“Armel! It’s the goat! You see it?” Armel nodded, pointing to the lone unicorn child sitting by herself and eating something she had found between the cracks of the concrete.

His friend snickered, looking back to her. He was holding a rock.

“Hey! Cunt! Look here!” he called to her. She looked up.

Thwack!

Armel and his friend laughed together as the goat cried out in pain. Blood dribbled between her fingers as she pressed a palm to her eye.

“That’s what you get, you goat!” yelled Allitt. She covered her face and reduced her sorrowful noises to low moans by shoving her thumbs in her mouth and biting.

“I’m getting good with these rocks,” Allitt said, “It’s great. You can throw ‘em, tie ‘em and swing ‘em, use ‘em like an extra fist.”

“Haha. Did you see her?” Armel replied, poking at Allitt, “She probably lost an eye.”

“Want to see if there is food left?” Allitt asked.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

They playfully trotted back to their home camp inside of a low-level building, only about five stories high compared to some of the towers surrounding them. Their tribe traveled between different spots, but this spot was a constant, a home base in the middle of their territory. It was the place where unicorns dropped their children. It tended to be occupied by the pregnant and the young, but others would visit as they wandered around the territory. It was also the place where the Chief gathered everyone when there was a raid about to go down.

The building itself was mostly concrete. The top floor was all destroyed, rubble was lying in chunks surrounding the building. Every once in a while, something gave out somewhere and more concrete would fall from the sky from one of the higher buildings or even inside their building. There was one time where a piece of rubble the size of three unicorns landed on Spearhoof. His left hoof was still sticking out from under the lump, decayed, with flies buzzing around it, landing and leaving.

Armel and Allitt hurried by the unfortunate spot.

Some adults were loitering around, silently watching each other outside of the building. Armel heard some others come up behind him. They all looked serious, their hooves tapping heavily on the pavement; their faces were on edge; little movements gave away their impatient bloodlust. One of them was full on trotting around in circles, snorting and brandishing his weapon. Another couple was talking with each other quietly, glaring at each other.

“Think it’s another raid?” Allitt asked him. Armel nodded.

“Probably running out of food. Time for some more stuff.”

“Maybe we’ll get in on this one! We’re old enough now, right?” Allitt nudged Armel roughly with his elbow. Armel sucked in a wince, straightening his shoulders a bit. He put a hand on his cudgel at his side and grinned at Allitt.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Bet I get my first kill before you.”

“You’re on.”

They went inside one of the entrances, peering into one of the food barrels. A few of them were empty, but one had some plant life. They took what they wanted, munching as they stood, watching the adults gather around outside the building.

Armel saw the Chief, talking with his mate who had been pregnant recently and birthed a color matched filly. The filly was somewhere else, probably lying on the ground somewhere inside the building. It looked like the chief’s mate was ready to fight again.

Someone clapped a hand on their shoulders, squeezing too tightly. Armel threw it off, turning around and snorting at the culprit.

“You’ve grown, Armel, Allitt,” said Hookjaw, towering over them by about a foot.

Hookjaw had earned his name a couple of years ago after punching a smoke seether to death with his classic brass knuckles outfitted with small hooks he had fashioned. He liked the way the skin tore as he finished a punch, leaving gaping holes in the faces of his enemies. The Ragebrood loved their weapons. Everyone had something special.

Armel had chosen a cudgel long ago, fashioning his own out of wood from a table leg. It was thick on one end and curved slightly. The handle was wrapped in some red fabric he had found, giving it a bright and dangerous color.

“This a raid?” Allitt asked, straightening himself up to his full height.

“Yes. Do you wish to join? Are you ready for your name?” Hookjaw asked, flashing teeth in a dangerous smile.

“Yes!” Allitt replied, “Where we going?”

“We’re going to raid a fairy settlement,” Hookjaw replied, “It’s a big one. They went into our territory. Gotta teach them a lesson. No one goes on Ragebrood territory.”

Whoa.

Armel glanced over at Allitt who was brimming with excitement.

“Fuck yeah, we’re in,” Allitt said, brimming with excitement. Armel nodded with him, not wanting to look cowardly.

But shit, a fairy settlement?

Fairies were no joke.

Last time the tribe raided, they came back with less than if they raided another tribe or one of the mixed settlements. At least twenty unicorns had died. More came back with strange chemical burns and disfigurements. Mashmare went crazy and started to swing her blade, cutting of the ear of her mate, Clawbeard who then had to put her down, slicing off her head with an axe he carried. It was brutal. Armel still remembered the wild, unintelligible cries from her lips, the coldness of his face as he decapitated her, the blank look in her eye as her head rolled on the ground.

It was not an ideal first raid for young unicorns looking to survive before their naming.

But it was a name maker. To survive a raid on a fairy settlement? To get a first kill then? Shit, they’d start life on the high end, especially if they could off one of the more aggressive foes.

He glanced at Allitt, still fueled with youthful naivety and bellicose excitement. Armel would never back down from a challenge. The social consequences were more dire than the potential for danger. One meant you might die. The other meant you would. The different between him and Allitt was that Allitt didn’t think about

“What kind of weapon do you have, Allitt?” Hookjaw asked. Allitt patted the rope slung over his shoulder like a pack.

“I made this. Rocks are everywhere. I attached one to a rope. Gonna swing it and it’s gonna get heads bashed in.” Hookjaw nodded.

“And you still got your cudgel?” Hookjaw asked Armel, turning to him.

“Yeah. As always,” Armel replied, touching the weapon at his belt.

There was a loud noise across the concrete clearing. They turned their attention to the unicorn who had just arrived.

Boldhorn.

Boldhorn was a beast. He was the tallest unicorn, towering over the next tallest by at least a few hand widths. His muscles bulged as he walked, glistening in the sun under his hair. The horn on his head was longer than most, and it was also almost perfectly centered. The unusual thing about Boldhorn was that all four limbs ended with a hoof. It was inconvenient for anyone who wanted to wield a weapon, but Boldhorn had his strength and bravado to shield him. He rammed the enemies with his horn, his hooves cut into their faces and limbs, crushing them beneath his great weight.

“So!” he boomed, strutting into the middle, “When do we go?”