Struggle lay at the heart of life, none more alive than those in contention for it. None more dead than those who sought to hide. Worth remained the only quality of importance. What did one offer the tribe? Strength? Knowledge? Cunning? These traits demonstrated one's value.
Cast aside were the old ways born in decadent times before the moon burned: Coin. Trinkets. Inheritance. Even ties of blood became worthless, no matter one's parentage. None held this maxim more truly than the Varn, for whom lesser men might assign great import by virtue of birth. Simpletons. There were no heirs-apparent, no claimants on the throne. In such thinking wormed weakness and its rot. For even one worthless Prince would mean death for all, no matter his father's might nor his mother's sorcery.
One proved their value, or one perished. The rite of passage became more than mere transition from child to adult. Those of value returned. Of the others, none cared. Useless meat on useless bones.
Worth proved difficult to gain, and trivial to toss aside.
