Every scar on Ember's body and each bauble he wore told his tale. This was how the tribe recorded itself - not in a written language or oral tradition but in rich tapestries of treasures and wounds. The young scout wore his past upon his body from his earliest days, it never leaving him, always defining him, ever growing with his ongoing story.

For all of his bangles and wounds, Ember's most cherished treasure was that of the land. From peaks and plateus he surveyed what was to be explored; and in the forests and sandtraps and gulleys, he forged on and added to his tribe's claim.

No other volition or wiles of mateship could ever drag Ember away from scouting. His pride and joy, his critical duty to his clan. To be taken away from scouting and confined would crush his spirit and sap his will; but Ember doesn't even consider the possibility.

All of this is mine, thought Ember as he notched a paw against his brow as if saluting that which he surveyed. In the morning came his most important task yet: To scout the warlike tribe of hooved leaf-eaters. Beastly and unclean things, happy to cleave a meat-eater's skull on sight. A mission of mortal danger by any stretch, but one suited only to the finest scout the tribe had on task.

Danger was for the morning, however. Now Ember squinted against the sunset and a smile crept across his young muzzle. Ember would have rather died than be anything but a scout.

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Commission for  november
Credit text by  ceeb