For as long as the sun has chased the triple moons across the sky, so have the fires burned each summer. It begins with the Storm King’s spear, flung to earth to mark us as his chosen people. From that gift the Fire Lord breeds his evil. Each spark begets two more, until the sky is red as dawning. The long thin grasses of our Homelands turn to ash before the breath of the flame. The short sweet grasses sizzle their deathcry and the thorny scrub-brush pops like beetles. This is the evil the Fire Lord looses on the Q’enago.
It is not for nothing that we are the chosen people of the Storm King. As the first spark flares to life, we are running, running. Thus the Homelands are awakened, by our vigilance and speed. Each Clansman stands beside his home, ready to fight the Fire Lord’s spawn.
For behind the wall of flickering heat stalk the chosen people of the Fire Lord. They are the K’taga, the panther-folk. Black as shadows, they revel in the heat no living thing can stand. Those who have fought them, claim that they are Kin to Fire and not to the Earth who bore us all. Perhaps they are right.
Yet it did not matter whether they were Kin, or not, their attacks had always failed. Would always fail.
Such was the hubris of the Q’enago…