Gameplay thread!
First we'll be getting official character introductions out of the way. We'll be doing this by giving the other players a window into your meeting with your tribal leaders.
Our Coldborn and Witchwolf party members can decide for themselves whether they spoke together, at the same time, or not, when they were summoned by their tribal leaders to give their opinions and thoughts regarding the upcoming moot.
First player to post is the first player to introduce themselves via this scene. :)
...
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The Scaleheart tribe is a wide, sprawling, and largely insular grouping of many families. They are unofficially led by a secretive and enigmatic group known as the Shamans, a council of 9 led by 1.
The call came from Lord Temmeruk some days ago. Now, Harthresh the Brutal, known for his savage intelligence in combat, has been called to an audience by the High Shaman Ishmael Perryn himself.
You stand before their grand temple, the unofficial seat of government for the entire, vast Scaleheart tribe. You've just reached the top of the temple steps in Mundatei, where you stand alone before four guards in ceremonial armor, scaled and dangerous-looking. They carry halberds casually and regard you with curiosity.
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Nearing the final steps to the top of the temple, Harthresh goes still, taking a slow look about him. His green eyes take in the surroundings of the Mundatei Temple, a slight shudder of reverence causing him to finally roll his broad shoulders and step forward to ascend to the summit. As he does so, a ripple passes through his imposing muscled body. He pauses, shutting his eyes and setting his jaw for a moment. His auburn hair, worn long yet shaved close to the scalp on each side of his head, blows in a brief warm breeze as he once again moves forward and ascends the final stair.
At the top of the summit, he stops directly in front of the Guards of the Shaman Council. He briefly meets their curious gazes, his eyes slipping from green to a pale sickly yellow, the pupils shifting to narrow vertical slashes of deep black.
Slowly falling to his knees and lost in awed reverence, his skin ripples once again, this time shifting completely. The tendons in his neck tighten, veins standing out in stark contrast as his hands curl into fists, the change overtaking him as he basks in the feel of being so close to the divine.
Harthresh suppresses a low hissing growl as his jaw distends with a wet pop, sharp teeth elongating and slipping past his lips to jut out prominently. Where his pale skin shows beneath his hunting leathers and his light chain shirt armor, it can be seen rippling into patchy patterns of reptilian scales. His flesh slides in color to a jaundiced green hue in the places where the scales do not take hold. Muscles flex and grow larger underneath his skin, his entire body quivering briefly amidst the sound of popping tendons and grinding bone. In but a few moments, his full countenance as a Scaleheart is revealed as his body completes the change into that of one who is WereCrocodile-kin.
Finally, without looking up to meet the gaze of the Guards, he growls out with a voice tinged with reverent awe, low and grating through a mouth full of far too many sharp teeth.
“Harthresh Cald, this one has been summoned,” he rumbles, “this one is here to answer the call of the divine, our High Shaman has spoken and this one answers with faith.”
The words from Harthresh are measured and slow, his growling voice laced with a underlying sibilant hiss of exhalation. As he finishes speaking he reaches slowly over his shoulder, his movements careful and non-threatening in the presence of the guards as he unsheathes a large serrated axe from his back.
Laying the weapon before his knees in subservience, he removes his hands from it. His left arm is sheathed all the way to his elbow in a gauntlet made of some sort of hide, its worn surfaces studded with hooked animal teeth and vicious spikes of iron along the knuckles.
“If it pleases the High Shaman, inform him that this one will await His Word until he is called for.”
The guards pound their chests with their fists in gestures of respect, nodding at you. "Harthresh Cald needs no introduction. In Apep's name, the Council awaits you inside."
the other guards shout, and pound the halberd's butt ends into the temple grounds. Then, they stand aside, giving you free passage into the temple.
The temple is designed along the lines of an ancient, hot riverfront. Through the middle of the temple runs a manufactured river, and animal life runs throughout the temple. Crocodiles inhabit the man-made river that bisects the temple. The walls are designed with beautiful frescoes and stained glass depicting fearful and terrible creatures, and wrathful deities. There are even smaller statues that depict other gods and goddesses of Golarion, though none rival Apep in stature - this is clearly His temple.
The main room of the temple is a chapel for public gatherings, lined with wooden pews that allow you to rest your feet in the water as you sit in them.
On the far side of the temple are tall double-doors that reside behind the altar to Apep in the center. The gigantic statue of the God behind the altar - depicted in true Scaleheart fashion, as a werecrocodile - seems to stare down at you with a stern expression as you walk past.
The double doors lead to a stairway that takes you several stories up. It takes a good five minutes of solid climbing for you to reach the second set of double doors. The top of the stairwell has windows that allow you to look out over the Cinderlands - scaleheart territory, as far as the eye can see - almost. Human lands can also be spotted, in the distance to the south beyond the cliff's lip.
Dot.
Arren: yours' and Harsuk's introduction will come up next. :)
At the affirmation from the Guards, Harthresh raises his eyes to them. He stares, his eyes fever-bright as his grating voice echoes their shout.
"IN APEP'S NAME!"
He grips his axe, replacing it in the sheath across his broad back. Standing, Harthresh stalks forward between the standing guards, no hesitation in his stride whatsoever. As he enters the temple, he seems to immediately relax. His movements become more fluid and loose as he takes in the verdant surroundings of the interior river and accompanying fauna, feeling as at home here as in his own holdings.
Passing the enormous altar to Apep, Harthresh pauses, stopping to lower his head in obeisance to the statue of his god.
"You are with me in the Deep Water, Apep," he murmurs quietly, his voice a sibilant hiss, "and all else is there to Drown in the Dark for you, by my hand."
Looking up to the altar, he holds his gauntlet-sheathed fist to his breast for a moment before striding toward the large set of double doors.
Despite the long climb, Harthresh show little sign of exhertion, moving with purpose up stair after stair. Upon reaching the top, he pauses, taking in the expansive view. As his gaze drifts south, his yellow eyes narrow, his lip curling over sharp jutting teeth.
His face becomes a visage of anger and aggression, that of a predator spotting prey.
After a long moment, he moves past the view, toward his destination.
Opening the double doors to the dais beyond, you are greeted by an enormous throne, testament to Scaleheart industriousness - a stone crocodile as Apep has appeared to His prophets, with the shaman arranged in thrones that hover around the great statue. Above them all sits Ishmael, High Shaman of the Scaleheart tribe - but to you, he is called "friend".
"Hail and well met, Harthresh Cald, known as the Brutal, as I have heard..." a small, friendly chuckle ripples through the shamans assembled. You are known to all the council personally, though you like some of them more than others; and it is a cultural tradition among the Scaleheart to mock those they are closest to as a way of greeting. Outsiders are advised to avoid using "thick skin" jokes after learning of this fact, on pain of death.
Striding into the room, Harthresh bows in reverence to the assembled shaman, then raises his yellow-eyed gaze to Ishmael.
At the words from the High Shaman, Harthresh cocks his head, finally attempting an expression meant to be a smile. To anyone but a Scaleheart, the expression would easily be lost amongst the distended jaw and myriad sharp teeth.
He stays quiet, awaiting the proclamations of the council and the reason for his summons to this divine gathering.
The skinwalker council looks down on you from above. The room around you is cool but comfortable.
Ishmael speaks again, his tone serious now. "As the entire tribe is aware, Temmeruk of the Coldborn has called a Moot." His old lips work around the word with an expression of minor distaste. "Though the Moot is a gathering of tribal leaders only, tradition dictates that a small group of tribesmen can accompany the leaders to speak for the common people of the tribe." This tradition is well-known to you, but it's also well-known to you that Ishmael likes to hear himself speak, so you let the old man continue.
"I will not be making the journey myself. The Coldborn's Plateau is most unpleasant this time of year." It's late autumn, perhaps a month and a half before first snowfall - October 3. "However, the needs of the Confederacy of Tribes take precedent over our preferences. As a result, the Council has elected to send three of our number to represent the Shamans of Scaleheart - Shaman Mayhew, Shaman Nersad, and Shaman Tergan. Accompanying these three will be an Honor Guard of Scaleheart, and one advisor for the tribesfolk. That advisor will be you." he gestures at you with one bony finger.
"I would hear your thoughts on the human situation that the Moot will be discussing. It is known to us that the people are discussing the issue in the streets of Mundatei all the way to the Wyvern Mountains, in Spindlehorn. What say you, Harthresh?"
Dotting gameplay thread.
Harthresh listens carefully, his gaze never leaving the High Shaman as the venerable Scaleheart speaks. Yellow eyes widen slightly at the proclamation of his role as an advisor, yet Harthresh nevertheless remains quiet.
At the question from Ishmael, Harthresh looks down, appearing unsure and uncomfortable. After a moment, he rises to his feet in a smooth lithe motion, one that many would find quite unexpected and unsettling from such a large creature.
He stays quiet, appearing to be thinking, his expression of frustration belying a battle with his own patience. His fists curl and uncurl, further displaying some sort of inner turmoil.
Finally Harthresh looks up and speaks. His words are harsh and grating, but his cadence is measured, as if forcing himself to maintain an even tone.
"The human...situation," he rumbles, "is one that must be handled with forethought and patience, despite the disdain that their inherent weakness engenders in such as our ilk."
"A single human is prey, nothing more, something to be dragged into the Deep Water, screaming and bleeding."
He pauses, taking a hissing inhalation of breath.
"But where there is one human, there are others...and others still, and yet more beyond those."
"We are many...but they are uncountable, and for this reason we must reach a balance, one where their wariness of the predator, their fear of the Deep Water, balances and counteracts their thirst for growing their numbers...and their territory."
A shudder runs through Harthresh, as if the effort of reasoning for such a period of time is practically unbearable.
"Whether this balance is found through...discourse...or violence," he growls, seeming to relish the word, "will remain to be seen through the Moot."
Ishmael's only reply is a smile, revealing unnaturally white teeth that glitter and flash in the gloomy shadows in which he sits.
The Shamans mutter to each other for a few moments, debating the wisdom of Harthresh's words. You are left to wait in silence as they deliberate.
Finally, the one you know as Shaman Mayhew stands to address the full council and raises his voice to include Harthresh in the conversation. He shifts into werecrocodile form before he speaks, and his first few words are tinged with a restrained snarl of pleasure at the adoption of his true form.
"The Brutal speaks wisdom. I feel that further deliberation on this matter is pointless. Let us hear what the other tribes think and resolve the matter then, at the Moot." Other shamans are nodding. Ishmael continues to watch Harthresh closely.
Mayhew, dressed in his turtleshell armor and bearing two curved blades crossed over his back, addresses Harthresh directly. "Our retinue makes for the Plateau in two days, Harthresh. We depart from the Western Gate, north of the river. Say your goodbyes and meet us there at sunrise."
Ishmael leads the way as the Shamans pull their hoods over their heads as one in the traditional gesture of dismissal.
Ishmael's only reply is a smile, revealing unnaturally white teeth that glitter and flash in the gloomy shadows in which he sits.
The Shamans mutter to each other for a few moments, debating the wisdom of Harthresh's words. You are left to wait in silence as they deliberate.
Finally, the one you know as Shaman Mayhew stands to address the full council and raises his voice to include Harthresh in the conversation. He shifts into werecrocodile form before he speaks, and his first few words are tinged with a restrained snarl of pleasure at the adoption of his true form.
"The Brutal speaks wisdom. I feel that further deliberation on this matter is pointless. Let us hear what the other tribes think and resolve the matter then, at the Moot." Other shamans are nodding. Ishmael continues to watch Harthresh closely.
Mayhew, dressed in his turtleshell armor and bearing two curved blades crossed over his back, addresses Harthresh directly. "Our retinue makes for the Plateau in two days, Harthresh. We depart from the Western Gate, north of the river. Say your goodbyes and meet us there at sunrise."
Ishmael leads the way as the Shamans pull their hoods over their heads as one in the traditional gesture of dismissal.
Harthresh listens carefully to the words of Shaman Mayhew, acknowledging them with a terse nod of affirmation.
Upon the formal dismissal, Harthresh bows low, his posture reverent to the Shaman Council. Turning slowly, he strides quietly from the room.
As he reaches the large windows that precede the long winding descent, Harthresh pauses, taking in the expansive view. His face grows solemn and cold.
"Goodbye," he murmurs as he looks out over the lands of the Scaleheart, before proceeding with purpose down the stairs.
The Storval Plateau - September 1, one month before Harthresh is summoned
Harsuk and Arren are dining together in the community longhouse of Guiltspur, the capital of the Coldborn tribe. The longhouse is a massive structure over the length of a football field and wide enough for three rows of massive tables. In the middle sits an enormous bronze bowl containing a massive tower of firewood that burns brightly, warming the whole building. At one end of the longhouse, under the massive skeleton of the Skull-Ripper that Arren helped the tribe to slay 7 years ago, sits the Father's Table, where the patriarchs of the various Coldborn clans gather to openly discuss community business. Outside the window, the first signs of the oncoming winter are already evident in the stark and punishing landscape. The Thassilonian ruins that surround Guiltspur poke up from the earth like stony teeth to bite the sky, yet the natural beauty of the Storval Plateau is still evident in the view of greater Varisia that you can see beyond.
As you sit, eating supper, each of you feels a heavy hand clap onto your shoulders. Looking up, you can see Dalton Thurstrom and Shiro, both respected members of the tribe.
Dalton speaks in his characteristic low voice that sounds like gravel. "Greetings, my friends. Your presence is requested by Lord Temmeruk."
Arren spends most of his time in werebear-kin form, especially when he's around other coldborn or mirrors. Every time he sees himself in human form, it reminds him of his old life.
Reminds him of Margie.
No - he mustn't think about it. He is here, amongst his brothers, in the now.
This pork is delicious. Yes, yes it is. Much better than the single goodberry he's forced to subsist on per day while in the wilds.
Arren is lost in his own thoughts, in a spiral of self-restraint, when Dalton claps his shoulder. He spins up and around to face the werebear-kin, and it takes a few moments for Dalton's words to filter into his brain.
"Yes. Yes of course." He puts down the haunch he was eating and rises, wiping his mouth delicately. Picking his fur cloak off of the bench beside him, he throws the cloak around his shoulders, and then motions to Harshuk to follow.
Harshuk wouldn't be surprised by his lack of words. Arren rarely speaks. Together, they trek across the crunchy ground to Temmeruk's private hut, sweeping aside the fur door and entering the warm enclave.
"You sent for us, Lord?"
In contrast to Arren, Harshuk only shifts when the need arises. He's currently in his human form, which is only slightly less hairy than his bear one.
Harshuk notices Dalton and Shiro approaching, and starts scarfing down everything that's left on his plate.
"Are you going to finish that boar, Arren?" Without waiting for a reply, Harshuk brings Arren's plate to his mouth and tilts it, allowing the leftovers to tumble right in just as he gets a solid clap on his shoulder.
"Hrk! He coughs and sputters, grabbing at his throat with one hand while reaching out towards another coldborn's tankard of ale with the other, who quickly proffers it to Harshuk. He swiftly gulps it down and wipes his mouth with his arm.
"Saved m'life, brother. I'll never forget it." He profusely thanks the coldborn that aided him, then turns to Dalton when he clears his throat.
"The chief? Right away!" Harshuk stands up quickly, and follows Arren to Temmeruk's door.
"The ol' choke joke gag. Hilarious!" He whispers as they walk down the hall. "And didn't I tell you I had a sixth sense when it comes to being interrupted at a meal? It's acquired. You really should eat more, you never know how long you'll have to go without."
Arren looks to Harshuk as he talks.
and talks.
Sometimes, for a stoic bear-man, Harshuk really did do a good gnome impression.
Ha.
Arren laughs inwardly at his own joke and turns. "I rather think, he says, his mouth articulating strangely with his larger-than-life mouth and accentuating "th", that I would know exactly how long I'd have to go without. Besides, he continues, flexing his rather impressive musculature, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."
Temmeruk is standing around a large fire pit in the middle of his keep, an appropriated structure from the ruins of a past civilization lost to history. Though the structure shows its age in countless small ways, it has lost none of the majesty that its creators intended for it - a fitting keep for the proud Coldborn lord. Reference pic
There is a map stretched across the flames so that it is lit from below, and treated by magic so that it would never burn. The map is of Varisia, and as you enter you see Temmeruk gesturing to various parts of it as he speaks to his eldest daughter. The Chief and his firstborn are as peas in a pod; Hauma shares her father's broad, open features, powerful build, and serious countenance. Harshuk is one of the only Coldborn to have successfully made Temmeruk laugh - part of the reason that the Lord values his voice so highly in council. As for Arren, he is treated with respect, but coldly - his manners made perhaps more icy by Hauma's apparent infatuation with the druid.
"Hello, Arren, Harshuk," the Coldborn woman says, smiling briefly at Arren and Harshuk as they walk in. Temmeruk looks up from the map and nods in acknowledgment.
"Gentlemen. I'll get right to the point." he brandishes a letter. "News from Riddleport. Another adventuring guild has formed in the last three months, and they're expanding the humans' territory in the direction of the Churchain hills. I've been in contact with my nightskulk friends, and the situation only grows more grim the more they bring it into focus."
He sighs, and places a hand on his daughter's shoulder, looking at her. He closes his eyes, looking weary as he leans on the outer railing of the fire pit, his hands wide apart. "I want you two to make the announcement to the longhouse so the entire tribe is notified by morning. I'm calling a Moot of the Confederacy of Tribes."
Arren gives his Chief a curt bow as he enters, and hesitatingly gives a similar bow to the Chief's daughter. He is unsure. Is it rude to the Chief to bow to the daughter, or rude to the daughter to avoid bowing to her?
He appreciates Temmeruk's straightforwardness - this is one of the traits Arren admires in many coldborn, but it is especially present in the mannerisms of their chief.
Hm. Chicken, egg. Arren wonders if Temmeruk is just an exemplar coldborn or if, because he is chieftain, the other coldborn are simply emulating him.
He'll have to think about that.
Oh, the Chieftain was discussing . . . another human adventuring group?
They really never do stop, do they? If they weren't careful, the humans were going to get themselves in trouble. The Coldborn aren't exactly aggressive, but the same cannot be said of the Scaleheart or the Witchwolves. Arren had seen more than a few intelligent creatures ripped apart by the werewolf-kin in just his short time among the skinwalkers, and he really couldn't understand why the humans insisted on coming into the skinwalker land, throat-first.
Arren finally speaks up after several moments of silence. "Grim indeed." he says, his gravelly voice breaking the quiet. "It shall be done, my Lord."
Temmeruk nods in acknowledgement at Arren, and begins to pace back and forth slowly, on his end of the brazier. It's an almost unconscious habit he's aware of and not that fond of about himself, he has confided in Arren privately. "I know it will be done. But any young buck could have served as my heralds. I summoned the two of you specifically because...I want your thoughts, before the clamor is raised from the greater family."
He stops pacing and faces the two of you squarely again. "This may lead to war. I need to hear all opinions before I can have a firm hold on the matter."
You recognize this as a strong trait of the Chieftain's. Though he does have final say in all matters, he often ruled by consensus, which made him popular among the tribesfolk compared to his authoritarian late father, the former chief. His asking for your thoughts does not come as any great surprise.
"Chief, Hauma! It's been too long!" Harshuk takes a large step forward going for a hug, but if rebuked he turns the motion into a sweeping bow. When the letter is held out, he strokes his thick bushy beard and takes a look at it.
"So the humans keep expanding north, even as winter is coming? I can see how it's gotten serious enough for a moot." His voice softens, revealing concern.
"Well don't worry, I'll be sure to-waitaminute. You want Arren to help spread the message? He hoards words like dragons hoard gold!" Harshuk sounds a little miffed, and places his hands akimbo, "You must think I'll try to turn this into a joke, like 'A scaleheart, a fanglord, a bloodmarked, a nightskulk, and two witchwolves walk into a moot'-wait a minute. I might be onto something." Harshuk shakes himself back to attention when Temmeruk asks for thoughts.
Harshuk's beard expands, and hair grows to cover all of his skin while at the same time his nose elongates into a large snout. His shifting signifies that he is approaching a matter with gravitas.
"A war would go poorly for all involved. Soon the snow will fall, and the clans know this land better than anyone else. We could shut down advance after advance, but what of the advance after that one? And the next? Humans are tenacious, and spilling their blood would only make them more determined. Their families would want nothing more than to see that the sacrifice wasn't for nothing. Would any of us be different?" With his shifted maw, Harshuk's voice loses its flowing quality. "They must see the clans as the rightful peoples of this land. Perhaps if we are fair and kind to them, they will see that we can all prosper in peace."
"No."
Arren interjects just at the end of Harshuk's diatribe. The man's reasoning was sound, but...incomplete.
"Chieftain, if I may, humans don't respond to kindness the way that you might expect. Their cultural memory is as short as the space between Harshuk's eyebrows and even if we give and give and give, they will only forget what we have given and try to take what they believe they are owed. "
All humans have to give is pain. No. Arren would see the coldborn spared that.
He shakes his head, his fur rippling and enlarged nose twitching. "No. We are warriors, and we must keep what is ours. If we do not, it will only be taken from us, bit by bit."
Temmeruk greets Harshuk with a proper back-slapping hug, then releases him and is immediately all business once again. Hauma hugs as strongly as any man.
"In my heart, I am of like thoughts to you, Harshuk...but I fear that Arren may have the right of it. At least...that is my fear." He gestures down at the map, pointing at various points along the unofficial borderlands between the human territories and the tribal lands. "In the past several years we've spoken to numerous different "leaders" of these men, that seem to shift with every season. Still they encroach upon us. My mind is not set on a course...luckily, we will have time before the Moot. I'm setting the date for the middle of October."
"Any further thoughts for now?" he asks, slowly.
"None, Sire." Arren says, bowing. "I am at your command."
It's a physical strain to resist flicking his gaze over to Hauma.
No.
No.
"Hmmmph." Harshuk shakes his head. "If you fight, you know I will fight beside you to my dying breath. But tell me, under what conditions does the war end?" He pauses, waiting for any of the present Coldborn to answer.
"I have heard many stories, and some of the kingdoms of men. They are fond of sealing alliances by trading hostages, whom they call 'honored guests'. Perhaps there is still a solution, stronger than words but more generous than war. I leave it to your wisdom."
"Wait." Temmeruk pauses in thought at Harshuk's suggestion, his deep voice echoing in the ruins. "Hostages? Honored guests? Tell me your mind, friend. I tire of peace treaties written with ink alone."
"It is like an exchange of hostages, only in reverse. Instead of us capturing members of these adventuring parties, for example, we would send coldborn related to you, or those important to you, to live among men. And the leaders of men would do the same." Harshuk gesticulates as he speaks, and shows by switching the places of his hands.
"A cultural exchange. These hostages are not ones captured in battle, but freely come, so they should not be treated as prisoners. They are guests that can be impressed, and adopted into our way of living, but should be watched still. A man can forget words that he has promised, but he cannot forget his loved ones who live comfortably within the enemy's grasp."
Temmeruk stares into the flames a moment, thoughtfully. "An interesting idea. I believe it should be on the table, though I see problems with the idea as well." He looks up at the two of you, staring into both of your faces for a moment. Finally, he closes his eyes briefly and looks down at the map again. "For now, go. Inform the tribe and remind them of proper Coldborn behavior. We will be hosting a...wide variety of guests."
Late September, Wormwood Hall
The Witchwolf Tribe of Varisia based in Lurkwood are experiencing the autumn somewhat differently than elsewhere - for although the tribe is unaffected by the strange age-altering effects that plague other visitors, the forest still feels several months apart from the rest of the world. It's hot and summery, with the sun shining brightly and a brilliant blue sky, with no clouds. Clouds of monarch butterflies dance on the breeze; it's quite beautiful.
You'd never know it from within the forest, however. The Witchwolves of Varisia live in the shadow of the high canopy of the Lurkwood trees, and the shadow has, over time, taken root in their hearts. The forest has a way of winnowing the weak, and the Witchwolf culture responded in its development by revering the strong, the survivors. In the darkness of the forest floor beneath the trees, the tribe celebrates this reverence for strength by spending nearly their whole lives in werewolf-kin form. As a people, they drive each other ever higher to better and more glorious things by fighting, hunting, and copulating in groups. All three activities are fiercely competitive for witchwolf tribe members.
Every month, during the full moon, the family units within the tribe that are closest to one another gather at one of the various meeting spots throughout their forested territories. Thus follows nearly 18 hours of boasting, feasting, and singing.
It is at one of these moon-gatherings - less than two miles from Wormwood Hall itself - that Kysia and Kenna are approached by messengers from the Alphas, as you two were comparing exploits from the past month and one-upping each other.
The messenger, a lanky youth with a disheveled appearance - an Omega rank - approaches the two of you cautiously as you conversate. His tail is between his legs, but beyond that he stands normally. He's wearing light armor and carries a polearm strapped to his back.
Kenna turns to the messenger, mustering the man with a look in her eyes like that of a predator studying its prey. She steps closer, uncomfortably close even, leaning in on his ear: "I hope you have a good reason to disturb us, whelp."
The messenger bows his head deferentially, not responding to Kenna's taunt. A Matron, especially a Matron so close to the Alpha Female, could say pretty much what she pleased, especially to an Omega class. He doesn't show fear, exactly; more like the expression of someone having been run down all his life by his betters. It's a look of being perpetually cowed. His tail doesn't budge from between his legs.
"Your presence has been requested at Wormwood Hall, m'ladies, both of you. By the Alphas. Urgently...as in, now, I was told." He swallows at the end of his sentence.
"...well I just eradicated-" She had been interrupted. Someone was there. When she turned to see who would dare do so she realized it was a lowly Omega. Her posture and stance shifted to one of intimidation and dominance. She might not be Alpha, but she was a Matron, only a single step away from her coveted position. She was almost the Alpha. Almost. She gave him a dagger-filled glare, letting him know she was very unhappy about being interrupted, extremely unhappy. A fox sat calmly at her feet, its coat mid-change to its winter white, with an air about it as it eyed him too. She sauntered over towards him, breaking her glare only to start eyeing her sharp claws. "Yes, it better be good. I don't like being interrupted."
She returned her glare full force to him, the expression of submission made her smile internally. He knew his place, beneath her. Then he answered the question of why he was there in the first place. The Alphas. She would let this insolent slide, for now. Mostly
She leaned in close to his throat, reminding him. "You better not be lying to me, you whining churl." She then proceeded to ignore him, walking past like he was not even there. "Zeita, come." The fox, who had been watching and waiting, stood up to follow Kysira. Zeita calmly trotted past the Omega, also acting as if he wasn't there.
As Kysira strides off past the whelp, Kenna leans in close once more, smiling this time: "I was just messing with you, kid.", Kenna never cared much for hierarchy and authority, to her any witchwolf is kin, and equal, even if she had to play by the tribes rules.
About to turn to walk after Kysira, she stops once more: "I can't speak for her though.“
Once the messenger leaves the circle of the moon-gathering, he breaks into a run, and the two women follow. Witchwolves possess a measure of the stamina that wolves themselves are known for, and tend to love running as a culture.
You make the two-mile run to Wormwood Hall in about ten minutes, without breaking a sweat or breathing heavily. The messenger approaches the main gate past the outer moat, where two strong Witchwolf fighters in heavy armor stand on either side of the portcullis. As they see the two women approach, one of them calls, "Raise the portcullis!" to the sentries on the wall, and the heavy wrought-iron gate rises in front of you. The two guards then bow their heads deferentially as you pass, the messenger leading the way.
You stare up at the keep as you cross the courtyard. Wormwood Hall is a massive, lonely structure. The Witchwolf tribe did not construct it - it is older than they. Instead, the Alpha of the tribe conquered it three generations ago and made it the seat of government for the entire tribe, stretching down into the southern Varisian forests. Doing so ousted the prior inhabitants of the forest; the Witchwolves, in typical cultural fashion, forgot about the weak as soon as they were culled. "Historian" is a title conferred to very few in this particular tribe.
The main hall has a double staircase on the far end that the messenger leads you up. This leads to a massively long and wide corridor with numerous doors on either side and a double door on the far wall that leads straight to the Alpha's den. The messenger leads you to it and kneels in subservience - Omegas are not allowed inside except when specifically invited.
Opening the door, you are immediately greeted by two bronze statues of werewolves, in snarling attack positions. They were gifts from the Nightskulk tribe many years ago and now decorate the Alpha's throne den. The royal hall contains another staircase on the far end of the 30x30 room, that leads up to a pair of equally-sized thrones. Trophies and tapestries line the walls and the columns spaced artfully around the room have been recently inlaid with a gold filigree. The throne room is resplendent in gifts and trophies from conquered foes and cowed friends.
The Alphas are seated on their thrones on the far end of the room.
As Kenna enters the Alpha's Den, she bows respectfully. She despises the submissive squirming that other tribemembers would engage in when in the presence of an alpha, but she considers herself above such behavior.
"You called for us.", she simply states in a matter of fact tone as she raises her head again.
She always enjoyed coming to Wormwood Hall. The only thing she didn't enjoy about the Wormwood Hall was her. That insolent little twit that had humiliated her not once, not twice, but FOUR times. Lysira could barely stand it. But she controlled her anger and her rage, and presented herself. Now was not the time, something urgent must of came up for the Alphas to interrupt a moon-gathering. She could pretend to fine with with the insolent little curr for the extent of this meeting. She knew to bide her time.
She strode forward, Zeita at her heals. Reaching the Alphas, she paused and made a submissive gesture before standing as her confident self. She would show her respect to those above her in the power hierarchy but she would not degrade herself.
"Greetings my Alphas."
Aside from the four of you, the hall is still, silent, and empty. Most folk are off enjoying the revels, which you can still hear slightly from the distance and the stone walls of the throne room. Your feet pad softly on the plush carpet that leads to the Alpha's rise upon which the thrones sit. You stand next to one another, your postures respectful, your characters so alike and yet so different.
The Alpha male regards the two of you for a moment, veiled lust detected in his hungry expression and his casual posture. His smile exposes his sharp white incisors that are his favored weapons in combat. The power of this male, Durmond Swifteye, is clearly seen in his enormous build. The witchwolf stands a full foot taller than any other in the tribe, but his bulk doesn't slow him down, as both of you know from personal experience watching him in the games. As for the female, Ceyne Twoclaws, she speaks immediately, her tone businesslike.
"We apologize for pulling you away from your boasting, Kenna. Greetings, Lysira. You both have been called before us to be informed of your duty to the tribe."
In her right hand, Alpha Ceyne - who is known in the tribe to prefer her human form when not in combat, despite how powerful she is known to be - holds the scepter of command. She gestures with it at the two of you. "The Werebear-kin in the Storval Plateau have called a Tribe's Moot. Every tribal ruler in Varisia will be there, to discuss...foreign affairs." her lip curls slightly at the last statement.
She tosses her shoulder-length hair over her back, and continues. "We've already spoken with Bornir and Niniel - - and they will be overseeing the forest and its domains in our absence. And...in the absence of our two most trusted, Durmond and I find ourselves in an absence all our own - an absence of an outsider's mind. We accustom ourselves to sharpen our ideas upon the stony minds of our closest friends and enemies," she smiles, "thereby ensuring that we do not overlook any missteps in our policies. You two should feel honored that you were chosen."
In reaction to the cold greeting Kenna allows herself a brief smile, before taking on a more serious demeanor.
"I am certainly honoured to recieve such a privilege.", and her interest was certainly sparked, "If I may ask, what manner of foreign affairs will this moot be convening about?"
"Human affairs," Ceyne informs you. It's common knowledge in the tribe that humans are ambitious expansionists - the witchwolves actually respect that about humanity, in general.
"Trust me, Ceyne, I'll be keeping a close eye on those missteps." Lysira grinned ferally, a toothy grin on her face. Opportunities to achieve her goal.
"Ah, humans... The ambitious gnats. Easy to kill and just as numerous and multiplying." 'And so much fun to slaughter.' She had just been boasting about that with Kenna earlier.
Kenna tenses, to her humans are more than prey. They are a menace to the tribe, as well as all other skinwalkers. Yes a few are easy to kill, but whatever was happening that the coldborn would call for a moot, was certainly worrisome.
Her clawed fingers flex as Kenna responds with a grave tone: "It would be an honour to advise on this matter."
"We depart tomorrow morning," Durmond says, his voice lascivious. "Your thoughts on the matter are clear, Lysira. Kenna, we will be discussing the missive we received from the Coldborn on the road. Be prepared."
Ceyne smirks. "Go now, and enjoy the rest of the revelry tonight. It may be some time before we may revel again."