Elevators are Scary!
Fen. A world of chaos. Tectonic upheaval, environmental changes the likes of which spell the end of life on most worlds, with average temperatures fluxing as much as 30 degrees centigrade over as short a span as 3 years. Home to only a single sapient race of highly adaptable nomads: The Feni. Far from the top of the food chain on their world, they’ve survived on the instincts of Fight or Flight and an ingrained and nigh-unstoppable urge to protect the the young and females from predators.
A gathering of tribes had been convened; an event to trade stories and song, for tribes to mingle, alliances to be formed and friendships renewed, and above all, blood to mingle to keep the species strong. An event that took place when the stars aligned every few years. Depending on the song you hear, it was anywhere between five and twelve tribes that had come together that year. One thing they all have in common, however, was the events of that night.
The triplet moons of Argos, Vek and Seek hung high and bright in the sky, the shattered edges of Ambroth and Gilea peeking along the far horizon in their never ending chase to catch their children. Odd this year was the trail of blue behind the triplets; An ill omen said some, a promise of blessings of a good future said others. And then chaos.
Of the nearly four thousand souls gathered that night, a quarter were never seen again. If they were left behind or simply lost to the either, the songs give no hints. The very ground the tribes had come together on was taken with them. What had been a warm spring evening suddenly found the gathering herds unprepared for the blizzard beset upon them, and the horrors of white that lived within. Most survived. Many died defending the tribes. As many songs of heroism of that night have been remembered as have been forgotten as time dragged on.
The herds fragmented, making the best of what they had, as they had always done. The urge to live, survive, and deal with the hand they were dealt, along with their very nature, let the deer-men adept to their new world… A world filled with creatures that were much like the Feni, but with tools that could kill from afar far more effectively then their own simple tools. A world filled with creatures that could talk. A world that was truly alien compared to their home. It was the creatures that lived in the world that changed, rather then the land itself.
Some ten generations later, the songs were still sung, but the stories of Home were just that: Stories. Not a single living Feni knew what Fen was like. Still, some traditions held true. The gathering of the tribes still takes place, though now it seems to be an event that happens once or twice in a generation, rather then something that happens every few years; the world may be dangerous, but the need for adaptation to the changing world itself, rather then the treats it contains has faded. The number of tribes fluxes, but for the most part, some three hundred years after their kind had come to Earth, there are eight major bloodlines: The Runningards, The Stewards, The Razor-Tongues, The Betamax, The Darkwood, The Rain-hammers, The Swift-Hoof, and The Followers of Migh.