Her name was Akasha, Chieftain of the Blazing Maw. The mask she wore, carved from the skull of a Crimsonflame Lion she had slain as a youth, was a symbol of her strength, her authority and the heavy burden she was carrying.
Right now, that burden felt heavier than the mountains that flanked their ancestral lands. Many of her tribespeople had been slain by the swarm of insectoids who knew where they came from.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, the coppery taste of blood mixing with the lingering, divine scent of the spicy broth she had consumed moments ago. Her surviving tribespeople huddled behind her. They were injured, terrified, and staring at the shimmering, invisible wall that separated them from certain death.
Outside, the insectoid horde shrieked and scrabbled against the barrier, their oily bodies pressing and their scythe-like claws scraping uselessly against the divine-like light of the formation.
