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It was a rare thing to see the stars.
During deep winter, great clouds laden with smothering snow blocked out the sky, so that even during the day the light of the low sun did not illuminate the land.
In the summer, even when the sun did set, great fogs often wrapped the land like a mother swaddling a child. A single misstep by an unwary hunter could lead to him to his doom - beneath an icy bog, off of a cliff of broken rock, or into the jaws of a hungry predator.
Only for a few days in the spring and autumn, when the winds were still, as though the world itself were drawing breath, did the skies clear to allow a view of Magor and Rix, the twin red and blue moons, and the infinite sea of stars.
Parents whispered to their children that they were distant shards of ice, flung into the sky by the Worldbreaking, but the Stories told that the Ancestors knew of the stars. For them, the skies were often clear, and they laughed and danced and loved beneath them, giving them names, and drawing pictures in them. They would watch the stars, and marvel. Until one of them fell from the sky and broke the world asunder.
But as the snow began to melt, the skies were clear, and the shamans watched for omens.
From outlying camps and winter lodges, people began to gather, having heard the Overchief's call. They battled through the wet drifts and muddy hollows, eager to bring the fight to the orcs. Strangers arrived too, unfamiliar faces for unfamiliar times.
When an adolescent mammoth was spotted emerging from the forest, the hunters grabbed their spears and hurried forth, thoughts of fresh meat in their minds. Until, that is, they saw the figure that rode atop the beast, one of the mysterious Mammoth Herders from the great grass plains of the west. The underchief greeted the young man as required by the Law of Hospitality, and requested that he tether his beast on the outskirts of the village, where it could not cause trouble.
No-one saw the Bonecrafter come, but when the campfires were lit he was there, squatting at a distance with his strange, skull-headed staff, quietly carving some patterns into the shoulder blade of an auroch. The tribe's shaman exchanged a few, brief, words with the visitor, bowed once, and led him to the campfire.
From a distance, some mistook him for a halfling, hunched in bulky furs, but it soon became clear it was a dwarf. Not one of the usual trade princes, with darkly-dyed sheep wool cloaks and beards braided with gold. This dwarf wore ragged furs, and smelled of fish. He said nothing to anyone, but sought out the tribe's wisewoman. They locked silent gazes for a dozen heartbeats, before he nodded, turned on his heel, and took his place at the fire.
Among the many hunters to arrive was a young man with an unusual, light gait and high arched cheekbones. He avoided eye contact, and said little, but when the breeze blew back his hair, the soft, slight tips of his ears spoke of ancient elven blood. He arrived with a freshly-slain yearling deer draped across his shoulders, the first fresh meat brought to camp that year. The shamans accepted his gift and, slicing open its belly on the snow, returned its heart and liver for him to roast at the campfire, as was custom, before reading the omens in the twists of its entrails.
As night fell, the shamans led two of their own tribe to the strangers' campfire. One was a young shaman apprentice, dressed in the traditional long fur and loincloth, and with a large bone club hanging from his belt. He sat on his haunches, looking distracted and distant, occasionally jerking his head as though to catch a voice only he could hear.
The other was a warrior, with the smooth, sure gait of a hunter, although in his case his movements were almost feline. His sharp teeth shone in the firelight, his eyes glittered, and as the shadows danced across his face they made him look almost feral. He carried a variety of spears and darts, which he fingered with a sharp-nailed hand.
At a nearby campfire, Garrilk, the chief's son laughed and boasted with his coterie of favoured warriors. They occasionally cast curious glances at their neighbours, but devoted most of their energies to assuring each other of the mighty orc warriors they would slay, and the precious iron weapons they would claim. Their loud bragging seemed partly to assuage their own nerves, and partly an attempt to entice any herostruck girls into their sleeping furs one last time.
The moons rose, and the stars whirled overhead. There was a sense of expectation throughout the village, as the warriors around the various campfires pondered what the coming season would bring.
[A chance for you all to introduce yourselves]
The bestial one sits like a cat, perched by the fire. His fingers twitched, dancing over the shafts of his darts and spears, his shirt of hardened bear hide fitting him closely. Finally he nods at the fire, and gathering his courage, speaks to the others.
"I am Moklik, a hunter. I greet you." His words were slow and halting, his voice uncertain. He looks quickly at faces, then back to the fire, as if the effort of speaking has been too much for him. He smells like the fire, like sweat and musk and a deeply animal scent. It is plain by his entrance and by the looks of scorn leveled at him by the chief's son and his men, that he is not a favored member of the tribe.
Asheru squatted down by one of the fires, taking care not to poke or jostle those next to him with either end of the great club slung across his back. It was an unwieldy thing and had no purpose save for the taking of other's lives. Asheru preferred the spear and sling- at least they could be used to hunt and fish.
And yet, it had been so satisfying to lift the heavy club when it had first been presented to him, like scratching an itch Asheru hadn't even been aware of before.
This great gathering too, felt familiar, even though Asheru had never seen so many people in one place. It conjured dim memories, like half-remembered dreams, of warbands and armies from long ago.
Asheru shook his head clear; these were not his memories.
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That mammoth was big - much larger than any of those sitting at the fire. Of those sitting at the fire, Wheatbeard was the smallest.
A fire for strangers it was, but he was not a total stranger to these folk. He had not met the handful around him before, but his eyes drew told him a story. The warrior was confident, acclimated ... but not of enough status to be at the main fire. The shaman was quiet, reserved. Eyes alone would not finish that page.
Speaking for the first time in a while, Wheatbeard cleared his throat. "Your people do us kindess with the gift of fire. Thank you, young shaman," he states, pointedly focusing on one tribesman as opposed to the other. "I am Wheatbeard, and I have visited your tribe before - but not you."
Wheatbeard glances around the fire at the other aliens - an odd gathering, to be sure. The brawdy talk of the adjacent fire outlined the relative quiet they had. To him, it was clear which of the village the Orcs would be slaying - if there came to be a battle.
"Well-met, Wheatbeard," Asheru replies. "To refuse a traveler a place by the fire would be a grave offense."
"I am called Asheru," he continues, placing a hand over his chest. "Your people have visited us before, but none looked quite like you."
"Many families live in the deep earth. Mine was only one of those," replies the Dwarf. "These chiefs will speak tonight?" He pulled his furs farther over his shoulders.
Wheatbeard had been wondering as to the specifics of the assault to be made, but boasting was all he'd heard. There was talk, and there was action. One didn't always lead to the other.
Moklik grunted an affirmative. "They will speak. I have never met a dwarf. You are...different from the tales."
"What tales? There's nothing to tell!" The Dwarf smiled as he awaited the response. Surely, to the humans, they must seem quite short. He imagined stories of beaver-like people tinkering underground and could barely supress a laugh.
Moklik tilts his head, looking like a confused dog. "You know. Shorter. Wider. More gold. Eating stones. Eyes of fires."
The Bonewright continues to carve the auroch shoulder, tiny scrimshaw figures appear in its centre. The figures are too small and intricate to be identified, save one that appears to be a mammoth.
"There will be tales of you after this, Wheatbeard. For four generations of men will this tale be recounted. For ten generations will there be rumours. How do you wish to be described in these tales?"
Caedmon stands just inside the fires light. Chuckling at the hearing what most people think of Dwarves. Though he has only met a few in his travels he knew the true from the false. Then stepping forwards introduces himself.
I am unsure of your customs but my name is Caedmon, Son of Faol & Brina the Twin Fangs, and I suggest we not dilly dally with introductions right now.
"You would leave now, in the night, before the chiefs talk?"
Despite looking calm his voice betrays his uneasiness.
"I am suggesting the chiefs talk quickly. Especially every twinkle of the stars is of the essence right now."
Moklik glances at the newly arrived hunter. He looked competent, but the truth was in the hunt, not the talk. Still, he talked a lot. Moklik wasn't sure what to make of that.
Caedmon makes it obvious that he is inspecting the group as he looks from person to person.
"My don't we seem to be an odd match up?"
He then moves to and plants himself by a tree to where it would be impossible to get him from behind. He sets the gear next to him, the Axe and bow well within reach of his two hands. After he is settled, he begins fiddling with two bracelets while looking on them with a strange look of hatred, love, and sadness. As he does a strange metallic glint comes from them. The colour seems off to be that of the most common metals.
Tupilek has sat silently near the warmth of the flames so far. The way the huge man lounges brings to mind a big cat taking a nap in the sun. His chipped, scratched wooden armor speaks of hard use, and mammoth tusk greatclub on his back is stained and worn from the sweat of a man's palms. Though his body appears relaxed his lightning grey eyes gleam in the firelight as they unabashedly study everything in the vicinity. Do all these eastern men speak what is plain to see? Of course men of different peoples coming together is a strange sight. Their dialect sounds so strange. Like someone spitting.
"I called Tupilek. Come from west on Pikkuveli. We are here to fight the orcs." The big man's common is not especially good, his accent the lilting purr of the steppes.
With a small chuckle Caedmon speaks up.
"Very true. We are here to hunt the Orcs. The question is How, When, & Where do we start? I for one will not rest easy until every last one of them is sent back to the Earth."
With those last hate filled last words, he stands, still right against the tree, and shows the Orc Tusks/Teeth stranded on leather cords wrapped around his waist. Along with his twin bracelets. Each a hard leather band holding a broken blood stained iron arrowhead together alongside some form of resin.
"Now then are we going to discuss strategy or continue to Dilly Dally? For all we know those accursed beasts could be on their way to launch a full scale assault on our homes."
Gods damned strange tongue.
Tupilek holds up his hands palms out, waving them back and forth as if to say 'no, no no'. "I speak only for self and Pikkuveli. That is 'we' who come to fight orcs. We here at fire should wait, hear chiefs. I come a long long way for that."
Tupilek eyes the pale skinned hunter with one eyebrow slightly raised.This Caedmon is full of fire and rushing. Like I used to be. His lack of patience is bound to bring trouble.
Why am I so uneasy being here. I guess I would rather be out hunting right now...
"I was under the impression we all were gathered to try and gather Iron for our side alongside taking out all the Orcs we could. Am I wrong? If I am then that is what we need to do. We need build up our own forces and try and get as much Iron as possible. And if we thin the Orcs forces a little that is perfectly fine by me."
Seeming Uneasy and Impatient he sighs and looks directly at Tupilek.
"What is it like riding such a Mighty Creature?"
Tupilek blinks, trying to put words to something he'd never considered before. "Pikkuveli mean little brother. It like that. I born from mammoth, he born from mammoth. We are both the same." He pauses considering the hunter's comments on the orcs. "I fight orc since I was boy." Looking at Caedmon's trophies he continues, "Same as you I think. Bring death to many, more than can count on fingers. But still there are more orcs. Giants. Other evil things. Rushing no change that. Is no 'our side' like you say. Everybody think the others strange. First we must know each other, then like strands in rope we will be strong. Strong enough to make noose for orc neck." He look about the fire, hoping to see a skin of something alcoholic. "Chiefs won't talk tonight, too late. We should drink and talk, tomorrow we plan."
Hands Tupilek his Skin of Mead after taking a swig.
"You are right we must know each other. But we can learn each other while we complete our mission. I think my problem is the fact that something feels off about this place. Almost like..."
Suddenly he shivers and gathers his things into a small grouping.
"So fighting the Orcs since a boy eh. If I placed my guess you are around the same Winters I am. So you probably have a little more experience than me. I have only hunted them since around my 13th Winter. But if you think I am foolish enough to rush when it comes to combat. I am not. I always wait for the best shot with my Spear or Bow then hit them with my Axe or Hammer should they ever get close enough to me. I prefer fighting from range. What of you?"
"Same as me. I fight since 13th winter. I ride on Pikkuveli, stab things with lance. If not good, hit them with mace. Can also shoot bow, but mostly use to find food. Pikkuveli fight too." Tupilek takes the skin, and drinks a swig. You can tell from his face that he's never had ale before. He hands it back saying, "Thanks. Strange drink. How make?"
The Bonewright continues to carve at the bone.
"A Bonewrights does not often fight. It walks the land quietly and does not allow his enemies to see it."
"As I travel with you, I will travel as you do."
To Tupilek
"You are wise. We must learn each other. Anything, no matter how strong, may be broken."
His hands glow for a second and the auroch's shoulder cracks in half
"If we know each other we can heal the broken."
His hands glow again as he whispers a word to the bone, and it is whole again
"But there are secrets a Bonewright cannot tell to the Living."
Caedmon chuckles at Tupilek's reaction.
"Fermented honey. Barrels are stored for winter. Though this year the honey was harder to come by so the supply is limited. I am fortunate enough to have a full skin. They figured it might help with trading."
He holds the skin out for the rest of the Party.
"Any other takers?"
"We put mammoth milk in skin with seed. Leave in sun until good, then drink. Can only make in summer. Summer is good time." Tupilek says grinning. "Bone man have powerful magic. Good if he come with us."
"Sounds nice, friend. I will agree it is good if he comes. If you don't mind my asking, what kinds of magic can you cast Bonewright?"
"Magic is... a simplification. Bonewrights know secrets. Every Bonewright knows different secrets. Secrets that let us affect a mind - or a soul. Secrets that let us see a glimpse of the future. Secrets of how to move, or stand still. But most of all secrets of Bone."
He pauses
"Would you like to see?"
With clear unease...
"Sure... Please do..."
"Something simple, perhaps. You like to drink?"
Caedmon feels a warm glow begin to crawl across his mind, like the first buzz of strong drink, numbing and comforting.
Suddenly the glow turns to a gripping, dizzying spin. Caedmon's head reels, his vision blurs and his feet feel unsteady.
The Bonewright waves his hand and the moment vanishes like a snowflake melting in water. Caedmon's senses resolve themselves, his feet are steady, the world still, and the only distraction the dancing of the campfire flames.
"Well," Asheru says, "It is good to know, should we run out of strong drink on this ordeal, that Bonewright can take away our wits just as easily with sorcery."
"Not sorcery - secrets."
"Understand, Caedmon, Son of Faol & Brina the Twin Fangs, that while I support this quest the Bonewright geas holds. If I am offered hospitality I must accept, and may not harm those who offer even if they are orcs"
The Boneswright gestures
"In such a case I may stand aside. In such a case I will need strong and wise companions not bound as I am."
Moklik listens to the talk and watches the magic with wide eyes. Hearing the bonewright's words on hospitality, he nods suddenly. "The old women tell stories of such. Men with magics who hold secret vows. You have my respect, Bonewright. I am not wise. But I will stand." He stands and bows to the magic man.
To the Hunter who seems impatient, he says, "I do not hunt orcs. I hunt animals. But perhaps you will teach me to hunt orcs?"
This time, Wheatbeard does laugh.
"The only gold I have is in my beard, and if I had a pelt for every stone I've eaten, I'd go cold!" He shook his head, chuckling. "I suppose we are brothers in our stories: wild and tall, not like my height.
He glances around the fires. Perhaps there wouldn't be a speech tonight after all; the evening was dragging on, and the banter from the fires around them continued. Their own group was talkative in its own way. As one of them offered a drink, Wheatbeard accepted, taking a sip. The stuff was not as bitter as he expected and was a welcome ward against the cold.
After pondering for a moment, he turned to the bone-etcher. "Men always tell their tales how they want them told, but I'd rather they be closer to the mark. Otherwise, I might have to start eating rocks to live up to them."
"Let us hope these tales of iron-armed orcs are just as wild," Asheru says. "I have no great yearning to spill blood."
But there were spirits around him that did; he could sense their stirring, hear their furtive whispering. He drew his fur cloak tighter around his body, as if to avoid their contact.
"No, but they do," replied Wheatbeard, nodding his head at the bragging bunch by the other fire. "Eagerness like that means yours is the blood to be spilled. My own people had strong convictions that drew more than a few pints themselves..."
Regretting having breached the topic, the little man sat back, visibly resigned from talking for a bit. He looked up at the stars - perhaps an omen lay in the heavens tonight for their trials ahead.
"Whoa talk about a powerful feeling... & Don't worry Mage. If an Orc offers Hospitality they won't survive my arrows."
Turning to the other hunter.
"Animals & Orcs aren't that different. So I can teach you if you wish."
Turning to the shaman. And showing his Bracelets clearly.
"I assure you they are true. Seems some have had the Iron longer than others though."
Moklik nods. "Then I will help hunt orcs. I will lend my back and my blood and my spears. I have no wisdom, but I will hunt with legends, be they dwarf or bone talkers or mammoth riders. You have my honor." He crouches back down by the fire, staring into it, as if uncomfortable from having spoken so much in such esteemed company.
Smiling he retrieves his spear and Hammer. He holds the spear out to the hunter and the hammer to the Dwarf.
"A Gift from one hunter to another. And a hammer being gifted back to the people who gifted it to me. To mark the finding of new friends."
The shadows hiding the Bonewright's face make it difficult to tell, but it seems he smiles a little as he carves, and mutters quietly
"...finding of new friends. Yes."
Moklik takes the spear carefully. "You do me honor. I thank you."
"There is no need for thanks."
Realizing what the Bonewright said.
"Yes, finding of new friends. Not even a Mage can survive entirely on their own. At least not with their mind intact."
Wheatbeard waves away the hammer."It's been many a winter since I've swung one of those. It would only weigh me down."
Though their chat was in good spirits now, Wheatbeard began to think they were not planning ahead as much as would be prudent. How would they find this iron, aside from what the Orcs themsleves carries? He knew not their foul tongue nor anyone who did. Would they be travelling together or in packs? When would they leave?
Casting his eyes to the stars again, the Dwarf looked for indicators of hardship from the elements in the coming days. That, at least, could be predicted.
Such as it ever was, Asheru thinks as he gazes at the boastful youths. No doubt some will flock to me before this over. He frowns at the thought of more spirits joining his coterie of the dead.
"Those bracelets," he asks Caedmon, "They belonged to someone important to you? Someone taken by orcs?"
@Wheatbeard - perhaps this fine, cloudless spell will last?
Looks to the Shaman as he puts away the Hammer.
"She was my Hunting Partner. These are the Arrowheads."
Suddenly he looks around.
"Where did my Skin of Mead go? Also we might need to look into planning what we are going to do to get the Iron."
"I have heard stories that the orcs are moving south, into the mistwoods. Who knows more?"
"I am unsure about that. But it might make it easier to Ambush them. Anyone got a world map?"
There is a commotion from the doorway of the largest tent, and then the chief of the tribe steps into the ring of campfires. A large, heavy set man well into middle age, he maintains the traces of the great hunter he once once, including the pelt of the ice bear which he single-handedly slew as his test of adulthood, which still serves, now somewhat greyed with age, as his cloak. However, too many winters, combined with a fondness for sealmeat and honey mead, have made him heavy. Still he retains an air of dignity and authority which does not appear to have been inherited by his son.
Pulling himself up to his height, he pauses to survey the assembled warriors at their campfires.
"Five times" he begins, his voice strong and carrying well in the cold air, "since the Worldbreaking, so the Stories tell, the orc-filth have come forth in strength from their holes in the far northern mountains. Five times they have crossed the Buring Rivers into the territory of the Tribes. And five times the Tribes have united to throw them back to the dung-pits that spawned them."
He pauses, making sure that he has the full attention of his audience.
"Now there are signs that the orcs are readying to come again. Scouting parties cross the Burning Rivers. Already, the elves of the Mistwoods are beset. But this time, the orc-filth bear weapons akin to those of our Ancestors; iron, as told in the Stories. Where they get such material out of legend we do not know. But we do know, that the Tribes cannot stand against iron with only rock and bone."
"The Overchief has spoken. The Tribes are to unite again, seeking the source of the orcs, their iron, and readying for the assault to come. All are called. And it is my will that this Tribe shall be foremost among them!"
There is a great roar, and whooping, as the assembled tribe throat their approval of their chief.
The chief waits for the noise to die down.
"Garrilk, my son and heir, will lead the search. He will take his party north to the Mistwood borders. The orcs are reported in numbers there."
"Salluan, underchief's-son, and his group will go further north. They will observe how the orcs are crossing the Buring Rivers, and what preparations they make there."
"Harat, swift-as-the-wind, will take her scouts east of the Mistwoods to the foothills of the Buring Mountains - we need to know if the orcs head east towards the dwarven mines there - or if they have trade with the stout ones."
"As for our honored guests, and their companions..." - there is barely-muffled guffawing from Garrilk's group - "they should head northwest, to the mudpits and hot springs west of the Mistwoods. If the orcs are using this as a way of passing by the Mistwoods, we should know."
"Other groups will leave over the next few days when preparations are complete. All of you, your task is the same. Find the orcs. Discover their plans, and when the attack will come. And learn the source of their iron. Claim what you can. We shall surely need it."
He nods to each group. "Leave when the sky lightens. May the spirits and the Ancestors walk with you. May the Stories remember you."
"Anyone want to get some last minute items now that we know where we are headed? I have plenty of coin."