The man laid in his cot, staring up at the ceiling. He shifted, causing his bed to creak. No matter. The rest of his hut was empty, anyway. He was alone.

The ceiling was crafted out of sticks, bark, and leaves. The workers had done a good job, for how quickly it had been constructed. Still, his home was not a pleasant place to be when the rains came.

A green, circular mirror lay on his stomach. The cool metal was soothing, even though the night was cold. His arms were crossed over it, as if someone would attempt to take it.

He was a well-built man, pure muscle and bone. Average height, maybe a bit on the short side. His black hair was long, and a messy beard covered the lower half of his face. The most striking thing about the man, however, were his tattoos. Black, intricate, mysterious tattoos, covering nearly his entire body, though the majority of his face was left untouched.

The man ran his hand along the grooves of the mirror. Normally, he left it underneath his cot, but tonight, he felt as though he needed it. It comforted and saddened him at the same time.

Memories rushed through his head. He closed his eyes, and remembered.

He was a boy again, bare feet padding along stone floors. He was climbing a wall of vine, making his way up a wall. Getting to a platform, the boy stuck out his arms, balancing nimbly and walking a short distance. Parts of the wall crumbled underfoot, but he paid it no mind.

He was a boy. And what was a boy without a companion?

"Trico!" he called, a note of glee in his tone. He leaped off the wall, landing squarely on the back of his friend, grasping at feathers to keep his position.

The hyena-bird twisted his neck, looking back at the child, carefully watching him flail around. Gently pushing his muzzle towards the boy, he gave a soft rumble.

His friend grinned, leaning precariously off of his back to rub the hard velvet of his nose. "Good Trico. Good."

The man abruptly sat up, shaking his head. Why did he torture himself so? Roughly, he ran his hands over his face, and swung his legs out of bed. It seemed he would be getting no sleep tonight.

With a groan, he stood, taking his mirror, and feeling a twinge of pain run through his right leg. Favoring it, he left his hut, stepping out into the pale moonlight. It was a chilly night. Goosebumps erupted over his arms, but they went largely ignored.

He turned his head towards the stars. In the huts beside him, men snored. Two children, up late, giggled to each other. A woman said a name in her sleep, certainly not the name of her husband, who lay blissfully ignorant beside her.

He blocked it all out.

Taking a deep breath, he held the mirror at arm's length, studying it. Then, almost hesitantly, he lifted it, pointing the beam at the clouds. The green circle, almost like a crosshair, illuminated the night sky, and frightened a few birds nesting in the trees nearby. The light reached quite far, but… not far enough.

Feeling foolish, he lowered the mirror. What was he expecting? His friend, his companion, his savior? Did he think the beast would fly out of the foliage with the birds? The man shook his head. He'd tried in the past, multiple times, but nothing ever came out of it. It seemed that the mirror was nothing but an antique, now.

Slinging it over his back in an achingly familiar way, he turned, ready to retreat back into his hut. However, a distant noise stopped him in his tracks. He halted, head cocked, not quite believing what he was hearing. It sounded like… footsteps. Many footsteps. Distantly, far enough that it could be mistaken for quiet thunder.

The man started forwards, his natural curiosity urging him to investigate. But then, he held back. What if it was another village like his own, on the warpath?

No. The people around this area were ghostly when they moved. They blended with the trees, leaving their prey completely oblivious. They would never be this loud.

What else could it be? Furthermore, did he need to worry himself about it? He wasn't a boy anymore. Leaping wildly off towers and grabbing at thin bars was not the lifestyle he led anymore.

But if he had the chance… would he go back to it? If Trico appeared right then, would he join the beast? The man had a good life here. The villagers respected him greatly, treating him as if he were royalty. If he went traipsing off, who knew if he'd ever come back? These were things he hadn't worried about as a child.

In his pondering, the noise had grown. Now it was unmistakable. Marching. Many feet, marching in synch.

He couldn't help himself. He had to know.

With merely a backwards glance, the man made up his mind on the spot, casting aside his logical thoughts, and readopting the mind of an adventurous child.

The sounds weren't hard to follow, but he was wary. He didn't want to just stumble into sight. He had to be strategic. Soft shoes making little to no noise on the dirt, the man made his way into the trees. He limped, but years of it had allowed him to adjust, so it didn't hinder his progress.

Though his tattoos were black, and virtually invisible in the low light, he felt as though they made him conspicuous. He wished for long sleeves.

The mirror bumping gently against his back, he crept forward, the marching seemingly growing louder with each step. What was happening? Who were these men? Was his village in danger? He knew the way back, so if they were, it would be easy to run back and warn them.

He started making calculations in his head. How many warriors they'd need, what weapons they would bring out, where they would send the women and children. Hopefully, this mysterious army didn't have advanced weaponry or tactics. His men were strong and brave, so if-

The marching had stopped.

He stopped, too. He listened.

Silence, save for the rustling of leaves and the idle sounds of woodland creatures.

Normally, the would put him at ease, but now, it only drove him to be more on edge.

Why had they stopped?

Moving with extreme caution, and watching his footing closely, he continued onwards, towards where he'd last heard them. He was crouched, ignoring the pain from his knee, eyes scanning the area relentlessly.

Ahead of him was a clearing. The man could hear the faint clanking of… metal? What type of weapons did these men have?

With practiced agility, he hoisted himself up the nearest tree, making sure he was concealed in the leaves. This would give him a better vantage point, and allow him to easily see the scale of this group.

He pushed aside leaves and twigs. He saw the clearing. He looked.

His heart stopped. His breathing stopped. He looked.

Not metal- stone. Not a group- an army. Not men- armor.

The living suits of armor from the Nest. These were the enemies that he and Trico had faced time and time again. Memories flooded through his mind, and he unconsciously rubbed at his shoulder, feeling an old scar. They were ruthless, autonomous, strong beings. They had no mercy, and no compassion. If they had a goal, they would destroy themselves trying to achieve it.

What were they doing here?

Seeing them in his home, his forest, made him sick to his stomach. It had been years since he last laid eyes on them, yet it felt as though it had only been yesterday.

There were dozens of them. He couldn't count them all. A great magnitude of stone warriors, crushing flowers, grass, and small animals underfoot.

The armor had stopped briefly, dropping into their odd, turtle-like crouched position. It only lasted a few moments. Then, as one, they all straightened up again, and at no visible cue, began their march once more.

This kicked the man into gear. They were heading straight for his village. Surely by now, the others had heard this thunderous march? They had to be making preparations.

He wasn't sure.

As quietly as he could, he jumped out of the tree, landing awkwardly in his haste, and internally cursing himself, and the ground.

He sprinted for home.

The man was panting, not out of weariness, but out of fear. Only now did he realize how terrified he was of them, for himself, and for his people. He and Trico, together, had some issues with the armor. A village of humans, armed with wooden spears, bow and arrows, rocks, and brute force? The man didn't want to think about the carnage, but he couldn't stop himself.

They did have one advantage. Intelligence. They were far sharper and more flexible than the stone warriors. The armor had a one-track mind, which didn't allow much leeway for obstacles. Would that be enough? It had to be.

Bursting back into the small half-circle of huts, he began shouting as soon as he deemed it safe. He yelled for everyone to awaken, to get out of bed, to ready themselves.

"We're being attacked! Wake up, wake up, wake up, we're under attack!"

Men, women, and children slowly started to peek out of doors, groggily wiping tired eyes and staring at him in confusion. They obviously thought he'd gone crazy. Perhaps some form of PTSD. Night terrors? There were many different hypotheses.

These trains of thought were all brought to a halt as the ground shook. The villagers murmured in alarm, clutching each other.

"Listen!" cried the man with the tattoos. "Listen! Footsteps, can you hear them?"

They could. They needed no further prompting. Like a well-oiled machine, everyone sprang into action. Men dashed for the weapons hut, dressing themselves as they went. Women guided children and the elderly into the woods, bringing supplies with them in case they needed to hide for a long period of time.

The man watched, still breathing hard, but satisfied. He hadn't needed to worry. His people were ready. They were prepared. They could handle themselves.

He unstrapped his mirror, holding it before him once more. The wise choice would be to get rid of it. It could hinder him in battle, provide an easy handle for an enemy, and was basically useless without Trico by his side.

The man returned it to its place, strapping it a bit tighter, and ran to get a spear.

The warriors were just beginning to formulate a battle plan when the first armor burst through the trees.

Far away, two large beasts were traveling, side by side on a narrow path.

The older one perked his ears, flicking his stubby tail.

They were getting closer.

He was going to see his boy.