[ WP ] In a world where humans never became the dominant species , your tribe is one of the last groups of your species left before humans go extinct .

`` You will tell this story to your children, and they to to their children.'' The old man said confidently as he walked his apprentice to the Wall of Stories. He was a scrawny thing even when wrapped in the furs of a bear, and was made no more imposing by his toothless smile amidst a nest of gray briar. Yet despite his silhouette the man had a certain gravity about him, likely helped by the black eyes that seemed to see through souls. He led the girl deep into the cave, left hand touching the wall as he went, as though feeling his way despite the light. 
 
 At last, they came to The Wall of Stories. The greatest chamber of the cave, opening up so wide that the majority of the space remained dark even with the old man's torch. The orange light illuminated hundreds of painted animals, men, women, hand prints, glyphs, and scenes of hunting, nature, and life. The People of the Red Cliff had been leaving their stories on the wall for as long as anybody could remember, even before the sky broke. As he found the beginning of the works, he turned at last to his charge. `` Tell it to me.'' 
 
 The future shaman, a girl of barely 10 winters, had seen the Wall many times. She was small, even for her age, with big icy eyes and wiry hair the color of mud. She was thin, like everyone else, despite being doted upon by half the tribe. Memory was her strength; the stories were as familiar to her as animal calls were to the hunters. She hovered her hand over the scenes, careful not to touch the wall lest she ablate the tribe's history. 
 
 `` The People of the Red Cliff have dwelled in these lands for as long as can be remembered,'' she began while waving a hand over a scene of men and women. `` We drove the bear from his cave, and hunted the deer, and gave our dead to the earth. Our ancestors still dwell here, as we will dwell here forever.'' 
 
 The old man listened skeptically to her speech, surprised at the lack of errors. She told of the many families of the tribe, of wars with their neighbors, of diseases, of births, deaths, rituals. All in detail, all above the relevant painting. She would do perfectly. 
 
 `` The sky broke long ago, when our grandfather's father was a boy.'' She took her hand to a section where scenes of oridary life had been covered in ash, nearly destroying what was painted beneath. `` The spirit of the sky left us, giving us only gray clouds. The blue of the sky is gone now. The sun itself is dimmed.'' 
 
 She went on, describing the deaths of rival tribes and the decline in animals. The dearth of edible plants, the long winters, the diseases. The old man watched her hand pass over the bloody scenes of combat, the nauseating scenes of sickness, and the terrible scenes of cannibalism. It would be get job to keep their colors from fading, though her memory served well enough. 
 
 `` The children born to our people rarely survive. It has been ten winters since a child survived a winter, though several have been born. Many of the tribe are restless, and seek new lands in which to dwell.'' And at this her hand swept to a vast unpainted wall, untouched but for the soot of the fires that burned here for many years. `` But in all directions, they found only ash. This is the land of the People of the Red Cliff. This is where we survive.'' 
 
 The old man nodded; as near a gesture as he could give of genuine approval. He placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, and offered a bowl of paint with the other. She grasped a handful of the yellow paste, smearing it beneath the hand prints of perhaps a hundred other shamans. 
 
 `` You will tell this story to your children.'' The old man said confidently, despite the gnawing feeling in him that the last child may very well be her. `` And they to their children.'' She finished somberly, the ritual completed. Perhaps she too was aware of the old man's fears; perhaps they were her fears too. 
 
 `` Come,'' said the old man, breaking the silence, `` you must learn to make the paints.'' They took the light with them towards the entrance to the cave, slowly drowning in darkness the epitaph of man.
