The fourth raid of the month was the one that changed everything. The other three had been along the outskirts, ripping down the branches from trees and throwing them on the forest floor, digging up gardens and setting loose the animals. They hadn't meant anything, because the Priest tribe rarely did cause damage on their raids. They were more prone to causing a nuisence and troubles passively, it was the Warrior tribe, the one they were attacking now, that did the murder and kidnapping. The raids themselves, between the two tribes, were an ancient ballet that they had perfected over the past two or three hundred years. When one town was under a raid, it had to sit quietly and accept it. To prepare, to defend or strike preemptively was a great taboo. There was a ritual and comfort in the raiding as much as in any morning prayer.

And so when the priests came, their thick wings whistling as they tucked inwards and dove downwards, there was no great onslaught of warriors to prevent them from doing as they pleased.

The sound of metal splintering wood was impossiable to miss. The crackling noise that trees made when the Priests tore off their thicker branches, ripping through them with the blades attached to their wrists. The air was thick with splinters raining to the ground, the priest clan's robes covered with the chips of bark and the lighter inside colour of the trees. There was a clean smell with it all, even as the trees were hacked to peices. It was nothing so symbolic as a slur on the warrior clan's beliefs- to cut the limbs off the trees meant that the other clan would have noplace to alight. The warriors held back in their homes, hissing in their throats, hearing eachothers feathers rustling in rage.

In the darkened corner of one of the high-rise nests the Warriors built, the children clustered. When the doors tore inwards, they pushed further back against the wall and kept out of the way. It was their way to keep back, to be left alone until the fighting was done, so they too could go into battle as the next generation.

The Priest who entered through the broken door held something none of them had seen before in his hands. It was long and thin muzzled, like a dart gun or a hollowed reed, but stiff and solid. It glinted like polished stones. There had never been guns brought into the fights before.

It took a few moments before the room was cleared of all life besides that of the children. They kept their faces to the wall, locking attention onto the woodwork. With enough distraction, maybe they could avoid the smell that their clan-mates' blood gave off. To focus on the splintering wood, to burrow eyes into the pulp was to pretend they were not there. It was how they kept still and quiet until the Priests would be gone, and the survivors would come find them.

Normally.

Children had no place in battle. They were too small to be a help, and if they did not live long enough to be trained properly for combat, they would just waste their lives on a battle too soon. From birth they were told to never fight until they believed they had a chance at winning. It went against the very society of the Animarians to fight against odds. Children were to shut up, stay back, and wait their turn in life.

Children were most certainly not supposed to turn around.

She looked like all the others, short with her arms still fatty with infancy. There was no great intimidation in her eyes. It was hard to believe a face like hers could do anything besides crawl around on branches looking for things to put in her mouth that did not belong there. But she had turned, and those eyes were watching the little trickles that the adults' blood made as they moved for cracks in the floor.

The Priest didn't expect her to understand. In all likelyhood, she didn't at all. But the words she said were deffinite. Rare, almost nonexistant, and regarded with something near worship.

"I want to go with you."

The accent of the Warriors blurred it, but those were words that were written into all the history of their race. The priest shouldered his rifle, the metal biting uncomfortable and alien through the fabric of his robe. One raised by both clans had always been a leader, had always come to them to make their choices in times of turmoil. One raised by both clans would mean the temporary unity of them.

"What is your name?"

"Solla Flint."

"Stay close to me, Lady Solla. We will return shortly."

Ten Years Later...

Solla's wrists were unused to the weight of gauntlets. Yet she had no one but herself to blame, for she was the one who was about to announce her choice to them. She had best be prepared for the aftermath.

Her race had never depended on technology, even if it had come from those who traveled the Skies. Some may believe that those were messangers from the Gods, but Solla was skeptical. Skeptical, and realistic. So it was her choice to ban the use of the guns they had now, and it was her who would have to show that they were no more helpless without them.

The problem therein was that never before in her life had Solla needed to use the gauntlets- a pair of metal bracers with blades mounted on them. They were cumbersome on her arms, heavy and hard to work with. Solla had studied from the books on how to use them, but had not practiced with them in reality until now. A few more weeks of training with them, and she would be willing to announce her decision.

It would have been easier to simply ask one of the Warrior elders to teach her how to use the guantlets, to show her where her errors were and guide her, but it was forbidden. Solla was one raised between the clans, and as thus was to be regarded as a wise woman. It was not only disgraceful but flat out against their beliefs for her to ask aid. All she was to speak of, she was required to know already.

It was a job with few rewards and many hindraces. But it was the only job Solla Flint knew.

Her wings ruffled behind her as she managed to barely keep from clipping her own leg with the blade as she moved about the room through various stances and sequences of attacks. Step, high block, low punch, turn, low block, middle punch, sweep with her foot...all sequences recorded on paper, but they came slowly to her mind. She needed to train her body to know what to do, not just her mind to remember these things. She would have to show the others they could do likewise.

She had no hatred for the Priests...step, back to start, bow, repeat. She had no hatred for the Warriors, and she had no love for either. They had been careful in raising her to be sure of that. There was an unspoken law that when one of those to be raised between clans was found, both clans listened to that one. For all the fighting they did, there was little real desire to kill those of the opposing clan. Especially when one like her had come along.

She defined prosperity and wisdom. She defined love and healing.

Solla found this odd, for she loved none. She was forced to learn from the past, and not from those around her. She had no more money than any peasent. The deep grooves in her sparring claws which had been etched alongside those from her childhood had not yet finished their aches and pains.

Meanwhile, the people from the Skies would continue to try to lead them astray. Solla needed to convince the clans that these were only imposters- those who had flown too high, and knew nothing of the Goddess Micha and her teachings. It was forbidden for them to touch the Sky, and these people had done so out of ignorance. It was folly to listen to their words.

She needed to keep her people involved with their own affairs.

Pivot, two high punches, low kick, move to the painful stance...It hurt. It hurt, but she could feel herself getting stronger with each hour. Someone would challenge her on her choice, so this was good. The gauntlets hurt, but this was good.

Alone in the treetop temples of the Priests, Solla Flint was working in silence. There was nothing else. Micha had placed her here, and here defined who she was. It was her place to make their choices, to prove them. It was her place.

Just as it was theirs to listen.