ONE HUNDRED MOONS HAVE PASSED... The great cities flickered and went dark. The survivors, known as the Plarra, called themselves the People of the High Grass and the Shelf. Raised by his grandparents on the merciless boundary, Shealikquae, orphaned by the Long Darkening, was shaped for blood, vigilance, and the defense of the ridge. He was raised to read the high passes with a hunter'smerciless clarity and keep the ancient memory of who men had been before the hum died. He has known only the bitterness of his threshold. ON A NIGHT OF SHALE TREMBLING... When the shale trembled and the dead horizon breathed an unnatural fire, the duties of the tribe were swept aside. Calling the young warrior by name, the sovereign voice of the Great Spirit Bypass his ear and laid claim to his marrow, commanding him a away from the safety of the heights, down into the suffocating belly of the Molloscan pit. NOW, UNMEDIATED DUTY CALLS... Deep below, creatures still crawled through the rusted concrete skeletons-hollow scavengers clinging to the rotting shells of an extinct age. One hundred turns of the white mother had turned the Great Bleed into the Great Silence. Forged between the anvil and the hearth, Shealikquae was built to protect. When the stone trap of ten times ten thousand becomes his battlefield, his spear must be mercillesly clear. "Go and pay the mountain's debt, Shealikquae. Go and bear the Agony, that the morning may have its Majesty." -ISSUK
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