At the top of the cold mountains, covered with ice and snow, a shrine was built—the snowstorm shielding it from the eyes of poachers. A tribesman walked into the entrance, his eyes as bright as the sun god's power, but his face made him all to evil, his intentions being unknown to those who approached him. The weapons he wielded—a great blade which he honed with ease was all the information needed for one to know his true intentions, but that wasn't the fact.
As he drew closer, the icy wind pushing back his dark hair, the shrine's display was now clear to him—a crimson, red with ornaments serving as decorations, the wind causing the metal beads to jingle. A woman stood before, adorned in a cloak that covered most of her form, her eyes an emerald green. She was old, but the past battles had strengthened her; her muscles were firm as she gripped her rod in her hand, and her hair was red with white.
The tribesman stopped as he gazed at the woman, his eyes moving to the ornaments and the icy surroundings, his sclera an abyssal darkness that enhanced the brightness of his pupils that glowed brightly and from the look of it, he had sought someone, "Where is the man, woman?" he inquired, cold and demanding and he needed a straight answer from her.
The shrine before him was something that had been built ages ago by the tribe of evil. The shaman, who was the woman who stood before him, was its protector for ages since her youth, though she grew older, her body had strengthened, and her ageing process was quite slow. She was about a hundred and twenty-two years old and looked like she had reached her fortieth year.
Now this could be her last time on the planet, or she would guard this place for eternity. Gripping her staff tightly, the shaman spoke, "You come for him, I have been expecting you," she muttered with resolve, taking a defensive stance, "But you must leave now, for he is not here"
The evil tribesman grinned, almost as though he expected such an answer from her. Holding his blade tightly, he was ready to deliver a deadly blow that would end the life of the old woman,
"You wish not to tell me, then I shall open your skull and eat out the information from your brain!"
"As you deem fit," the shaman responded.
Charging at full force, the mysterious tribes' man had started the battle, throwing a flurry of attacks that was bound to strike the shaman down, but the old woman had dodged with ease, her moves ever so graceful than the beauty she had attained for hundreds of years, her warrior-like body avoiding any damage to it.
The tribesman who tried his best could feel that he was at the losing end, grunting wildly, he swung his blade, but the shaman had found every weak point that she could strike with the top of her staff. If he swung blindly, using his left hand, she would weave to his behind, striking the back of his knee with little force as he would be brought to his knees.
Trying to swing, executing an attack that would destroy her legs, she leapt into the air and landed on the blade, bringing his hand down, and with a powerful kick, she struck him on the head. With his blood boiling, the tribesman could feel his frustration rising as he could not damage such a woman, "Witch!!" he bellowed, his anger rising, the snow-white glow in his eyes dimming to a blood-red.
The shaman smiled, a proud look in her eyes and just as the man before her had reached his limit, she had foreseen the time that this battle had to end. Taking off her cloak, she had revealed her true form, her body hard as usual, the tattoos that had been embedded on her skin still evident for ages, her top made from the skin of great mammoths, monsters that bore white coats instead of a harsh brown. It covered her chest, shielding it from the male gaze for a hundred years.
Her garment that shielded the loins and behind, made from the skin of the great sabretooth, which had begun to grow extinct in her land, as the number of times she had slain them was many. Her ankles were tied with metal beads, and with each jingle, her strength increased.
The tribesman readied himself, tearing off the garment that shielded his torso and from what was revealed, he wasn't human at all, his beating heart seen from a transparent part of his skin and with each blood that was, his body glowed brightly with an orange color that increased his rage.
The shaman frowned, "You are not even human," she spat, irritated by what she had seen.
"I am not," the tribesman responded, "I am the true perfection of human evolution" The tribesman growled, his breath heavy with depth as he was ready to face the shaman with confidence, knowing that this battle could be on his side.
——
As the battle was cut off, the real battle of partnership between the Flame and the Star began. No matter the times that the Flame had stopped her from begging for his punishment, she wouldn't agree to his demands. In every tribe, the wife should listen to the man, but he had lost every ounce of power he hoped to have in this conflict.
The Flame groaned, "You seem to be very stubborn, woman," he complained, now inside the hut as he had managed to lay her on the bed after she had passed out from her pleading. She had not fully recovered after the battle with the creature, and such a large fall was enough to take a life, but the Star was strong. The man was pleased by this, though his pleasure never reflected on his face.
All his life, he was someone who always held depths in his heart; it was the process of becoming a warrior. The lack of emotions and the countless training forged him into something else. This was how the evil tribe trained their warriors, while the good focused on peace and all the good qualities; half of the strength they possessed was based on the emotions and will they had attained.
As the household storm had settled, the Flame rested, sitting outside his home as the fresh breeze from the mountains and trees blew into his hair—he felt at peace. As he did this, he could recall all the memories of his childhood, his father, who was a commoner in his tribe, had always given him a tough time. He was quite poor, and unlike the tribe of goodness, who shared, the bad ones were forced to cater for themselves.
The Flame tightened his fist as the bad memories of the abuse he had suffered at the hands of the tribesmen who were his supposed teachers clouded his thoughts. The man tensed up, trying to control his breath. All the negativities had taken a huge toll on him that he was unable to realize the shaman emerging from the trees just behind his hut.
The surrounding area had always been so quiet that the Flame could always take notice of anything that moved or spoke, but this day had seemed different. He was familiar with the shaman as a wise connoisseur, but she was very skilled, hiding her identity and movements from the ones who were close to her. The pranks she often played were harmless but left some of the villagers questioning her sanity. But the Flame understood.
The time she had spent happily was to make up for the time she was about to lose, and that was now. As the Flame stood to his feet, ready to take a walk through the forest to cure his never-ending boredom, he found the shaman, her body quite injured as she bled from the gut. The wound was life-threatening, but she grinned, "Times do change, my boy," she said, her hoarse tone meaning that her time had come to depart into the land of the ancestors that brought the two tribes together while they separated it.