Antique

Jartegallasi did not found the clan, exactly. She found a cave. But it was warm, and dry, and there was good land around it, clear of the contamination her breed was said to thrive in, and it wasn’t long before others came.
Gnarlhothsin was first, and at the end of all the posturing and not-quite-fighting it was agreed: He would stay. And there would be children. A clan. So in that way, he was the one who began it. But Jartegallasi would not agree.
Jartegallasi, especially in those early days, agreed with very little. Their clan would be tiny, simply a waystation for passing travelers. No—it would be enormous, taking in all, no rhyme or rule. She would have many eggs, or no eggs, or eggs only with one male or another who had her favor at the moment. They would be a silent clan of warriors. They would have a few warriors, carefully selected. And on, and on.

~

“And I’ve met a warrior,” Jartegallasi continued, her tail lashing as she paced about the cave. “Canebreak. And she says she’s looking for a new clan, and I saw her fight, Gnarl, and she—”

Gnarlhothsin didn’t catch the sigh before it rumbled through his chest, silencing her.

“I thought we were training our own clan before taking on outsiders.” He kept his voice even.

Jartegallasi flicked her tail at him dismissively, not quite knocking over a stack of neatly folded clothes. He checked his lunge to catch them, but not before she rolled her eyes. “That’s taking forever. It’s boring. We’ll learn much faster with someone else to show us the ropes.”