Sah'teldar 
by Dan Comstock

	Sah'telzuul was planting Ubao seeds all day. The red sun beat down on his fur for hours. He 
needed the crops to be planted before sunset.
	Extend one claw. Poke the dirt. Drop a seed. Cover the hole.
The work wasn't hard, but it took a long time. He would get bored digging with one claw, and 
switch to another. The sack of seeds around his shoulder was getting lighter. The fur on his back faded to 
a dull red as the sun set.
	Extend one claw. Poke the dirt. Drop a seed. Cover the hole.
	Finally, he was done. Sah'telzuul looked proudly at his field. Next growing season he'd have a 
fine harvest. He wiped his claws on a rag, and headed for his house.
Sah'telzuul heard footsteps on the path, and glanced over his shoulder. Another weren, tall and 
broad, marched towards Sah'telzuul. The visitor wore military paint, a thin line of gold painted the tip of 
his tusks. A flintlock hung from the visitor's belt. The visitor called the traditional greeting, his name.
	"Kraeghrack!"
	"Sah'telzuul!" returned the farmer, who straightened up at the mention of `-hrack', a military 
leader's name. Apparently, this man was an experienced warrior.
	"I bring you news!" the visitor called as he approached, "We are at war. The Gol have invaded 
our homeland. Thirteen nobles have already been killed," Kraeghrack said. If nobles were killed, the 
country's honor was already sullied. There was only one possible response.
	"When do we retaliate?"
	"Tomorrow. Muster at the great hall. You will be issued a gun if you don't have one, and you 
wish to use one. The battle will take place one day west of here."
	"How many other villages are you mustering from?"
	"Three. Diamos, Yuthen, and Ethta are all sending their warriors."
	"I will be honored to fight for Trarsen. If I die soon, I am warmed to know that I will die in 
battle."
	"You're a good man. I will see you tomorrow."

	Of course, Sah'telzuul's mate Sahabirzuul took the news well. She reminded him that his name 
was to be changed for this occasion. Sah'telzuul allowed her to do this.
	"Sah'telzuul, male farmer, you are now Sah'teldar, male warrior." The tradition was old, but it 
was still common. The `-dar' name brought honor to the whole family. Of course, the `-zuul' would be 
picked up again when Sah'teldar returned to the farm. Sah'teldar's child, Sahuknhe'tag was ecstatic, and 
responded to the renaming just as Sah'teldar expected he would.
	"Father, may I fight too? I've been practicing with my claws!" Of course he had been practicing 
with his claws-- a weren could use his claws almost before he could walk. At that age, the claws were still 
small and dull, but with time, they became as deadly as a blade.
	"No, son, you're not yet of age. For the next fifteen seasons, you will remain a `-nhe'tag'."
Quietly, "I understand." It would be very disrespectful to disagree with him, not just because he 
was Sahuknhe'tag's father, but because he was a warrior now.
	Sah'teldar regretted leaving Sahabirzuul behind. Someone needed to make sure that his child 
became an adult, but if Sah'teldar had no child, he would have fought side by side with his mate.
	Sahabirzuul started to go outside to kill the night's dinner, but instead she sent out Sah'teldar. "It 
is proper for our warrior to make the first cut tonight." He strode out to the pen with honor, selected a 
plump looking bird, and severed it's head with one slice. As he brought it inside to be prepared, the 
thought occurred to him that he might not come home after the battle. In that case, it would be his last 
meal at home.

	The next morning, at sunrise, Sah'teldar parted with his family, and strode out to the great hall. 
The luck beads that his mate had woven into his main bounced against each other. His breakfast, a large 
rodent he had killed that morning, still sat, unprepared, in a pouch at his side. As soon as he had a 
chance, he would cook and eat it.
	The great hall was crowded. Twelve warriors and two nobles (who weren't required to fight, buy 
had chosen to) stood in the wooded building. All welcomed him as he entered. It was an old charm to give 
the general a gift before a long march, so Sah'teldar sought Kraeghrack, and presented a bowl his son had 
made. Kraeghrack bowed to the soldier.
	A bit later, Kraeghrack stood on the platform, and called the room to attention.
	"Friends! As you know, we are marching west, to defend Trarsen from Gol. Not all of you will 
return, as we are greatly outnumbered. But this means that if we win, those of you that return will be 
named as nobles. Those of you that want guns may take one from the box on the table. Powder and balls 
can be found near it. Our mission is simple: to fight in the battle for the borderlands. If we succeed, and 
the Gol do not reattempt to take our land, then we shall return home victorious. Once you are ready, 
assemble outside. We will march as soon as everyone is there."
	Sah'teldar felt a familiar tingle in his chest.	The anticipation of victory made him involuntarily 
flex his claws. He would fight with a patriotic pride either to victory, or to death.