Comhroinn Fuaime

The troupe was waking, grunts and yawns echoed, announcing the start of their day. Perhaps it would be a trek to find a small group of fig trees that should be fruiting about now or a raid on a termite mound, it all depended on the matriarch’s mood. She was now into her fortieth year, a grandmother and very much the leader despite the silverback’s grandiose ideas. She had only enough time to shake out her matted hair before some of the younger adolescent males found her. Led by their noses, fol