It took a long time before we actually began to fight as the sapient do. The gift the Eldest bestowed on us seemed natural, once we had it. Our old forms fell away and were replaced by the new in such a seamless way, we never considered what that transition really meant for an embarrassingly long time. Although the Colony learned at a tremendously fast pace, and developed in many different directions at once, in battle, too often we defaulted to the behaviour of monsters without thinking.

To the monster, fighting is for territory, food or preservation. Using all the tools at their disposal, monsters fight in a brutal fashion to meet their needs. We thought we were brutal. We crushed our prey with horrific violence, never giving them the chance to fight back. What were we, if not apex predators?

The sapient showed us different ways and reasons to battle. For hate, for revenge, for power, as punishment and as reward. In truth, there are a thousand reasons why they fight, a thousand times a thousand, almost all of them unimportant or nonsensical in the eyes of the Colony. But the way they fought, even against each other…

Savage, merciless, pitiless. They would go further than any monster would in seeking the destruction of their enemies, chase them to the end of the world and laugh the whole way. The Colony had to learn to treat them the same way, if we wanted to survive. The records show the discontent these actions caused amongst our family, it was unnatural to engage in such a profligate waste of resources. To push an already defeated foe into the dirt, in case they might one day rise up again? The Colony did not fear the defeated as the sapients did. What had fallen to the Colony once, would only fall harder the second time. What we discovered over time is that our actions were interpreted as 'mercy' and 'weakness', a sign that we were prey, not predator.

What we learned was how to finally teach the foolish who we really were.

Excerpt from 'The History of Warfare in the Colony' by Historiant

Granin sighed. He was tired. He could feel it in his bones. Beneath the granite that covered him, beneath the flesh and right in the core of him, he was tired. It wasn't the two days he'd been awake that was draining him, though it didn't help. He could push for a week if he needed to, and it was starting to look as if he did. The perpetual posturing and bickering within the Shaper Circle wasn’t the main issue, though it certainly grated on him. How a race with such affinity to the common building blocks of the world became such posers he had no idea, but it was reality. Not even the constant suppression of the Warriors had drained him to this point. He was so accustomed to it that he almost didn't notice that the Shapers were the last to be fed, the last to get water, the first to wake and the last to sleep.

It was the Nobles.

Granin had decided that he hated the nobles. Those High Ladies and Lords, the Blades of this house or that, their true-skin inevitably formed of such rare minerals that they gleamed in the darkness of second strata, dragging everyone else through the mud it was plain unnecessary.

He himself had little doubt that the only reason he was here was so his body could be left in a ditch on the way home in order to expunge whatever shame the House of Balta had decided Anthony had inflicted on them. He knew it wasn't likely, but if he lived to see the day when Anthony chomped a few of these pompous morons in half, he'd be able to die a happy golgari.

"Lazus! You awake?" A callous voice called.

"Why wouldn't I be? Haven't been given permission to sleep," the old Shaper grumbled, careful to pitch his voice low. "Over here," he called.

The figure stumbled in the dark and cursed as he made his way over. The Shapers didn't warrant the expense of lights on this expedition apparently. This kind of suppression was a touch unusual, but not unheard of. Though it would probably end the way it always did.

"You Lazus?" the voice asked.

"That's me."

"They want you at the front immediately."

The barely concealed sneer in his voice told Granin all he needed to know about this messenger. Warrior, snobbish, highly skilled and stupid. Just like everyone else on this damn mission.

"Alright then," he hauled himself to his feet, "I wouldn't want to keep them waiting."

As they made their way through the camp it grew progressively brighter as they left the Shapers Circle behind, entered the Warriors and then the Nobles. Here the pride of House Balta rested, Shield Guardians, Blade Saints, Sword Dancers, veterans of waves, internecine House conflicts and more than a few from the last Wood War.

To his surprise, Granin wasn't stopped here, but instead directed through the centre of the camp and toward the front. He heard it before he saw it, shouted orders, the ring of Skills and explosions of magic. He almost sighed. He'd been here not that long ago, pitting his Will against the ants as they tried to push back and hold against the golgari or, failing that, causing rock falls to delay them. He almost chuckled at that. The monsters had no need to worry about angering the Church of the Path by disfiguring the 'holy' order of the Dungeon. Not like the golgari didn't indulge in a little collapse every now and again. All was well as long as there wasn't proof.

As they advanced they walked past a number of mages, each with their eyes closed and senses extended, watching the stone with their minds. It was draining work that required constant concentration, something no Warrior would appreciate. He shook his head to try and clear away his sluggish thoughts. Damn, he needed some sleep.

At the rear of the line, a tall, decorated golgari watched the action with a critical eye. It was toward him that Granin was led. The closer they got, the more he could make out of the battle taking place. Mana flares lit the area, penetrating the hideous dark, illuminating the two fronts. Disciplined rows of golgari were exchanging fire with a walled defence a hundred metres away that positively bristled with ants. From the other side they unleashed a flood of acid and spells. There must be thousands of them over there.

Just what the heck has Anthony done over there?

"Right pain in the backside," a voice broke his concentration.

The old Shaper started when he realised it was the authoritative figure speaking to him. The Warrior eyed him with a critical eye before he turned back to the scene unfolding before him.

"Who would have thought these bloody insects would be building forts?"

Granin shifted on his feet a little. He'd known it, that's for sure. The next sentence took him by surprise.

"Ready to join the charge?"

"Crud."