Do Mugu thumbed the magic paint across his sagging brow, across his scarred cheeks, and down his hooked nose. Glinting on the horizon, a premonition of war was waiting to come alive. Fingering pointedly, he made openings in his matted black hair—in those holes he affixed dandy flowers, clean rat bones, and the caps of bright, red, poisonous mushrooms. Finally, the Arch Shaman of the Xangu Basin completed his battle garb with resplendent jade feathers; each plume trailed out down his leathery back like the glimmering tail of a mythical land fish.

The wind washed the scent of destruction through the sea of grass. To damped the sun's blaze, he shaded his eyes. "They are coming," Gum conceded contently. At his side were two thorny faced warriors. The flanking fighters were braced by their capacity: young enough to be bold, but seasoned with the settling spice of past victories.

"Become the tree roots, comrades," Do Mugu instructed with sage conviction. And so his allies fled, to the ground they went. Each Xanguan champion took to the tight tunnels like moles. Meanwhile, their commander—Arch Shaman, Gum do Mugu—remained in the field; his role was to be history's lightning rod.

Or, could it be, the Imperials would fall into the trap?

Maybe the Castigars would send outriders?

Or, what if, just what if... Shinsou himself would appear from the glare of the morning sun?

But, most likely, nothing at all would happen...