Skûn sat on the edge of a cliff, watching his shadow spread out over the sleeping camp as the sun set below the peaks. Behind him, the mountain swallowed the sun and the camp began to come alive - orcs stumbling bleary-eyed and starting the first cook-fires of the night; children screaming and laughing in the face of the omnipresent wind. A cry went up from farther down the valley - an orc had died that night, taken by the craigs in a haze of grog.
Good. The children will eat well tonight.
Still, he frowned. The bottoms of the cauldrons were scraped raw. His brothers were beginning to stare too long at the weak and the old. One orc's death was not enough.
The dreams that saw him sitting alone on the mountain screamed like the keening wind, trying to throw him off his perch and down and out of the valley. No chief could say what they meant, no sprit-talker either. Still, they were a problem for another night. The tribe needed food. Standing, he strides down to the camp and along its paths, kicking awake the odd orc and motioning for others to follow him. Nearing the top of the valley, he turns and climbs up a small path before jumping onto a spire of fallen rocks. From there, the wind carries his words to the every orc in a hundred different voices.
"Make ready! Tomorrow we march on the lowlands! Tomorrow we feast!"
Before leaping down, he turned and blinked up at the star that out-shone the moon.
The world conspires to send me west. This stinks of destiny.
Turning to his tent he grunts at his advisors and begins planning the coming raid.
Czolgosz didn't sleep that night. Something was coming. Something big. He didn't need the warnings of his seers, the words of his elders counseling him. Czolgosz could feel it in his bones.
The tribe needed a change. The split from the other Ironbacks had been hard, and only Czolgosz's leadership kept the tribe together. Perhaps it was time. They could always return to their lands; they knew them better than anyone and would be easily able to reclaim them.
Czolgosz gave the order. With astounding speed, responding to unspoken necessity, the Western Ironback Orcs gathered up their possessions, bundled them up with their yurts, and began to form a massive caravan. The whole operation took no more than a day.
Czolgosz spoke briefly to his people, arrayed on the plain before him.
"We move. We heed the signs of destiny. We give our faith to the guidance of The Four, and whatever we find, we pray it will make us strong and whole once more."
His tribe formed a gesture of faith, dipping their heads and pressing four fingers to their foreheads.
Then they began their journey, seeking the future.
The restlessness of the mounts, having to hold Denn down to keep him from slaughtering the horses and others of the tribe. The old women moaning and one even killed herself by slitting her throat in Front of Denn.
The tribe antsy from so little food to be found in the low lying hills, the lack of fresh springs or ponds to refill the water supply.
The new burden of leadership, something never felt before upon my shoulders.
"I have gathered you elders here for your council on this omen of a bright night sun, it blocks out the other night suns like nothing ever seen before. I feel it is my Destiny to follow it where it may take us. I have given the order for the pack leaders to take camp down before first light and we will set off to the west on the morrow.
Before the omens and portents, a meeting between the Longtusks and Western Ironbacks
The messenger approaches the tent of the chieftain, showing his own chief's totem hanging from his spear as a means of identification.
Upon being ushered inside the messenger takes a knee, and motions to his companions to bring forth their parcels.
Greetings, Chief Czolgosz. I am Jonas Longtusk, advisor to the great Chief Kilgore of the Longtusk Tribe. He sends his regrets he could not be here and gives me leave to speak with his own voice. I give you these, gifts of grain and iron, as a peace offering and a sign of the prosperity our two peoples can achieve together. I am honored to be here, and I congratulate you on the success of your tribe. Chief Voltha would be proud of your accomplishments.
When the Omens arrive...
Jonas wakes with a start, sweating despite the cool night breeze. He dresses quickly, running to the chief's dwelling and waving aside his door guards with annoyance.
Chief Kilgore--we can ignore the portents no longer. I know not what they signify, but I must see for myself. Give me four of our best riders and we will send word when we learn anything noteworthy. I would leave tonight, as soon as possible.
Czolgosz Man-Breaker was seated in a large wooden chair. Braziers gave the room light, and Czolgosz gazed at the Orc in front of him. It was easy for Czolgosz to ascertain that Jonas was, like he himself, not a pure Orc. He listened to Jonas' words...honeyed, to be sure, but Czolgosz felt truth behind them. Czolgosz raised a hand, signaling an attendant.
"Breach the cask of Dwarven ale we took in our last raid, and bring two mugs."
Czolgosz stood from his throne and walked over to Jonas. When the attendant returned, Czolgosz took the mugs of ale and offered one to Jonasz
"The Ironbacks Orca believe that the more tribes are united, the better our people will fare. On behalf of my tribe, I accept your offer of friendship and alliance with the Longtusks! Let our fortunes be joined, let our enemies face the wrath of each of our tribes, and let our people benefit from all of our success. Drink with me now, and let us pledge our allegiances!"
Looking about his fortified village of Dogtown in the evening's dying light, Grod shook his head. Times were bad, and growing worse. Normally, tribe members lived all over the local countryside, but diminishing food supplies and ill portents had driven them in to the town that served as the tribe's ramshackle capital. His people were more sedentary than most orcs. Normally only the warbands seeking to prove themselves ranged more than a few score miles from the fortress. But crops were failing, livestock diminishing by the day. Soon, the knew, there would be suggestions that they eat the slaves. Grod was not above eating sentients, but he found it far more distasteful than most of his tribe. Besides, he thought at best that will stave off starvation for a few weeks, and by the time my short-sighted tribesmen want to move, it will be too late. Grod knew something big needed to happen to spur them on.
That night, a powerful storm struck. Thunder and lightning, but no life-giving rain. Another bad omen. One in which Grod saw possibility. Descending to the lowest levels of his keep, Grod used his magic to set fires. Moving back and forth throughout the fortified citadel, Grod set several fires in strategic areas, areas that would be not noticed quickly. While he went about this, lightning struck the highest towers of the keep, as Grod had suspected it would. Not long after, as the various small blazes began to combine, Grod hurried from the keep, sounding a too-late alarm. Fire! Fire! Awake! There was time for his tribesmen to grab their meager possessions and hurry from threatened homes, but dwindling water supplies meant fighting the blaze was out of the question. Grod watched his home burn around him, melancholy, but with conviction that it had to be done.
By morning, the heart of Dogtown was a charred husk. Most of the orcs had made it out. The slaves were not in evidence. That natural assumption was that they had perished in the blaze, since the slave pens were in the basement of the keep. In truth, Grod had opened the gates and roused a few trustworthy slaves who knew the location of a hidden postern gate at the keep's rear. He suspected most had escaped into the wilds. He wished them good luck. They had served effectively, and could hardly have been retained when his tribe pulled up roots anyway. He saw no point in needless murder, even of slaves. Of course, if we ever run across them again and anyone implicates me in releasing them, they will die screaming. Grod climbed atop the town gate and summoned his tribe to him. Iron Dogs! Can any doubt that this is a sign? This place is forsaken, used-up. It is time we uproot ourselves from this barren land and seek green pastures. Make ready to depart this forsaken place, and may the Lord in Iron bless our blades, should any seek to hinder our journey!
Takesh stands on a sand dune as the sun begins to rise, looking at a forest in the distance with an expression of concern. This was the closest she had been to it in years - within viewing distance, that is - and while it was still miles away, it felt suffocatingly close. The world in general had felt smaller as of late.
As she stares, a large black scorpion skitters across the sand, and stops alongside her, surveying the scene ahead as well. It makes sounds with a mixture of clicks and rubbing legs against its carapace. 'You have again had the dreams.'
It isn't quite a question, as if the scorpion already knows the answer. Clicking her tongue and rapping her knuckles against her armour, Takesh makes sounds to respond. 'Yes. I do not know what they mean.'
Though Takesh and Azeban had been together for years, it occurs to her - not for the first time - how little she knows about him. For instance, she couldn't say where he had come from, or how he knew how to communicate. It was one of the many mysteries that surrounded him, like how he knew that she had been having dreams. How he knew about Apollyon. What Takesh knew, she had learned from him, and she believed him when he said that Apollyon had a plan for them. She supposed that this was what it meant to have faith.
"In the dream," She begins. "It is night, and I am following a star. there are orcs on either side of the path I am walking. A swarm of flies is with me, but it does not obscure my vision. The bones of others crunch under my feet, and these orcs demand that I move faster, that I leave more bodies in my wake. I look for you, and though I cannot see you, I know you are with me. You are the orcs, and the flies. You are the path, and the moon. Though I walk alone, it is with purpose, and I am never truly alone." She frowns, and shakes her head, trying to clear it from her mind. "I always wake up before we reach the star. I don't know what comes next."
Azeban's several eyes scan the horizon, seeing more than Takesh could even dream of. He is silent for several seconds, and she wonders first if he does know what comes next, and second, if he'll even respond at all. Finally, he clicks his legs against his shell. "It is time."
And she understands. The years have been leading up to this. The star is the future, and the bones underneath will be those of the humans. She turns from the view of the forest, the direction she now knows she must walk, and looks at the dozens of tents in the distance behind her. The Tribe had followed her for this far, had believed in Apollyon. And her. But there was believing, and then there was doing in service of that belief. "Are they ready?" She asks, without taking her eyes from the tribe.
"Yes. You all are."
A whistling wind whips through the scrubland, picking up dried bits of brush. Twigs and cactus needles skitter across the darkened earth like night creatures emerging from their burrows. Above, the moon is practically eclipsed by a blinding star. Vakghul stands amidst the small shrubs staring up.
At his back, great plumes of smoke stain the heavens an inky black. Before him, the quiet hustle and bustle of a village bedding down for the night sings through the air. The fingers of one hand drum against the chin of the grisly skull-mask he wears. It is as gnarled and scarred as the meager foliage around him.
He has had the mask nearly as long as he can remember. Once, it was little more than carved vertebra. Now, dark feathers erupt from the back like a mane. A long, thin strip of dyed leather forms the tongue. Ash blackened cloth binds the monstrosity together. He recalls scrawling the vile runes into the bone. The sound of sharpened obsidian against bone. And, later, that same obsidian against his own flesh. He remembers the burn of every scar he etched into himself. The cool, calming kiss of the mask against his skin had quelled his pain. He hopes it will quell his mind, now.
Instead, it whispers of what could be. What may come to pass. It tickles his mind with long, serpentine fingers. But it does not soothe. Later, when he has time to listen, perhaps the tune will change.
For the moment, he simply sighs and shakes his head as he turns from the star that seems to grow brighter by the day. On the opposite horizon, the silhouette of an inferno's ghost blots out the stars. Dogtown burned.
Vakghul makes a mental note to send what little aid they have, if it survives. If not, there will be refugees to house soon enough. Nightmother willing, they will do all they can. Dreams and omens be damned. The Irondogs may need help. Afterwards, there will be time for thoughts of migration.
Skûn stands at the mouth of the valley, his back to the rolling foothills and the ever-present star. The outrunners had left some hours ago, enough time for the bond-paint to dry and crack, and the rest of the tribe was finally ready to move. Parents stood, their travois piled high with their worldly goods, while children ran around and under and between them. Here and there groups of orcs carried long palanquins too heavy to lift alone, ready to maneuver them down the sheer mountain paths. What few ponies the tribe had left were sickly and wobble-kneed; anemic from the trials of past weeks.
He raised his bow and sent an arrow screaming at the blighted star, provoking a flurry of movement behind him. Shouldering his own travois he set out down the mountain, following the keening wind.
The voices of the Keening Bones cut through the whistling wind, tonal wails bouncing off the rocks to warn of hazards ahead. Skûn slogged through the fresh-fallen snow, breaking trail for the main group around a ledge the scouts had marked as avalanche-prone. Through the gaps in the snow he could just make out the guiding star and, under it, the stone spires hung with woven fetishes that marked the borders of the tribe's lands.
I'll go link up with Jonas, GM.
I scan the horizon, More horses 2 or 3 days out, we could always use more.
take 5 more scouts and follow the trail, 5 days then return. We will follow a straight line as I have no reason to change course. The horses would be a great asset in bring in more to the tribe, we have to many sick and dying or have had to slaughter them for food. This is a very important mission, if the horses are already claimed return and we will send a group to barter for them.
I go to what remains of our food stores, take enough for them to complete their 5 day mission. Then return to the group.
Go and represent our great tribe. Bring those horses back and you will have first pick to replace your current ones.
A sharp sound like a hawk's cry catches Skûn's attention and he grins, showing his tusks. The scouts had found something. The other orcs around him, setting up tents and fire-pits in the lee of the mountain, look up as well and return their chief's grin. He barks a few quick orders and groups of children go running off into the distance, there to steer strays back and kill any fleeing shepherds, while a few dozen adults pass their packs to other orcs and ready weapons.
"Move low. Watch the ridges."
Skûn is still grinning as the heard comes into sight.
With unremarkable terrain ahead, Grod took a moment to pause and look back at his tribe. Several hundred orcs of all ages spread out behind, their distribution remarkably ordered for orcs, but unsurprising to any Iron Dog, who knew that every adult in the tribe had spent at least a few years in military discipline to prove themselves. The tribe's few remaining beasts of burden were scattered throughout, pulling carts or dragging travois. Most were large dogs of various breeds. The tribe favored mastiffs and wolfhounds, but had acquired more than a few others in raids. Scattered about were also a few horses and donkeys, and even a few as-yet-unslaughtered cattle. He doubted many of the beasts would see another turn of the moon, unless the tribe found food soon. Just then, a scout approached, returning from his position ahead of the main tribe. Chief Grod! We spot orcs ahead! They look like Nine Suns. Grod squinted, looking ahead. As if I could see anything my scouts have not already he mused. The Nine Suns were a neighboring tribe. Not exactly allies, perhaps, but not enemies either. They had done some trade with the Iron Dogs in the past, and both tribes respected the other enough not to challenge their mutual border. Turning to one of his band leaders, Grod said Take charge here. Have the column halt, for now and put out a guard on the perimeter. I go to speak with these Nine Suns. turning to the scout who had brought the news, he gestured in the general direction the scout had arrived from. Take me to them, warrior.
When the Iron Dogs near the Nine Sun village, tribesmen of every shape and size can be seen toiling away. It seems that most everyone is gathering together their resources, though its purpose remains unclear. At least, until one actually enters the village, itself. A guard outside the edge of the encampment stops Grod and his scout, but ushers them in when they identify themselves. The Iron Dogs are expected.
Within the village, every hut has three or four cots for the refugees to sleep on. The outside of every hut is painted in sweeping relief of all manner of solar and lunar imagery. What meager food and water remain is being stocked in the village center, where a fearsome orc woman sets to dividing it. A great spear carved from one massive tusk is strapped to her back. The pelt of a large cat adorns her head and shoulders. She casts narrowed eyes and a scowl at the visitors, but says nothing. It is obvious they will be watched.
Finally, the guard leads the pair to a hut subtly larger than the others. He simply pulls back the front flap and gestures them in. Within, Vakghul and a hulking orc with twin stone axes look up from a dried skin stretched taut over a table. While his advisor wears leather plates strapped all across his body, the chief wears little. His vile mask of bone and feathers, a ragged cloth kilt, and the many ritualistic scars that cover his skin are all he wears. At Grod's approach, he offers only nod.
"Welcome, my brother. If only better tidings brought your visit. Durak, see that water is brought for our guests. And ale." Durak dutifully nods and thumps his chest with a fist in his chief's direction, before heading out the door. He, too, offers up a lingering stare to the Iron Dogs. "Now, come. Let us sit and you may tell me what brings you here."
Hail, Chief Czolgosz! Chief Kilgore sends us to investigate the star, and whatever portents it shows. If we could ride with you and share your food and drink, we will serve as outriders for you, should you have need.
Grod approached the table and masked chieftain cautiously. He had had only little contact with the Nine Suns before, and he knew many orc tribes were put off by a half-orc treating with them as equals. A lifetime living with orcs had left him unmoved by the impressive physicality of full-blooded orcs, but that was no reason not to be careful. I am Grod, chief of the Iron Dogs. As your warriors have surely reported to you already, we come with our elders, our young, all our beasts and moveable goods. Let me make clear that we mean no disrespect by entering your lands, nor are our intentions aggressive toward your tribe. Grod pauses, gathering his thoughts. As I have no doubt you have seen, portents have been ill of late. Clouds without rain, wells going dry, crops and hunts failing...times are bad, Chief Nine Suns. They have recently gotten worse for us. During the great storm a few nights hence, some of our structures were struck by lightning, and caught fire. With little water to douse the flames, there was nothing to do but move belongings from dwellings in the path of the flames. By morning most of Dogtown was ash. We took this as a final sign from Our Lord in Iron. My people are mercenaries by trade, but have been largely sedentary of late. It seems Mighty Gorum is displeased, and wished to spur us to action. So my priests tell me, and my own dreams seem to concur, though dreams are ever-vague. While we would appreciate any supplies you might spare, we have no designs upon your lands, but only intend to pass through to find new lands to claim as our own, lands with worthy foes whom the Lord of battle will be pleased to see us conquer. With that, he falls silent, glancing at the skin stretched across the table as he awaits a response.
Vakghul stays silent and simply listens through Grod's speech. Every so often, he nods along as his mask stares eerily. When the Iron Dogs chief pauses the first time to gather his thoughts, he interjects quickly.
"I have taken no offense, Grod, chief of the Iron Dogs, and your people are welcome here. We saw the smoke from your home and have been preparing to offer aid." Again he quiets himself when Grod continues. Again, he finds himself nodding in agreement. He would have to be blind or stupid or just deluded to have missed all the signs. If it had been just the hunts, perhaps. But this...
This reeks too much of the hidden hand of fate. He had thought it simply the cruelty of the Dawnchild manifest, but perhaps it is simply His way to send a message. It is always harder to talk to those who do not listen. Vakghul had been listening to all the wrong words on the wind, it seems.
"You are welcome to any supplies we can spare. Kalea Bloodbane will show you what your people may take. Your people will spend the night within the village and you may leave when you are ready. However, I have seen the signs, as well. My people suffer just as yours have. So I will ask, where do you intend to go?"
Takesh stares at the scout for a long time, weighing his words and considering her options. It occurs to her to ask Azeban about the statues, but she suspected that even if he knew, he wouldn't tell her. Besides, it didn't look good for a high priestess to consult a scorpion with every little thing - even though the tribe generally did accept him as being more than a scorpion. His intelligence was certainly undeniable.
"For it to not disappear in the sands," she begins. "It must be something. Tell me, of what race are the statues?"
Vakghul stays silent and simply listens through Grod's speech. Every so often, he nods along as his mask stares eerily. When the Iron Dogs chief pauses the first time to gather his thoughts, he interjects quickly.
"I have taken no offense, Grod, chief of the Iron Dogs, and your people are welcome here. We saw the smoke from your home and have been preparing to offer aid." Again he quiets himself when Grod continues. Again, he finds himself nodding in agreement. He would have to be blind or stupid or just deluded to have missed all the signs. If it had been just the hunts, perhaps. But this...
This reeks too much of the hidden hand of fate. He had thought it simply the cruelty of the Dawnchild manifest, but perhaps it is simply His way to send a message. It is always harder to talk to those who do not listen. Vakghul had been listening to all the wrong words on the wind, it seems.
"You are welcome to any supplies we can spare. Kalea Bloodbane will show you what your people may take. Your people will spend the night within the village and you may leave when you are ready. However, I have seen the signs, as well. My people suffer just as yours have. So I will ask, where do you intend to go?"
"What lies beyond Nine Suns land is largely unknown to me, save in the vaguest generalities, Chief Vakghul. I was hoping that you might be willing to provide some information on those lands."
"If it is conquest you seek, there are miles of open plains between us and the star that means to overtake the Nightmother," Vakghul replies, tilting his head to spit onto the dirt in one corner of his hut. The motion is particularly bizarre because the spit comes straight from the mask's jaws.
"If you mean to save your people, I fear I do not know the best way to go. Our hunters and scouts have been finding less game every time they hunt. Just as I trust yours have, as well." He pauses again, this time thoughtfully as he surveys his map. "But if you mean to follow the signs. The dreams. Then I think it is the star that calls to us both. Each for different reasons, perhaps, but it calls just the same.
"Should you elect to go in search of the star, you will need warriors. Allies. Friends, even. Should you choose that path, we will go with you."
"If it is conquest you seek, there are miles of open plains between us and the star that means to overtake the Nightmother," Vakghul replies, tilting his head to spit onto the dirt in one corner of his hut. The motion is particularly bizarre because the spit comes straight from the mask's jaws.
"If you mean to save your people, I fear I do not know the best way to go. Our hunters and scouts have been finding less game every time they hunt. Just as I trust yours have, as well." He pauses again, this time thoughtfully as he surveys his map. "But if you mean to follow the signs. The dreams. Then I think it is the star that calls to us both. Each for different reasons, perhaps, but it calls just the same.
"Should you elect to go in search of the star, you will need warriors. Allies. Friends, even. Should you choose that path, we will go with you."
Grod nods, considering Vakghul's words, pondering the map spread out upon the table. You speak wisdom, Chief Nine Suns. Let's us prepare for the journey, then, and proceed as allies. I will return to my people and gather them. With that, Grod takes his leave and returns with his scout to collect his people.
Vakghul simply nods and makes a few quick notes on his map, blotting out Dogtown. He marks a rough path for the two tribes, rolls the map up, and summons one of the guards to gather his people. Preparations begin immediately and the star is not getting any closer.
Czolgosz looks across to Jonas from his horse. He looks unhappy, but it's hard to tell if this means anything. He shakes his head. I have words for Chief Kilgore and he sends an emissary to intercept? Why does he fear to meet face to face? The chief seems deep in thought. He appears to calculate the political math. Obviously he was looking for more than a measly four scouts and ad visor. He snarls. You may ride with us until I reach Longtusk territory. Unless you are telling me that Chief Kilgore is refusing a meet, then you are not welcome, and we go our own way and you yours.
Chief Kilgore does not fear to meet you, nor does he refuse to meet with you should the opportunity arise. Our people have established a permanent settlement and the Chief does not want to abandon our home, or leave it undefended. He sends us to investigate the star, and if soldiers are needed, the Longtusks will answer the call. We cannot uproot our entire tribe for mere curiosity. Surely, you understand? As we just recently agreed to an alliance, I had hoped for a warmer reception.
The familiar smells of cooking meat and burning dung filled the air, carried from the cauldrons by steaming snow. The gnarled hands of the elderly moving in sure motions to crack bones before boiling the marrow out of them; scraping the floating fat into waiting intestines and tying them into road-sausage. Skûn was still grinning. He had always loved road-sausage. An orc passed him, carrying a bowl of fresh blood pudding; Skûn dipped his finger in the bowl as it passed and tasted it.
Mmm. Perfect
Off to his right, he could hear the bleating of the young and healthy of the heard - the children of the tribe were running circles around them, biting and scratching to terrify them into a huddle. They would be the tribes larder in the coming weeks. Then the wind shifted and Skûn thought he heard a new sound.
Urlok rubs his chin stubble, looking in the Direction that the scout just game from. He looks back to the scout.
Stop the clan, I have an announcement to make
The scout bows and rides back along the line of the clan and all gather up within a few minutes. Urlok stands on the back of Denn, eyeing the beast to keep still.
THE MIGHTY ROTTEN TEETH! Urlok roars
The gods have shown us favour this day, our great scouts have found a boon for the clan, a herd of wild horses ripe for the taking. We will find the stallion and we will break him, once he is tamed we will add their might to ours and we will be unstoppable. No longer will we have to walk all of the ROTTEN TEETH he roars the clan name will be mounted and we will find this fallen star and see what it has for us.
Urlok then jumps down off of Denn signalling for his commanders and the elders to gather with him.
This will add glory and stability to myself as tribe leader. We will take a small group to secure the herd, we do not want to spook them. Urlok looks around at those gathered up. I will not take Denn because he will just kill the Stallion and it may not work in our favor. We can keep him as back up in case the stallion chooses to bolt instead of be broken.
Urlok and 5 other Orcs break camp 10 minutes after his speech. Heading off towards where the scout last saw the herd of horses.
The Nine Sun clan and the Iron Dogs work together remarkably well, considering. Certainly, they had been neighbors for quite some time, but it is as though they were meant to be allies. Vakghul practically swells with pride as he helps load packs alongside members of both tribes. He does make certain to keep a weather eye on the horizon, though. Just in case.
Grod looks out upon his tribe with pride. Preparations are proceeding quickly, his reforms to the tribe's organization are clearly paying off handsomely. He is somewhat surprised that the Nine Suns are doing as well, and how well the tribes are working together. They had been neighbors since before he had become chief, but contact had been somewhat sparse until recently. It was a pleasant surprise, to be sure.