Now, you might be wondering, what, exactly, is a beast tide?

Well my friends, the answer is rather simple, it’s a rampage fueled by fear, when things that should not be woken rise from their slumber and shake the world.

Eternity-Burns-Within-Me is one of these things.

Six wings of an illustrious ochre casts shadows over the forest as it’s heart beats for the first time in a decade. The whole earth shakes as the fires of radiant life pump through its veins and heat radiates. Everything within a hundred mile radius burns as things of twisted biology melt like wax. The ground surrounding the beast has turned to magma, it raises its head to the sky and lets out a screech that pierces the soul.

The-Ape-Who-Does-Not-Speak rises to its challenge, it stands at half her height, but is bulging with grotesque muscles that have no hide to cover them. It beats its chest like a drum, slow and with the weight of thousands of tons, and bears its fangs.

The-Empty-Maw’s growls reverberate through the bones of all the creatures as her many tails whip and batter the surrounding treeline. She takes a step with a paw that does not exist and howls the tune of a million souls screaming.

A-Dead-Wish simply materializes from thin air, a thing of screaming faces and tortured biology. It looks like a ball, with so many arms and legs and faces. Blood that glows with vitality pours from the crevices and feeds the forest floor.

To-Burrow-And-Sleep rises from under the earth, standing on two feet as it takes in the smell of impending violence. It has twelve claws that are tipped black, and skin made of granite

The trees are uprooted and sent flying as Eternity-Burns-Within-Me takes flight.

-

Zazalam is many things. hunter, father, leader.

Right now he is tired of this shit.

Seventeen decades he’s lived, a reasonable number for a chieftain, and in each one there is a beast tide. At first they were horrifying, he remembers being only six when his eyes bore witness to the phoenix's rise. As beasts raged in the canopy below and titans clashed at the centre of the forest, he was certain then, that it was the end of the world. So it was to his confusion that the rest of the tribe seemed unfazed by the disaster. Sure there was interest, but in the way one might find a fight between rivals entertaining, not as something truly and legitimately dangerous.

Now he just finds it annoying. For a full month they’ll make a mess of the forest, uprooting plants and trampling over saplings. He’s going to have to organize so much to get the forest back to the point where they can live without the hunt. This deep into the DarkWoods only those like Zazalam can hunt alone, the rest have to go in hunting parties, and they often come back with casualties.

“Zaza,” says a woman with a bushy tail, sharp fangs, and grey fur covering her features. She rubs at the base of one of his antlers, where there’s a persistent itch from the shedding. “Why not come back inside? The tea’s going to get cold if you keep gawking at the Godbeasts.”

Zazalam snorts through his muzzle, “I am not gawking, Serena, I am simply planning for the nuisances that will follow.”

Serena sighs, “ever the diligent leader, have you ever thought that perhaps a break would help with your work? Spend some time with little Yazar and Yizim?”

“I will spend what I have, I simply have little.”

“You have plenty, Zaza, you just choose to put it all into the tribe. It wouldn’t hurt to let Rokknar take over some of your responsibilities.”

“The boy is too young,” Zazalam grunts, “He’s only in his second decade, I cannot put the burdens of a chieftain on his shoulders.”

“But you don’t have to, make it slow, so that he can learn.”

He lets out a long sigh, “perhaps”

-

He is staring at the new hue of orange on the horizon.

It is not the sun, it cannot be the sun. The sun doesn’t rise from the south-west. Besides, even without the ear piercing cry of the phoenix or the haunting howls of Aetheria, he knows what the light represents. He lets out a heavy sigh.

“Master Jorin,” someone asks behind him.

Jorin turns to see a boy with blue eyes who’s practically shaking with…excitement?

That can’t be right.

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“Yes?”

“When will the tide get here?”

Jorin shrugs his shoulders, “about a week or two,”

“Can I train with a weapon?”

Jorin squints at the boy, “why?”

“I want to take part!”

Jorin blinks, “you want to what?”

“Torrak!” he hears an exclamation of shock from his right as a red-eyed girl goes to grab the boy's arm.

“A thousand apologies master! He must have hit his head too much during sparring because he is not participating in a beast tide, isn’t that right Torrak?”

“But Pinia-”

“Don’t but me, I’ll but you! No. Beast. Tides.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but we’re at least going to spar to make up for it, right?”

“Of course!” Pinia chirps as she drags him away.

Jorin lets out another heavy sigh.

Children.

-

Here’s the thing with beast tides and Tantra.

She’s never been in one.

There are only so many foci with Godbeasts afterall, and none of them are close to Ralth, so while the trading routes are affected, the city itself? Not so much. So she wasn’t prepared for how loud the start of one would be.

She can barely hear Rakan through the ringing of her ears.

“We’re gonna have to hurry,” he muses, “don’t want to get caught out in the open”

“We shouldn’t be too far from the village,” Etra says, “we can help them with the defence once we get there.”

“That’s surprisingly considerate of you,” Kisrin points out.

“Lay off baby-face, everyone helps during a tide.”

“Everyone helps during a tide,” Yorin echoes, “you should turn that into a saying, It’s catchy”

Tantra rubs at her chin, “yes, that could do quite well in advertising…hmmm.”

Etra raises a brow, “you know, sometimes I forget you’re a filthy merchant.”

“Why? It’s my most endearing quality.”

“Suuure.”

-

The village of Terkat is a humble place of humble origins, originally a collection of separate villages combining for the sake of safety when this was considered the edge of the empire, where bandits, spirit beasts, and often cultivators were an everyday threat to their fragile peace. It is neither small nor large, sitting comfortably in the middle.

Etra didn’t think she’d see the sight of her home for another decade, and like a vile plague, self-doubt and regret creep into her mind.

None of that.

She’s a strong cultivator now.

She can do this.

“Yorin?” Etra asks.

“Yes?”

“Where’s your home?”

“On the northeast side, why?”

“I just have something I need to do.”

“No need to be so mysterious, Etra, if you want to see your family you're free to do so,” Kisrin comments.

Etra gives a small smile, “thanks.”

Tantra gives her a knowing look, “good luck.”

Etra nods and heads off from the group, it’s not the same now that she has the robes, she doesn’t have to worry about pushing through crowds because everyone simply makes space for her. Cultivators are above the rabble after all, or at least that’s what conventional society espouses. Personally she just sees cultivation and those who walk in it for what it is.

A path to strength.

There’s nothing wrong with that, she just doesn’t get all the poetics about honour and glory. Feels like a way for cultivators to make themselves bigger than what they are, which is essentially spirit beasts in the shape of humans. Not the best analogy but it’s not wrong.

Both seek strength, both dedicate their lives to blood, and both walk the path to immortality.

Although that path does differ between the two.

As she walks she takes in the sights, the people of Terkat are hardy, but they also have a talent for presentation. Every house is perfectly maintained, strays don’t litter the streets, and everyone walks in clothing that seems almost regal with how clean it is. She never really liked that part of the village, always felt fake, like they were pretending to be more than just worthless peasants.

She knows they’re not really worthless, the many villages that dot Rikidan provides the sustenance the big cities need to even exist. But they’re treated as worthless, by both the empire and the nobility. Worked to the bone for their meager finances to be taxed away into the hands of those who claim authority over them. Hells, they even need permission from their baron just to travel. A part of her was worried when they took Erick, but another part reminded her that they’re all cultivators, and cultivators get to break the rules.

Not because they bring value, but because they’re dangerous.

Etra realized the value of being dangerous at a rather young age when she personally witnessed baron Ghalal be humiliated in front of the whole village by a cultivator, and do nothing. She’ll never forget that memory, or how the cultivator berated him for his poor management.

It was cathartic.

Etra stops in front of a home with a door made of some sort of conifer. Not a mark to be seen, pristine as all the others. The home isn’t very tall, nor is it very big, but it serves its purpose of sheltering the small family that rests inside it. The roof is made of thatch and-

She’s stalling.

Etra takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

A sense of dread wells up in her heart as she hears footsteps approaching, she hoped they wouldn’t be home.

The door swings open to the sight of a vibrant man with a slight stubble and stocky frame.

“Etra!” he exclaims, surprised, “what are you doing here girl, shouldn’t you be back in the sect? Oh, where are my manners, come in, come in. Raya has some tea steaming over in the kettle, and there’s plenty to share.”

Etra gives the man a sad smile, “thank you, Mr.Roan.”