In the beginning, there was nothing. A barren expanse dominated by wind, rock, and earth. For a millennia, upon the barren waste, nature waged war upon itself. From the bowels of the sea to its highest peaks, the world was covered in storm.

It would change in an instant. In thunder and in fire.

It was a stroke from the sky that woke the earth where life laid within. In fire and earth, the first ones were molded, and they rose from it in an unbridled mass; in the image of the chaos from which they came. They raged across the plain, a thousand hoof beats echoing upon soft ground, and the fury of nature bowed before them.

It was the first movements of the herd, and like nature, it warred upon itself. Horns clashed, spilling native blood in an unending conflict that spanned both the light and the dark of the world. A wild stampede raged across the plain, ripping down any that stood in its path. An age passed. The herd thinned, its lost numbers cast down upon the jagged rocks of the earth. In the wake of the conflict, only a single tribe remained.

As was their nature, the last ones turned their fury within.

They would not have lasted. It would have been the last days of those who had been formed of nature’s fire, but if not for one of them who saw beyond the conflict. Long had he listened to the wind, and in the tribe’s greatest need, it spoke to him. It showed him the path they must take.

In the midst of the final conflict, the First One drove his hoof to the ground and lightning erupted from the clear sky with a thunderclap. In the wake of it, the earth shook, and the last tribe broke from each other.

After an age of warring, the unending conflict paused for the briefest of moments.

With the break of battle, the winds rose from the earth and circled the First One in a tumult, whipping dark forms into creation at its edges. On the wind, these beings soared, half creatures of both life and spirit. They circled the storm, following it to its heart where the First One stood. Their flight ended there and they perched upon him. Into his ear, they whispered the secrets of the world.

The last tribe looked on with awe and wonder. In reverence, they bowed to the "one who walked with ravens and storms". He looked down upon them, armed now the wisdom of the earth, and addressed them in the first utterance they had ever known.

They would learn much before the end, forming the commandments of the tribe from the whispers of nature, but in the beginning there was only this single sound. A howl for battle. A cry of victory. A solemn greeting for those who began of earth and fire. The tribe of Dire Beef, formed with a single word.

"Moo."

--As recorded by Jaketartaren the Elder