(spoken in the tongue of beasts)
I have not seen the herd in many seasons now. I miss running with the herd, feeling the leaves against my skin as we rooted for truffles. Men cannot understand this feeling... the smells of the forest and the herd, the sensation of fresh mud against the skin. No, it seems that all they understand is killing. Taking the skin of beasts for their own greed.
I am nearly ready to seek out the herd again. I am losing my sense of smell, can you believe it? The stink of the man-dwellings has killed my senses. Their fires and lights have disrupted my natural rhythms, so that I can no longer sleep as I am accustomed to. I see them running around, with their weapons in their hands, dashing from one kill to the next, dragging oxen along into places the oxen do not wish to go. They force the oxen to carry huge burdens, and whip them when the beasts are too exhausted to move. These men stink of foul magic... it is a burning smell, a smell of rot like dead eggs.
If I could find one of the herd... I think I could maintain my sense of balance. Old Silverback always kept me level. When the time is right, perhaps I will seek him out. He is old now, and has always been cranky... perhaps he will appreciate time spent away from the herd. He has been the leader for so long.
(a noise from behind startles the pair)
"Bucko, what are you doing?"
"Me talk wif badger."
"I am going to the crypt, would you like to come?"
"Smash skallerdin?"
"Yes, Bucko. Smash Skeletons. I will wait outside the cemetery."
"Yuh, ok."
(Bucko returns to the conversation with the badger)
Well, friend... I have work to do. Some of these men are noble, I suppose. They are as opposed to the things that offend nature as I am. Some... but not all. There are men here that create these undead, and do not understand when I am offended by these abominations. Old Silverback would understand. He would take one sniff and know that these undead are things to be destroyed... an affront to all things that live.
Farewell, little friend.
