Wine had once been a prominent member of the Fairy Tribe — a tribe known for its healing magic, connection to nature, and balance. But unlike most of his kin, Wine had always been... different. While others used their elemental fairy powers to create potions that healed or enhanced life, Wine had an obsession: the opposite side of the spectrum — poisons.
Using his elemental powers, Wine discovered ways to create drugs that could weaken, torment, and kill with terrifying efficiency. At first, his work was subtle — testing poisons on small plants and insects, claiming it was “for research.” But his ambitions grew bolder. He crafted complex toxins, experimenting on larger creatures, and eventually testing his brews on his own body.
When confronted by his tribe, he defended himself coolly:
“If life can be enhanced through magic… why can’t death?”
“Poison is simply nature’s way of balancing the scales.”
These ideas horrified the elders of the Fairy Tribe, but Wine wasn’t alone. A faction within the tribe — those who felt restricted by the Fairy Tribe’s peaceful philosophy — began to rally around him. These fairies didn’t just support Wine’s research; they volunteered to take his most dangerous drug: a serum designed to rewrite their elemental core, replacing their fairy abilities with the new elemental power of poison.
Wine was the first to test the drug on himself. The pain was unbearable — like his veins were burning, his magic disintegrating, and his very essence mutating. But when the suffering ended, Wine emerged with newfound strength. His once vibrant fairy aura had darkened, his delicate wings now laced with toxic patterns, and his touch capable of corroding life itself.
One by one, his followers took the drug, enduring the same agonizing transformation, until Wine declared the birth of a new tribe — The Poison Tribe.
But Wine wasn’t satisfied. If poison could transform fairies, what about the other tribes?
He began a secretive recruitment campaign, seeking out those who had been:
Runaways — individuals shunned or mistreated by their own tribes.
Traitors — those with grudges, seeking revenge.
Outcasts — people labeled as "undesirable" or "weak" by their leaders.
Wine approached them not with sympathy, but with a seductive offer: “Join me, and I’ll give you the power your tribe denied you.”
The drug worked on anyone. With each conversion, the Poison Tribe expanded. Soon, his army was a rainbow alliance of broken souls from every tribe:
Magma tribe defectors — their molten veins now mixed with poison, capable of launching toxic flames.
Nature tribe runaways — their vines and roots now laced with venom, causing plants to wither instead of bloom.
Ice tribe exiles — their freezing touch now corroded whatever it froze.
Sand tribe deserters — blending poison into the very grains they controlled, turning dunes into death traps.
Aqua tribe rebels — infusing their water with toxins, able to spread death through rivers and seas.
Thunder tribe betrayers — crafting electrified poisons, shocking and paralyzing foes.
Psychic tribe rogues — their mental abilities now capable of inflicting venomous hallucinations.
What bound them wasn’t loyalty — it was a shared hunger for power and destruction.
Wine didn’t care about their past allegiances or rivalries — his only condition was that they abandon their former identities. Once they took his poison, they were no longer part of their original tribe. They belonged to him.
His rainbow alliance was a sick mockery of unity — an army formed not by trust but by shared hatred and ambition.
Present Day...
Back on the ridge, Wine’s thoughts returned to the present. He watched the chaos below — the clashing of dragons and bug soldiers against the united tribes — and his lips curled into a grin.
His army stood behind him in disciplined silence — the Poison Tribe’s Fairy soldiers alongside their corrupted counterparts from Magma, Nature, Ice, Sand, Aqua, Thunder, and Psychic tribes.
Peggy’s face flashed through his mind — his sister, still a loyal member of the Fairy Tribe, standing with the united forces. It didn’t matter. To Wine, Peggy was just a foolish girl tied to outdated ideals.
He spoke softly, his voice like a serpent’s hiss:
“Let them fight, let them bleed. When they’re weakened… poison will claim what’s left.”
His soldiers remained still — well-trained, loyal to him, and waiting for his command.
Wine wasn't interested in saving anyone or stopping the war — he was waiting for the perfect moment to strike, letting the titans tear each other apart until the battlefield was ripe for him to claim.
To him, it wasn’t just a war between tribes — it was a stage for his grand plan. Once the others were broken and exhausted, the Poison Tribe would rise from the shadows like a toxic storm — ready to spread their venom across the planet.
Wine didn’t just want power — he wanted domination through decay.
As the distant roars and screeches echoed across the battlefield, Wine’s grin widened.
Poison was patient.
Poison waited.
And soon… poison would reign.