The wind howled outside, shaking the brittle structure made of thin sticks and thatch. The children huddled around the small fire in the center of the hut, sitting squarely on the ground, their eyes pinned to the pale and stick-thin man who sat on the small rock, on the other side of the fire. He held in his hand a walking stick that had seen one too many storms. His white shredded beard exploded on his face, covering most of it except the sharp blue eyes that burned through. The mysterious sound of thunder rocked the ground the children sat on, causing many of the girls to scream. The boys, though only four or five years old, held their own. They were expected to show no fear.
The rickety door flung open as Tasar, one of the many hunters of the village, ran inside. His hair was soaked from the tears of Lafina, goddess of the sky. “Children, pay attention to great Tasar there, he will make something of himself one day,” the old man said, pointing the crooked stick to the shirtless man who pretended not to be listening. Tasar grabbed more rope that laid in a pile near the door, and headed out, letting the wind slam the latch shut.
“Tell us more of Gemino!” one of the young girls asked. Her hair stuck to her forehead, having been the last one into the hut after the storm began. She sat with her feet folded underneath her, he green eyes locked on the old man sitting above her. A simple buffalo cloth shielded her body from the elements, her feet void of any sandals. She was from the Tasar family, a family of hunters once regarded as esteemed warriors, but now reduced to a minor role of the new Titus farming community. Where at one time her ancestors demanded the respect of hundreds, she has been reduced to a poor rag girl. Still, her eyes teemed with adventure. It was from these families, the hunter families that Titus would one day draw its mighty armies, the old man thought. Nodding his head, he began the story of the Titus tribe, the tribe of Gemino.
“Very well. Countless moons ago, our dear village of Titus did not exist. The farms, the shops, the streets and pigs, all something of the future. Our people wandered aimlessly among the hills, dashing in caves during storms,” he stopped to pause, allowing the children to remember there was a storm outside, one that would have stranded their ancestors centuries ago, “and where all the food came from the hunters. Our people were a peaceful tribe, only ten or fifteen families actually living,” again he paused to catch is breath. How many times had he told this story? He reached for his small wooden cup of water and threw the cool liquid down his starched throat. Clearing his throat, he continued:
“One such storm, not unlike the one outside now,” smiling as a convenient thunder rocked the hut once again, “our people were stuck. They were following a herd of buffalo for weeks, and had lost track of where they were. The chief, one whose name has been lost in history, was a lame one. He enjoyed good meat and neck jewelry then he did leading the people. In any case, the tribe was caught in a fierce storm, one that incurred the wrath of Gigantis himself,” the elder elaborated and threw up his hands, referring to the God of War.
“With no shelter and little food, our people began to panic. Even worse, the children, who usually remained at the end of the pack, were missing. They must have been separated during the fierce storm. The tribe panicking and the chief too incapable to do much about it, one man stood out. Gemino, a man twice the height of Titus (referring to the ruler of the village now) with arms as thick as tree trunks and a mind as sharp as a serpent, declared he would go looking for the children. Men thanked him and women made songs about him as he disappeared into the howling rain.”
“Gemino challenged the fate determined by the Gods?” one of the youngsters asked after standing up. Rösserian culture had always been based on reluctance towards the gods, but this was such a challenge that the children had never heard of.
“Yes, Gemino was certain that the Gods had not meant for innocent children to die. Now, back to the story. Gemino was in no shape, no matter how strong and sturdy he was, to fight a storm in order to find twenty missing children. After thirty minutes, he was forced to the ground by a strong gust of wind, and there he stayed, doubting his ability to go on. At the exact point he decided to turn back, he heard the familiar sound of a Tatine, a horse. No one man had ever dared go near the feared beast, being the messenger of the God of Death. But Gemino had no choice.”
“Mustering up the last bit of strength left, he rose to his feet and shielded his face as he moved towards the two eyes he saw in the distance. Instead of racing off into the rain as soon as Gemino reached it, the horse stared right back at the man. Seeing his chance, Gemino grabbed the mane and swung himself up to the back of the great creature.”
“You mean to say he was the first to ride a horse?” asked one of the boys, a curious look on his face.
“Yes my son, Tatines were too sacred in the times of our ancestors to be ridden as they are today. Many feared their majestic grace,” the old man answered. Confident with the response, the little horse rider sat down again and continued to listen.
“The rest of the story is lost to us, but tradition has it that Gemino returned to the tribe, which was huddled amongst itself in a ditch surrounded by large stones, holding all twenty children within his enormous arms. The horse he rode upon showed no sign of overbearing. As the future of the tribe was secure, Gemino saw the legendary horse run off into the distance, never to be seen again. Some say the horse was none other then Yena, the Horse god,” he finished, using his walking stick to somehow raise himself and straighten his back. Slowing stepping towards the hatch, he pushed it open with the end of his stick. The sun greeted the children who were still sitting quietly in front of the fire. Cheering and exuberant, the small younglings ran outside to the muddy ground.
King Titus, the first of his family, sat down quietly on his stone again. His son, the current King, would soon be back to consult him. Closing his eyes, though, he soon found himself asleep, one that he would never wake up from.
. 
