You wish for a story so I will tell you of the death of the Mandrills, the coming of our doom.

Some 5 years ago by my worlds time a great battle shook the realms of men and the very
heavens themselves. My homelands were far from the epicenter of this war, being what you
would call a swamp it was of little import to any outside it’s borders, but the final acts of that war
would bring great upheaval to my people and doom an entire species. Far, far to the west;
beyond the edges of the swamp, beyond the great grass sea, beyond mountainous peaks they
say a great forest kingdom stood, and burned. The western skies raged for eight days and
nights. A spectacle that amused children and worried elders but neither smoke nor ember would
reach our lands protected as we were by distance and favorable winds. For a few brief days
things were calm and life returned to normal, the distant inferno destined to become nothing
more than an interesting footnote.

Then the first dead Mandrill was found.

My people respect and rever nature and many animals are sacred to us. The Crocolids who rule
over water, the Serpents who hold dominion over the land, the Mandrills who claimed the
treetops and the Jaguar who reigned over all. While not untouchable we have never hunted
these sacred creatures, only killing them in defense if escape or appeasment were not possible.
So when a small hunting band found a troop of Mandrills, bound in strong grey-white cords and
drained of all life whatever had killed them had to have been both strong and very fast to catch
the Mandrills, something even the great Jaguar could struggle with. Within an hour of that first
sign of trouble the hunting party was under attack. They decended without warning, no sound
other than the soft rustle of leaves and screams of men. The Spiders, the best name for them at
least, are smaller than the ones that dwell here but are easily the size of a large dog and the
numbers; my Gods the numbers must have seemed endless in those first days. Of the six men
that first found them only two returned. Had only one come back to tell the tale the elders may
not have believed him, but providence returned to us two, the number still holds a special place
among us for this reason. The wrath of the Spiders was absolute, whole villages were overrun
and set to the flame, some groups took to their boats preferring the cold dread of the Crocalid
over the wrath of the Spider, lashing their rafts together into communities that still remain to this
day.

Our people have no true kingdom to speak of, we live off the land, trading and sharing with any
who dwell in the swamp, our warriors are fishermen and hunters not soldiers. So with frog-spear
and arrow they fought against these silent devils, but it was always a delaying tactic, hoping to
slow the tide so that the young and old could be evacuated though no knew to where. Trapped
between the sea and encroaching swarm most expected to die on the shores if they made it that
far. Groups of fleeing families and villages met up and eventually an army of a few thousand
was born. Soon it was decided that a stand must be made, trees were rarely felled on purpose
in those days but with the strength in their backs and the few pack animals that had survived
they created a massive clearing, a killing field. It was Yaa Asantewaa, now counted as our
great hero, who lead the defense. Every able bodied person was given some tool with
which to fight with, a ring of steel in the center of this plain, and within the ring stood the
elder and sickly; a last wall between the children, the future, and death. With no trees
the leap from it was hoped that the spiders main advantage would be taken from them,
strong and fast they liked to leap onto the backs of their prey and drive them through
with with wickedly barbed stingers the length of a mans forearm. Without the trees they
thought they stood a chance, but they didn’t yet understand was that these creatures
weren’t mindless killers, they were cunning. The warriors knew for hours before the
attack that it was coming, the creatures had them totally surrounded, staying just within
the treeline. Day crept into night and still they waited. No fire was lit though many
bonfires had been erected but Yaa Asantewaa ordered they be saved for when the
assault began so they stood in the cold damp dark for hours as their fears rose. They
say all stood and fought, that non tried to run or cowered but I have faced these things
before, and I fled. The battle was joined just before dawn, as if a master tactican was
controlling the beasts. Yaa Asantewaa gave the oder and a dozen fires were lit,
momentarily halting the Spider’s charge. The light, now glinting off hundreds of
multifaceted eyes turned the field into a sea of red crimson death, a fitting name for the
place which remains to this day. Arrow and sling-shot rained out and spiders were cut
down by the dozens but it did little to halt the advance and as the grey dawn of day
crept up the mists started to rise, tempering the once raging bonfires. At this the Spiders
surged forward, empting the forest of their numbers in preparation for the coming feast.
It was then, dawns first light that the howling began. From out of the forest came a
terrible and beautiful noise and it is said that both the warriors and Spiders stopped at
the sound of it. From all around the circle they came, Adders, Boas, Boars, Crocalids,
Salamanders, Mandrills, Jaguars, clouds of insects and every lesser creature
imaginable surged into the clearing and began thrashing Spiders with claw, fang and
hoof. The Swamp had come defend it’s own. Only a handful of Spiders survived that
day, eascaping back into the forest where their descendants still haunt us to this day.
Few humans survived that day as well, of the estimated five thousand only seventeen
hundred remained to continue our culture. I have walked on this hallowed field that now
serves as a memorial and even now the scars of that day have not fully faded, the talon
that hangs from my neck belonging to one of our great defenders, taken with the elders
blessing.

The Mandrills were lost to us that day. The last of them was a heavily pregnant female
who had gotten too close to one of the bonfires and it’s fur had caught alight. It was
seen running into the forest; chasing Spiders. For that heroic reason all warriors of my
people are called Fire Mandrills. Not one has been seen since and the Spiders now
reign in the trees.