Confidently, the Spirit Walker strode majestically into the waking world. He closed his eyes, feeling the frigid, alabaster ground beneath his feet. Recognizing him instantly, the wind rushed up to greet him, whispering their secrets, singing his praise. This is his time.

With a saunter, he walked the paths of his range. Under scraggly trees, through coarse, malnourished grass he passed silent as a ghost. A clan of white tailed sharp-horns threw up their warning signs and dashed off into the brush and the Spirit Walker yawned. He could hear it on the wind, his sport was waiting elsewhere. The spirits would provide, because this is his time.

Below the crest of a craggy outcropping, he saw it. Standing on its hind legs, the giant beast lethargically grasped a tree branch in its claws. It sniffed and snorted, gingerly picking the needled branch clean, all the while blissfully unaware of its fate.

With a silent prayer of thanks to his ancestors, the Spirit Walker launched himself from the cliff. Like a crack of thunder, he struck. His bared teeth the boat and the ferryman, his voice the banshee wail. In seconds, the offering had passed and the Spirit Walker was satisfied. This is his time.

Again, he walked his paths, stopping at a small, clear river. Above his head, the gnarled and leafless trees clasped fingers, providing the Spirit Walker with a moment of shade from the harsh, heatless light. As he drank down the crisp, sharply frigid water, the wind gusted through him. It whispered its shock and confusion to him. Something new walked these lands.

He followed the wind through the forest, up the river and along his mountain trails. He was close, though, he could taste it. He snarled, these were his lands and this was his time.

As the sun was setting, he found them on the frozen plains. They were strange creatures, hairless but clothed in the skins of others; they were small, fragile looking things, and they stood on their hind legs all the time. Grunts, whistles and clicks passed between them, as if they were imitating the animals of the northern lands. Small, odd hills of stick and hide clustered around a fire and the beasts shuffled in and out of them, like portable caves.

The Spirit Walker waited until full night before moving in for a closer look. The beasts had gathered around their fire and were gibbering to themselves. He did not think they could see well in the darkness. Up close, they seemed even more frail to his studied eye.

Suddenly, sounds erupted as something burst through the rabble of creatures. The Spirit Walker watched as a pack of sharp-toothed hunters descended on them. His huff of dismissal turned instantly to dismay when the hunters charged out of the camp and between the beasts and…him? These hunters were protecting the newcomers.

The creatures hooted and hollered, dashing into their caves. One stayed, however; a broad shouldered, shaggy haired male, and he stared out into the smothering night. The Spirit Walker's eyes met the new creature's unwitting gaze…

At once, the Spirit Walker remembered his youth, when the ancestors wrested the crown of the age from the lizard king and handed it to him. He knew that this beast would replace him. His time was ending.