The wind carried Elder Feather and her companions through the evening sky, where streaks of amber and crimson painted the horizon. Below them, the islands of their homeland stretched out scattered across a darkening sea, above them, stars danced in the skies. The air was touched with the last hues of gold light as the sun left the sky above.

  Beside her flew Elder Drifting Cloud, his weathered face grim in deep thought. Tempest Warrior Windsweeper maintained a distance, his eyes watchful for any danger that may spring upon them.

  As they passed by nearby hills and a mountain their destination came to view. Atop the edge of a mountain a circle of weathered stone chairs were arranged, Around it were massive tables that seemed to have been formed from nature itself to entertain guests of this beautiful garden.

  Ancient statues stood sentinel around the perimeter, their forms seeming to embody the very forces of nature.

  On the stone chairs and next to the statues, other figures waited. Elder Feathers group landed drawing glances and nods from those around them. Figures in dark red robes clustered near one of the statues.

  “Elder Feather of the Sky Children Tribe greets Elder Blaze of the Fire Heart Tribe.” Elder Feather greeted with a slight bow.

  “Greetings, Elder Feather. You look as beautiful as when I last saw you—I bet your mastery over Aeroquill is still stronger than my command of Emberquill,” said the elderly man in a warm and friendly voice. He stood next to the figure clustered statue, wearing the same dark red robes as his companions, yet over his robes he wore bronze armor.

  The armor appeared aged and weathered, its metal bearing the greenish patina from years enduring the seasons and their passing winds. Scratches and dents covered its surface, showing that not all the winds of its history had been calm—some seasons had been filled with the flames of war. One particular scratch traced from the breastplate up to a matching scar near the elderly man’s neck, telling a story of it’s own violet past.

  “And I see you’re still wearing that old armor. Why don’t you get a new one by now, you old flame?” Elder Feather remarked.

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  “Haha, I’m more like an old ember now than a flame,” Blaze replied with a hearty laugh. “As for this armor—hey, it’s older than me, belonged to my father, you know. The bronze was tempered specifically by our flames. Much sturdier than normal bronze. This thing is as tough and stubborn as I am... Now it’s as tough and stubborn as old Rockspitter over there.”

  “Eh?” A burly woman who looked to be in her late forties turned her head from her nearby seat of stone. She wore stone-gray robes reinforced with thin stone plates that seemed infused with the very fabric. With a scowl, she yelled out. “Hey! Blaze! You talking shit about me again?”

  “Yup,” Blaze grinned.

  “Yes, he is,” Elder Feather added, both nearly speaking in unison.

  “You must like getting your ass kicked,” Rockspitter scowled, rising from her seat and marching over.

  “Pardon? Excuse me but you only kicked my ass the first three fights we had. At that time when we were still very very young, not even in our twenties if I recall. I’ve won every fight after. Also you should watch your language, woman—you’re around the same age as me. We’re both in our mid-hundreds, so act like it, you old stone.”

  “Calm, calm, you two. No need for violence,” interrupted a handsome man who appeared to be in his thirties. His bronzed, muscular torso was bare, displaying a well-toned physique that looked like a carved statue. Loose, sea-blue trousers clung to his frame, wrapped at the waist and ankles with braided cords made from river reeds.”

  “You shut up! You, handsome faced, no shirt wearing, over a hundred years old, still looking like you’re thirty, well-fit and muscular... just shut your face!” Blaze taunted childishly. “Why does the Knockout tribe never wear shirts anyway? I mean, none of you do at all! Also, what does the word Knockout have to do with water? We’re all named after our Quills somewhat—even old Rock is from the Rockpounding Tribe. But you... Knockout tribe?”

  “I agree, Wethands, why?” Rockspitter chimed in.

  Wethands looked to be in deep thought, then opened his eyes with determination. “I don’t know,” he declared loudly and confidently, “but you all make good points!”

  Elder Blaze twitched visibly. “Hold me old rock, I’m going to turn him into steam!”

  But as the old man glanced at the woman, he already saw a hammer of stone forming from the ground, her hands tightly wrapped around the handle, veins popping from her forehead.

  “Wait! No! Rockspitter you can’t kill him, it will start another tribe war.” Blaze quickly ended up being the one who had to hold Elder Rockspitter.

  “Let me go! I’m turning him into a puddle today!” She screamed.

  “So violent,” Wethands sighed.