her face was scarred from an in counter with a badger a few years back. The fire gave her an ominous air, creating deep hollows under those green eyes. "Come, sit, sister. The gods and I shall listen to your worries. Perhaps we even share them." Shytora nodded and let her tired body sink to the ground, placing her scythe next to her. The other woman, Dabmar, reached out and squeezed her hand.
"The wind has spoken to you as well? It seems it has spoken to all of us. Tribe mother predicted this would happen. In the night she woke from a dream, clutching her heart. She said to breathe deeply and gather all our strength for something is coming."
"What did she see in her dream?" Shytora asked with open curiosity, leaning in a bit closer. Dabmar shrugged. "It's not important what she saw. We just have to figure out what to do now." Yes, that was true. But how were they supposed to know? The spirits didn't point in one direction and said the answers were there! "Tribe mother will be back in a few days. We should call a council upon her return." Dabmar nodded, withdrawing her hand and tilting her head with a sly smile that distorted her blemished features. "You should take some time to yourself. You seem discontent. You know we have to function for the tribe! So go, find some peace and do something useful, while you're at it." The words weren't spoken harshly but they hit Shytora nonetheless.
She rose to her full height, gathered her scythe and a backpack constructed of an aluminium frame and hide. "I'll go and gather some food, then. Maybe I'll find herbs that help against the fever. And our scouts are skimming down . . . we should take care of this quickly." The other Shaman bobbed her head, agreeing with her.

A few hours later Shytora found herself in a jungle of rubble. There were high mountains of stone all around her. Some still showed the shape and integrity of the ancient. Metal casings with huge holes in their sides stood scattered in somewhat straight lines between the ruble and hollow stone towers. The shaman stretched her limbs, feeling cold as sleep deprivation caught up to her. She sat down and drew some beef jerky from her pocket. Looking upon the ruble and overgrown monuments of the past she asked herself how the ancient beings had been. Had they been just like them? Had they looked the same? Or had they been completely different?

A noise let her jump to her feet and grab her scythe, feathers swaying from the movement. Trying to find the cause of the scratching noise she looked around. Something emerged a few feet away at the base of the hill she was standing on. It wasn't an animal. It looked like her just . . . like snow. Shytora gripped her scythe a little harder. Was this a trick? Nothing had the colour of snow except for the paint they made from sea shells. "What tribe do you follow!" She bellowed down to the thing standing there. Her heart was racing. What if this was a trap? Maybe the thing came from a tribe they hadn't encountered yet? Fear started to rise in her as she watched the thing.