By Eitros Tixe, Former Templar of Abalach-Re

There are moments among the tari that remind me of just how ingenious and resourceful they are, even when the odds are overwhelmingly against them. One such event stands out in my memory: the annual gathering of the packs during the black mastyrials’ mating season in the eastern hills of Okarath.

Mastyrials are creatures that most would avoid at all costs; giant black scorpion-like things with claws strong enough to dig into solid rock and venom potent enough to kill a crodlu. Yet the tari, in their unyielding defiance of Athas’ dangers, have learned to coexist with these beasts, and have turned them into a cornerstone of their survival.

Among the packs of Okarath, one has chosen a life more secluded than the others. They dwell closest to the mastyrials’ rocky nesting grounds, a perilous existence that has made them both vital and enigmatic to the rest of tari society.

Their relationship with the mastyrials is as much an art as it is a necessity. They cull the population with precision, ensuring that the dangerous creatures remain neither too numerous nor too scarce.

The black mastyrials’ mating season was unlike anything I had ever experienced: a combination of ritual, survival, and sheer audacity. It is also a rare occasion when all the tari packs of Okarath come together. Even the eccentric, nomadic pack of Soso Y’Likolo, known for their unpredictable ways, makes the pilgrimage to the eastern hills.

As Rabekela’s pack joined the other tari on the trek to the eastern hills of Okarath, I could feel the energy building. This hunt was a way of life passed down through generations, one that demanded respect and precision.

The Preparations

The days leading up to the hunt were filled with a nervous, focused energy. Tools were sharpened, nets were mended, and every tari, from the youngest to the eldest, seemed to have a role. Rabekela herself oversaw the preparations, her sharp eyes missing nothing as she inspected each weapon and piece of armor.

“Tail-less,” she called to me, “You’ll stay back during the hunt, but you’ll learn to prepare the mastyrials we bring back. If you’re going to live among us, you’ll need to know this.”

I nodded, eager to contribute in any way I could. Kino, as usual, was my guide. His youthful enthusiasm was infectious as he led me to a shaded area where the tools of the trade were laid out: curved knives, bone scrapers, and small, sturdy containers for venom collection.

“This,” Kino said, holding up a knife with a serrated edge, “is for the carapace. You cut along the joints first, it’s easier to separate the plates that way. And this,” he added, picking up a long, thin blade, “is for the meat. You’ve got to be careful, though. If you puncture the venom glands by mistake…” He trailed off, making a dramatic choking sound that sent the younger tari into fits of laughter.

The Lessons Begin

The first mastyrial brought back was massive, its carapace gleaming like polished obsidian in the dim light of the cave. The tari who had subdued it were scratched and bruised, but triumphant. They set it down with care, its legs still twitching slightly, and motioned for me to approach.

Rabekela handed me the serrated knife. “Watch first,” she instructed. “Then try.”

One of the older tari began the process, working with a practiced efficiency that I could only admire. He started at the joints, cutting through the tough material with steady pressure. The sound of the blade scraping against the carapace was sharp and grating, but he didn’t falter.

“Like this,” he said, gesturing for me to take the knife.

My first attempt was clumsy. The blade slipped more than once, and I nearly nicked one of the venom glands, a mistake that would have ruined the meat. But with Kino’s guidance and the patient corrections of the older tari, I began to find a rhythm.

The process of preparing a mastyrial was as meticulous as it was dangerous. The carapace was carefully removed and set aside, its glossy plates destined to be shaped into lightweight armor. The mandibles, hardened by years of scraping against stone, were extracted with great effort and precision.

“The mandibles,” Rabekela explained, “are our best tools. Strong enough to carve stone, sharp enough to cut through bone. Treat them with care.”

The venom glands were the trickiest part. Using a specialized tool, a thin tube made of bone, we extracted the venom drop by drop, storing it in small, sealed containers. The tari would later refine it into medicine or poison, depending on their needs.

Finally, the eggs were removed. They were pale and translucent, with a delicate shell that required a steady hand to handle. Rabekela took one and placed it in my palm, the egg was still warm, and its shell hadn’t hardened yet.

“Try one,” she said, her tone almost playful.

I hesitated, but the expectant looks from the tari left me little choice. I bit into the egg, expecting something foul, but was instead met with a rich, savory flavor that was unlike anything I’d ever tasted.

“Better than our rakra?” Rabekela said with a smirk. I nodded, unable to disagree through the mouthful of delicious egg.

A Dangerous Dance

Though I stayed behind during the hunt itself, I could hear the sounds of the tari’s efforts echoing through the hills: the sharp clicks of mastyrial claws, the high-pitched calls of the tari coordinating their movements, and the occasional crash of falling rocks.

When the hunters returned, some bore injuries, deep gashes, swollen stings, or burns from the smoke used to cull overpopulated nests. I worked tirelessly to tend to them, using the knowledge I had gained over the years to clean wounds and ease their pain.

Kino, who had been part of a distraction team, limped into the cave with a proud grin. “Did you see that one, Tail-less?” he asked, gesturing toward a particularly large mastyrial. “Almost got me, but I’m too quick for it!”

Rabekela shook her head but said nothing, her expression a mixture of pride and exasperation.

After a week of relentless effort, the hills were quiet again. The black mastyrial population had been culled down to a manageable level, their eggs harvested, and now the tari packs were flush with the spoils of the hunt. Carapaces were stacked high, venom carefully stored, and the eggs - some destined for feasts, others for future tasks - were meticulously sorted.

But the work was far from over. As the packs rested and celebrated their efforts, the nomadic band of Soso Y’Likolo prepared for their unique and dangerous role: the relocation of some of the mastyrial eggs.

Soso’s Eccentric Demand

Soso Y’Likolo was as unpredictable as the desert wind - a shaman devoted to the elemental Air whose eccentricities both baffled and amused the other tari. His pack, nomadic by nature, was tasked with relocating the mastyrial eggs to areas deemed inhospitable or strategically useful. By introducing the creatures to these regions, the tari could deter uninvited guests or create natural defenses against potential enemies.

When the time came for Soso’s pack to carry out their duty, however, a minor incident unfolded.

“Tail-less must come with us,” Soso declared, his voice high and dramatic as he gestured toward me. His pack chittered in agreement.

The other tari were immediately on edge; Rabekela, stepped forward. “Soso,” she said sharply, “this is no time for games. Eitros is an outsider, and this task is dangerous. Why involve him?”

Soso tilted his head with exaggerated amusement. “Danger? He has lived among you for a year. Is he not one of you now? Besides,” he added with a sly grin, “I like the way he listens. The winds approve of him.”

The tari elders murmured among themselves, clearly displeased. I, for my part, stayed silent. I had learned by now that when Soso was involved, it was best to let the tari handle things.

After much back-and-forth discussion, during which Soso alternated between playful defiance and cryptic declarations, it was finally decided that I would accompany his pack. “But only,” Rabekela warned, fixing Soso with a sharp glare, “if he returns unharmed.”

A Journey with Soso Y’Likolo

Traveling with Soso’s pack was a different experience from anything I had so far known with the tari. Where Rabekela’s pack was steady and practical, Soso’s was chaotic and unpredictable. They moved quickly and erratically, their every action guided by Soso’s whims and the “whispers of the wind.”

Soso himself was a whirlwind of energy, constantly chattering, gesturing, and offering cryptic advice. “Walk lighter, Tail-less,” he told me at one point. “The ground does not like heavy thoughts.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I obliged, if only to keep the peace.

The task was as dangerous as Rabekela had warned. The mastyrial eggs were carried in carefully woven baskets, each one lined with soft materials to prevent damage. Soso’s pack handled them with reverence, as if they were sacred objects.

Our destination was a rocky outcrop on the edge of Okarath, a place that Soso claimed was “forgotten by the winds but not by the earth.” The tari planned to deposit the eggs in crevices and shallow burrows, ensuring that the mastyrials would hatch and establish themselves as a natural barrier to potential threats.

The process was painstaking. While some tari carefully placed the eggs, others kept watch for signs of predators or hostile mastyrials. I was tasked with carrying baskets and assisting where needed, though Soso seemed more interested in talking to me than in overseeing the work.

“Tell me, Tail-less,” he said, his tone oddly serious. “What do you think of us? The tari.”

I hesitated, unsure how to answer. “You are resourceful,” I said finally. “Resilient. You’ve made a life for yourselves in this world of misery.”

Soso nodded, his expression unreadable. “And what of yourself? Have you made a life, or are you still searching for one?”

I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could, one of the tari called out sharply. A mastyrial had emerged from a nearby crevice, its black carapace glinting in the sunlight.

The tari moved quickly, surrounding the creature and using their tools to distract and subdue it. Soso, for all his eccentricity, was surprisingly composed, directing his pack with precise gestures.

“Stay back, Tail-less,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

I watched as the tari worked to drive the mastyrial back into its burrow. It was a tense few minutes, but the predator finally retreated, leaving the eggs, and us, unharmed.

As the pack regrouped, Soso turned to me with a grin. “See? The winds favor you today.”

Returning to Okarath

The journey back to the camp began as uneventfully as it could after relocating the eggs. There was a quiet chatter among the tari, the steady crunch of their footsteps on the rocky ground, and Soso’s occasional muttering to himself. I had started to relax, thinking the day’s strange events were behind us, when Soso’s sudden scream pierced the air.

“Disrespect!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the cliffs.

I froze, unsure of what was happening. The tari around me immediately snapped to attention, their ears twitching nervously. Soso’s tail lashed the ground as he jabbed a clawed finger toward a rock high above us; a jagged outcrop perched precariously on the mountainside, at least a hundred steps up from where we stood.

“Have you forgotten?” he demanded, his gaze sweeping over his pack. His voice was sharp, almost accusing. “The winds watch us, and we dare to leave without giving thanks? Disrespect!”

The tari began moving in a frenzy, scrambling up the rocky incline without question. I was less sure what was going on, but I followed nonetheless, nodding along as the others did. Soso’s words rarely made immediate sense to me, but ignoring him seemed unwise.

The climb was treacherous. The loose rocks shifted beneath my boots, and more than once, I nearly lost my footing. If it hadn’t been for three or four tari helping me along by gripping my arms, pushing me from behind, and squeaking encouragement, I would’ve surely tumbled back down the slope.

When we finally reached the outcrop, I collapsed onto the narrow ledge, gasping for breath. The tari, by contrast, immediately set to work. They began gathering what few dead leaves they could find, their tiny claws picking through the sparse vegetation with surprising care.

Soso stood at the center of the ledge, his expression one of grim determination as he waited for the leaves to be brought to him. When the tari had gathered a small pile, they added a layer of sand on top of the flat surface of the rock, smoothing it out carefully with their claws.

I watched in silence, unsure of what to do. The atmosphere had shifted: there was no chatter now, only the quiet rustling of leaves and the occasional scrape of sand against stone. Even Soso’s usual theatrics were subdued, replaced by a solemnity I hadn’t seen in him before.

Soso knelt with deliberate movements by the sand-covered rock. With one claw, he began tracing patterns in the sand; complex swirling designs that seemed to mimic the flow of air itself. The other tari knelt beside him, their heads bowed, their tails curled neatly around their bodies.

“The winds are restless,” Soso intoned, his voice low and reverent. “They watch, they listen, they judge.”

The tari repeated his words in their chittering, high-pitched language, their voices blending into an eerie, melodic chant.

Soso continued, his claws moving with practiced precision as he added more patterns to the sand. “We come as travelers, as wanderers, as those who seek shelter beneath your endless embrace. We are small, but we are steadfast. We are frail, but we are faithful.”

The tari’s chanting grew louder, their voices rising and falling like the gusts of wind that swirled around us. I could feel the air growing cooler, sharper, as if the wind itself had been summoned to witness the ritual.

Once the patterns were complete, the tari began placing their offerings onto the rock. The leaves were arranged carefully within the swirling designs, their brittle edges trembling in the breeze. A small pouch of mastyrial venom was added, its contents glistening like liquid obsidian.

Soso turned to me, his eyes bright with an intensity that made me uneasy. “Tail-less,” he said, gesturing for me to come closer.

I hesitated but obeyed, stepping forward cautiously.

“Give,” he said simply, holding out his claw.

I reached into my pouch, searching for something, anything, that might serve as an offering. My fingers closed around a small, polished stone I had picked up during our travels, a piece of volcanic glass that had caught my eye for its unusual sheen. I handed it to Soso, who examined it briefly before placing it on the rock with a nod of approval.

Soso raised his arms, his voice lifting into the wind. “Great winds of the sky, we thank you for your guidance and your strength. May you carry our burdens, our voices, and our prayers. May you protect us, as we protect your sacred lands.”

The tari encircled the rock, their chants reaching a crescendo. The patterns in the sand seemed to shimmer in the fading light, the offerings glinting like jewels against the rough stone.

I felt a strange sense of awe with the simple and raw ritual. It carried a weight of solemnity that was impossible to ignore. When the chanting finally subsided, the tari lowered their heads in silence. One by one, they placed a paw on the edge of the rock, their gestures slow and deliberate.

Soso was the last to do so, his claw resting on the stone for a moment longer than the others. Then, with a sharp motion, he rose to his feet.

“It is done.” he said simply.

The tari began to move again, gathering their baskets and tools, their solemn expressions giving way to quiet chatter. I stayed behind for a moment, looking at the rock and the intricate patterns that now adorned its surface.

As I turned for one last glance at the rock, my breath caught in my throat. It was now levitating! It was hovering just above the surface of the mountain ledge, its intricate patterns of sand and offerings glowing faintly in the dim light.

For a moment, I thought my eyes were deceiving me, a trick of the fading sun or my own exhaustion. But no, it was real. The rock, a solid two meters in diameter and heavy enough to crush a wagon, floated silently in the air.

“By the Dragon,” I babbled, spinning back toward the tari. “Look! It’s… it’s floating! The rock is floating!”

Soso glanced at me with his usual bemused expression. “We know,” he said simply, his tone light but with a hint of reproach. “We don’t need to see it to believe it.”

The other tari didn’t even turn around, continuing to pack their baskets and tools as though nothing had happened. Their faith in the ritual, and in the winds, was so complete that they didn’t require confirmation. It left me standing there, awestruck and humbled.

The significance of what I had witnessed began to sink in. What to me was a miracle, to them was simply the natural order, a quiet reminder of their place in the world.

I fell back into step with the tari, the faint sound of their chittering conversation grounding me as we descended the rocky slope. But just as we began the final stretch of the climb, a deep, echoing crash split the air.

The sound was unmistakable: the rock had fallen. My body tensed, every instinct screaming for me to turn and look, but I resisted.

The tari didn’t stop walking. They didn’t flinch or even acknowledge the sound. And so, I kept moving too, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other.

“Well done, Tail-less,” Soso said, clapping me on the back with a force that nearly sent me stumbling. His grin was wide and knowing. “Now you’re learning.”

As we reached the trail that would lead us back to the camp, I allowed myself a small smile. I wasn’t entirely sure what I had learned, but his words filled me with a strange sense of accomplishment.