Across the expanse of Medialia, the wooly ones roamed the forests in abundance. Monkeys, birds and flamboyant squirrels populated the trees, and the land teemed with rooting tapirs, okapi, crocodiles and grand giraphant. Even wild rumidonts and hippus still moved about in herds. Though domesticated long ago, these animals had feral cousins living off their somewhat limited wits. Rumidonts grew to only about waist high to a Rufoux, with three-toed hooves and a thick coat of wool almost as heavy as their odor. Once shorn, the coat was soft to be woven into warm clothes and blankets, and strong for ropes and nets. They also produced milk, making them the prized possession of the herding peoples, kept practically as pets, some would say, and others would say as gods. Their heads appeared to be too big for their bodies, with broad noses and foreheads, and they produced a high, frenzied cry when alarmed.

The hippus had been trained to be beasts of burden, for riding and pulling, and the average hippus could easily accommodate three men on its back. Brawny beasts, they were also fleet of hoof, and the potent combination made cause for great celebration any time a man could catch one in the wild. Their galloping speed served the hippus well when packs of thylak, hunting animals that scoured the forest shadows, might bear down upon them. Though smaller than even the rumidont, the thylak’s heavy shoulders and hindquarters could simply outmuscle larger prey; the brutal animals bore a set of oversized fangs that extended menacingly beyond their lower jaws, and had claws to match. Dogged in their pursuit, a single thylak could easily bring down a squealing rumidont or screaming man who had not kept a sharp eye out. Indeed, the wooded cover that offered protection to the rumidont and hippus also served to trap them, hiding the creeping menace that meant only to destroy. Only the giant therium could safely stroll the lands, their great bulk and six horns sufficient to give even the most arrogant thylak second thoughts about making an attack. Twice the height of a man at their shoulder and as wide as a small house, the therium spent their days lazily browsing leaves from the trees that no other ground animal could reach, often rousing into flight birds and lemurs, and other small tree-dwellers. As well, the therium’s heavy coat of wiry fur and their thick, leathery skin added yet more protection. In the evenings they made an eerily mournful wail, deep and throaty, always long and flowing, slowly diminishing into nothing more than an echo. The therium strode with complete confidence through the forest, avoiding only the steaming pits that divided the fertile central land from the great mountain range to the west.

Artur owed his fate to one of these great brutes. One day as a young man he came upon the body of a dead therium. Soon a pack of thylak, he knew, or even a deviltooth might find the corpse and begin work upon the remains; with his short sword he quickly removed the horns. Taking a leather thong and a drill made of bronze, on the spot he fashioned a necklace for himself. By the time he re-entered the Rufoux encampment, with the six horns dangling from his neck, his story had gelled: He had brought down the therium himself, with only his own brains and brawn at his disposal. “I spotted the great animal in the forest and scaled a nearby tree, hand-over-hand, running up like a frightened Melic. I tied a noose and slung it about the therium’s neck, then jumped down the opposite side of a high limb. Hanging desperately onto the rope, I threw all my weight into controlling its huge, thrashing head, as he whipped me about like a clump of grass. I fought back by weaving the rope over a multitude of tree limbs and trunks, and that gave me greater power over him. But just then the therium shook off its surprise and began to overcome me. He looked dead at me and snapped his tusks. Just then,” Artur paused and gazed about wide-eyed, “Mog himself appeared and leant his strength to my rope. The unfortunate beast, this only one ever known to be killed by a man and a god together, strangled as I and Mog strained against the rope, even hoisting the mighty animal’s forequarters clear off the ground!” Or, at least that is how Artur told it. The Rufoux men met that night, and before long Artur had become chief of the clan.

Less common were the scaled ones, but they made a fearsome sight when encountered. Like the draugon, which dwelt in the waters, the scaled ones usually came into sight only in the corner of one’s eye, leaving a man uncertain whether he had seen something or perhaps only imagined a nightmare. The scaled ones mostly stayed by the warmth of the steaming pits, so wise men, like the therium, avoided that territory. But brave men and foolhardy youths would sometimes venture into the area, where they could still see small groups of depila bird, flightless beings that moved as one like a flock. Much more rare glances would reveal the deviltooth, a fearsome beast that could snap a man in half with its powerful jaws. Taller even than a therium, with long, razor-sharp teeth, these creatures feasted mostly at the expense of the depila bird, but when pickings grew thin, they had been known to hunt the forests. The light of the sun would glint off the deviltooth’s metallic-looking scales, ascribing to the beast the presumption of royalty amongst a lesser people. Though the deviltooth certainly had no more brains than a walnut, it bore a continual frown that gave it the look of decided antipathy. Its stupid, mechanical bent toward killing made it all the more terrifying.

Though not particularly mountainous in the central areas, the ground of Medialia erupted into formidable spires of black marble and granite, streaked with tall scars of blue green and purple crystal. Great, steep columns burst forth from the land’s thick carpet, often crowned by weird formations that seemed to have no support as they balanced perilously hundreds of kronyn overhead. Their rugged and scarred sides gave witness to the painful birth that brought them forth eons ago, ribbed with great crevasses and giving resting place to small pockets of scree up and down their heights. These grand sculptures, known to the people as standancrags, scattered across the land, brought forth by some awesome force of creation, as if a divine forefinger and thumb had grasped the firmament and pulled the spires into view like gushing water. Though most measured no more than a hundred kronyn across, some stretched for a groonit (a measurement something like our kilometer) or more in breadth. Some of them towered over the forest trees, and others not, so a traveler walking through the dense foliage could easily be unexpectedly blocked by a standancrag’s sudden appearance, requiring a lengthy detour from a straight route. In the meadowlands, however, they stood unveiled in all their naked glory, mighty monuments to the underworld, the foundation of Earth herself when she unloosed the buttons of her green mantle. The proud sculptures stood in majestic silhouette against the sky, daring any observer to see past, or perhaps to scale their heights, or even to simply guess their magnitude. They stood as watchmen in the morning, reminders to all that lives begin and lives end, peoples and races and cultures come and go, but the Earth remains.

Two seasons divided the Medialian year: humid and more humid. Indeed, some days the air hung so heavy with moisture a man could have difficulty seeing through it, yet never a fog, never a mist. The sultry warmth wrapped its blanket around the flora, a loving sauna for its lushness. The dampness trapped heat from both the Earth and sun and maintained a constant temperature; tiny droplets that clung to nothing more than air acted like a perpetual shower, cooling the flesh of the land’s inhabitants. A brisk journey through a shaded glen could leave one soaking wet. A quiet breeze picked up as the sun set each evening, but the weather never grew any more violent. The coastlines never brought in a storm from over the sea’s waters, and malevolent clouds were strangers to the skies overhead. Indeed, the deep blue sky, pinkish greenish on the horizon and tinged with violet at its apex, never gave way to clouds at all. The native ecology was similar to a rain forest, and then again not, and water dripped continually from the leaves of the trees.

Paths worn by long generations of feet and hooves criss-crossed the land. None of the little roads went anywhere directly, but wandered about, giving birth to narrow offshoots that in turn would lead nowhere. No paving lined the ways except that of well-worn grass. Still, the walking was smooth and pleasant, and disagreeable rocks seldom emerged from out of the ground. Within tribal boundaries, occasional low stone walls lining the paths grew into sturdy bridges, built well before even the deepest memory, that crossed the rivulets branching off the Alluvia and Gravidas. Arbors grew overhead, carefully planted intermittently to offer shade to those taking long journeys overland. The trails often cut through gardens of exotic succulents and flowers, tended with loving care. Huge leaves and bobbing blooms lapped over the edges of the paths, brushing and patting at the legs of passersby in a friendly manner. After some time of study, one could identify what man had planted each field by the designs that shaped the gardens. No single idea of beauty, order nor asymmetry, dominated, for every man did what his own mind deemed right. So one garden might be planted in circles and coils, while the next might feature straight rows suddenly running at an angle into more straight rows.

This day one such path led to Artur, alone again in the forested land. The trees waved to him like so many friends, and as he walked along he reached out to his right and left to grasp their welcoming leaves. The saw tooth edges played a harmless game of gotcha as he ran them across the tough skin of his hands. With his thumb and middle finger he flicked moisture off dripping leaves in a miniscule shower, then rubbed the wetness off on his pants leg. He did not tread lightly nor take any care watching his steps: His leather boots gave him ample protection from whatever slippery hazards or grasping roots or branches the undergrowth might hide. Indeed, his eyes cast their gaze upward much more frequently than toward his feet. The deep blue of the evening sky, dappled by the glinting foliage, made him to hear the peace of sleep calling, even to him. The birds above gave him little notice but sang a glad tune, which he deemed a rightful fanfare for himself anyway. This day his depression weighed not so heavy.

But nothing he could do would erase that one moment long ago.

“Oh, is this where you hide?” said a voice from out of the bracken, punctuated by crunching footsteps. It was Wyllem. “It is true,” he said. “They have been seen.”