Chapter 1

The terrified screams of the young paors still rung through the air as Hurricanen walked slowly away from the Cave of Trial. He knew, as a member of the Righters, he was breaking every law in what he was going to do.  Why wasn't he like the others, why did this daring black vogar not long for blood like all the others? He didn't know, didn't know why he felt pity for all the ones they killed and released the ones they didn't. Hurricanen leaped over a boulder, his den was in the shelter of the rocky overhang on the other side. He plodded over to the corner, where a small stone lay wedged between hard clumps of dirt. He used his claws to dislonge it. With his teeth he picked up the packet that lay in the space behind it; herbs for his friends in the Paor Tribe.

He carefully scuttled under some boulders the size of fully grown Berroks, and emerged onto a path worn smooth by the many times he had trekked across it. He glanced behind his shoulder and set off quietly as a vogar can through the grass. As he trotted off towards the forest, he drew in a breath of fresh air. The Cave of Trial smelled like blood, like misery, like pain. The open meadow was scented of freedom, of grass, of clouds. Hurricanen, personally, preferred freedom and clouds to blood and pain. The forest began to get bigger before him.