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The sun set over the grimy marsh, casting its blood-orange glow through the gloomy mists. Skeletal, leafless trees, their growth stunted by the fetid muck, reached their bare black branches toward the sky like the hands of desperate drowning beasts.

Beyond the worst of the mire, where the soil was somewhat solid, a collection of tents and other dwellings could be seen. Campfires were being lit as night approached. The Sharpflint swamp rats milled about, carrying bundles of firewood on their backs to add to the flames, chipping away at stones to make new arrowheads, threading beads through twine for necklaces, and doing various other chores and activities essential to their tribal life. Close to the water, the tents and dwellings were small, and many of them in ill-repair. Further back from the swamp, on drier, more coveted land, the tents were larger. The farthest back, among some bushes that actually produced edible berries, was by far the largest dwelling, the stretched and cured leather that made the walls crisscrossed in intricate red markings. Here dwelt the chief of the Sharpflint tribe, who had retired for the night.

Several heads turned from their campfires to watch as the day's hunting and foraging party returned. Rat faces frowned as it became apparent their spoils were meager. A few sickly looking wood fowl hung impaled on the sharpened carrying poles the hunters bore. One rat carefully carried a burlap sack containing their eggs. But mostly they returned with bitter and chewy roots tied together in bunches with twine. The roots were edible, but only when the tough things had been thoroughly boiled.

"Scraps again," muttered one of the tribe rats. He was painted with dull green markings that covered his lean and scruffy body. He spat to the side of the flames as the hunting party, painted in orange, marched past. Though he cast them a hateful look, he waited until they were out of earshot to mutter once more to his companions. "And those birds and eggs will never make it to the likes of us." His green-painted companions nodded dully, one female wearing a necklace of green beads listlessly stirring the crackling flames with a stick.

As our friend predicted, the orange painted hunters took the spoils of the day directly into the tent of the chief. When they emerged a short time later, the birds and the eggs were gone, and only the roots remained. They were given to a green-painted rat who was waiting, and he began distributing pathetic handfuls to the groups of tribe rats huddled around the fire. Autumn was approaching, and although it provided welcome relief from the stinging and buzzing insects of the swamp, food was becoming even more scarce as all the berry bushes and other edible plants were picked clean. When the rat who was distributing the roots made his way to the one who had spat at the arrival of the hunters, our complaining friend pulled a face of disgust as he snatched the meager handful of bitter roots. The rat handing out the food shrugged.

"Sorry, Grimfang. You know the laws of the tribe as well as I do."

Grimfang nodded, opting not to speak as the delivery rat moved on to the next campfire. A cauldron was bubbling with water over the fire. If the water in the tribe lands wasn't boiled thoroughly, it caused terrible cramps and other unpleasant side effects, and could even be deadly to the very young, old, or sickly. He cast the roots into the pot.

"Sure, we all know the laws," he muttered to his companions. "The chief sits in his tent getting fat while the rest of us starve."

"The chief does not grow fat, Grimfang," said the female sitting opposite him. She stirred the flames once again as she spoke. "He and his hunters and warriors must eat more than we do because they provide for us. They need the extra food. We should be grateful they look after the tribe."

Grimfang scoffed, but didn't argue, only watched the roots bubble and boil in the water. He knew the female, Marshfire, was partially right. The chief, warriors, and hunters did eat more, but they worked harder than the rest of the tribe, and there was little enough food to go around. He had been around long enough to know there was no easy solution. Though -

"If Chief Redtalon hadn't tried to expand our territory into Salamandastron land, we could have spent the summer salting meat and fish and collecting nuts to store for the winter. Instead dozens of the tribe are dead and we have gained nothing but empty stores and even emptier bellies."

"But if we had succeeded," countered Marshfire, "we would have more fertile lands as our home."

"Bah. As if we ever stood a chance against those Salamandastron hares. One of them is worth ten of us in battle. Chief Redtalon is a fool."

"Do not let him hear you speak so, or you will soon be greeting those who died in the attempt at the gates of the Black Forest."

"Yaaaah!"

The sudden cry made the rats around the fire jump. A young rat, still just a child, wielded a stick and mock jabbed at Grimfang. "Those stupid rabbits don't scare me! Wait until I'm old enough to join the warriors! I'll build a tent out of rabbit pelts!" He dodged around and jabbed again. The young rat's dark fur was bare instead of painted like the coats of the adults.

"Bloodthirsty as always, young Fell," Grimfang said with approval. His mother, Marshfire, watched the two of them.

"That's right! I'm bloodthirsty! And when I reach my coming of age I will be painted orange like a warrior, instead of green like you lazyrats!" He started to mock jab again, but Marshfire was on her paws in an instant. She grabbed Fell by the tail and pulled him over her lap, spanking him soundly and making him wail.

"Be silent this instant, you little whelp! You waste precious energy with childish games, and insult your elders!"

"Mama, stop!" Fell the bloodthirsty was now Fell the squealing. After a few more sound smacks, his mother released him. He stood up, sulking and rubbing his stinging bottom.

"Apologize to Grimfang. There is no shame in earning the green paint. A tribe needs more than warriors and hunters to survive."

"Sorry, mister Grimfang," Fell mumbled, looking down at his paws.

"No harm done, little one. With any luck, you will grow up to be the hare killer this tribe needs."

Marshfire sighed as her grumpy son curled up in her lap. She wrapped her cloak around him against the night's increasing cold. Her heart filled with regret at striking him, but that was the way it had always been done, not only in her family, but in the entire Sharpflint tribe. How else could she get her wild young son to show respect for his elders? She didn't know. All she knew was that she didn't want her son to be on the receiving end of something worse if he offended the wrong rat. She took her stick and stirred the bubbling roots in the cauldron, lapsing into silence.

As Fell lay protected against his mother, he could feel how thin and frail she was becoming and shivered. Since his father's death during the battle with the Salamandastron hares over the summer, his normally loving mother had been increasingly underfed, distant, and irritable. Fell and Marshfire were the only ones left in his immediate family, and with no orange-painted members of the family, meat and other luxuries rarely came their way anymore. With no father, and with less food in his belly, Fell had become mean and bitter himself. With his hungry belly growling, Fell drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of himself wielding a blood covered spear, the bodies of slain hares piled about him, others fleeing in terror. The sounds of their dying screams a sweet lullaby.

The seasons passed in the swamp lands. The Sharpflint tribe scraped by, as they always did, but not without casualties. The coming winter claimed many, including Fell's mother, Marshfire. Starvation and a lack of a mate to look after her as she grew ill sealed her fate. Her son did his best to take care of her, but he was receiving little enough food as it was, and he was so young and inexperienced that it just wasn't enough. He watched her grow thinner and weaker, begging his other tribe rats for help. Many turned away, either with indifference, or with helplessness. Grimfang was the only that would share what little he had, but it was only scraps. Even Chief Redtalon and his warriors were feeling the pinch of winter's merciless hunger. There was simply no food for the starving tribe rats to share. On one bitter, cold morning close to the end of winter, Fell put his mother to rest. Tears stung his eyes and froze on his face as he carefully built a rock cairn over her body. The ground was too frozen to bury her, and wood was too precious and needed for campfires and cooking to use to burn her. At least the humble stone covering was enough to put her to rest with some dignity. She had been a harsh mother, but had never hit him harder than some slaps on the bottom or a tweak of the ear, and she had done her best to raise him right in such an unforgiving environment. Like he had loved his father, he had fiercely loved her. He hoped he had shown that in her final months before her spirit left for the misty forests beyond life.

Yet as he placed stone upon stone on her pitiful, frozen body, the love he felt for her turned to hate toward who had caused this. The hares. Those rabbits. If only they would let them move their tribe lands away from this awful, stinking swamp. The miserable, long eared tyrants. With each stone placed, his hate grew, until he felt bloodlust and anger coursing through his very veins. He had promised his mother in the Autumn - what seemed like another life ago - that one day he would become a great warrior. Today only strengthened that vow. He would be Fell the Terrible. Fell the Merciless. Fell the Hare killer. He would earn his orange paint and become a warrior of the tribe if it was the last thing he did.

Time marched inexorably on, and the little whelp of a rat did indeed grow to be an intimidating sight. Quite tall for a swamp rat, well muscled, and positively evil looking. His fur darkened to close to black as he grew into adolescence. He practiced at every opportunity with his flint spear, the traditional weapon of his tribe, which he created himself from a perfectly thick and solid branch which seemed to have been grown just for such a purpose. His paw clasped around the shaft as if it were an old friend. At the tip was a deadly blade of flint, and at his side he kept a pouch filled with more flint blades and rawhide laces, so that the killing tip could be quickly replaced when broken. A few inches down the spear, close to the blade, he twined the green beads his mother had worn.

That winter, he earned his orange paint when his mother's green beads were dyed red with the blood of his first murder.

He killed many more after the first in battle that day. To his regret, not hares, but rats in a neighboring tribe. Times had become truly desperate. They were nearly out of their food stores, and spring and the bounty it brought with it was still a month away. Chief Redtalon had selected his finest warriors, as well as some swamp rats that were getting close to their coming of age. These were desperate times, and the Sharpflints put aside their traditional coming of age rituals in favor of the sad but necessary warfare that must take place. One of the tribes would have to starve this winter, and it would not be the Sharpflints.

Fell was like an instrument of death in the battle. Rat after rat was impaled on his spear until Fell was covered in blood and the snow was stained red all around him. He reveled, as he had in his dreams, in the smell of blood and death. The death rattles of his enemies. Hoping his mother was looking on, proud of him. His vision was filled with red mist. He was a mindless killing machine. It was only when the battle was over, and an orange painted warrior was laying a paw on his shoulder, that the mist started to clear.

"I have never seen a rat of your seasons do battle as you do. You will stand before the chief this evening."

The enemy camp was raided. Most of the enemy rats, even prisoners who surrendered, were slaughtered. Mercy was a luxury the Sharpflints couldn't afford. They would just be back at square one if they had more mouths to feed.

Pulling his cloak around himself for warmth, he was led back to the tribe along with some of the other yet to be painted adolescents that had joined the battle. Many of the younger and inexperienced rats had been slain, but those who had survived the battle without serious injury now stood in a line in front of Chief Redtalon's tent.

He exited. An enormous swamp rat, lean in the harsh times, but still muscular and strong. He wore a red cape, and was the only rat in the tribe who's body paint was bright red. Red beads and feathers hung around his neck, along with pale white bones, trophies of his slain enemies.

A female rat, the only blue painted rat in the tribe, baring a pot full of orange dye approached the line of adolescents and young adults as the Chief began to speak.

"Today, the tribe welcomes new warriors. You have proven yourselves in the violence of battle and come out honed to a sharp point, like the tips of the spears you carry."

The female rat began to paint their faces, shoulders, arms and flanks in brilliant orange. She made her way from young rat to young rat, painting with the solemnity the ancient tradition demanded.

"I deeply regret that times are cruel enough that we are unable to give you your proper coming of age rituals," Chief Redtalon continued. "But perhaps this is better. These harsh times call for even stronger warriors. We will mourn for our lost brothers and sisters today, but they have given us the ultimate sacrifice. The weaker have died so that the stronger may live. May they rest in peace in the Dark Forest this day, knowing that by giving their lives they have ensured the strong survive and that we will all eat heartily this night."

There was no cheering or shouting, only respectful silence for the dead. Fell stood as still as a statue, staring straight ahead, as his orange paint was applied. His heart swelled with pride.

Mama, are you watching?

The rest of the tribe watched in silent respect as the small female rat began to chant. Despite her small body, her voice was powerful and carrying. She began with wordless humming, ululating and musical wailing that made the fur of every tribe-rat stand up with wonder.

No-paints before me
No longer young and naive
Pass a threshold today
With the skulls you did cleave
No longer whelps
But Sharpflint fighters
Today you are orange-paints
For a future that's brighter

It was only after the ritual had been completed and the new warriors were fully painted that a murmur in the crowd broke out. Chief Redclaw nodded to his new warriors in approval and then headed back into his tent. The murmurs grew to the dull roar of conversation as the rats started to trickle back to their own tents and light their fires for the night. Fires above which cauldrons bubbled, filled with healthy vegetables, and spits of sizzling, roasting meat would be cooking for the first time in weeks.

Fell and the new warriors were led by the female rat who had painted them to their new dwellings. Her name was Cypress, and although she was tiny, she was well respected by every tribe rat. She was a soothsayer, healer, herbalist, and lorekeeper all in one. She was the rat who personally mixed the paint - green, orange, blue, or red, for every tribe-rat, and it was only her expert, small paws that applied it.

She bowed respectfully as Fell was shown his new tent. Bigger in size, more warmly insulated, with a solid wooden chest for his belongings, a weapons rack, and a bed of furs. It was common for the Sharpflint tribe to use the furs of enemies for cloaks, bedding, and tents. Compared to his old tent, this one looked like a palace. Fell nodded in thanks to Cypress, and with a small smile she walked off, leading the rest of the warriors to their new tents, befitting their new, orange paint and higher status.

Fell stepped inside the tent and placed his bloodstained spear on the weapons rack. It was too cold, and clean water was too precious, to wash the blood from his body now. He collapsed into his furs and was instantly asleep.