Grandfather Eiwa
In the small, squat tent where Eiwa spends his evenings, the old man stoops beside his fire ring. His expressive face, wrinkled from many years of good humor, is now a portrait of sadness.
"Come, sit," he says. He pokes the embers with a stick.
"I had hoped you would never need to hear the story I am about to tell you. Or at least I would not be the one to have to tell it." He offers a rueful smile.
"How to make a long story short? I will try to put it simply. In the ethgir—the before times, when my ancestors were young—we Broken Tusks were called the Burning Mammoths. Our migratory route was large then, as was our herd. We carried with us a powerful light: the primordial Flame." He spreads the fire’s coals into a wide, flat layer. In the center of the coals, a perfectly round pebble glows, red hot.
"Then, the Great Quake shattered the eastern lands." He tips a large, jagged rock from the fire ring into the coals.
"Far as we were, our people still felt the thundering hooves of the demon horde." Earwigs and pill bugs scatter out of the hole left by the upturned stone.
"Our Mammoth Lords argued over what to do with the light," Eiwa continues.
"In the end, some of us took the Primordial Flame. We hid it where it would be safe."
With his stick, he separates a few coals from the rest, then moves the red-hot pebble next to the small group.
"The others called us traitors and went east to face the demons, taking the banner of the Burning Mammoths with them. Weak but determined to carry on, we took a new name: the Broken Tusk."
"That was long ago, and much has happened since," he says, dropping his stick into the fire.
"But now, the Burning Mammoths have returned? And in time for the Night of the Green Moon. I cannot say what this means—my ancestors’ spirits are silent. But my bones tell me this will not be a happy reunion."
