The undergrowth in the Shinomen Mori was dense out of all proportion to other forests. The deep shadows and protective canopy that covered hundreds of square miles allowed the brush to grow into a sea of tangled green and browns. It was impossible to make one’s way through such a web quietly, with the sound of leaves rustling and twigs snapping immediately warning anyone in the area that someone was moving. Thus when Tch’wik’s keen senses detected the crackling sound of movement through the brush, He leaped into action, grabbing his battered weapon and leaping into the crook of a tree that overlooked the region. He clung tightly to the tree, his fur helping him blend in flawlessly in the darkened forest conditions.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop now! These are Nezumi lands!”

There was silence from the underbrush for a moment, then a cautious answer. “Who stands guard?”

“I am Tch’wik, warrior of the Tattered Ear!” he answered proudly. “I guard the Warrens with my life, and not even Tomorrow shall pass! Who are you?”

A small form rose slowly, forcing its way through the dense vegetation. “Nimm’k, scout of Grasping Paw tribe,” the Nezumi answered. “I return from the Crab lands.”

Tch’wik relaxed, lowering his weapon. “Welcome home,” he said, his relief apparent. “Nimm’k has been gone for many yesterdays.”

“I have,” the scout answered, “but my return is not a happy one. I must speak with the Chief of Chiefs immediately.”

Tch’wik’s happiness faded when he saw the gravity in the traveler’s eyes. He quickly nodded and scampered ahead on the path, ushering Nimm’k to the chief as quickly as he could.

Kan’ok’ticheck was perhaps the greatest warrior of all the Nezumi tribes, perhaps the greatest warrior the Nezumi had ever known. As Chief of Chiefs of the One Tribe, Kan’ok’ticheck had more power than any Nezumi since the fall of their great Empire, but he wielded that power with wisdom. The Nezumi that followed him did so because they chose to, because he was worthy. Tch’wik was not of the Green-Green-White tribe like Kan’ok’ticheck, but he was proud to call the warrior his chieftain nonetheless.

“What news from the Crab?” the chieftain asked bluntly, turning his full attention to the scout the moment he entered.

“Dark humans from the south have made repeated trips to the Crab warren named Koten,” Tch’wik said. “The Crab are distrustful, but have allowed them access to the one called Kisada. I could not get close enough to hear them, but the Third Whisker have abandoned the area for their tunnels farther north.”

Kan’ok’ticheck turned to the shaman at his side. “The Third Whisker are prophets,” he said shrewdly. “What have your people foreseen, K’mee?”

The little shaman’s nose twitched anxiously. “Disaster,” K’mee answered. “I said nothing because the vision is unclear. We fear Kisada, for he bears the mark of Tomorrow. He does not belong in this world. He will bring nothing but pain.”

The chieftain bared his teeth and hissed. He snatched up his great stone axe and buried it in the ground before him, his tail flicking back and forth angrily. “Fools!” he hissed. “The Crab above all others should know the dangers of the Shadowlands! Why would they even listen to the dark ones?”

“Humans are strange creatures,” K’mee observed. “Their ways are not easily understood.”

“I have no need for understanding,” Kan’ok’ticheck snarled. “The Crab know the price of corruption. If they fall, then this land will fall as well. Our refuge will be gone, and darkness will cover the lands. I will not permit it.”

“The Crab are our friends,” K’mee said. “They stood by us when we were weak.”

“This is true,” Kan’ok’ticheck replied, “but we are weak no longer. Our people allowed arrogance to destroy us once. We will not let the Crab follow the same path.”

Nachin’check, the chief’s brother, coughed and scratched at the ground with one paw. “The humans are proud,” he said carefully. “What if we warn them, and they do not listen?”

Kan’ok’ticheck’s red eyes gleamed. “Then we need their friendship no longer.”