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Frode sat to the right of the Dreng as was the Martyr way. Most members of his race were left-handed, so it was customary for the Chieftain’s Advisor to sit on the right to protect the Chieftain’s weak side. This tradition was as old as anyone could remember, but it got a breath of life during the Exodus. The Oana who destroyed their homeland ambushed them at night quite often. The practice of protecting the Chieftain's weak side soon became a necessity once again, instead of an outdated formality.

Frode idly wondered if anyone would have any announcements during the feast before he made one of his own. The Oana were getting frightfully close to their new village as of late. The clan's priorities would have to change because of it. The villagers would not be happy, but they would do what was necessary. His race was wise, intelligent, and most important of all… fearsome. He would make sure that the days of repopulation and farming did not make them forget that. It was high time they fortified their defenses and started to send war parties deeper into the Great Savanna.

Dreng prodded Frode with a quick elbow and pointed at the Man-cub with a hunk of meat. The boy sat next to Dreng’s cub and pawed at the air. Frode was aware of the stink bug problem around this time of day and often attempted to push the daily feast back a few hours to avoid the problem. Each time he talked Dreng into agreeing, however, a villager or two would go missing, apparently driven mad by hunger. Scouts would find them later in a nearby Ingo nest, passed out and surrounded by bones. His race was undoubtedly wise and intelligent, but if they got too hungry, they were mostly just fearsome.

Frode lovingly scoffed at his less refined brethren as he eyed the Man-cub. His movements almost seemed to have a pattern about them. Suddenly, a fear surged through Frode’s body. His fur stood up and chills coursed through his body until his shoulders shuddered. He struggled to recall the teachings of his father. Among the shaman classes he learned as a child, Frode’s father also spoke about the future. At the time, Frode dismissed the rantings as a side effect of his father having too much intelligence in a Martyr body. After all, the Clan revered his father for attaining levels of intelligence that none of his race ever could. Often, no one could understand the concepts of which he spoke.

The memories came back in a sputtering stream as Frode called upon the innermost workings of his brain. His father spoke of a young Man-cub that could talk when no others could, and that could customize his stat points when he leveled when all others had to wait until maturity. He spoke about a Man-cub that could command fire. Frode’s fear leveled out when he remembered the last part. The Man-cub was interesting indeed, but it was highly unlikely he could command fire. His rare shamanistic abilities allowed him some control over nature, but he was nowhere near able to command it.

Frode stood up and calmly walked over to the Man-cub. Standing above him, Frode could see his hands moving in the same pattern every adult was familiar with. Children and cubs of every race got statistic points based on their actions, but none of them could manually place them. No one, no matter their race, gained access to the interface until they reached adulthood.

Yet, here this Man-cub was, obviously navigating around his interface. It was time for Frode to investigate.

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About the author

BigMartyrs

Bio: Writer of disparate LitRPG stories.

Current works = Legends of the Great Savanna (published) , Milton (Ongoing)

Stay in touch at JLLincoln.com

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