A/N: Guess who's back from hiatus?

And, due to some doodling during a boring class, I have come up with (yet another) new story... This time a sequel.

Please note, reading the prequel will not be necessary. Since a lot of you haven't read that tome or have forgotten the details, I will make sure to re-hash the plot and characters within this story.

For those who have followed "The Chains That Bind Us," I have decided that due to rookie mistakes, I have messed up with the pacing and have too many characters/plots to keep up. So, I have decided that the best way to move on would be to carry Chains on into the sequel.

I am aware that Chains is only half-finished, so the end will be revealed in this sequel. I know that this is lazy and disappointing, but I hope you can understand; to make it up to you, I'll do my best to make this story compensate for the lack of finish for Chains. :)


If you are near to the dark
I will tell you 'bout the sun.

-lyrics from .hack Sign "Aura"


Prologue I


The tribe of the Juskajow had known times of greatness in the past but at its current state, anybeast would find that hard to believe. Night fell upon the sparse grasslands, forcing the desolate tribe to retreat to their flimsy shelters. The smattering of fires began to dwindle against the sandy winds and the meager left-overs were brought in. Though the tribe seemed eager for the little rest they could afford, the chieftain had more important matters to attend to.

"What more do you see about him?" the fox demanded as he scratched a tattooed cheek. But his question did nothing to hasten the seer's rituals. Sedjow had dealt with fire countless times before but the stench of this foul smoke was enough to send him into a bout of coughs. But for his precious information, this moment of irritation was a small price to pay. He waved the blasphemous clouds away, eager for the vixen's interpretations.

"It's a male," Garla rasped, shaking a box of bones over her head as her throaty voice sang some indiscernible mantra. A chill spilled over his spine but he disregarded it. As ridiculous as some of the rituals were, they seemed to carry a strange power that none could properly explain. The chieftain didn't quite trust in the accuracy of seers, but any news of a Taggerung was something worth hearing.

"Of course it's a male. And?" he urged. "What else?" She ceased the bone rattling and held her paws in the air, her tattooed face a mask of utter awe. Her eyes stretched so wide that Sedjow couldn't help but be reminded of golden coins.

"The babe will be born here to the Juskajow," she announced with pride, breaking the stillness to continue the sound of horrible, rattling bones.

"Are ye sure?" Elation rose from deep within his chest.

"As sure as the sky is high, O' chieftain," she affirmed. He smiled to himself as she continued her ritual. Most of the time Vulpuz had bestowed the most violent or successful tribe with the Taggerung. While Juskajow was faring quite well for a Juska tribe, it was only just regrowing and had participated in relatively few raids. He had no idea why the great Chosen One would be born into such a humble group but he had no complaints.

"And what more?"

"Shhhh..." She pressed a claw to her cracked lips. She closed her eyes, revealing the elaborate tattoos on her eyelids. Sedjow did not concern himself with whatever madness the Juska seers were fond of. They could do whatever they liked so long as they could give him the sage words that he needed. Still squatting over the fire, she reached into a pouch beside her, swiping a pawful of white glittering powder. She paused, eyes still closed, feeling the tiny grains slip between her claws. And without a word she tossed it into the firepit.

The flame blazed furiously, blaring a bright red hue as it shot thrice its size. For just a moment the chieftain felt fear rising in his throat as the fire towered over him. But in a flash and an explosion of thick, curling smoke, the flame had whimpered into ashes. The seer sensed his moment of arrest and cackled with delight.

"It was no trick," she said, answering a question that had just seeped into his mind. "It was Vulpuz himself telling me of his newest warrior."

"I don' care if 'tis Vulpuz or the ghost of a drunken rat," the chieftain replied tersely. "Tell me about the Taggerung."

"You should not say such things of the spirit," Garla warned. There was a tense silence and the seer cleared her throat as his paw slid down to a dagger. "But the child is here. Just a little life in a mother's womb."

"So he will be born soon?"

"Within five moons," she answered.

"But how do we tell which babe?" A perplexed frown collected over his brow. "By the fang, nearly ev'ry female has a whelp in the gut this season!"

"He will be a babe kissed by the sun." From her tone he could tell that she had relished withholding this fact from him. It would have infuriated him but he found some relief to the statement. "Fur as red as the flames you witnessed."

"Fox," he breathed. There was some pride in his tone. Of all creatures, foxes were known to be the most cunning and ambitious. Usually the title belonged to a ferret or stoat, once even an otter, but the fates had favored his kind this generation.

"Must be, must be," she nodded.

"But how d'we know which cub?"

She nodded knowingly as she rasped a reply. "A Juskabeast kills many by his older years. A Taggerung kills countless. And this Taggerung will start his reign from the moment he draws his first breath." In a rage the chieftain gripped her by the scruff of her neck, hoisting her up in the air until her legs dangled uselessly beneath her. But even then Sedjow looked down on her from his towering height, the horizontal stripes along his snout beginning to crinkle as he snarled.

"Enough prattlin', vixen. Spit it out." He dropped her unceremoniously but if she felt any fear for her life, her countenance showed very little concern. Instead she gave him a blackened, toothy grin.

"A birthing bed and death bed are the same, methinks."

"So the wench dies of childbirth?" the fox nodded. He suddenly found himself thinking about his own mate and worry pricked at his mind.

"Yes, yes," Garla nodded, her gaudy earrings tinkling along with her movements. "I advise that we not tell them this, O chieftain."

"Of course," he growled, peeking at the quiet tribe through a slit in the tent flap. "The last thing we need is a frantic vixen drinking potions to poison the unborn babe. Anythin' else your eyes see?"

"I see nothing more but smoke," she answered.

"Well tell me when y' git anything." He strode out into the light and fresh, clean air.

Within the next few days he was sure to inform the pregnant vixens of their Taggerung, neglecting to mention their own fate. And for the next few moons the expectant mothers received the choicest vittles, the best shelter, the warmest fires, and the most protection should a rival tribe covet the glory of a Taggerung.

The Juskajow understood that the promise of a legend was a dangerous one. Every Juska tribe wished to be the strongest, and possessing a Taggerung would ensure that. Fast as the wind, strong as the tide, unpredictable as fire, cruel as thunder. Such a beast was undefeatable. But even then there were the constant challenges to the title. In the past there had been many instances of chieftains slaughtering an infant Taggerung to reap the title for himself. Fools, the lot of them.

Only a coward would slaughter a babe; the meek were not worthy to be called Taggerung. Drunk with arrogance, those creatures pitted wars with formidable adversaries and paid the price. But the tribes had learned from history and the greatest threat now was of a kidnapping. The chieftain furrowed his brow upon the realization. As proud as he was of this prospective champion, the heckling of rival tribes would doubtless spell trouble for the modest Juskajow.


Several moons soon passed, leaving a long line of healthy childbirths and no Taggerung. Though whelping was females' work, the chieftain made a point to witness every fox birth. He remembered his anxiety when his mate went into labor but the fear became relief when the fates yielded a healthy birth. Instead of a Taggerung, his mate presented him a glimpse of his newborn daughter and that was good enough. The other vixens, however, only received disappointed frowns and rejection from the chieftain and seer when they held up their squalling newborns.

"How much longer?" Sedjow demanded, holding his paws up to the warming fire. "There are only three vixens left and none of them look close to ready."

"Hm..." The seer closed her eyes. "The Fates have a strange way of working, indeed."

"Well does he exist or not?" Sedjow snorted. "D'we need t' kidnap 'im from another tribe?" For some reason she found the notion humorous.

"Do you doubt my omens, O' leader?" she cackled, waving a spindly paw at the thousands of stars overhead. "He will be born here, like as not."

"This nons-" The chieftain froze in mid-sentence. Seers had their omens but he had his gut instincts. And right now, something was amiss. Shouting rang in from the Southern edge of camp and the fox instantly straightened his stance, whipping his sword from the protection of its sheath.

"Attack! Attack!" he bellowed. "Shift yourselves you worthless slugs!" But not one beast was nearly fast enough to leap to attention. Like a gushing wave to the shore, the enemy rushed upon them. The fox chieftain met them with equal ferocity, if not more.

The darkness masked the identity of the first beast but that didn't matter. All that the fox needed was a silhouette. He dodged the first blow, ramming his elbow into the opponent's snout before stabbing the beast through the gut. A movement at the corner of his eye alerted him of the next assailant. Sedjow neatly sidestepped the next attack, wrenching his sword free from the first victim as he dealt a nasty kick to the stomach. The beast doubled over, giving the fox enough time to knee it in the snout.

Somebeast behind him yowled a battle cry and the fox flinched as he recognized the sensation of cold steel rending through his flesh and fur. He clapped a paw against his right arm, feeling blood ooze onto his palm. But it was only a slight wound and if he didn't focus he could very well lose his head.

The firelight flickered and the chieftain glimpsed the features of a rat as it raised both paws over its head- a typical motion for a clumsy downward swing. He leaped expertly out of the way, swinging his sword at the hapless rat with such force that he feared that the muscles in his arm might tear. He expected the creature to fall with a dramatic thud or at least scream, but the lifeless body only slumped quietly to the knees before slipping to the ground.

"Enough!" a voice boomed. In an instant the enemies backed away from the Juskajow, forming a wall of warriors and an empty space that separated the two tribes. At first glance, it appeared that they were even in number but then again, it was likely that they kept hidden reinforcements. Slowly, the rest of Juskajow started to trickle out from their tents to watch the unfolding spectacle.

A typical move, Sedjow decided. They swoop in an' kill a few of us to rattle us in our boots.

The fox narrowed his eyes, training his vision on a hulking, darkened silhouette striding towards them. The stoat was large to be sure, but he also had a slight limp on his right leg. If worst came to worst, Sedjow would at least have one weakness to exploit.

"I want t'speak with yore leader," the stoat demanded.

"Yo're lookin' right at 'im." The fox stepped forward. "Sedjow of Juskajow." He sheathed his blade as a gesture of peace, though he was careful never to let his sword paw stray from the hilt.

"So you fleabags got the Taggerung, eh?" It was hard to tell from the sputtering firelight, but the opposing chieftain sported a set of familiar green zigzag tattoos that ran down both cheeks.

"Juskara," Sedjow growled, trying to keep his tail from ducking between his legs. "Don't you dunderheads remember the meanin' of the word 'truce?'"

"It's the Juskatrelk now," he boomed. "All your deals died with the old tribe leader when I sawed off 'er head." A smattering of cheers sounded at the last sentence while Sedjow grit his teeth. That last bit of news was a shame; the fox rather liked Katchra. Though a female, she at least appreciated some allegiance with her own kind. Had circumstances been different they might have even joined tribes but that was behind them now.

"So you must be Trelk," the fox replied with nonchalant air. He had heard the name tossed around in previous encounters with the late Juskara. From what he understood, he was not a beast to be taken lightly.

"And I don' care t'learn 'bout your name," the Juskatrelk chieftain snorted, completely forgetting the fact that Sedjow had already introduced himself. "I'm only int'rested in the Taggerung. Now rumors say you've got 'im."

"Then you're a fool," he spat. "You think our tribe would have th' Taggerung when there are the Juskahud and Juskaann prowling around out there? If any clan has 'im, it's gotta be one o' them."

"Liar!" The ferocity of the accusation didn't surprise him. "Our seer says he's here."

"Then your seer is daft."

"Give us yore vixens," the stoat demanded, casting a look at Garla. "And no greying old hags either. We want the ones still with whelps in their stomachs."

"And if we refuse?" The fox cursed himself the second the question left his lips. It was completely redundant to ask such a question.

"Then we fight t'the death," Trelk replied with a smirk. "But give us what we want an' we leave all peaceful like- nobeast harmed." Several of the Juskajow vixens began whispering amongst themselves but Sedjow silenced them with a single glare. The chieftain was doubtful that his enemies would lay down their lives for this new and inexperienced leader. But that didn't mean that they were willing to scamper back to their camp either. More blood would be shed, lives would be lost, and he didn't have the resources to replace dozens of destroyed shelters.

"And what happens to the vixens without the brat you want?" From Trelk's blank expression, it seemed like a question that the stoat hadn't even considered. Perhaps he anticipated more of a fight than an actual deal. But to fight was to risk the death of the Chosen One's mother. For both tribes, a negotiation was clearly the best option. It was a wonder how Katchra fell to a beast bright as mud.

"You can have 'em back," the stoat declared. "All safe'n'sound. But we keep the babe and a truce between Juskatrelk and Juskajow come after."

Sedjow tilted his head, narrowing his eyes as he feigned contemplation. The last thing that he needed was for his fellow clanbeasts to know he was so quick to cede defeat. Though it was likely to save their miserable hides, he didn't count on many vermin appreciating that fact.

"Deal." A cluster of vixens wailed at that. Some of them were the ones with cub and a few others were their kin. Sedjow had no choice but to stand aside and watch as the Juskatrelk began dragging the unfortunate beasts away from their clanmates. The vixens clawed at them, kicking and screaming with all their might.

"Careful with 'em!" Trelk barked. At the very least he was smart enough to understand the frailty of pregnancy. The Juskajow stood by reluctantly as their tents were thoroughly inspected. It was clearly a blow to their pride and even Sedjow nearly strangled the beast that entered his mate's tent. In the end, all three vixens were rounded up and bound for their trek to the neighboring clan's camp.

"Glad we could work et out," the stoat leader grinned, a paw resting the pommel of his sword. "Mabbe when th' Taggerung's all grown we can merge th' tribes."

"Maybe," Sedjow replied, careful not to cause a stir after all he'd been through. Trelk nodded, swirling his ragged cloak as he turned back to where he came. The Juskajow chieftain could still hear the vixens weeping in the distance and worry pricked at his mind. But then again, this was all he could do for them. At least now, two of them would be able to return.

"Do you think it wise?" Garla rasped, interrupting his thoughts. "Merging with Juskatrelk would be an interesting move." A part of him yearned to strike her and the other part wanted to question her about the Taggerung. The Taggerung born here in this tribe! Pah! He should have known better than to raise his hopes, but then again...

"I want no part of this Taggerung," he muttered, padding off to assess the damage of the camp. "The Chosen One only brings war and this clan needs none o' that."


Nine dead and sixteen wounded. That was the price of their "Chosen One." But Sedjow had to admit, this was not the worst that could have happened. He gulped at the thought of possible outcomes if any of the larger Juska tribes came to them seeking the brat. But the burden was gone and now it was Trelk's problem to deal with. He tossed another scrap of wood into the dying fire, trying to imagine the stoat's face smoldering to crisp.

"Sedjow! Chief! Come look'it this!" The distant call instantly brought the fox to attention. In less than a second he wrenched a spear from the ground and started racing towards the commotion just for a chance to skewer an enemy. He sprinted faster, his ears tuning in on the sound of a female's shrieking. But something was strange. He slowed his pace and stopped outside a tent and winced at the awful din coming from inside.

"What's goin' on?"

"Garla's inside," one of his Juska informed. "She tol' us t'git you as fast as we could."

"It's the Taggerung!" a ratwife piped up.

His eyes widened as shock replaced the puzzled look on his features. Without another word he entered eagerly, shrugging the tent flaps over his shoulders. The pungent stench of sweat and blood struck him hard. His eyes began to adjust to the dim candlelight and to his surprise, he was greeted by the sight of a ferretwife. She lay on a plain reed mat, a mix of afterbirth and stagnant blood pooling around her legs and bedding. The female panted and shuddered weakly as her eyes rolled upwards to their whites. He had seen enough of death to know that she was good as gone.

"Where is the babe?" He turned away from the sight and faced the seer as she cradled the precious bundle. But something was amiss. When his daughter was born she set up such a wail that it left him eager to leave the tent. But this infant... it was a quiet thing, mewling almost as weakly as his mother. It was alive, to be sure. But for how long?

Kissed by the sun. And now the chieftain could see why. The ferretbabe's fur was a blazing reddish-orange comparable to even the handsomest of fox fur. But even swaddled up in layers of thick cloak, it was a tiny little bundle. Too small.

"It's just a runt," he frowned. "All this trouble fer a runt."

"Born a moon too early," Garla sighed, nodding at the freshly-dead ferretwife. "Look. He is so strong that even the womb could not hold him."

"Strong?" Sedjow spat. "Look at 'im! He won't even last the night!"

"He will," the seer promised, setting the sleeping babe on the ground. "We just need to take proper care of him at this fragile state. All creatures are born weak, are they not?"

"I don't remember hearing of a stillborn Taggerung," he growled.

"It is not safe to put the tattoos on him yet," Garla said, ignoring his last statement and shaking her head in quiet agreement to herself. "No, no, no. Oh no. Not safe at all."

"But you said that he would live," the chieftain retorted. "Well? Which is it?"

"An omen," she rasped.

"I've had enough of your lies, vixen."

"He was born here, was he not?" Garla snapped. "His mother just died of childbirth, as I predicted. And look at his fur. He is no fox, but is he not a beast kissed by the sun?" Sedjow simply snorted, looking away in disgust.

"We should git 'er buried," he muttered, nodding at the mother's corpse. "She's stinkin' up the place."

"My visions brought me to him. He had none of the traditional tattoos but I recognized him in a heartbeat," the vixen prattled, ignoring the last statement. "He will be a big beast of about twenty seasons, his fur not even losing a single spark of sun. He will walk in the darkness, all alone. And he whispered to me. Soft words, powerful words that made me weep."

"What does that rubbish even mean?" Sedjow threw a clay pot against the ground, shattering it in an instant. The newborn immediately set up a thin wail as Garla clutched him to her chest protectively.

"I know not, but he will come to us," she replied, trying in vain to comfort the whelp. "He will come for us when we are near to the dark and he will tell us 'bout the sun."