Thri-Kreen, nature's chosen.


Wants to find the Kreen uniter, to ensure he is fit to lead the Kreen.
Wants to bring any useful knowledge of survival to the Kreen people.
Wants the Kreen to reach higher than the species has ever before.


The soft-skins, dark and pale, know so little of us; whether Drow or Exile, they think us backwards savages who can’t understand swordplay. Almost worse than Pak-cha if you ask me, they can’t comprehend the skill needed to craft an axe from the jawbone of your fallen enemy, or any of the arts my people have forgotten. Even I had forgotten…

My clutch was K’kivir, Red Eyes, and our tribe was so insignificant it barely warranted a name. We were good at fighting though, and kept us alive. One day though, one day… a group of elders came through. Elders man, elders were crazy. Can you imagine, one of us, the Kreen, living to see clutches come and go? One of them had to be at least 32! They came and spoke to us, telling us rumors of a Kreen preaching, unifying, talking about some glorious united tribe, all of the Kreen working together, like we were all of one clutch. It was madness, and more so, unfeasible. The Kreen didn’t think of taking more, of controlling land. We thought of finding enough meat to make it to the next day, so we could hunt for food for that day, and so on. They were explaining about some kinda story that’s been handed down for “Gen’rations”? I don’t know that word. I didn’t understand much. I wasn’t as, wordy, back then as I am now… I can’t even remember much. Hunger. Rage.. Anyways, the story they handed was one they said other Elders had seen, that a day would come, where a uniter would walk the Hive. Bring the Tribes together. The All-clutch. They spoke of the caverns themselves… no. Something in the caverns, of the caverns. A spirit. It would find its own champion. Raise it, create it, make it strong. And it would do for them what they could not. Interfere, judge this Uniter. Weigh him, measure him, and if need be, crush him. And then they attacked.

A tribe we had embarrassed cycles earlier, the Pak-cha, returned. In force. It had to be every member they had that could fend for themselves. They expected a slaughter. They certainly got one. They started with the elders, chatchka ripping through their carapace like a hot knife through fat. Our tribe stuck to the precepts, unarmed and unprepared for battle with our elders visiting. The peace was supposed to be sacred. We gave our everything, but still, we fell. I lay, bleeding in a circle of our fallen; the scum not even finishing us all off before feasting. And my vision flashed. First green, it was like nothing I had ever seen. “You…. You will stand, and you. Will. Judge.” My sight went to a much more natural reaction to the atrocity around me. Red. My fury felt like an actual flame in my thorax, knitting my wounds together. It felt like a palpable thing in the air, blocking swings I didn’t know were there, strengthening my arms to crush skulls. Not one stood, when I was done. And their young can starve, I will not rescue hatchlings, even if they’ve committed no sins.

I was chosen. I know why. The caves themselves told me, so much; the lost art of crafting a gythka not from stone, but from our own venom, the truth of why I was chosen. I will find the Uniter. I will judge him, and if need be, I will crush him just like I am told. I was chosen for the same reason anyone knew of my tribe. Red Eyes were always known for their implacable rage. And Nature is too.


Infra Vorial