By Eitros Tixe, Friend of the Tari, Former Templar of Abalach-Re

The days of scrutiny had left me on edge, but when the visits finally ceased, a strange calm settled over the caves. It wasn’t exactly peace; no one explicitly told me whether I was now accepted or merely tolerated, but the absence of constant judgment was enough to ease the weight on my shoulders.

Rabekela, as always, had her own way of addressing the matter.

“They have seen you,” she said one evening as we sat near the faint light cast by the mirrors. “Some see a healer. Others see a burden. But most see a… strange thing.” She smirked slightly, showing her sharp teeth. “A tail-less wanderer who found his way to us.”

The tari had many names for me, most of them unflattering but strangely endearing. “Tail-less” was the most common, a practical descriptor that carried no real malice. Some others called me “Flat-Ears,” a jab at the smooth contours of my head compared to their own whiskered features.

The younglings were the worst. Kino, emboldened by his role as my teacher and friend, delighted in calling me “Fat-Fingers,” a reference to my hands, which they found hilariously awkward when compared to their quick, clawed digits.

Despite the teasing, I sensed a shift in their demeanor. The tari, for all their playfulness, were pragmatic. They had seen me work, seen me heal, and seen me endure their tests without lashing out. I was still an outsider, but I was no longer a stranger.

A year passed, and the hills that once seemed desolate and alien became my home. The pack that had saved me had become my family, their daily struggles and triumphs my own. I had adapted to their ways, learned their language, and found a fragile place among them.

But my world soon grew larger.

Rabekela had spoken of other packs in the hills and mountains, larger and more established groups with their own histories and traditions. At first, my interactions with them were rare, dictated by necessity rather than choice.

The Grim Invitation

The first invitation came not for celebration, but for tragedy. A message arrived late one evening: a tari in another pack had suffered a terrible injury to their arm. Rabekela and I traveled together, descending into a somber cave where the injured tari lay surrounded by their family.

The arm was mangled beyond saving, infected and swollen. I knew what had to be done, but my heart sank at the thought. Amputation was a crude and dangerous procedure, especially in the limited conditions we had.

With the pack watching, I did what I could, using my herbal knowledge to dull the pain and prevent further infection. Rakra, the horrible liquor, also found its use that day. The operation was quick but harrowing, the tari’s squeaks of agony echoing through the chamber. Despite my efforts, it was too little, too late. The tari passed away days later, his body weakened from blood loss and fever.

I stayed with the family, mourning with them as they buried their kin. For the first time since Raam’s fall, I wept openly, sharing in their grief. The pack’s elders, grim and silent, placed a clawed hand on my shoulder as if to acknowledge my effort. “You tried,” one said quietly. “That is more than most humans ever will do for us.”

After that, the invitations came more frequently. Some were driven by necessity, an illness here, an injury there, but others were born of curiosity and growing trust. Each pack had its own identity, its own rhythm of life carved from the harshness of Athas. Though they all shared the mountains, their ways were as varied as the sands of the desert.

The Pack of the Wild Erdlu

One pack, larger and more organized than Rabekela’s, had managed a remarkable feat: they had captured and domesticated a flock of wild erdlu. The tall, birdlike creatures were notoriously difficult to tame, but these tari had created a system of pens and enclosures to house them.

I watched in amazement as they herded the creatures, using whistles and sharp hand gestures to guide them. The erdlu provided the pack with meat, eggs, and even rudimentary transportation, making them a cornerstone of the tari’s growing self-sufficiency.

The pack’s leader, a gruff tari with a feathered cloak, was surprisingly open toward me. “Tail-less,” he said with a grin, “you should stay. Maybe we’ll teach you how to ride one of these beasts.”

The Weaponsmiths

Another pack prided themselves on their craftsmanship. Their caves were filled with the clanging of bone and obsidian, where tari smiths labored to produce weapons for the mountain community.

The weapons, however, were crude, functional but very far from elegant. Blades were chipped, spears were poorly balanced, and the armor they crafted barely held together.

Despite this, their efforts were admirable. They were learning, improving with each attempt, and their dedication was unwavering. I offered what little advice I could, drawing from the scraps of knowledge I had gleaned during my time as a templar.