The western cliffs were known among the tribe as a place where the jungle's fury met the unforgiving sky. Wind howled like ancient spirits and jagged stones jutted from the earth like the broken ribs of some colossal beast long dead. For generations, the people of Kan Ogou had skirted its edges, wary of what might dwell where even the bravest hunters hesitated.
That evening, as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, a group of scouts moved cautiously toward the cliffs. Their mission was simple: ensure no threats encroached on the village from the untamed west. But the forest had other plans.
The first sign was a thunderous crash — a sound like earth breaking apart. Trees snapped and fell with violent force, leaves and dust billowing in its wake. The scouts froze, hearts pounding, eyes scanning the shadows.
Ahead, tangled between boulders and fallen timber, lay the creature.
It was unlike anything they had seen before.
Its sinuous body curved with the grace of a serpent, but from its shoulders sprouted massive curling horns, thick and rough like the bark of an ancient oak. Its skin was living stone — mottled grey and green, flecked with moss and delicate vines that seemed to pulse faintly with life. From wounds along its flank, a silver ichor bled slowly, dripping onto the rocks below.
The beast's eyes were deep pools of sorrow and fierce intelligence. It lifted its massive head and spoke — not in words, but in riddles and echoes that shook the air.
"Stone and root, blood and bone… the sleeper stirs beneath the throne…"
A scout stumbled backward, clutching his chest, eyes wide with terror.
"We… we must tell Zaruko," he gasped.
Back in the village, the wounded man collapsed near the fire, gasping out stories of an ancient god whose mount this beast once was — a guardian cursed to roam the wilds after its master's demise.
Zaruko listened carefully, torn between seeing the beast as a threat to be slain and a relic to be protected. The weight of leadership pressed upon him. To kill might bring safety, but risk divine wrath; to spare might invite destruction, yet hold secrets that could save them.
As night deepened, strange whispers floated through the village. Children dreamed of the beast's voice, soft and haunting, speaking of roots that dug deeper than stone, and a god forgotten but still awake beneath the earth's heart.
Zaruko knew their world was far more fragile and dangerous than he had realized.
They were not merely surviving in the jungle — they were living on buried bones.
The night air was thick with moisture, heavy as the jungle itself. The firelight flickered in the village square, where Zaruko had summoned the council—elders, warriors, and key villagers alike. The tale of the beast that bled stone had spread quickly, igniting fear and curiosity in equal measure.
Zaruko stood before them, his tall figure outlined by the flames. His eyes reflected the fire's glow, but beneath them was the weight of a leader tasked with guiding a people through uncertainty.
"The scouts have returned," he began, voice steady and commanding. "They found a creature unlike any we have known—one part serpent, part ram, its body alive with stone and vine, bleeding a silver ichor. This beast speaks in riddles, and it carries the burden of an ancient god's past."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some faces pale, others hardened with resolve.
"We must decide," Zaruko continued, "whether to strike the beast down or protect it."
Jinba, the elder warrior who had spoken in favor of unity weeks before, stepped forward. His weathered hands clenched into fists. "To kill such a creature may bring wrath we do not understand. This beast is tied to forces older than our tribe."
"Yet," Kanu's voice cut through the crowd, "we cannot ignore the danger it poses. If it is wounded and angry, it could destroy us all."
The debate was fierce, voices rising and falling like the jungle's own restless breath.
Zaruko raised a hand. Silence fell.
"We will send a small party to the cliffs at dawn—to observe, to learn. We will not act rashly."
That night, beneath a canopy woven of stars and thick leaves, the village's children stirred in their sleep. One by one, they whispered strange words, voices soft as the wind.
"Roots run deep… the sleeper watches… the throne is not empty…"
Dreams wove themselves around the children, shapes shifting between vine and stone, whispering secrets of a god who once ruled, now silent but not gone.
When Zaruko awoke to the first light, he found a small carving of stone and vine placed at the hearth—a gift from the children, or perhaps the beast itself.
The jungle held its secrets tightly, but Zaruko vowed to uncover them.
As dawn's first light filtered through the dense jungle canopy, a small expedition prepared quietly near the village edge. Zaruko selected a handful of trusted scouts and warriors — including Kanu, Jinba, and two others skilled in tracking and survival. Their orders were clear: observe the beast, understand its nature, and return with knowledge — not weapons.
The jungle around the western cliffs was alive with sound and motion. Birds with iridescent feathers called out warnings, and unseen insects thrummed an endless symphony. The ground beneath their feet was soft and damp, covered in moss and fallen leaves.
Hours passed as they wound through tangled roots and towering trees, the air thick with the scent of earth and decay. Then, as they crested a rocky rise, the great beast appeared — larger than memory or legend could have prepared them for.
Its massive, serpentine body coiled gently near a pool of clear water, horns like twisted branches sweeping back over its head. Vines and moss clung to its stony hide, pulsing faintly as if the creature breathed life into the forest itself.
Kanu held up a hand to signal silence.
Suddenly, the beast's silver eyes opened. It fixed them with an ancient gaze that seemed to pierce not only flesh but spirit. A low rumble emerged — not quite words, but a voice nonetheless.
"Stone and root, blood and bone…
The sleeper beneath claims its throne…
Heed the call, O chosen flame,
Awake the fire, renew the name…"
The scouts exchanged uneasy glances.
Jinba whispered, "It speaks… in riddles and prophecy."
Zaruko stepped forward cautiously, raising his open palms as a sign of peace.
"We come not to harm, but to learn."
The beast's gaze softened, a slow, rumbling breath shaking the ground beneath them.
"We are bound by blood, by past and pain.
The gods' war left scars and chains.
The mountain sleeps, the jungle keeps,
Secrets buried in shadowed deeps."
The words settled in Zaruko's mind, a puzzle piece clicking into place.
That night, back at the village, Zaruko sat beneath the stars, the weight of the beast's message heavy on his heart. The children's dreams echoed the riddles, the whispers of a god forgotten but still alive beneath their feet.
He touched his chest, where the red sigil of Ogou burned faintly beneath his skin.
"They are watching. Waiting. And so must we."
The following days in Kan Ogou were marked by a blend of anxious anticipation and purposeful preparation. The village, once focused solely on survival and growth, now found itself on the cusp of a deeper mystery—a truth buried beneath the dense jungle floor and entwined with ancient power.
Zaruko called a council, gathering not only the tribe's leaders but also the shamans and elders who had long guarded the tribe's wisdom. He knew this would require more than muscle and spears; it needed understanding of the unseen forces shaping their world.
"Ogou's fire burns within us, but there are shadows beyond that flame," Zaruko began, voice resolute. "The beast's riddles speak of a god sleeping beneath the jungle—one no longer worshiped but still alive. We must seek this god if we are to survive what lies ahead."
The elders murmured, recalling half-forgotten legends of old gods who had fallen in ancient wars, their power buried beneath earth and root. Some feared disturbing such forces could bring calamity, while others saw it as an opportunity to reclaim lost strength.
Jinba, ever pragmatic, spoke up. "We cannot ignore the signs. If this god awakens, it will change everything. We must learn what it desires—and whether it is friend or foe."
Preparations began. Warriors honed their skills, scouts trained to move silently and watch the jungle's shifting patterns, and shamans brewed protective potions and charms. The tribe crafted offerings — intricate carvings of stone and vine, symbols inspired by the beast's form, to honor the sleeping god and seek its favor.
Zaruko himself ventured deeper into meditation and ritual, drawing on his knowledge of Ogou's traditions and the sacred ceremonies from his ancestral past. He performed the ritual offering with precision — a mixture of fire, sacred herbs, and whispered prayers — ensuring each step honored the customs he had learned from distant memories and ancient wisdom.
As the sun dipped low, Zaruko stood alone at the forest's edge, the red sigil glowing faintly beneath his skin. He sent a silent plea to Ogou, to the beast, to the god beneath the earth.
"Guide us. Protect us. Show me the path."
That night, the jungle breathed differently.
From the depths beneath the roots, a low tremor rippled through the soil, felt by every living thing. Leaves shivered, and distant howls echoed like warnings.
In the village, the children dreamed again — clearer, more urgent.
"The roots stir.
The blood awakens.
The bones remember.
The fire must burn brighter still."
Zaruko awoke with a start, the message settling in his mind like a living flame.
He knew their journey had only just begun.