They'd known for lengths of sun light that this engagement was coming. The Old Guard and the King spent many spans of passing in discussion of tactics and battle plans. Their troops were selected carefully from among the eldest living. Those who'd seen one too many seasons or more volunteered for the assault, the warren humming with the songs of thier deeds and victories; rhythms of honor and pride that they would meet their end as they chose.

Even the youngest still nestled 'neath his mother's fur with his ears soft and tender knew there was little chance of the army's returning. It was a good death, a glorious end to their days.

There was the scent of dragon on the wind, young and mature. Two of the great Sky Lords that none of their number had ever had the chance to face before. The company would go down in history for that act alone.
Males and females, there was no gender-bias among them, they made their farewells to their blood-line with both affection and formality. They'd made their peace with this life and were one and all more than ready to discover what lay on the other side of the Silver River.

Their mates and eldest children escorted them up the runs that would lead them to the battlefield, then turned blind eyes to their passing from sight. From that moment forward, the company was to a one dead.
Those females with litters younger than three weeks chivvied their children along hidden tunnels deeper into the earth; the youngest generation must be preserved. Those with older children began moving through the tunnels to the far reaches of the warren; they'd take to the woods once the battle was done and wait for their chance to rebuild if it came.

For hundreds of generations their race had lived in these woods, in this warren. Among a race that knew no fear, they felt a keening sadness that their great home would likely not survive the night. To the victor go the spoils after all and there was little doubt that the humans and dragons would allow their stronghold to survive. Afterall that was what they would have done.

The battle, when it came, was swift and vicious. Even considering the differences in size and mass for the combatants there was a brutal beauty in the clash of peoples that night in the woods.

Moonlight caught and glittered over weapons and scales, horns and fur; the light of conflict shined in the eyes of those on both sides. Bravery and valor scented the air as much as blood and adrenaline. And when it was done, when it was over, there were truths to be faced when memories resurfaced.

Two dragons and two humans met weapon to weapon with one hundred Al-mi'raj warriors in the moonlit glade that marked the center of the land in contention. The woman, the female, showed herself a worthy opponent by scoring her hand to let the scent of her own blood ride the wind; by volunteering as bait to draw them out.

And it worked. Even though the female wound up scrambling up a tree (what was it with humans and trees?), even though those that fell sleeping to the thorns that flew from the sticks the female and male held on their perches, even though the Sky Lords could not be damaged by their horns, the warriors fought on.

Quickly. Quickly as all sorties are when one side is not prepared for what they face. In less than half an hour the hollow was a charnel house. One hundred warriors lay dead whether they were crushed or slahsed or had their necks broken. They'd died as they lived, proud warriors one and all facing their enemies with their heads high and their horns seeking flesh.

One female with her litter of half-grown children flanking her left cover too soon, chose the wrong path at the wrong time, and joined the warriors in crossing the Silver River; her children were taken, the eldest struck one final blow to their captor's posterior before being imprisoned. Their father, the female's mate, lay among those crushed to pulp with the rolling of the youngest Sky Lord.

Many of her contemporaries, while vexed by the loss of her children, commented on her lack of sense with much head shaking and tsking chuffs. She'd always been a foolish female, seemed her great-grandmother's blood ran too true in her; that one hadn't been one of the People.

And so it was that the Great Battle and those Brave Companions who fought it came to pass.

What happened after, remained a divine mystery to the warren. The sun rose, the sun set again, and the sun rose as it always did. The cattle did not return, the humans and Sky Lords did not dig them out.
Life in the warren, continued much as it had for all their generations.

The warren was alive, buzzing with the news that the She, much smaller than any of them remembered or expected, was following one who was-and-was not one of them through the runs and corridors.

Warily the People watched the small procession pass, ready for an attack at any moment and curious about the possible reasons behind this. The She came among them dressed as a warrior of her people (though how anyone could fight encased in any sort of metal was still beyond even the most wise among their number) and walked with her head high, back straight and eyes forward. There was some purpose here that they could not divine.

Through the halls she followed her lolloping grandfather in his current chosen form, the urge to at least acknowledge those who peered out from the mouths of intersecting tunnels held in check. She'd really rather not issue an invitation for a fight, or a tumble by nodding the wrong way.

Thorn's sense of time, something that was already screwed, and distance were warped by the fact that she was now a good four feet shorter than she usually was; by the time they reached the King's Hall, she had no idea how long they'd been wandering through the earth, or how far they'd gone.

In grey scale vision she eyed the King, a grizzled creature of a relative young age. Probably a veteran of many battles and hunts, a hulking, slab shouldered brute with a glint of suspicion and respect in his eyes.

"I am Thorn and I have come to speak with the proven King about peace between our peoples." The redneck twang bled away from her voice leaving it crisp and clear, if a bit lacking in its usual warmth and easy affection. She watched, inwardly goggling at the ritualized movements Cellin underwent in his role of translator. And bit the inside of her cheek hard to keep her lips from twitching at the squeak-snuffle-chuffing that went along with the gesticulation.

The King's actions were concise almost to the point of being brusque and his, godshelpher, chittering held a ring of bunny authority. "He is Hazel." The King's name was indeed not Hazel, that was the name Cellin and Thorn had agreed upon after she'd finished filling the druid in on the current situation. Richard Adams was probably spinning in his grave like an axle. "Watch me close now."

With the heads up delivered, Cellin hopped forward a length while Hazel did the same. The two began circling each other, staring into each other's eyes the entire time. One circuit in each direction and not a step more, then they sidled backwards to their original places.

And Hazel turned his attention to Thorn, obviously expecting the same greeting. Concessions would of course be made, in theory, to the fact that she was handicapped by walking on two legs instead of four as like all civilized creatures. Eye-to-eye nearly they circled each other before retaking their places on opposite sides of the chamber.

"You now have the Little Truce, it'll hold until we're out of the warren again. Unless of course you can manage to come up with a treaty, then it'll become the Big Truce,and there'll be peace." Cellin was doubtful they'd manage to pull this off, and it showed.

For several long moments the three simply stared at each other while the expectancy in the air built.

Then Cellin spoke again. "Well, give him a bribe girl."

"A what? I didn't bring anything with me." The fact that Cellin's bunny face registered both disbelief and the sort of patience you'd have for an obtuse child, didn't help.

"Well, is there anything you <i>did</i> bring that might speed this along? Or, if not speed things up, at least open the table up?"

She eyed Cellin wryly. "Everything on me requires thumbs, or y' know, fingers at least."

Hazel watched the two curiously, apparently the She wasn't as well trained in negotiation as she was in battle.

"Can you get something then? C'mon girl, you've gotta have something lying around the house."

"I've. I've gotta roast in the fridge. Prime beef roast, supposed to be for dinner tomorrow night. I can pull that here." At what she took for Cellin's approving nod she shifted her focus to Hazel. "I have a gift for King Hazel, but I must make a light to bring it here."

She waited only long enough for the translations to go both ways before snapping a wrist out and up to trade the belled rings for blades, murmuring the word that would limn her hand in flames. Opened a Gate to the counter in the kitchen. Pulled the roast through. Doused both the flames and the blades and took a step back.

Hazel's frame flooded with tension, as much for the roast's arrival, or nearly so, as for the sudden flames in his Hall. Fire and fluffy creatures did not mix well. His actions and verbalizations took on the look and sound of being barked, bitten off sharply.

"Why do you bring the Treaty Feast? -- Apparently that's his job, once the treaty's been agreed on that is." Cellin, as well as Hazel, eyed Thorn. One in curiosity, the other in suspicion.

"I'm the one asking for peace, I came to you, I brought the feast." Made sense to her, sort of. She kept eye contact with Hazel while she spoke and during Cellin's translating.

If anything the Al-mi'raj's suspicion turned smug, "then you shall take the first bite. -- No hands. I added on a bit, said it was a gift for his hungry people as well."

She'd done odder things, she was sure of it. Problem was she couldn't bring any to mind currently. With an accepting, so she hoped, nod, Thorn moved forward to gnaw off a hunk of the beef. Chewed. Swallowed. Stepped back.

The challenging lift of a brow needed no translation really and it wasn't long at all before Hazel as well was nibbling on the roast. Stamped a hindfoot while looking aside to another Al-mi'raj waited. The buck was quick to spear the hunk of meat and bolt off deeper into the warren with it.

As odd as it was, and it was damn odd, to be negotiating peace with a bunch of rabbits, Thorn relaxed bit by bit. Fell into the rhythm of give and take that was quite a lot like any conversation between people who didn't know each other. With just a slight touch of the possibility of death lurking in the wings to make it interesting. Plus, Cellin's bunny boogie was sort of cute.

The King patted the ground, tamped his hindfeet as though to spring and chittered. "How do you propose to bring peace between us?"

Now that they were down to it Thorn followed her heart, and stuck with the choices she'd made the night before. "The fence stays up, the cattle move to a different section of the woods. We work together as much as possible toward peace. Your people do not hunt mine, my people do not hunt yours. We coexist as much as possible."

"The cattle would not have been a problem if it weren't for the Great Sparks. They keep us trapped here in this warren, in this territory. None of us are safe beyond our borders, they move all the time."

"Great Sparks?"

"Burning things that move and hunt, like the fire on your paws." The King jerked his chin to indicate the handflowers she wore and growled again.

Thorn tipped her head to the right, a toothless smile curving. "Well, let's go kill them then." Readily volunteering for battle against unknown odds and enemies, typical Thorn really. Although, she did take a moment to ask a question. "Why haven't you and your warriors already killed these things, or at least driven them off?"

Hazel snorted, his entire body shivered and shuddered before he fell over twitching. Lay still for a moment then scrambled to his feet again, patting both of his paws on the ground importantly.

Before Cellin could translate Thorn held up a finger. "Lemme guess, being burned to death isn't high on his priority list?" It was a guess really. And one that had Cellin stifling a laugh.

"That, and it has to be the King, and the King alone who defeats them. Some sort of sacred thing among them." One which he hadn't known about before now. "Do you have something that'd help him out?" A furry brow quirked as he watched her tug at her lower lip in thought.

"Well, if he had hands instead of paws I'd just loan him my rings." She flexed her hands for emphasis. "Rings. Rings." Then it clicked. "I've got a ring of fire resistance I don't wear, probably won't ever wear for that matter. Don't need it."

"It'll have to be a pretty high resistance, in case you haven't noticed, he's pretty flammable." Cellin didn't bother trying to hide the notes of amusement.

"It's a Greater Ring, so yeah, 's pretty high. Kept William from getting singed by a young red earlier this year." Impulse, it was a rare thing that she didn't follow through on them when they struck. "I'm making another light."

She watched as Hazel tensed once again, and bit back on the laughter that threatened to burble free during Cellin's translation. The fact that the druid-turned-Al-mi'raj was singing do a little dance, make a little love, get down tonight under his breath did nothing to help in her efforts.

The ring was heavy. Solid, worked gold that had an understated, muted glow of warmth like dying embers. When she pulled it through the shadows Thorn was entertained by the sudden weight difference; normally she didn't recognize how heavy the band was. Due to redneck shrinkage however, it was definitely noticeable.

Hazel eyed the She and the ring she held over her head; it was shiny and promised to rid his people of an ancestral enemy. With surprising dignity he shifted forward, lowering his head, and horn like many a king to accept their rightful crown. Within moments the enchantments layered upon the ring went into affect causing the ring to shrink into a perfect fit around Hazel's horn.

Dubious, understandably so he chuffed a question for Cellin to translate;

"How do I know for certainty that this will do as you say it will?"

Though the question made sense, as did his doubt, Thorn shrugged up a shoulder before once again enacting the spell that turned the decorative hand-flowers into weapons with an upward snap of her wrists. The same word mumured, the key in the lock, and flames outlined both her hands and each of the eight blades.

With care she held her hands out, the points of the blades pointing toward the earth, blunted side up. And tried not to wince with each repeated slap of a damn large hare's paws; testing the strength of the fire resistance in the 'crown'. By the time her hands were aching and her arms felt like lead weights, Thorn's patience ran out.

Hazel reached out to slap one more time, he'd more than half convinced himself to simply rest his paw on the She's hand this time. Thorn stepped forward snake quick and just as fluid, the fingers of her right hand curling into a tight fist even as she pressed the back of that hand against Hazel's nose.

After several long moments of wide eyed tension, Hazel piped a call with something close to a fierce rabbity grin. The call brought forth the warren's shaman

Aged and scarred, blind in one eye with a crumpled left ear the white rabbit shuffled forward with his nose low to the ground. With more dignity than grace the ancient buck clambered over and around Hazel with wet sounding snuffles filling the underground hall. Whatever the purpose of this inspection, and it was a thorough examination, the shaman seemed satisfied.

So satisfied in fact that he called forth his apprentices to decorate Hazel for the Sacred Battle that was to come. Whorls and dots of color were splattered across the King's fur while the shaman churred a rhythmic song that had no translation; or at least none that Cellin was offering. Sacred herbs were laid before the King's feet to purify his mind,body and spirit; and most likely to help take the edge off whatever pain he'd likely wind up in soon enough.

Only when the Rite had been observed to its fullest, did the procession begin. From the Great Hall along straight shot runs Hazel, two veteran warriors, Cellin and Thorn moved. Out into the night air and along hidden paths through the underbrush; their journey lasted nearly half an hour as the rabbit hopped.

The brutal ballet that followed lasted half that long. The Great Sparks that had plagued the warren for years beyond count were in fact elemental vermin. Fire rats less than half the size of an adult Al-mi'raj.

The flames that they seemed made of were their main offense, and defense. The ring made that pretty much ineffective. In the end it came down to tooth and claw, speed and skill. Determination.

And in the end, battered and bloody, Hazel won out over his four opponents. Left their carcasses bloody and torn on the forest floor while he and his escort limped back to the warren with their heads held high and songs of victory splitting the air.

And so it was that King Hazel, recipient of the Crown of The She, defender of Home against all comers, defeater of the Great Sparks, and Thorn, the Great She-queen from across the River, companion to Skylords, master of tiny cattle, brought peace to their peoples.

A new Age had begun among the Al-mi'raj.

A golden age filled with expansion and exploration.

For Thorn, she was just glad there wouldn't be any more blood thirsty rabbits chasing her through the forest trying to kill her.