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Sabretooth Lord
Seyhrain Smilodon. Planar animal lord [she/her] N
Realm: Pangaea / Gelasian Steppe / The Red Rime / The Sabertooth Lord’s Cave
I’d trailed the stories of her all the way to the Gelasian. But I guess I should introduce myself first eh, cutter? They call me Mirya “Steepfoot”—hunter of monsters and maker of legends. I thought I knew the wild. I’d brought down mammoth single-handed, I’d even run with the Wild Hunt. The fresh air is my home. But you know what? There’s none anywhere quite like you get on the Pangaean steppes—it’s ancient air, so raw that you can tell it’s never been breathed before. But I wasn’t here to treat my lungs. No, I was here for the promise of a chase that’d crown any hunter’s life: the trophy of the Sabretooth Lord herself. A kill like that, I reckoned, would set me up there with the best hunters in the multiverse. But perhaps, in truth—I’d been chasing something to quiet that guilty voice deep inside, after so many rare pelts and trophies won by violence and luck. Maybe I was looking for my out.
My porter had ditched me at the last naked rocks before the snow took over. “This is cat now country, Mirya-sister.” He gave me a Lady’s Grace, and vanished faster than a hare after a wolf-howl. I lingered a little, taking measure of my gear—boots tight, obsidian spearhead sharp, seal-pelt furs sealed tight against the breeze. And I pressed on, alone into the cold…
After days on the Gelasian Steppe, every glorious inhalation now felt like swallowing glass. The chill had long since burrowed through my layers and was now bone-deep—but my mind burned hotter than ever. I’d been tracking her through the snow, occasionally catching the barest glimpse: a shick of orange fur ducking behind a drift, huge pawprints pressed into crimson-stained ice. Sometimes she’d circle around behind me, her laughter curling on the wind—taunting me, inviting me. I pushed myself to move smarter—lacing my snowshoes tight, rationing my breath. My eyes became ice-rimed from trying not to blink.
She led me in circles and spirals, her pride—monstrous cats with teeth longer than my fingers—watching from distant crags, never interfering. I’d swear I was closing in, heart hammering in my ears, only to find the trail vanished or doubled back. More than once, I found pawprints stopped right behind where I’d just been hiding. She wanted me to know she could strike if she wished.
By the third sunrise, exhaustion gnawed at every muscle. And there she was, drinking from the cold river: crouched, solitary, unaware, huge in the morning shadows. I mustered what was left of my nerves, gripping my spear, and crept forward. The trap she’d laid was triggered in a heartbeat—thin ice gave way, and I crashed into the pit below, my weapon lost. Before I could rise, she was over me, weight pinning my shoulder, jaw set inches from my throat.
“Well done, Mirya Steepfoot.” Her voice was a rumbling purr. “It’s not often I get to feel like the prey. You drove my old blood hot; that’s no small feat.”
Shame and awe tangled inside me. I’d never even been close. “All this time…you could’ve ended it whenever you wanted.”
The Sabretooth Lord grinned, deadly fangs flashing. “Of course. But it’s rare I find a hunt worth turning the tables for. It’s not the kill, Mirya. It’s the pursuit, the learning. You taught me something. I remembered what it feels like to run. And for that, you get to walk away.”
Cold sweat slid down my back as the realisation set in—I was outmatched, not for lack of trying, but because she was simply better. I rose, legs trembling, and met her gaze. “Thank you,” I managed, pride stinging yet strangely uplifted. “You gave me the hunt I always wanted. If I leave with nothing else, I’ll remember that.”
She tilted her head, approving. “Mind the steppe, Mirya. The crimson isn’t from fools, but from the clever ones convinced they owned the ice. And if you ever come hunting here again—bring your best, or come ready to run.”
When I headed back into the biting wind, the cats watched me go, but none gave chase. That morning, for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to respect a rival, not as prey, but as the true master of the game I’d spent so long trying to perfect.
Source: Jon Winter-Holt, based on an idea by Greg Jensen. Canonwatch: The Sabretooth Lord is homebrew.
