Writing is no proper for a warrior. Fingers too thick. Little writing stick too little. Too easy to break. Too easy to smudge. No proper at all. I should be sharpening spearheads, or cutting bone, or fixing feathers, or filing teeth. A warrior should't be sitting in a corner, writing. It's no proper.

But Denmother says that i must become good at writing, so i write. Even if it's not proper at all.

I am called Pak Greatpaw, son of Pakur, son of Pakum, son of Okum. My family is hunter family and our renown is great. I was once the youngest of three males, but my sire was called by the spirits when i was a cub, honorably slain fighting against the Uk-rum, the Flames That Thirst. Of my two elder brothers, one disappeared during the hunt, taken by the fel forest; the other took to the far road and went behind the horizon, never to be seen again. I am the last Greatpaw male and so many hopes are pinned on me by my Denmother, to bring honor to our name and many cubs to our Den. It's a burden that weighs heavy on me but i carry it with pride.

My pack belongs to Timbermaw, the great settlement, and mine is the life of the Gror, the hunter. With my brothers i take to the forest when the sun rises, carrying claw and spear. My Denmother tells me that there was a time when the forest was lush and green, and the Gror only had to hunt for the spirits' blessings. I never saw such a time. To me, the forest always stank and for each good prey, our spears find ten filled with the Ukrak, the Foulness.

All day, me and my brothers hunt the good and crush the foul. We met the Rir, the Lost. We gave them mercy. We met the Uk-rum. We crush them. We meet the Fuul, the strangers. Those we watch. The bad we chase and rip to pieces. The good we keep at a distance. The Fuul is not to be trusted. When we return, we chant our thanks to the spirits whether the hunt was successful or not. We are alive, and this is to be celebrated.

I am Gror, but i am Okra as well, untested. I am young and the elders watch me and laugh and grumble. I wish i could say it's false, but it's true. My father was big and strong. I am small and many a day i return with not enough to feed my family. My Denmother tells me that i will grow but my spirit doesn't quiet. At night, i hold my father's spear for comfort. I hear my sisters grumble for half-filled stomachs. I feel Akrar, dishonored.

One day, Timbermaw's peace is disrupted. Many growl. Weak have the Timbermaw become, they say. Stronger chieftains, stronger warriors. Hunt the Fuul and feast on their flesh. Fill the cubs' bellies. The Blackmaw rise. Timbermaw are not cowed. They growl back, and the tribe is unsettled.

Chieftain Ripclaw is leader of my pack. He is concerned. The peace must hold among the uncorrupted, he says. He calls the Gror, asks for their words. During the meetings, i am not allowed to talk. Too young, they say, Once i try and many growl. After that, i don't try anymore.

The Chieftain talks with the Gror, talks with the shaman, talks with the Ursa. Many thoughts that were thought but never growled are now growled. A decision is reached.

The pack is leaving. Timbermaw has lost its way. Furbolg strong, but not strong enough alone. The good Fuul must be called closer. The Timbermaw elders snarl, but the decision is taken. Chieftain Ripclaw snaps a branch from the Great Tree and takes a seed. A new tribe is born, Sunclaw its name.

The leaves are put in the bowl. Ripclaw drinks, then passes it around. Some drink. Honored friend, they say, even if you go, you're still one of us. Some growl and do not. It's the mark of enmity. It will be remembered.

Chieftain not commands, he asks. He will go south, making a place close to the good Fuul. Furbolg is free to come or rest. Denmother doesn't want to go. Our place is here, she says. Den is here. Father's bones are here. But i am family chief. I decide.

Doubt gnaws like lice. Timbermaw is homeland. Great Tree is here. Ursoc's spirit is here. Father's father lived here. Father lived here. Am i dishonored to leave?

But then i watch the forest. Felwood, they call it. It is foul and cruel. Much blood is to be given for little prey. Many shadows stalk under the trees, and the leaves are blackened.

South lies the Fuul's lands. Ashenvale. It is lush, they say, like our forest was before the Uk'rum. Leaves are green, and the sun shines bright. No foulness runs under the boughs. Many preys to fill bellies, and the Fuul are good, they say. There, even young hunter can provide enough for Den.

Am i weak to think this?

It is too late. The decision is taken.

Greatpaw is Sunclaw.

Denmother is silent. She lowers her muzzle and disappears into her den. Sisters are anxious but excited. They hear there's much prey in Ashenvale, and many cubs to be had from good hunters.

I don't join them. As head male, i have duties.

I dig in the great hall of the Den, where the family gathered to eat and laugh and brawl and listen. My claws sink in the burned ground under the great fire. A stone is uncovered, large as my muzzle and covered with claw-marks. It has been put here when my father's father's father arrived here with his family, many moons before i was even a thought. It marks the den of Greatpaw and so now it must come with us.

As i hold it, i wonder, and fear gnaw at me. My fathers buried the Denstone and now i take it out. Am i wrong? Am i spitting on their legacy?

The stone is silent. There's no answer to be found.

We leave soon. Many furbolgs call us cowards and Chieftain wants to avoid contention.

Forty pairs of claws come. Few, but it is to be expected. Timbermaw is homeland and the furbolg is stubborn.

As we walk through the great doors, many growl at us, show their teeth and their backs. Coward they call us, weak-bellied, sold to the Fuul. Their growls wound me like Uk-rum's teeth, but it's too late now to go back.

Denmother lingers, and we have to wait for her. She doesn't speak to me, but i am content. I feared she wouldn't come.

My family carries what they can. Pots and food and utensils. I carry little. My claws have to be free to use the spear. I feel ashamed.

The forest welcomes us with the stink of rot and moving shadows. The ground squelches beneath paws, and mucus drips from the leaves.

Chieftain Ripclaw is cautious. Many hunters in front, many behind, many scouts all around. Cubs and females at the center. They are to be protected.

The Chieftain is at the front, as it's proper. Many ornaments clink at his neck, the bones of fallen enemies. Feathers in his fur catch the little breeze, and his axe glints. He's big and strong, just what i yearn to be one day. At his right, the shaman thumps her staff in the ground. She's to be respected. At his left, the Ursa stomps and snorts. Mighty Demonkiller wears no ornament and his fur is cropped. Totemic tattoos cover him. He watches the hunters and snarls to those that linger. He's to be feared.

Ursa is champion, the mightiest of the tribe. My father was Ursa, and his head brushed against the branches. If i yearn to be as chieftain, my heart aches when i think of Ursa. If only…

I am given to the rearguard. The front is not for the untested.

Two times the sun falls and we're still marching. Three times the Rir and the Uk-rum attack us, coming from the trees, and three times we push them back. We chop and stab and crush them, their blood pooling at our feet. It's good fight. The hunters stand strong, and none fall.

But then the enemy stops coming. It's too soon, and i am concerned.

I cannot speak. The other hunters are tested and they don't want me to their fire. If i try to sit, they chase me away. Go back to the den, pup, they say, go back and finish drinking your milk. They laugh and throw dirt.

Denmother doesn't speak to me, and my sisters crowd around her. They watch me, and i see suspicion and anger in their eyes. Their enthusiasm is gone, ground out by days of marching and fighting. Where did i bring them?

I am left eating alone. Doubt gnaws, making every meal taste like ash. Did i make a mistake?

As the sun rises for the third time, we meet Chieftain Ripclaw's comrades. He spoke to us of them, but meeting them is different.

They are Fuul-Kr, the good people of the moon. I look at them with uncertainty. They are small, but they carry iron fangs and words of power. Their chieftain's eyes glow like the stars.

The Fuul offer their help. They guide us to our new house and help us with their fangs. Chieftain accepts and shows his throat, the offer of friendship and trust.

We are stronger now, but i am still concerned. I decide to keep my thoughts to myself. I am probably wrong, and Chieftain knows more than me.

Two more suns come and go, and i almost forget my doubt.

But i am deceived. The Uk-rum is sly.

One day, as we march under the boughs, we are hit. The Uk-rum herd the Rir against us from the right. Ripclaw reacts quickly. He moves the hunter to defend. But he's deceived. The left is left weak.

The Uk-rum attack us there now. They come out from the trees, bleating and jumping. They push a thing of rock and fire before them.

I am there, and my paws are slick on my father's spear. A Uk-rum comes at me, horned and goatish and with madness in his eyes. His axe bites in my flesh. I stagger, then push my spear in his chest. Even as he falls, he still scrabbles at me, ripping at my fur.

No time to rest. Another takes his place.

We fight, but we are few and the great Uk-rum cannot be stopped. It rips out a tree with a swing of its arm, sending it crashing down on me. I see it too late. It falls on me. The spear flies out of my grasp. I am pinned. An Uk-rum is on me, spear poised to take my life. Desperate, i grab the handle and we wrestle for the weapon. I let go and grab his horn, pulling him at me. The Uk-rum is surprised and can't resist. I open my mouth and bit, bit, bit. Until he stops squirming. His body slides away from me. I am alive, but it's a hollow victory. I cannot move.

Helpless, i watch as the great Uk-rum breaks our line. The hunters are scattered. We are undone.

The horned ones stream past us. I hear the screams of females and cubs. My family! Oh, failure failure failure. Fathers have mercy.

I am freed only long after the fight is over. My wounds are nothing. I ran to where my family is.

Denmother is safe. My sisters are safe. All except one. Young Goldfur has been taken. I am broken. Little more than a cub. She liked to play with strings and collected stones. She squealed with joy when father returned from the hunt with a polished pebble. Joy of our family. We have been robbed of it.

I am not alone in my mourning. When they passed us, the Uk-rum went for the cubs. Females fight fiercely, but the horned ones trample each other in their obsession. Many cubs are ripped away, screaming and flailing, and disappear into the forest.

It is too precise. None of the females is dragged away. They aim for our cubs from the beginning.

Cursed Uk-rum! May Ursoc savage their bodies and Ursol rip their souls apart. Child-snatchers! Thieves and murderers! May the crows feast on their flesh and their spirits never wander forever in the Forest Beyond!

Denmother cannot bear to look at me. My sisters accuse me with their eyes. My fault my fault, all my fault.

The chieftain calls and i rush to answer. I cannot bear to stand still now.

The gathering is mournful. How couldn't it be? Five cubs snatched away. The heart of the tribe, ripped out.

Gror grind their teeth and moan; they cover their head with the dirt and mumble mournfully, pulling at their fur. Some growl at us, which failed to protect the cubs. Many eyes are on me, and they accuse. It is just.

Chieftain Ripclaw doesn't allow for the hearts to go cold. Seek, he says, send the hunters, sniff the cub-snatchers out. They can't run away fast enough from the anger of the Furbolg. Chase them, find them, rip them apart and spread their traitor hearts under the sky.

His words heat and enflame. Mournful moans turn to furious growls. The Ursa roars, and we swarm out.

The Uk-rum is sloppy. In its rush, it left tracks that are easy to follow. The earth is trampled and smokes where the monster of flame laid its feet.

The Gror snap their jaws and lick their muzzles. Pup-snatchers are given to the flame, bones and all, and the ashes are scattered. They eagerly await the fire's start. They cover their desperate hope in vicious rage. I know because i am one of them.

The Fuul are with us. They listen, urging the forest to show the trails. They jump among the trees, seeing far. Their help is precious. It will be remembered.

The chieftain leads us, the great Ursa at his side. I watch Demonkiller, and my heart aches. He's strong, he's skillful, his heart doesn't waver and his honor shines bright. I wish i could be like him. If only…

The hunt carries on.

The elder Gror are relentless. Uk-rum come at us from the trees. By tooth and claw they are spread beneath the canopy. Not even the Flames' fury can match the enraged Furbolg.

But finding them is good. The cub-snatchers may be near.

Chieftain urges us on. The Uk-rum is wary, he says; if many of his dogs fall, one runs to alert the master. Run, Fulborg, trample the trees! Catch the thieves before they run like the sheep-hearts that they are!

With our hope renewed, we run faster. The impediments of the forest are nothing. We stampede, and more than one stray Uk-rum is crushed underfoot.

The forest end. We are in a large clearing. It is a foul, foul place. The air burns the nose and tongue. Plants writhe; they cry with eyes and reach with fleshy stalks. A great well fills the center, murky and green and noxious. Sagging Krikr, treants old and young, crowd around it.

The Uk-rum are there. They are in chaos, jumping and bleating. Their hands still reach for weapons. We have reached them before they could organize. Surprise is ours.

A bigger, older Uk-rum stands in a clearing among the Krikr. He wears the trapping of the warlock and he bleats orders. Behind him, a bloodsoaked altar stands, glowing with unholy power. Beside it, our cubs huddle, trembling.

Our rage explode. Abomination! Sacrilege! He means to give our cubs to the Great Enemy Beyond!

There's no holding us back.

Chieftain Ripclaw throws his head back and roars. We reply with our own and swarm to the attack.

We hit the enemy with the strength of Ursoc. The Uk-rum reply with weapon and dark magic, but they are nothing before our fury. Gror stop sickles and plunge their spears in squealing goat-mean; they pounce with open mouths and savage with tooth and claw. No quarter!

I feel the power of the pack run through me as i charge into the Uk-rum's encampment. A goat-man bleats and stabs at me with a spear. I hit it with the back of my paw, sending it astray, and stab. The Uk-rum falls with a bleeding hole in his chest. Another comes at me from the right, his talons glowing with foul light. His hands burn as they find my skin. My wrath is greater, but before i can dislodge him, a Krikr, big and bulky, seizes me. His breath envelopes, the stink of rotten flesh and stagnant water. I hold my breath and throw myself forward. I may be young, but i am still Furbolg and my flesh is heavy. The Krikr staggers. I put my spear behind his foot and he crashes backward, carrying me with him. His hands try to seize my throat. I bit at one, tasting putrid wood, and pull my head back. A big piece comes away, and the Krikr screeches. He still tries to grab me even as i drive my spear into his head. When the Krikr stops moving, i remember the goatman hanging from my fur. Turning my spear around, i stab him like a fish and pull him away like a lice.

The surprise is strong, but the Uk-rum doesn't fall so easily.

Their warlock-chief bleats, and his warriors hit the bigger Krikr with their sickles. The rotten trees lurch to life. With mournful hums, they rip their roots from the rotten ground and join the fight, herding their smaller brethren in front of them.

They are strong. They come swinging their trunks and the Gror have to duck and jump out of the way. The Uk-rum rally around them.

We are slowed down, but our rage burns too hot to be stopped by rotten sticks.

The Chieftain lifts his axe and lets out a mighty roar. Ursoc's spirit is in his voice and it makes us strong. The Ursa rears at his height, gigantic like Ursol's shadow. A great Krikr assaults him and is felled with a mighty blow.

The Fuul are at our backs. They aren't as strong as us and so they stay behind, staying high on the trees and sniping with their bows. Their chief's eyes blaze bright as his voice joins with our Shaman's. Winds stir the putrid air and ruffle furs. It smells of dew and morning air after the rain. It invigorates hearts and mend flesh.

With it at our backs, we roar and rage.

The fight is fierce. We are strong and Ursoc's rage is over us, but more and more Uk-rum come streaming from the trees, and each fights with the hatred of the Great Enemy.

Mighty Ripclaw breaks the stalemate. Roaring, the chieftain swings his axe and fells a great Krikr. He jumps over the fallen body and is beyond the Uk-rum line. His eyes are on the warlock. He charges, dispatching the Uk-rum that try to stop him.

But the Uk-rum is insidious.

The warlock bought himself time with the blood of his followers. With a grating laugh, he let his magic sing.

A pile of rocks beside the altar ignites with noxious fire. It lurches to life, it rises and becomes. The great flaming Uk-rum let a great screech out. The warlock bellows a command, and the monster attacks.

Chieftain Ripclaw doesn't withdraw. His axe lunges, clashing with Uk-rum's talons. He resists, but he's forced back. The warlock bleats with derision and turns to the altar, knife in hand. The pups cry and huddle closer.

But Demonkiller is there. The Ursa slams against the great Uk-rum from the side. His fur steams and smokes, but the great Furbolg is uncaring. He wrestles with the Uk-rum, his roar contending with the monster's screech.

Ripclaw steps back. He snorts and plants his feet. His axe whistles as it is swung, and buries itself into the Uk-rum's flank. It is a good hit. The Uk-rum's screech is tinged with pain, his movements turn frantic.

Seeing his champion in trouble, the warlock snarls and gestures. One of the smaller Uk-rum throws away his weapons and answers the call. With mad gladness he runs to his doom, running himself on the knife the warlock holds out. The corpse shrivels and slumps, leaving a sickly green glow on the blade. With a triumphant chortle, the warlock aims it toward the fight.

I see it, i feel the danger. I cry out but it is already too late. Black lightning flashes out of the blade. Chieftain Ripclaw is hit in full. His screams fill the foul air.

In horror, i see the chieftain fall, the axe slip from his fingers. Ripclaw crashes to the ground like a felled tree, and lays unmoving. The cursed warlock laughs.

It is a terrible blow. The Gror wail for the loss, while the Uk-rum cackles and bleat with delight. They are upon us with renewed savagery, while our hearts flag. Ursoc's spirit wanes. We are pushed back toward the forest. Demonkiller is alone, entangled with the great Uk-rum. Even wounded, the monster's strength is monstrous. It forces the Ursa to one knee, with the Furbolg struggling to keep its claws away from his neck. The warlock watches and laughs.

Whatever i turn, i see more Uk-rum emerge from the trees. My brethren fight on, but Ursoc's spirit deserts them. Despair grips me. Are we defeated? If they push us back now, they won't stop harrying us until we are no more.

Did i lead my family to doom?

I realize something, and start. In their rush to advance, the Uk-rum have passed me. In the confusion, smaller than my brethren as i am, i am overlooked.

Out of instinct, i move forward. It's too easy to arrive where Demonkiller is fighting.

I watch the Ursa and the Uk-rum. They are big, bigger than trees, bigger than huts. Tense muscles and bloody fur and savage eyes. Cruel flame and jagged rock and endless malice. Entwined in fury.

My father's spear trembles in my paws. I look around. There is nobody else. Only me. Doom floods my heart. It has to be me. If even the Ursa falls, we are undone. I must step forward, even without hope.

With defeat in my heart, i lift my weapon and charge.

Out of some cursed instinct, the Uk-rum feels me come. His head snaps toward me. He screeches and i scream back, fear and despair intermingling.

My spear sinks in his shoulder one foot and stops. The Uk-rum shrieks and throws his arm out.

I lift my paw but i know it's useless. The blow sweeps me away like a leaf. I tumble in the dirt, the laughter of the warlock somewhere far away.

As i fall, i see the Ursa calls to me. I cannot hear what he says. Everything is distant, all sounds muted.

I try to close my hand but my father's spear is nowhere to be found. I lost it, the last vestige of my honor.

The Ursa is forced to the ground and the Uk-rum screeches, triumphant.

I had a chance, and i failed. My family will die, gutted on some warlock's altar. My clan will die, chased across the forest like prey. My fault. All my fault.

I am sorry, father. I am just not enough.

Does Greatpaw surrender now?

As i lay in the dirt, defeat piercing my heart, i seem to hear a voice. It is thick and growling and deep. Am i dreaming?

Why do you surrender?, it says, and i feel like a great shadow falls upon me. Do you doubt? That is good, for only the fool is born doubtless. Do you fear? That is good, for only the mad is born fearless.

I stir weakly, i try to protest. But i am weak and small! What can i do?

The voice hums deeply.

The Ursa is not born Ursa. The Ursa becomes Ursa. Don't you have arms to fight with? Don't you have teeth to bite with? Rise! The Furbolg has to be small before he can be big! Rise, Child of Ursoc!

Life returns into me. The world returns, and it's like i can breathe for the first time once again.

I blink and turn my head. Chieftain Ripclaw is on its paws and knees. He shakes his head, snorting.

My heart jumps. He's alive! He's alive!

He looks at me, and our eyes meet. I see recognition in his. He nods. My doubt fled me. How can i stand down while the fight still rages on?

The chieftain's hand whips out. I throw my paw out and grabs the axe he has thrown me. The weapon feels heavy and powerful.

Ripclaw nods again. The message is clear. He's still too weak to rise. It's falls to me.

I am ready.

Demonkiller is down. He holds his head and snarls. He struggles to regain his feet.

I rise. The Uk-rum pauses in his rage, then turn at me. I don't tremble when his flaming eyes lay on him. I don't fear when he screeches at me. He's big, big as a mountain. He towers over me, his great shadow covering me. But i am calm. I embrace death.

The voice speaks to me one last time.

Go now, it says. Strike like Ursa. Make them feel the rage of the Furbolg.

I nod, and move. The Uk-rum screams and charges me. His steps make the earth tremble and i feel it in my paws. I will have one chance and one only, i know this. And yet, i am not afraid. Even if i die, i will drag the monster with me.

The Uk-rum's hatred washes over me like the breath of the Hellish Beyond. I feel the Great Enemy's presence behind, all its thirst and hatred and wish for dominion. But the voice and the great shadow are behind me, and they are just as strong.

The Uk-rum swings. I cannot dodge. I know that i can't, but i don't care. I roar and swing the axe with all my strength. Life for life!

Demonkiller saves me.

The Ursa throws himself against the Uk-rum's legs. The monster's blow is sent wide. Instead of taking my head, it scrapes against the side of it, ripping off part of my ear. But the chieftain's axe flies true. The blade sinks into the wound that Ripclaw already made. With a roar, i push it in and then rip it out. Flaming blood spurts. The Uk-rum screeches, but not even all of his evil will is enough now. With a tortured scream, he crashes to the ground.

He's not finished though, and i raise the axe once again.

My instinct screams. I duck quickly, and a black bolt passes over me.

The warlock screeches wildly, eyes burning with madness. His knife burns with fel power.

I raise the axe, even if i know it's little help. The Uk-rum missed once. He won't miss again.

But then, the Warlock screams and falls. The cubs!

They have broken their chains and are at his ankles, biting and hitting. The Uk-rum waves his knife, but two of the cubs jump on him. He goes down screeching.

Pride flares in my chest. The Furbolg is fearsome even as a cub!

I turn to Demonkiller. The Ursa nods and shows his teeth.

The great Uk-rum lifts his head and screeches, the sound carrying all the hatred of the Flames that Thirst. Ripclaw's axe whistles and cleaves his head straight off his neck. The screech ends with it. All that reckless hatred ends as it deserves, with a flaming head crashing into the dirt.

I raise the bloodied ax and let out the roar. Victory! Victory!

Demonkiller joins me, and our voices rise above the din of combat. But our cries are feeble before the chieftain's. His roar fills the sky, blasting away foulness and flame.

The Gror hears it. Ursoc's spirit returns over them. They roar, and attack once again. The Uk-rum are undone. With their champion fallen, their cowardice takes over their madness. They break, they run. Many are caught and crushed and cleaved. Only a few ran, to bring the new to their kind of the wrath of the Furbolg.

The warlock shakes the squealing cubs away from him. In fury, he raises the knife, but he's stopped when a big paw grabs his hand. He turns, and finds himself face to face with Chieftain's muzzle. He trembles. Ripclaw grins. The warlock's screams are brief. He gets what he deserves as well.

Victory is ours!

The cubs are saved. My sister embraces me. She's scared but safe. That's what it matters. I am proud of her bravery. I tell her so and she grins.

The Gror are beaten and battered, but triumph shines in her eyes. All are bloodied. None has fallen. Our victory is complete.

We return in triumph. The cubs wave from the shoulders of their fathers. The Gror sing, and their gruff and joyous voices fill the forest. I walk beside the chieftain, holding my sister's paw in one hand and my father's spear in the other.

My family is overjoyed. Denmother holds my little sister to her chest and stays silents. My sisters weep in joy. We are whole once again, and my heart is full.

The following two days we march, undisturbed. In the end, we reach the place prepared for us.

It is magnificent, atop a hill covered with grass. The forest is perfumed here and the leaves are green. There is no cruel foulness in the air and the sun shines. The shadows are gentle and a Furbolg pup can roll in the dirt without dirtying fur with his slime.

Dwellings and dens have already been built by the Fuul for us. The biggest is for the Chieftain, as it is proper, a wooden house carved out of the living wood of a great tree.

There's great joy to be had for such a wondrous new home, and so the first night we celebrate around the fire.

I am shunned no longer. The Gror clap me on the back and offer me cups of wine and honey. I am offered a place and honor and many toasts are called to Pak, Saver of Cubs and Flameslayer. Demonkiller recounts the tale of my courage and the Chieftain laughs and claps his belly, to say that it's all true. My Denmother offers me my plate, and there's pride now in her old eyes.

My heart drips with joy, and i cannot speak.

Long we celebrate, and the night fill with our joy.

Sleep comes now, and it's time to end my story. We learned about our new home, we learned about the land, the trees, the water and the sky. It is a good land, untouched by foulness and with numerous prey. A place for Furbolg to live and prosper. From here, our hope is reborn. We will return to Timbermaw one day. We'll push back the foulness and make Felwood whole once again. Together with the good Fuul, we'll triumph and reclaim Ursoc's heritage.

As for me, fate smiles. From dishonored and untested, i am honored and whole once again. The chieftain offers me a seat at his side. The Gror salute me and say that i am my father's son. I bury the Denstone under a nice den and my family prospers. Already two of my sisters are courted by Gror and females watch me as i pass. I dream of many cubs to which tell of my father, my father's father and the bravery with which they defended our ancient home.

I am unworthy of such good fortune and my heart is moved. Always I will struggle to keep my honor and my father's honor high. This i, Pak, son of Pakur, son of Pakum, son of Okum, promise and the spirits are witness to it.

Only one question remains, and i bring it to the wise shaman. She says that the voice and the shadow i hear are of Ursoc, arrived to defend his children during time of peril. It is sign of Ursa to hear it, she says, and that she watches me grow.

I think not about it. Tomorrow comes, with all its struggles and perils, and i face it when it's its time. I doubt no more. The Ursa has to be small because he can be big. And i become big. Big as my father and just as strong. I protect, for i am Gror, and I am Furbolg.

It is good to be Sunclaw.