The fire crackled in the middle of the circle, evanescent flames that lit up the heavens with their dying glory. For all the respect these people of the desert gave to fire: they worshiped it as something akin to a lesser God, there wasn't very much interest in it this evening. Encircling the pyre, crouching, with their elbows on their knees, they gave their attention to the old man that sat above them on a crude seat fashioned from the remains of a tree that had blown over in the storm fifty years ago, the storm that marked in living memory the last time rain had been given to the desert. The seat itself was crude, but it was carved with magical drawings: people and animals and trees and Gods, all entwined and affecting each other, because that's how the Shak'rai believed the Earth worked. A butterfly flapping its wings on one side of the desert could cause a dust storm on the other, a rabbit killed or a rabbit lost governed the hunger of a wily desert fox, after all- the principle remained the same for the Universe, only... larger. This was a small tribe of the desert folk, one that believed in the old ways and the old Gods. A dozen people living, working, loving together, young boys and girls and middle-aged men and women, and the Eldest. The man who sat enthroned above them all, his dusty voice murmuring the tales that he'd collected throughout his life as he did every night. The last dramatic word of his story faded away into silence, and then the quiet was shattered. The chattering of the children rang out suddenly as they questioned the story and the fate of the characters. The only answer the Eldest could give, humor nestling in the laughter lines around his mouth and besides his eyes, was that 'the stories don't tell us'. When the giggling and the questions died back down into the velvety darkness, the Eldest lifted his eyes to the blankets the Gods had spread over the bowl of the earth to protect them, and smiled. "Time for one more, I think." He murmured softly, and lowered his eyes back to his people. "What about I tell you about the adventures of Kia'Kyura and his cloak?" He asked, and the cheers of the children rang out over the desert. The flames flickered in appreciation, and the Eldest began, basking in the approving warmth of the Arren. The flames.

Kia'Kyura was a man born to fortune. The Gods smiled upon him when he was born, for whatever he did, he was successful in it. He killed his first Am'nak, lion, before any of the other boys his age, and gained the tattoos of manhood far before it was expected of him. He was always the one to bring down the graceful shya'ku, the antelope, the Gods blessed him with messages in his dreams, and he was always the one to warn the tribe to dangers they faced, to tell them when it was time to move on, and when to hunt and when to gather. Soon, the shayaman of the tribe, a man who followed the kenning; Tiburk, grew jealous of Kia'Kyura. He started plotting the younger man's demise, determined not to let the worthier one gain his position, for he'd come to crave the power and respect that came with the shayaman's staff. One night, he told the village elders that he'd dreamed that Kia'Kyura must go out and bring back the head of the oldest evil spirit that walked in the desert, or all of the children who had not yet survived four summers would die within a year. The people of the tribe were nearly hysterical with grief. Kia'Kyura's mission was one that involved much danger. Doing battle with evil spirits was a fatal business, and though Kia'Kyura was strong, how much strength could kill a spirit? And though Kia'Kyura was fast, how could he be faster than a spirit? What the people of the tribe didn't know was that Tiburk had hired one of the Wanderers, those who didn't belong to any tribe, to follow Kia'Kyura when he left the village and murder him. Kia'Kyura didn't know, and none of the villagers knew, but the Gods did. On the day that Kia'Kyura left his village, the God of the Earth appeared to him in his tent. Handing him a cloak made of tiger skin, he said "wear this cloak and you will not die." and disappeared. Kia'Kyura was frightened, but took confidence in the Gods and their wills, and wore the cloak. As he approached the second hour since he'd left his village, the Goddess of the Waters appeared to him and said, "Go and wet the cloak you wear in the waterhole to the Sun and you will not die." Kia'Kyura, shocked at the apparent waste of water, trusted in the Gods' judgement, and did as he was told. Once he'd left the water hole and walked 500 steps with the cloak heavy with water on his back, the God of the Body came to him and said, "Cut open the flesh over your heart, and let it drip on the inside of your cloak and you will not die." Without hesitation, Kia'Kyura got out his dagger and did as the God had demanded. He put the cloak back on, and walked another hundred paces. The Tribeless man that Tiburk had hired to kill him struck. His arrow struck Kia'Kyura with such force that it ripped straight through the heart, even before the young man felt it. But he was not dead. In his place was one of the huge yellow tigers of the plains, with large white teeth and long curved claws. He attacked and killed the man, immune to his weapons. Then, finding Tiburk's money in the man's pockets, and still in his tiger form, he ran back to his village. The people screamed as they saw the tiger, but Kia'Kyura ignored them and went straight to Tiburk's tent. He dragged him out of the tent and killed him, slicing his head from his neck with one slice of his sharp claws. Then, with all the tribesmen and women gathered around in shock and grief, he raised his giant paws and lifted the hood of the cloak from his head, and suddenly he was human again. He lifted Tiburk's head high in front of him, and announced in a clear voice, "I have killed the oldest evil spirit in the desert. Behold Tiburk, the one who tried to kill me." With such proof of Kia'Kyura's place in the heart of the Gods, he was made Shayaman in Tiburk's place, and the tribe grew very successful, all of the people benefiting from Kia'Kyura's luck, and the marvelous tiger skin cloak that he always wore.

Silence heralded the end of the story. The people crowding around the fire let their own thoughts tumble around their skulls, trying to tame the chaos before sharing their ideas with the rest of the people. The children asked question after question, demanding where they could find a cloak like Kia'Kyura's, and whether the Gods liked them, and on and on, until the old man raised a worn hand and smiled, announcing that it was time for sleep and dreams. A few children rejected the idea, until their parents forced them to leave the old man alone. When finally, everyone was in his or her hut, the old man smiled, again, and stood, on worn and rusting joints, making his slow way to his hut. Sitting down on the floor, he sighed, and reached out, running a hand over his tiger-skin cloak, letting the smile linger on his lips as he lay down and went to sleep.