My guesses at the stingers' name is purely based on their physical attributes. Gregor remarks that the male scorpion is "formidable" and is covered in "armor shell", whereas we see the female scorpion move very quickly. The reason that certain characters speak in Crawler syntax in this chapter is because they are communicating in Crawler, which I imagine would have such a structure which then carries over to English when Temp, for example, speaks. Also, yes, baby scorpions are really called scorplings, I checked.
Their names are, roughly translated, Great Armor and Quick Movement, and they are the stinger family of a usually-quiet cave of the Firelands. They have lived here for years, raising many a litter within these calm confines. Nobody cares to bother them — they are large, they are imposing, and most of all, they are peaceful and only seek to live their lives. No, the stingers mind their own business.
Or, that was how it was.
Where travelers had been once been few and fleeting, now many pass by — and, are they particularly rude, they pass through with no shiners, scouting killers, respectless gnawers herding scores of worn-down nibblers along. Some pass peacefully. Others are quick to raise a claw or draw a sword. A new litter has arrived, so the stingers are on guard. They are quick to raise their tails in an attempt to deter trespassers. They must be.
Today is a day of much commotion. The gnawers have congregated outside the stingers' cave, for the Bane is holding a speech. He speaks loudly and fervently, and the gnawers assent just as loudly and fervently. Only the stingers do not know his words, for he speaks in a language unknown to them. Likely, it is Killer — this is what Great Armor believes, for where Hisser and Crawler are useful among certain creatures if one wants one's words to carry, Killer is the equivalent among warmbloods. Perhaps it is because many a warmblood — and many others, too — know this language so that they may reason with the killer. Perhaps it is because to speak the language of the creature known for killing when one is speaking of killing (and the stingers are certain that this is the subject, for they have heard the stories of how their brethren have recently been forced by their lands by the White King's gnawers) is empowering. Whatever the reason, the Bane's words will surely carry.
And when the speech turns to shouts and growls, the stingers detect another presence — a small party of primarily killers and fliers, whose motives thus may as well be one and the same. It is heading towards their home. Upon Quick Movement still sits the scorplings, soft-shelled and newly-hatched. They are too young to place elsewhere. So the stingers raise their tails — they cannot risk anything.
There comes the trespassers — four fliers, one of which is half-grown and huddled upon another; five killers, two young among them; and a crawler and a wounded nibbler. Such a pack might turn back if only they are threatened enough. As the fliers swerve into their home, the stingers bring their tails into action, swinging back and forth. One knock or hit will be enough to either ground or incapacitate. If this pack is wise, they will turn tail and see themselves out.
Only they are not wise. Beams of light erupt through the cave, and it is common knowledge that when in battle, the killer prefers light. There is much noise — angry noise, fearful noise. The noise of impending battle. Swords flash clumsily. They are unprepared. And that shall be the stingers' winning card. They will fight viciously — Great Armor with his bulk and Quick Movement with her speed. It is only to wait for an opening.
Great Armor's tail snaps through the cave, sending the smallest of the adult fliers spinning around in an attempt to dodge. In that instance, the smallest of the killers falls. She is an Overlander, like the young killer she had clung to. Perhaps her brother is the warrior. She squeaks, but is soon caught by the largest flier, upon which sits the half-grown flier, who tumbles from his back with the crawler onto the floor.
This is the opening.
Quick Movement's pincers shoot out and pin the flier to the ground. She brings her tail into position as the flier cries out. Only in that moment, there is another shriek, and then suddenly throws a small killer himself under her stinger with his hands raised. Quick Movement's tail jerks momentarily. The scorplings chirp upon her back.
But now comes another killer, bearing gold on her head, running, and her arms are lifted in attack rather than defense.
Quick Movement hisses.
The killer beneath her tail spins around and grasps the arm of the other. He cries frantically, eyes darting.
And then he turns his cries on Quick Movement. "Please… no fight… we are sorry…!" To her surprise, she finds that she understands. For he speaks not in his own tongue but in Hisser. She knows only little words, but what she knows strongly is that for a killer to speak any language but their own — see, that is a rarity. His voice is tender and desperate. He shouts something urgent and pleading in his own tongue, then. Swords quiver in hands — but then, the killers lower their blades. "No fight… we are sorry… your land… babies… please, kill not flier…" comes the boy's hisses again. He knows the language better than her, she realizes.
It is very unlike what the stingers have seen of killers. To lower their swords, to reason and plead in a language unlike their own. To reach out. Slowly, Quick Movement lowers her tail.
The killers are conversing. The hissing boy begins to pound his chest and make a vibrating noise. Perhaps a gesture? A sign? Soon comes the crawler forward, too, and clicks, and the hissing boy clicks with him. And the smallest killer jumps from her elder's arms and runs fearlessly towards Quick Movement, intermingling Crawler and Killer. Her body is tense not with fear but excitement, her fingers pointing to the scorplings with eagerness. And is that not odd. Their young trying to make acquaintance with the stingers'.
Quick Movement speaks not Crawler. But Great Armor does. He hears what they speak of. Of gnawers and misunderstandings and apologies for passing where they should not with impunity.
"Why come you here, come you? What is your business?" says Great Armor. But chaos takes over, a mass of languages, and prevails until one of the killers makes a noise that universally is acknowledged as a call for silence.
Then speaks the hissing boy again, but in clicks. His eyes are strong despite his fear. His gaze does not falter, but meets Great Armor's. "Mean no harm, we mean no. We mean only to pass, mean we. We drew our swords too quickly. We are wary, we are. Will you please release the flier, will you?"
Great Armor scrutinizes the killer. His stance is relaxed, he bears no sword. And he speaks. The very first thing he tried was to speak. And so tells Great Armor Quick Movement, whose pincers recede. The poor small flier flutters miserably into the wings of another. Perhaps they should not have relented so easily. But then, it is not so easily. The stingers are a peaceful sort. Only recently, the world has made it difficult to be a peaceful sort. And the soft-shelled scorplings still lie helpless on Quick Movement's back.
But these killers had laid down their swords and spoken.
"How come you here, come you?" clicks Great Armor.
The boy of many tongues appears to translate for his fellows before answering, "Gnawers chased us, did gnawers, certain you would kill us."
"The gnawers," Great Armor tells his mate. Anger blooms beneath his shell. The gnawers, always chasing somebody around — the nibblers to their deaths, the stingers out of their lands, and so on. To the boy, he says, "Our enemies too, the gnawers are. Our lands, they took parts, our lands."
The gold-bearing killer, whose body is still tense, says something. The boy of many tongues translates, "See you the nibblers, see you?"
"Yesterday, we saw the nibblers, yesterday. Driven by gnawers, the nibblers injured, ill, weary," Great Armor clicks. The nibblers had bled. Both young and old. They had been so weary. One or two had cast a pleading gaze to the stingers. But what could they have done? What should they have done?
"Babies! Greet, me greet, babies!" comes the tender clicks of the tiniest killer, then. "Babies, me pet, babies!"
And is that not odd. Is that not so very odd? This killer baby, desiring to make acquaintance with the children of stingers? She has not the shade nor the smell of the Regalians. But the stingers know not many a killer who would touch a stinger, even a baby.
"She says?" asks Quick Movement. The child points eagerly at her.
"She… desires to make acquaintance with the scorplings," says Great Armor in Stinger.
"Truly?" Quick Movement's eyes dart about in surprise.
"Yes. She desires to… caress them, I believe."
Never in their lives have either of them heard of a killer desiring to caress a stinger's spawn.
Be it a ruse? Will her hands, so small, crush the soft shells of their beloved brood?
The boy of many tongues takes over the conversation. He translates. The killer baby's kin — taller, with darker eyes — expresses concern. Like the stingers, he is wary. Will the scorplings not sting?
"For stinging, too young, for stinging," says Great Armor, somewhat perturbed. But then, had not he had the very same sort of concerns?
Be this the first step?
"Then we shall take it," says Quick Movement to him.
And shortly after, the baby killer sits on her back. Her hands are gentle, her voice equally. She makes noises of unknown language but equivocal meaning — kindness, comfort, happiness. The scorplings quiver with excitement. The boy of many tongues exchanges more words with Quick Movement despite her lack of proficiency in Hisser, the crawler and another killer speaking to Great Armor. The gold-bearing girl has sheathed her sword, her fingers having grown less quick, and she sets an elaborately crafted item of food upon the ground. Food is of great importance to killers. It has been a great struggle for them to find food at times, and they are known to spend a great time preparing and cultivating it once they have acquired it. It is a well known fact that killer-made food is a delicacy for that reason.
There are no thoughts of battle, and though the wariness still lingers at the back of every mind, ready to slither back when the day is done, this is a start. And when the strangers depart, the gold-bearing girl — the queen of Regalia — brings this promise: That from this day, the stingers are allies in the eyes of the killers. From this day, a killer shall not draw his sword when he meets a stinger.
And it is a great promise. One that will hardly be kept.
But it is a start. So Great Armor and Quick Movement return their words. And when the cave is vacant but for the family once more, Quick Movement says, "Think you once our scorplings will mix with theirs again?"
"One day," Great Armor says, and he believes it, "one day, I am sure."