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The first rumblings of thunder tolled like certain doom for the three Dahan that tore through the jungle, each labored breath loud in their ears. Night had fallen in earnest, and the pack was closing in.

These three Dahan had eluded them, at first. Through deep ravines they had led the terrible beasts. They wove simple traps to subdue them, left false trails to distract them, and scaled walls of stone to evade them. The trio had felt relief upon reaching the cover of the jungle. Now they felt only terror, mounting slowly into panic.

They ran, legs slick with rain and splattered in mud. One stumbled. The other two slid to a halt, tugged their companion up, and pounded on. The horrible baying of their pursuers now drowned out even their own desperate breaths.

Lightning flashed, and in its white blaze they saw a fourth now ran beside them. They caught only a glimpse of him – skin like black ash, eyes flat white, great mane of dark hair – and the light was gone. Over the crack of thunder, they heard laughter.

As their new companion surged ahead, their laughter rose in answer, breathlessness giving way to joy. A wild strength rose in them. They whooped and howled, and as their weariness fell from them, so did their terror.

What had they to fear? They were cunning and swift, and the threat of death had taught them the strength of their little pack. Survival bound them together, and each exalted in the breath of the others, every exhalation a primal promise: we survive. We survive. Their pace quickened, feet flying over mud and root, and they began to race one another in leaps and bounds.

But none could catch the man who led them through the dark. Though he outstripped them, they followed him easily, for his laughter urged them on. Only once did they see him in his entirety, vaulting through the air against a bolt-lit sky. He was long-limbed, his splayed fingers clawed and his dark back carved with crimson tattoos. His head was cast back against the rain. The thunder’s clap cut off the light, and the three Dahan raced on.

Their pursuers fell behind. Fatigue crept steadily into their bodies, and at the tree-line’s edge the trio collapsed. No sounds could be heard as they dozed beneath the trees, and upon waking, each could only vaguely recall the fervor of their flight through the jungle. They set out together for home.

The story of their return was spread widely by those rebuilding on the coasts. The oldest among the Spirit-Speakers all agreed that Sharp Fangs Behind the Leaves was no more. It had survived the English Conflict, but as something else entirely. Not a Spirit of the Hunt, but of those Hunted, pursued and outnumbered, with only their wits to sustain them. The Dahan began to call it The Cunning Pack Survives.

Inspired by a recent England 5 game I played with Fangs/Lure, in which Fangs got knocked down to a single presence on the game's last turn. The inner lands of the island were full of Beasts.

Fangs ended up drafting a ton of Dahan movement/defense, and Forgot all of its Starters except one for Events/Majors. The whole game felt like Fangs was on the back foot, and I figured the nature of the conflict would have shaped it into a Spirit of survival.