Headed by a Snake

The black ivory mask kept tight on Growling Bear's face as he leapt off his charging mount-- and out of his sister's magical concealment.

"Brotherhood..."

The armored human didn't see him-- didn't hear him approach, but their warrior's instincts did not fail them.

The man lifted his tall shield and braced for impact. Growling Bear's twin hatchets sparked against the metal-reinforced wood.

"⌈Sand Swallows All,⌋" He whispered, activating his movement technique. He was one with the earth, diving into the sand as if it were water... and he emerged halfway-- in the warrior's blind spot.

He hacked into the human's ankle and with a bloody pull took him off his feet. The metal-shelled man was unable to keep his balance, crashing heavily into the dirt.

Growling Bear rolled forward, straddling the warrior's broad chest and, with the momentum, chopping both of his hatchets through the man's collarbones.

The Ebon Masks' form of the Blade Dance was far different than the generationally changing sword styles of the Highblades. It was... rough, unrefined-- a deadly art developed from the need for the tribes to kill invaders.

If the legends were to be believed... it was an art made to 'dance' with dragons.

That the dragons no longer existed spoke of its efficiency.

As Growling Bear stood up, a second patroller-- a woman, began to shout. The language she spoke, he had never bothered to learn.

However... he understood.

'Help me' she shouted with her voice, ignoring the others in her group.

'Please have mercy' her eyes pleaded.

She turned to run... her desperation apparent... 'I will die here. I will die, if I cannot escape.'

The Ebon Masks... they studied fear, since ancient times.

No matter the spoken tongue, all sentient beings knew fear.

Growling Bear began towards her... but he could not move his back foot.

Turning his head... the armored man from earlier had grabbed hold of his ankle.

That man no longer breathed, his eyes rolled back, his neck muddled red... but he performed his duty until the end.

Growling Bear hurled his hatchet, his right arm following through and reaching for the stars... "Loyalty."

The weapon stuck into the woman's side and she dropped to the ground, rolling gracelessly over the rocky terrain.

She pounded a fist to the ground as she began to shout with a shrill, hoarse voice.

Would it rouse more of their sleeping allies?

They, too, would die.

Growling Bear chopped off his captor's hand at the wrist and sprinted over to the fallen human's form.

He pulled back her hair and granted her the mercy of slitting her throat.

...She was almost pitiable... gurgling for air as welling blood blocked her airways.

The human put her hands to her neck... but it would not stop her life essence spilling through her fingers.

Growling Bear stood tall, turning to the next of his soon-to-be many victims.

The third patroller was a man like the first, tall shield in one arm, brandishing a spear in his other. The dyed horse hair on his crested helmet marked him as one of their Chiefs.

He was yelling.

What did it mean? The human wore too many emotions... arrogance, anger, indignation, horror, shame...

Fear.

No matter the cultural norms of the foreigners across the sea... no matter their gods and strange magics... what their tribe had done was unforgivable.

The blood debt would be repaid... and their Chiefs bled darker with guilt than that of their children.

Growling Bear swung his axe, cutting into the wood of the man's shield. Trapped.

The human's face was pale and sickly. His eyes were clouded... his movements slow.

He did not belong on the battlefield.

He would die, just as his kin. They would pay for their transgressions with their lives.

Growling Bear felt the human shift his weight through the stuck hatchet.

The man's spear came.

One quick thrust-- then another. Growling Bear dodged both, first with his reflexes, and then by instinct.

This one had training.

This one was fast.

How much faster would he be if they fought at full strength?

Growling Bear parried a third strike, but the fourth stabbed into his belly-- piercing clean through his tanned hide armor.

Pain resonated through Growling Bear's body as he staggered backward, blood spilling hot from the wound.

It was unpleasant... but the First Warrior of the Ebon Masks would not fall so easily.

The man was shouting-- screaming profanities in his language. His bloodshot eyes were near-bulging out of the crested metal cage he wore on his head.

...Chieftain Meets-the-Enemy would know what the human was saying.

But their Ebon Mask tribe did not come to talk.

Growling Bear grabbed the top of the warrior's shield and pulled it down, "Justice."

"GrrRRARRGHH!!" With surprising strength, the man drove the length of his spear through Growling Bear's stomach.

It hurt.

Yet, it was not enough to fell an Ebon Mask.

It was not enough to prevent the foreigner's death.

The human's eyes widened... his relief quickly transformed into horror upon realizing his fate... "(N... no...)"

Growling Bear found wry amusement in finally hearing a word he could understand.

"(Yes,)" He grinned.

He spiked the back of his hatchet into the side of the man's neck... then with his offhand, sliced the axe blade deep into his throat.

He pushed the dead man away from him...

Wet copper pooled in Growling Bear's mouth. Internal bleeding... it was expected.

...He swallowed it. He would not give the enemy the satisfaction of seeing him injured.

Using his hatchet, he chopped off the blade end of the spear... and he pulled the rough wood out, "RRrrRaaghhh..."

The magical healing provided by his bone mask would ensure his survival.

It would be worse after the mission. His sister would demand the wound be reopened for the wood debris to be removed...

"Iron GIANNNNT!!!!"

A scream in Elven bid him snap his neck towards the north.

The voice... it belonged to Chases-Butterfly-- the thirtieth Masked One, barely more than a sapling.

The Ebon Masks studied fear, yet did not fall prey to it.

...Yet Growling Bear hoped that Chases-Butterfly had also studied caution and vigilance.

When the Whisperwinds met with the Chieftain Meets-the-Enemy, they spoke of the foreigners' Iron Giants, their voices hushed in trepidation.

Growling Bear peered into the distance... his eyes adjusting to the starlight.

The Iron Giant stood as tall as the oldest cacti... the height of nearly five of his brothers and sisters.

It was... armed in the same manner as the foreign soldiers.

Carrying a thick, metal shield, it guarded its body from arrows. Wielding a long, metal spear, it stabbed at Growling Bear's kin. Had they not been circling on the Chieftain's ⌈Phantom Steeds,⌋ they may not have lasted so long...

His heart began to pound painfully in his chest, seeing the small and lithe Chases-Butterfly amongst them...

Had Growling Bear not known better, he would have thought the monstrous set of metal armor had an equally large man or woman inside.

The construct was the work of the Moonwell Tribe... crafted, sold, and armed by the foreign adventuring company.

And inside of it... was a regular human.

Once the metal shell was cracked open... that human would bleed. That human would die.

The foreigners thought they were safe, protected by what they pretentiously referred to as 'Divine Armors'. They dared to act without restraint... They dared to disregard the tribes that have called the sands home for centuries.

They dared... to kill their people... to steal them away as slaves.

Humans did not care for the plight of other humans.

Elves, however... Elven tribes were family.

When the Moonwells sought to craft their Iron Giants, the other tribes became brothers... lending their best shamans to collaborate with them.

When the Spider Crab Princess was born underneath an auspicious star, the other tribes became proud fathers, lavishing her with gifts and the loan of loyal, metal-ranked warriors.

If a single elf was taken away from her tribe... for her body to be used by evil men... or to be traded as if she were meat or grain... the other tribes would become scorned mothers.

The seven hells have no such fury.

The Moonwell Tribe lived just past the mountains... but the Ebon Mask Tribe ruled the dunes, the plains, and the dry grasslands.

The honor of being the first to act... fell to his tribe.

The honor of being the first to draw blood... it fell to him.

The honor of destroying the humans' final vestiges of hope... he would do so.

...with the assistance of his own Iron Giant.

Growling Bear snatched the carved bear totem off of his belt and held it tightly.

His spirit soared... his heart filled with courage... and it burned with the desire for vengeance.

A dark red light began to shine... covering his body. He began to feel heavier... power churning and roiling in his chest and belly... and mana-created armor slowly began to form over his skin.

"⌈Iron Giant Summon: Many-Big-Guns.⌋"