I barked at the moon and laughed under the sun

and danced and danced ‘til my paws tore red

circles and trails punched into snow

threaded around Jupip’s dying reeds

I showed the world a painting of autumn

before Spring ever had a chance to begin

…

At the far edge of the valley where the mountains are shortest, the river that runs through the center of it fans outwards into dozens of creeks and ponds that disperse themselves throughout a plain of golden grass. The fibers of these fields are thick and tough, grazed by only the sturdiest or hungriest animals, who often find themselves hunted by the gnolls and centaurs who dominate the sea of grass. It is a healthy region weathered by travelers and dispersed cultures that have lived, and died, solely in these stretching fields. When snow fell everything was an endless stretch of white - a cloud dispersed onto the earth as a dense crust or seasoning - but now, with Spring at the tent flap, most of the snow is gone and replaced with muted yellow flattened grass. Most of it is already beginning to regain its golden splendor.

Winter’s last melt finished mere days ago; holdouts of white lingered in the shadows of solitary trees, easily ignored, and whose disappearance would soon be celebrated with festivals of cackles and loud brays. It was the one time every year that the packs and herds came together to celebrate and deal with one another diplomatically – if peace cannot be brokered here, fierce raiding would follow, with death walking in its wake until the next snow fell.

Grinna had the importance of this deeply wedged into her mind. Over and over again.

And again.

And again.

And a g a i n.

‘It’s like they think I’m gonna screw up or something …’

All this treatment is to her is further confirmation that even if she didn't look it, her family expects her to take the role of the runt! It 's goline shit! She’s good at hunting, but they never give her a chance to prove it! It’s always Hajax or Groul or Hiiie being told where to find something to kill. They couldn't track something on their own. Not like her. They had cronies to do it for them.

All they are good at it is the killing part.

With a desperate growl she whips her head up toward the sky and then moves a clawed thumb up, blocking out the sun while she squints with one eye. It was a cloudless day with a harrowingly blue sky. If the harpies weren't busy teaching their new spawns how to fly their skirmishers would be descending from the mountains and filling the air.

‘Maybe there’ll be peace this time,’ she chitters quietly. It wasn't like anyone was going to hear her doubtful voice over the constant yapping of the rest of the traveling pack. Grinna snorts and ruffles the fur on the back of her neck.

As if that would happen.

There hasn’t been peace since she was a pup. As a result the valley’s riches went unplundered, the harpies grew in strength, and the dwarves had begun to reclaim their foothills.

‘And the hobbies -‘

She cackles in a subtle way when they come to mind. They’d never change. Her ears and attention perk up as the bustle of the ceremonial grounds begins to fill the air. Centaurs, gnolls, the lowest and the highest - all would be in attendance, no exceptions.

Grinna had a fierce grin on her face as the many potential opportunities and her plans for exploiting them tumble into her mind. She would have to move quick, or everything would be eaten up by her privileged tit-stuck littermates. There’s no way she 's gonna let that happen again.

Not this time.

Her scheming mind is brought back fully to its surroundings as one of her sisters, Groul, stomps up beside her with a small retinue of warriors in tow. Thinning lips have already been pulled back into a predatory smirk although this time it wasn't because of her.

“This is the year, sis.”

Groul’s voice comes out as a deep slur between a yelp and a hiccup. Grinna grimaces as envy fills in the skin of her cheeks, just beneath the fur.

“Year for uh, what? Getting laid?”

Her own voice is much higher pitched and barely threatening. It's too easy to understand –sometimes people think she's a freaking shaman because of it. Which isn’t fair at all, considering she can't read.

“No,”

the slamming of her sister's teeth into each other produces a loud audible clap that causes her to flinch to the side a little to be away from it. It’s the equivalent of having someone spit too much when they’re speaking.

“for change.”

“Oh, eh, sure, yeah …”

“Mother and the others always thought you were a useless little wastepot.”

“Okay.”

“A pitiful insult to the litter.”

“I uhh -“

“A skilless homunculus spawned, unfortunately, from the same womb that made better women.”

Grinna just lowers her head at this point and stares at the ground ahead of them as the pack continues on into the ceremonial grounds.

“I agreed with them, for a while … “

A rough hand clasps her shoulder. She leans her head back up to find her sister's face alarmingly close; a visage where fur and scars mingle freely, with chipped front teeth marking an abnormality for her young age – the same could be said of the small patches of hide that’ve gone bald. An unusual brilliance shines in her eyes today and it makes Grinna straighten up subconsciously, as if in preparation for something unusual.

“… but I've begun to think of you a little differently as of late.”

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Grinna gulps and feels a flutter of adrenaline course through her chest. This is something she wasn't expecting ever in her life, and it left her stammering out her next words and clearing her throat to keep herself from panicking. A bite scar from years ago tingles on her back as a reminder what sort of treatment she's used to from this beast.

“Yuh - ahechm - yea yeah? Why’s that, uh, sis? … Groul?”

Groul’s lips pull back into a big smile,

“You passed your Rite. The others think nothing of it but I heard how you performed. Bringing down a lion is not easy … hahh, maybe if you were in another litter that would've made you famous. Yet here you are …”

At the same time that she lowers her voice she turns her head away to observe the many gathering tribes of the great grass sea.

“I have a plan, little Grinna.”

Without turning her head back to Grinna her eyes flick to her, watching her from the corner of her vision. She’s left stupefied into silence, allowing her sister to continue unimpeded with the one sided conversation.

“And you have a place in it.”

“I do?”

Grinna thought to her own plans that she had spent so long meticulously crafting just for today. If she refuses, it's almost guaranteed that Groul would step in to stop whatever she's planning. How is this any fair?! She hasn't let her frustration show in her expression yet but her fists have begun to clench in agitation.

“You do. You have never been to the Valley of Reeds, have you?”

“… no.”

“I hadn't thought so. The last time the pack was allowed to raid there you were a pup.”

The younger Grinna barely remembers those days, but they were ironically the most peaceful moments of her life. Everyone that loved to bug and antagonize her were gone, out pillaging the savages, and some hadn't made it home. As a pup it was a gift sent by Jupip themself.

“It is a bloated, festering gash of geography filled with parasites. There is no hill or mountain side that someone has not crawled into and dug out some kind of horrid sunless home.”

Groul stares with a blank contempt in the direction of the mountains in question.

“… what’s a geography?”

“Nevermind that,” she quietly rebukes, glaring to the side at Grinna once more, who instinctively looks down with an anxious hiccup.

“I long to civilize it once more. You will come with me.”

“Whuh - but - “

“The Winters have gotten harsher.”

Grinna had noticed that and even if she hadn't, it's mostly all people have been talking about as of late. Most years in the past everyone was hollering and hooting and getting ready - energetically ranting and discussing - for whatever battles and raids would take place against the centaurs and other packs. There's been barely any of that this time around, and the fact that these festivities which usually take place at the end of winter are a month late highlighted the problem.

Everything's getting colder and the snows are staying for longer.

“Yeah …”

“Yet the worst of the storms broke against the mountains. They saved us this time, but if those winds come from the other direction next year …”

Groul leaves it unsaid in favor of snarling at the possibility.

“There will be peace.”

“You’re certain??”

“I am. This year's competition will be a race. Those who fall behind will be dead next winter.”

The somber atmosphere emanating from her also comes from the warriors following closely to her. Each of them seems privy to this information already, or has surmised it on their own, and have already begun to plan out in their heads how best to survive. It's written in the expressions.

“You will join me.”

“Y-yeah, of course, duh! Haha!”

“Good.”

Groul claps her on the shoulder roughly several times without bothering to look back to her.

“Then listen closely, whelp. You have an important role to play.”

Both of Grinna’s ears stand at attention, spotted triangles of fur upon her head, as Groul slips into the details of her new responsibilities.

…

…

‘Jupip’s teeth …’

Grinna’s body continues to shake as she watches her sister's back proceed through the crowd ahead, being replaced quickly by the hunched pastures of gnolls and the tall forms of horsefolk. Following through with what Groul told her to do did, in a twisted horrible way, also satisfy her own plans but the details of everything seemed really …

… ‘really, really brutal.’

Nobody is allowed to carry a weapon on these grounds but that hasn't stopped others from smuggling them in before. It’s sacrilegious to consider that idea and yet here she is, stuck with a wrapped up chunk of meat that's supposedly hiding a dagger inside. Obviously she wasn't gonna confirm that out in the open like this. After talking it beneath her arm she strides into the grounds proper, slowing her pace to match the crowd and also to take in some of the sights. Holidays and festivals like this really didn't happen often in her pack because everyone was busy with more important things.

Grinna’s asked other packs about that before and received strange looks as a result which told her everything she needed to know about how sociopathic her own traditions are.

‘Groul’s not helping like, at all, with that idea.’

It's basically at once in a year opportunity for her to enjoy herself and she wasn't gonna waste it all just because her sister’s got a little bit of bloodthirst going on. Grinna’s gonna enjoy herself where she can.

Many tents made of furs or looted fabrics line natural paths in the grass made by the constant stamping of paws and hooves; they’re for merchants, sleeping in, doing business in, relaxing in, storing things in, …

… drinking in …

her eyes slowly drift to a large tent made of a collection of bison hides. Her nose crinkles in disgust specifically because she knows exactly what kind of drinks are in there and none of them are good. Nobody wants to share the good alcohol they have in their own tribes so they always bring in the worst of the worst for the worst of the worst to drink and the stench always confirms it. A centaur stumbles out from the tent with an absent expression and a very stained shirt, choosing to go right back in after depositing something vile on the ground. People nearby wince or laugh or back away as far as they can.

Grinna just turns her head and skulks down another path. By this point most of the tribes of both races have splintered off entirely, turning the entire festival area into a confusing mess of allegiances and cultures. No weapons are allowed, yeah, but nobody here doesn't have something that can cut or crush someone causing problems. Group violence is common as a result -

and, also as a result, there is a large clearing of stocks and ropes and chains pegged into the earth where troublemakers are taken to for the remainder of the festival. It's easy to see from here and already has a large handful of gnolls punished within. A solitary horsewoman lays down on the ground with her back legs chained down to keep her from going anywhere. Sometimes people will throw things at them.

Like herself.

Grinna plucks some mud out of the ground and nails one of the gnolls with a snicker.

It's all in good humor! Hahh … most of the time …

With plenty of sun still in the day and more tribes still arriving she diverts course to find herself a good tent to claim before all of the others are swallowed up. When that happened people would be stuck sleeping out in the grass, assuming they didn't just try to steal one of the tents for themselves.

The half intoxicated glare of the gnoll that she had thrown a clump of dirt road at is burning into her back as she fades back into the crowd and starts shoving herself in the direction of the habitation quarter. It is northeast of the Central plaza, which is itself just north of the present area that she was just observing a moment ago. Besides these three areas everything else is mixed around between the tents as, supposedly, it promotes intermingling between the tribes. In the past they had used to allow everyone to group up is there tribes but it had just turned what was supposed to be a peace festival into a gang war. Grinna lets out of bored, low howling noise as those useless thoughts start ping-ponging around in her naggin and she shakes herself free of their chains, sending her down a much more interesting line of thought:

the plan Groul’s pressed her into.

Being stuck delivering a murder weapon to someone was almost as bad as using it herself under these conditions, at least that's what she thought, and she figures that most others would think the same because it's pretty convenient for them to do that. It's not like she was feeling all that great about knowing someone, maybe many someones, S be stabbed in the future but at the same time, it seemed a little necessary? It's been over a decade since any of the tribes went into the valley and with the winter's getting worse there was no way they could keep up this behavior and survive.

‘Maybe if we didn't stab each other in the back the moment there was a sign of weakness …’

There isn't anything stopping gnolls and centaurs from raiding the valley to their heart's content. It's all open. The issue is that when those warriors come home they're probably going to find their tribe dead, because attacking that ‘geographical gash’ without a big party of good warriors is a waste of time. … supposedly. Grinna’s only got old stories to go off of. Even if it's a lot easier than people say it is, nobody feels comfortable enough to go reading that far away when there's enemies all around their tribe.

After making it past the crowds and into the residential area she takes one good long look at all of the tents, lets out a small growl and pinches a tick off of her stomach, tosses it aside, and then strolls into one of the suitably warm looking ones. Thankfully it didn't have anything inside which meant she could start setting up her bed roll and do some prayers - everyone had skipped them during the march specifically because of the residential situation – but first, she had a really slimy, sticky dagger to deliver to someone.

‘Haah … that’ll be their problem, not mine.’

Grinna lifts up the wrapped chunk of meat and gives it a sniff. She hazards a small bite and spits it out quickly, realizing just what kind of gross ass meat they’d stuffed this thing inside of. No self respecting woman would wolf something like this down. With an angry grumbles sounding from the pits of her chest, still too high-pitched to be considered intimidating, she skulks out of the tent to find the killer to be and give them a somewhat insulting gift of veal and steel.