Damian was the oldest woman in the tribe.
She watched her tribespeople gathered around the bonfire, their faces beaming with joy as they faced the savory roast meat. Unlike them, her face was lined with worry. She couldn't shake the feeling that the powerful Red Dragon was an ominous sign. Such a mighty creature intruding upon their peaceful lives could bring about a terrifying disaster.
But she was too old. It was already incredibly difficult for the tribe to support a woman over sixty. In other Demon Tribes, an elderly individual like her, who could no longer provide sufficient labor or combat power, would either be used for food or exiled to fend for herself. She knew she couldn't say such depressing things while everyone else was celebrating.
"Sigh..."
The firelight flickered across her wrinkled, bark-like face, casting gloomy shadows. She could only pick up her rosary, part her dark, chapped lips, and silently chant the "Ode to the Saint."
