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Description
(Cavegirls Series, No. 2)

The night was alive with sound. The shreiks of the Fillars below gave every indication that they were being slaughtered en masse. But she knew that instead the high-pitched sounds were only the territorial cries of a colony of the beach-dwellers choosing thier mates for the upcoming nesting season.

Instead her attention was drawn to the calm lowing moan of the great armoured Hracou deep in the forest. The call was deceptive in it's calm. The old bull had finally met his destiny in the clearing. Early this evening, the fast and wily Scabbat packmates had surrounded the lone giant amid the thick trees where he could not turn. The huge armour plates on his back, the spikes down his flanks, huis massive crushing tailclub... the weapons which could keep a Rankorh or even a bull Shirat at bay had failed against the gutting claws of the Scabbats. Now they would just sit back quietly and bide their time, waiting for shock and blood loss to bring the Hracou down. The whines of the one injured Scabbat had dwindled and ceased a long time ago, rending the Hracou bull his last battle honours.

That fire in the valley, now. That was the thing that had brought her to this high place. None of her people had hunters or a raiding party out tonight. After last month's raid, the Thangors would not be in shape to retaliate for some time. And the Slexehs...? They always built a huge campfire at sundown and it dwindled, unattended, though the rest of the night as their torpor overcame them in the early morning chill. So whose fire was that?

The sound rang through the night. A loud crack, like the shattering of some thick tree branch. The sound rang out so loud that, for just a moment, the Fillars stopped the screaming cries of mating passions followed by the splashing sounds of the youngers ones hitting the water. The Hracou did not interupt his dirge, but the Scabbats gave voice to the murmer of sounds.

There. The roar of a Rankorh, mad with anger and pain. A younger one, with the higher tone of a female. Just left the pride with not quite enough sense to avoid people in groups. Another "CRACK!" and another. Then two overlapping each other.

Her heart began to pound deep in her chest. Mother had told her of these sounds. The firespears! The gentle, strong face of the female who raised her, reflected in the firelight, talked of her father's people, and her memory of the race of wizards who had spawned her. Once they had come to The Land. A great white bird had died and left them here. Few lived from the bird's death agonies, but those who did were wizards... But their magic was not enough to save them from the Slexehs nor the Thangors. And when mother and her tribe found her, she was all that was left of the race of Wizards.

All like her. Pale skin, slender skulls, like children, her mother said. Not the heavy brows, thick chests or wide noses of adulthood.

Another crack and the Rankorh was screaming now. The wizards did not understand. To drive the beast away, one used fire, noise, or you spread out to confuse it so it became frustrated and left to find an easier meal. Only when it pressed the charge, did you use any force. For once a Rankorh of any size was made to feel such agony, it would almost always press home it's attack on it's tormentor, snapping and kicking until the source of the pain was beyond death.

Her heart beating faster, she leapt from the high branches and ran as fast as she could toward the sounds of battle...

__________________________________________

Pen, pencil crayon and chalk pastel.

From a stock by ~mizzd-stock

(Regrettably the image is no longer in her gallery)

Description
(Cavegirls Series, No. 2)

The night was alive with sound. The shreiks of the Fillars below gave every indication that they were being slaughtered en masse. But she knew that instead the high-pitched sounds were only the territorial cries of a colony of the beach-dwellers choosing thier mates for the upcoming nesting season.

Instead her attention was drawn to the calm lowing moan of the great armoured Hracou deep in the forest. The call was deceptive in it's calm. The old bull had finally met his destiny in the clearing. Early this evening, the fast and wily Scabbat packmates had surrounded the lone giant amid the thick trees where he could not turn. The huge armour plates on his back, the spikes down his flanks, huis massive crushing tailclub... the weapons which could keep a Rankorh or even a bull Shirat at bay had failed against the gutting claws of the Scabbats. Now they would just sit back quietly and bide their time, waiting for shock and blood loss to bring the Hracou down. The whines of the one injured Scabbat had dwindled and ceased a long time ago, rending the Hracou bull his last battle honours.

That fire in the valley, now. That was the thing that had brought her to this high place. None of her people had hunters or a raiding party out tonight. After last month's raid, the Thangors would not be in shape to retaliate for some time. And the Slexehs...? They always built a huge campfire at sundown and it dwindled, unattended, though the rest of the night as their torpor overcame them in the early morning chill. So whose fire was that?

The sound rang through the night. A loud crack, like the shattering of some thick tree branch. The sound rang out so loud that, for just a moment, the Fillars stopped the screaming cries of mating passions followed by the splashing sounds of the youngers ones hitting the water. The Hracou did not interupt his dirge, but the Scabbats gave voice to the murmer of sounds.

There. The roar of a Rankorh, mad with anger and pain. A younger one, with the higher tone of a female. Just left the pride with not quite enough sense to avoid people in groups. Another "CRACK!" and another. Then two overlapping each other.

Her heart began to pound deep in her chest. Mother had told her of these sounds. The firespears! The gentle, strong face of the female who raised her, reflected in the firelight, talked of her father's people, and her memory of the race of wizards who had spawned her. Once they had come to The Land. A great white bird had died and left them here. Few lived from the bird's death agonies, but those who did were wizards... But their magic was not enough to save them from the Slexehs nor the Thangors. And when mother and her tribe found her, she was all that was left of the race of Wizards.

All like her. Pale skin, slender skulls, like children, her mother said. Not the heavy brows, thick chests or wide noses of adulthood.

Another crack and the Rankorh was screaming now. The wizards did not understand. To drive the beast away, one used fire, noise, or you spread out to confuse it so it became frustrated and left to find an easier meal. Only when it pressed the charge, did you use any force. For once a Rankorh of any size was made to feel such agony, it would almost always press home it's attack on it's tormentor, snapping and kicking until the source of the pain was beyond death.

Her heart beating faster, she leapt from the high branches and ran as fast as she could toward the sounds of battle...

__________________________________________

Pen, pencil crayon and chalk pastel.

From a stock by ~mizzd-stock

(Regrettably the image is no longer in her gallery)