[ WP ] You live in a world where spilled mammalian blood becomes a toxic gas . As a result , warfare since time immemorial has gone to great pains to avoid breaking the skin and all sharp edges are considered recklessly dangerous .

The jungles became a nightmare. Our dreams haunted by them after the slaughter. The branches came to embody our fear and hatred. We have considered burning them, but would be left without means to fight this war. 
 
 When the Hyena Clan first attacked, they came from the tree's. Their knots tightening around the throats of our pickets. We awoke to the sound of sheep being stolen, and the rough gargling of crushed windpipe. 
 
 I remember the fear as I swung my thick garrote free of my waist and clamored to my feet. My war-chief was being crushed under the vice of a Grip - a pronged weapon developed from a cooking tool used to flip meat favored by the Hyenas.. His throat destroyed as the twin wooden prongs clenched tighter. 
 
 I snapped my hand out. The weight in the cloth eased it's flight as it hooked around his neck. Physics did the rest, forcing the weight to catch and spin. Wrap, crush, and strangle. Words to live by these days. 
 
 With a knee on his back, and both hands pulling the cloth as tight as possible, he fell dead. A red ring, slowly bruising purple, was the sign of my victory. 
 
 We rallied and chased them out. We pursued to far. Nooses launched from the branches. Catching limbs and necks. The throwing party jumping from the branches, their fall slowed by the weight of their prey raising into the air. Leg's kicking and arms fighting to loosen the rope. 
 
 An errant knife slash to free a companion from his noose cuts the flailing hand of that same friend. The reddish mist rose slightly, a small cut, but enough to poison the now bleeding man into near instant death. 
 
 We fought through the tree's into the clearing we use to practice the cloth whip. And in this, the opening battle became the last for my clan. We charged, drunk with anger and hate. The Hyena's exiting into the far copse of trees. 
 
 Then they came. Herded forward by death itself. Our loved ones. Children. Women. Elders. The infirm. Pushed onward by *katchiti's*, long spears. The sharped edge meant to be the death of us all. 
 
 Some of the women gave fight, only to be speared on the spot, the mist taking the children in their line with them. 
 
 And when the lines were close enough, the spears lashed out. Thrusting deep into our families as the blood mist engulfed us. Poison filling lungs, we fell. 
 
 I alone escaped through the line. 
 
 And for that, our most trusted allies, is why I, the last of the Crow Clan, appeal to you. It has been 5 years now, and I come again. I appeal for vengeance. I appeal for justice. Raise your garrotes high. Join your sash with mine as we take from the Hyena's what they took from us. The land retaken is yours. All I ask is for you to join me, and let your ropes be thrown true.
