Fran glared at Ethron, unable to tear her furious gaze from his stupid bald head. It was so stupid and bald it boggled the mind.

"What. Do. You. Mean?" She asked, sounding each word out as though speaking to an infant, or perhaps an alien.

"You heard what I said," Ethron's reply was cold. There was steel in his tone.

"Are yo-"

"We aren't looking for the brat!" A hunter snapped, his companions having to hold him back.

"Not the witch," they whispered, "she has powers," they said.

Fran shook her head grimly, her fists clenched so tight they almost bled, "I won't do the ritual," she hissed.

"Oh, you'll do the ritual," Ethron replied coldly, "if Bo ever wants to return to this tribe, you'll do the damn ritual, and you'll do it well,"

The veins on Fran's neck stood out as she held back a primal scream, "what if I don't?"

"Then you and one arm over there," he gestured to Gale - who was minding Fran's supplies, "can go find some other tribe. I'm sure there are plenty of folks willing to accommodate two ancient skin bags with nothing to offer… oh wait…."

"You're one to talk," Fran hissed, "I've seen mummified remains with more life than you,"

"Take that back!"

"Make me!"

This time, Ethron's hunters had to hold him back.

Without another word, Fran spun on her heels and stalked back to Gale. She could feel the searing gazes on her back as she passed. Few – if any – were sympathetic.

A thundercloud seemed to follow wherever she went, darkening the ground she walked. Her face bore righteous fury. Fury that only seemed to grow with her frustrations.

She arrived back at Gale and grabbed her rope, hitching the sledge back to her waist in a furious whirlwind. Beside Gale, Leo and Tor walked in tow, Leo dragging an extra sledge with him.

"Fran, we'll find him. It's just a-"

"WHY?" She screamed, drawing manys a gaze brimming with schadenfreude.

"Calm down, Fran," Gale said cooly, "hysterics won't solve anything. You're just giving him what he wants,"

"I'm going to kill him," she said lowly, her voice gravelly.

"Holy gods, Fran," Gale rasped, "you can't say things like that. What if Ethron hears you?"

"Who said I was talking about Ethron?" She raised her head, meeting Gale's gaze with eyes of magma.

Leo and Tor exchanged a glance. It looked like even if Bo had survived the storm and returned to them – he wouldn't stay living for long.

They both sported tattoos of their own now, discarding their robes and walking with minimal clothing. To any outside observer, they were no different to the rest of the tribe's adults, if a little scrawny.

"Kid's probably dead anyway," A low voice muttered.

They all turned to see the dad dragging his daughter on his sledge.

"Daddy!" The little girl yelled, standing up and jumping off the sledge.

"Fessy, where are you going!?" He yelled.

"I'm going to walk with people who aren't mean," she declared, striding back to Fran and hugging her leg.

The elderly woman stared down at the little girl, her eyes watering, "thank you," she whispered.

"What do you think you're doing!?" The father bellowed, turning his sledge to face them.

"No!" Leo shouted, "What do you think you're doing?"

"What?"

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Yeah," Tor chimed in, "why do you keep walking near us if you hate us so much!?"

"I- don-"

"Daddy doesn't like when mummy and aunty talk," Fessy interrupted, "he says your conversations are more interesting,"

"Fes!" The dad yelled, mortified.

Tor and Leo gave him a strange, appraising look. A look which he shrank back from.

Unable to retort, he shook his head, "fine, it's no skin off my back to have you watch her for a day. Just make sure she's back by nightfall. It's not safe after the storm, you know?"

Gale nodded solemnly, and the man stalked off, sullenly walking towards his wife and sister and law. His gait was that of a man to be hanged.

He could already hear their inane gossip, which revolved solely around his sister-in-law's, mother-in-law's, son - a man who was apparently far too stubborn for his own good.

This was a topic he still hadn't wrapped his head around. Nor had he figured out they were talking about him.

The little girl let go of Fran and patted her hand softly, "Bo will be fine," she said with a beaming smile, "he's the best!"

"I don't know if I would go that far," Leo muttered.

"He may not be the best," Gale added, "but he's the luckiest kid I've ever met. Little bastard survived a run-in with a…" he noticed Fran's chilly gaze and stopped talking, "he's the luckiest… anyway,"

Tor nodded eagerly, "Yeah, I'm sure he survived the storm. He'll probably come back with some crazy new tattoo that'll make Ethron implode just from looking at it,"

"With his luck," Gale snorted, "It'll be two new tattoos,"

"Luck…" Fran echoed, squinting at Ethron. It was only superstition, of course. She knew that.

"What if he could be even luckier?"

"Luckier?" The little girl asked.

Gale frowned, "You aren't talking about the fox, are you? That stuff's never been proven,"

"So, what?" Fran asked, "If I do the ritual for Bo - rather than the tribe - either way, I'll be getting one over on the walking skeleton up front,"

Gale grinned slowly, "I like it," he rasped, "but can you do it without getting caught?"

Fran smiled thinly, "Of course,"

Leo and Tor watched this, feeling that Bo's reckless personality might have been inspired by a certain elderly woman.

"What ritual?" Fessy asked, frustrated at being ignored.

"Oh, it's the one on fox mountain. Uncle Gale and I were just talking about how we could make it even better so that great, great, great grandfather Ethron would be pleased,"

"I don't remember that one," the girl admitted, "I think I was asleep last time,"

Fran smiled softly at her, "I'm not surprised; how old are you, Fessy?"

"Five," she proclaimed, proudly holding up four fingers.

"Well, you would only have been one when our tribe was last on fox mountain," Fran showed her one finger, "We only get to go every four years - so that all the other tribes can take their turn,"

The girl frowned, rubbing the sides of her forehead intensely, "But why does everyone want to go there so bad?" She asked.

"Well," Fran's face turned serious, "it's a rather long story... if you're willing to listen,"

Fessy nodded furiously, her eyes wide and focused.

For what it was worth, Tor and Leo also nodded eagerly.

Although they had heard Fran tell this particular story many times, they were more than willing to hear it retold.

The tales Fran told seemed to come alive. Neither knew whether it was her tone or the careful way she selected her words. But for children of the tribe, if Fran was spinning a yarn, they would listen.

She cleared her throat, licking her cracked lips. "Are you ready?"

"Hm," the little girl nodded.

"Then let's begin..."

----------------------------------------

Long, long ago - when the world was still green and living – rain fell on this land. It fell fast and hard, gathering in deep pools that a man could dive in and never reach the bottom.

For half the year, this land would be flooded. Rather than dusty dunes, there were islands poking out through a thick blanket of water. Water that held creatures of sizes too big to imagine.

In the other half of the year, the waters retreated, giving way to green grass and flourishing foliage. It was during this time of year that – in a particularly dry season - Drought was born.

With the idea of drought - came its god – its manifestation, if you will.

Day and night, season after season – Drought battled Flood. The god Drought desperately wanted to take down his elder brother – but the rains were too heavy, and the waters too deep.

For years they struggled. One waxed, the other waned, but neither won.

Until…

Until the great heat.

How it started, no one knows. But what is known - is that Drought won. The cycle of give-and-take halted, and Drought slowly ate away at Flood.

Gradually, there were no more pools, no more rivers. Rain seldom came, and when it did – there was never enough to go around.

Soon, the plants died out, and shortly after, the animals.

Drought revelled in this, for he was winning. Year after year, he smothered Flood until nothing was left.

Finally, when Guarda had become closer to what it is today, Drought looked up to see the last rain cloud. It was feeble, barely holding itself together.

And he should have celebrated. After all...

He had won.

The rain would fall, and he would take it. Never to fall again.

But Drought had not seen Flood in years and realised his existence had little meaning without his elder brother to define it.

What was drought without water? What was day without night?

As he watched the last cloud condense into a solitary, crystal raindrop, panic consumed Drought. He did not want to lose his brother, not like this.

So, Drought caught the last raindrop, and rather than consume it – he gave the raindrop life.

It took the form of a fox, which was always his brother's favourite, and the crystalline fox scampered off into the cloudless sky.

Since that day, Drought has brought back the fox once a year, leading it to the mountain where he first captured it.

There, as the souls dance in the arid plains below – a ghostly rain falls, a rain not of water – but of memory.

A rain that once was.

A rain that may never be again.

And where is that mountain, you ask?

Fox mountain.