Beastkin tribes moved slowly along the wastes of the Steppe, keeping their keen eyes trained on the lowland shrubbery and grasses to spot moments of opportunity. Game, sources of water, plant fibres, wild herbs and camouflaged predators--spending their lives inside of a country where only the strongest survived had given them a unique hardiness that was somewhat rare in members of other races. Barion, too, had been tempered by those lands in his younger days.
The plains of Ip were not especially sacred or consecrated, he had learned. Rather, its centremost location allowed for the least hassle when multiple tribes agreed to come together. Only one feature of the land had given it any form of divinity, which neither Pale nor the tribe's elder wanted to spoil for Barion or Fusala before they arrived at their destination. As the Rabbitkin grew weak thanks to their dwindling supplies, a feeling of hope grew among them as they neared the plains, and after overcoming a final hillside crest, there was a strange sight on the horizon.
A tower, or something quite like a tower--a monolith, was embedded in the earth at an angle, as if it had been fired from some great contraption. Leaning like that, there were no particular features on its surface which appeared to be made of some reflective material akin to iron. Even skewed, it stood so tall as to break the mid-spring cloud cover. Even more impressive were the countless silhouettes that appeared to sway at its base. Like the petals of a flower, tents of all shapes and sizes were spread out from the cylindrical structure. It was a conglomerate of hundreds of thousands of Beastkin tribes. From atop that hill, it was as if they were staring as Gods down upon their subjects.
"What do you think, then?" From behind Barion, Pale spoke, "Only once a year are so many of our kind gathered in a single place, and only here are we bound by an oath of peace."
"Who organises this?" He asked, "Is there a leader?"
"Those who are called 'Shep'--representatives of the Beastkin, are responsible for mediating dilemmas and speaking broadly to all. Mantan, our elder, is one such man. While we are not the only Rabbitkin tribe here, Mantan represents our kind as a whole. That is why he's grateful to you for allowing us to take from your wagon freely."
"And the tower? Or… is it a tower?"
"Centuries ago, it was said to have fallen from the very stars." Pale answered, "No tools of ours have proven strong enough to pierce its shell, nor are there any entrances to speak of. Whatever sort of metal it is, there is no fire hot enough to melt it and no hammer capable of denting it, making the material impossible to work. A shame, considering how durable it seems."
"Is this the only one?"
"In the Steppe, to be certain. As for whether there are more elsewhere, I cannot say." Finishing with that, she smacked him squarely on the back, "But enough questions. A human should be honoured to witness the summit in its full glory. Why not get on your hands and knees and offer thanks that we were able to see you here safely?"
"Wouldn't you have all starved to death if we hadn't shown up?"
"A few days without food is nothing new to us." Pale crossed her arms, "Those who cannot cope--they die, and the tribe is better off for it. The weak shouldn't be allowed to survive. Only the strongest of us will live long enough to ensure the continuation of our lineages."
"How's that going for you? I don't see the men of this tribe falling at your feet."
"Hrmph." Puffing her chest out, she grinned, "So you say, but I have proven myself in the rites. When once we children were tasked with stealing the eggs of a Cockatrice at dawn, I returned with the creature's head! Any male of this tribe could be mine."
"Why not pick one, then?"
"T-The men of my kind have grown soft! I would only be satisfied with a male worthy of my strength!" She stammered, "I don't suppose you, a trader of all things, have had much luck bedding mates?"
"I'm not a kid, you know…" Barion muttered, "I've been around. Done it plenty."
"I-Is that so!?" Pale nodded her head, "Hm…"
There was a moment of silence, and just after Barion broke eye contact, he felt a tugging on his sleeve, looking back to see a beet-faced girl that bore no resemblance to the hunter he'd come to know.
"W-" She paused, "What does it feel like?"
"You can't just ask somebody a question like that! What are you, a pervert!?"
"It's best to prepare myself, isn't it!?" She yelled, "I've heard it can be painful!"
"Yeah, maybe if you hand your first time off to a fucking moron! What sort of man doesn't try to make a woman wet before he jams it in!? Ever heard of foreplay!?"
"F-F-F-Foreplaaaay!?" The girl covered her eyes.
"...This is stupid." Barion said, simmering down, "We've got a summit to get to, right?"
"W-We do…" She frowned, "I hope this conversation has not altered your perception of me."
"It has."
It wasn't soon after their enlightening discussion that the tribe began to move down the hill fully, merging with the chaotic swarm of Beastkin about a half-hour later. The metallic tower seemed even larger up close, with the eyes straining as they followed its perfectly-reflective exterior up to the layer of clouds which obscured its peak. Setting up camp at the edge of the summit-swarm, elder Mantan informed both Barion and Fusala that they were free to visit other tribes, so long as they were on their best behaviour.
"And, please be careful about introducing your Homunculus." He warned, "As I've said before, there are less tolerant tribes than us. Scarce few Beastkin have ever laid eyes upon such a creature."
"May I ask precisely how this summit operates?" Fusala questioned.
"Close to the tower, most Shep will have congregated by now. Most of our pledges are easily renewed, though there are some long discussions to be shared regarding trade. While other tribes arrive, it's likely that the summit will last for a few days more."
The Steppe had no central government or local authorities to speak of, so it was only natural that the verbal exchanging of vows and alliances had become a yearly affair since the defeat of the Demon King. As Barion and Fusala wandered from camp to camp, the nearby Foxkin and Wolfkin tribes also seemed to be suffering from a deficit of supplies.
"It is intriguing to imagine the metamorphosis this country would have undergone, had their allegiance to the Holy Alliance persisted." Fusala mused, "A central structure of authority would be far more efficient for the development of society and technology at large."
"That's true, but imagine how it would be for the first-generation adopters of government." Barion replied, "Constructing larger settlements, creating power structures, ordering supply chains, drafting laws, legislation, rights… and it's not just about how complicated it is, either. What happens to the Beastkin who can't adapt? Certainly, they'll eventually be replaced with a new generation acclimated to society, but that first hurdle is what bothers people. Nobody wants to deal with the short-term effects of lending the Steppe any kind of sovereignty."
There was a moment of silence.
"...Fusala?" He looked towards his shadow.
"Barion." She replied, "Do you hear something?"
Focusing, he immediately heard the sounds of chatter and busywork among the summit tribes, and the low rushes of wind cascading across the open plain. But there, deep within that vortex of sound, there was another, barely-audible echo. It was the sound of movement, or commotion--a difficult thing to describe, but quite distinctive in its violent throes separate from anything else.
"...Is it, a stampede?" He furrowed his brow, "I remember seeing a herd of Feris when I was young… when they ran, it was almost deafening how much sound they made…"
Just then, a sensation made itself known. A kind of soft rumbling, one so gentle as to be unfelt by anyone who wasn't focusing deeply at that moment. Beneath his shoes, the ground had begun to vibrate.
"Something is…" He closed his eyes, "...Coming?"
For reasons unknown to even him, a chill ran down Barion's spine. An intrusive thought, lasting for a fraction of a second, but in that instant so overwhelming as to grip him with a pronounced worry. His breathing quickened. Without an inkling of it existing before, some sort of sickness, like the feverish thoughts that accompanied a disease, rose up in his throat.
"Fusala." He spoke.
"Barion, you appear to be suffering from an elevated level of stress. Is everything well?"
"I-I don't know." He answered, "I feel like… like I'm about to vomit, or something."
"Is it possible that you are experiencing hunger pangs? If need be, we may check-"
"I need to see it." Craning his head, he stared towards the horizon over his shoulder, "That noise. These tremors. I need to see what it is right now."
"It appears my words have distressed you. Please rest assured that it is most likely-"
Without another word, Barion broke off from her side into a dizzying sprint, launching himself towards the edge of the plain's basin. Blinking, but quick to react, Fusala subsumed the earth beneath her feet and chased after him as an undulating shadow upon the ground. It was quite incredible how fast he was moving--much faster than a human would normally be capable of.
The raised lip at the edge of the horizon blocked a clear view into the distance. Amidst the swarm of Beastkin who had come together that day, there was no seeing over its edge with any kind of certainty. After around 10 minutes of sprinting, Barion barely seemed exhausted at all as he bounded the incline and halted nearabouts its top, followed shortly by Fusala, who appeared to have expended great effort keeping up with him.
"Barion…" She panted, taking a human form again, "What is the matter? This is not like you."
"Where did they come from?" His voice wasn't particularly bothered or disturbed, but his eyes--the expression on his face, told a different story.
"...E-Excuse me?" Fusala was taken aback.
"We destroyed them all. I know we did." He paused, "...We did, didn't we?"
Feeling the beginnings of an emotion that was not well-known to her, Fusala broke her gaze and instead looked over to the wide-open horizon beyond the plains of Ip, spotting nothing at first but quickly noticing a kind of phenomenon in the distance--a dust cloud, appearing like a desert storm from the west, and behind its translucent curtain of dirt and sand danced innumerable silhouettes, not one of them humanoid in the slightest. Vast, monstrous shadows, like moving mountains, whose appendages and tongues stretched chaotically behind that merciful facade of dust.
"...Are those-"
Pausing to exhale a breath she didn't realise she was holding, Fusala began again.
"Are those…" She blinked, "Demons?"