Kakili was a priestess, one of the fangless few that led the tribes in matters of spirit. How many moons had it been since she'd been out on the hunt? Too many. At least by her count. Sometimes the gods spirits spoke through warriors who were forced to abandon their spears in the face of their duty to the clan.

That was why she'd volunteered.

To call this a hunt almost felt like an insult, but the songs were clear. As long as there was a chase and blood in the end, then the hunt was sacred. That, and even the oldest songs took time to say that children needed to learn. Perhaps especially now. There were so few left.

The waves had consumed most of the island, leaving the pilgrimage as the only survivors of the clans. The first months had been spent tracking down the living legends that the other hunters knew were alive and out there. That was the thing about knowing something in your heart, the world always threatened to prove you wrong.

One of the Scaleings darted off the path and disappeared into the lush undergrowth. Kakili watched for a moment, cocking her head and tasting the air. Once she was sure that the child hadn't found prey she'd missed, she snapped her jaws in its direction. The violet Scaleling yelped and jolted back onto the protected path, to follow the Othare tracks.

Kalili waited for them to catch up with their peers before resuming her plodding pace.

These ones were still too young to know the noble tongue, and still too young to hunt. For now she would track them and treat them as they were, beasts who needed to rise above the rest to join the vaulted ranks of hunters.

Spoiler: To: The Children of the Sun
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The reply comes over the dreamscape late and rests of the mouths of the dreamers in the taste of burned marrow.

There is no spear pointed in your direction.

The current heads North. Stalwart and fast.

The Priests chant, a call for challenge.

A carcass on the beach. Slain for you, should you ask for it.

The simple images of the dreamers seem wrapped in song, like the Hunters understand that they must communicate, but they do not understand the languages of the other islands yet.




Spoiler: To The Kahealahana Holt:
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The reply comes over the dreamscape late and feels like scales rubbing against raw skin. Less painful than direly aware of your presence.

The insulated shore of an inlet, guarded from the waves.

A nest, guarded by eyes in the darkness.

An outstretched claw, hesitant, but open to possibility.

Its clear that the Hunters struggle with the language of the people, but their music of images is able to carve out a single simple phrase.

Not. Yet.