Tribesman

Gold sunlight stretches across grass taller than a grown man’s waist, and there a Tribesman stands: lean, sinew taught, cloak trimmed with tawny fur, claws sharpened to mimic the lion’s own. His eyes scan the horizon, every ripple of grass a promise of prey—or danger.   He kneels, the golden bands at his arms catching light, then springs forward with a roar borrowed from the savannah kings themselves. Each step is practiced, controlled—used for hunting, for war, for dancing under moonlight. A bow is slung across his back; a spear-tip etched with runes in his hand.