Southern Bawn -- Savannah
The highlands escarpment to the south draws the horizon up, marking the southern extreme of the bawn. The grassland in the north gives way to stands of small trees, and eventually pockets of forest in the valleys around the rising plateaus. Against the backdrop of one of those plateaus rests a relic from another age--a rock of rose-grey granite. Seemingly out of place, this stone nonetheless dominates the nearby landscape, standing nearly eight meters at its height. With smooth, rounded edges and an oblong shape, it contrasts the rugged, angled nature of the surrounding land, leaving its origin in this place a true mystery. The giant stone guards a U-shaped cul-de-sac in the plateau some three hundred meters wide.
The highlands rise to the south, while the savannah spreads out east and west.
Obvious exits:
Highlands Central Bawn Western Bawn Eastern Bawn

Currently on this calm, parched, and hot fall evening in the Congo basin, it is 83 degrees Fahrenheit (28.3 degrees Celsius). The wind is coming from the south-southeast at 4.4 mph. The ground is flooded and it last rained hours ago. Skies are overcast with no chance of precipitation. The moon is waxing crescent.

Lying at the base of one of the gnarly trees which dot the savannah, the spotted runner snorts off some dust as he grooms his fur. The end of his tail twitches lazily in a slow kink - indications he has nothing more on his mind than making himself look good. It has been quite a few sunrises since he has returned, with his scent wafting occassionally with the breeze over the grasses.

Cool air wafts over the sundown savannah, the sea of grass ruddy from the light. An enormous shape rises up from the grass, bony and ruffled. Treecatcher's Crinos body stilts into view from the west, and though fiercely powerful and splendidly quick, she moves as hobbled as an old human man. In one huge paw she holds a stripped, gnarled stick. It drags along on the ground, impatiently, as she makes her inelegant way toward the cheetah.

Fireborn looks up as the savannah suddenly gets surprising quiet. Only the few boldest birds decide to chirp their songs, and the insect swarms have died to a minimal buzz. One scan of the grasstops offers the cheetah a broad view of Treecatcher, and his ears perk up in her direction. A chirp, louder than any bird, sounds from the spotcat in acknowledgement that she is approaching his little bubble of comfort in a form that doesn't exactly afford him any mental relaxation.

In the cheetah's absence, the appearance of the Simba kit has approved minutely. Gained pounds have reduced the shock of her jutting ribs, and her fur, while matted and unruly, has lost the dirty dead reds and browns that had smudged it. Her grace has not changed. As she lumbers her way over, huge and hideous, she begins to blur, shrinking down through the rascally exotic Sokto to the scrawny, slim Homid. The unkempt native girl, with twists of hair and gleaming black skin, stands there unsteadily as she clutches the big stick. She inhales, staring at the cheetah for a moment. Then she blurts out a strange, strangled sound -- that might be Chokwe for hello.

Fireborn's ears twitch at the sound of the language, for all but a second it seems unfamiliar to feline ears. Then with a more practiced yawn, the cat gets up and shakes out his fur. You improved, I see. A rough pink tongue licks over his nose. Is that a hint of a grin?

The girl cants her head to the side, peering at Fireborn through the corners of her eyes. Then, intently, she moves closer, dragging the stick. She squats down next to the cheetah, holding her breath, looking at him with narrowed, squinty, very intense eyes. Slowly, she starts to sway back, before she finally ends up in a fallen sit. Breathing out, she communicates again to him in her broken, mispronunciated, halting speech. What she speaks does not make sense -- only random words of Chokwe strung together.

Ears fall back for just a moment, maybe even a little disappointment showing before it's covered with a snort as the cheetah resumes leg-grooming. In between licks, he notes with some grunts that at least the words make some sense. But, it needs more practice.

The young native watches him, starting to say something else. But her intense eyes zip to a small bug crawling over one of the cheetah's paws, and she makes a clumsy grab for it. She throws it into the grass, then looks back at him. A broad stupid smile is shown. 'Beetle.'

The sudden movement was one more startling to the cheetah, until the cause of it gets flung into the grasses. The runner finishes grooming himself, and looks up at Tree. So, huntress. What has been happening on the grasslands? The inquiring soft chirp is followed with twin furry ears pointed towards the girl. Not that he expects news to be fluently spoken by the girl's human tongue or anything, but it's a frail hope that she actually knows more than she's expressing.

The kit whooshes up her hands, holding them very close to her face. Her fingers splay, and her elbows twist, and with her hands she conveys something quick and lively jumping across an imaginary plain. 'Wildebeest,' she replies, and her voice is slow and careful. 'Herds move now.'

Fireborn takes that news into note with mild interest. And the pale monkeys?

The girl shakes her head. 'No.' Then, her dark eyes narrow, and she casts a glance over her shoulder. 'Spirit jackal I fight,' she reports, starting to smile.

Now that's something. Fireborn perks up at the mysterious 'spirit jackal'. Spirit jackal? What is that? Feigning ignorance, the Swara weeds out the juicy details. Where did you fight the blackbacks?

Tree shakes her head. She tries again. 'No. Spirit.' She pats her chest. 'I fight spirit. Jackal.. ' She is rapidly becoming impatient at her own lack of communication skills in this shape, and soon begins to blur.

Fireborn sits up upon his haunches now, head canted at a small angle. Spirit... jackal... you fought with a blackback's spirit? How? There's a distinct interest in the cheetah now, a nervous anticipation lining him like his spotted fur. In the spirit world?

No, the lioness answers, switching her tail. No. There were spirits that belonged to a jackal with many legs. The jackal was an ape. But the spirits did not truly belong to her-- she to them, in truth. They had cast spells upon her to make her theirs.

Fireborn tilts an ear with this explanation. Not exactly revealing, the cheetah sniffs the lioness to see if she had any bad meat like before. Nothing there. Who do you mean by 'they'?

Treecatcher smells of hot grass and dry mud, and a grumbly stink when she huffs out. The spirits, she explains. The spirits. Little ones, and a big one. The big one-- it tried to cast a spell on me too.

Fireborn eyes Treecatcher, the stare of the runner looking at the kit. Did you tell the Storm about it? Where were these spirits? Fireborn stands up to his paws, tail twisting and twitching with interest. Maybe you can show me where they are?

Far out. Long run from here. The surly young lioness presses back her ears, starting to look vaguely guilty. I have not told Tempest, no. I thought I could handle them-- with my thunder stick. But it is broken. She turns a meaningful glance to the busted treebranch she has carried with her.

Looking from lioness to stick, then back to the lioness, the cheetah gives Treecatcher a dubious look. Thunder stick? Wiry muscles work under his pelt as he abandons the shade of the tree to examine the busted treebranch. Claws scratch at the break before Fireborn gazes back to Tree. This, a thunderstick? The sun must be shining on your wet ears a little too much this season.

The way the Daylight-child eyes Fireborn would suggest he is, in fact, a great big spotted idiot. Her vague guilt gives away to annoyance: of course she shouldn't have told. They don't understand her ideas! Yes, it is a thunderstick, she responds. The thunder inside has not awakened. But it will, and when it heals, I will bring so much death to the laughing hyenas.

And the way the cheetah's brow furrows together at the lioness gives the impression that he'll humour her enough to see if that will really happen. Mention of hyenas brings his nose to reflexively sniff for the laughers on the wind. Their stink could float and settle so easily. Then with a final paw to the supposed thunderstick, the cheetah snorts. Where is the many-legged spirit jackal?

West of here, the kit responds, but she moves. No territory.

Fireborn flicks his tail idly, though the tip tingles with some anticipatory thought. Towards the sunset then. There were many you say? The runner is starting to move off in that direction, with cat's curiosity fueling the main feeling of a quest.

Treecatcher senses this, starting to grow excited herself. Fireflower will help her! Two small, she reports, gawkily moving after him. One large. The large one-- the large one charms you but it is evil. It has chosen the shape of a zebra but with no stripes.

Fireborn pauses in his steps, almost considering bringing along that supposed thunderstick of Tree's. At least it could act as some bludgeoning device. Golden eyes flicker from branch to lioness. Are you bringing that stick? Not that the cheetah has any mind to help her carry it. Runners pack light. He gives her a moment to decide, before almost dancing on his pawtips to get going and see these spirits. Evil or not, will be determined when they're spotted.

No, it will rest here, the kit responds, not entirely too willing to walk about in the upright shapes that she would be required to assume to carry it.

Fireborn gives his tail a short flick to swat away the incessant flies before moving off a little to the side in the grasses. A lioness and a cheetah travelling together would seem odd to anyone knowing of big feline behaviors, particularly of these two species. He doesn't seem inclined to let the lioness lead the way though as he keeps a decent walking pace winding through shady spots and high lookout spots. While they travel, he continues his questions. Why were you fighting with the spirit jackals?

They were not jackals! Treecatcher lumbers along, ears back. They were only spirits. They were like antelope, but none that I have seen. The larger was a zebra without stripes-- or remorse! It was very cunning! I fought to /save/ the jackal, but I fear she is still under the spell. She will not attack the spirits. They will not let her.

Fireborn rolls a shoulder in midstride, conceding to the correction. A cunning, no-stripe zebra... what happened to the jackals? Reaching a higher hill, the cheetah stops to have a look around before continuing down the slope. His glance to Treecatcher checks her to see if she's holding up with the heat and pacing.

There was only one jackal! The young lioness rumbles her way after the cheetah's lead, her paws coming down heavy on the ground. She is starting to become annoyed and oblivious to the fact that the Swara may only be doing this deliberately.

Could he be doing it deliberately? Or is he just arrogantly being nonattentive? Nevertheless, he growls shortly when the two reach a watering hole.

[To be continued...?]