Every year for nearly six generations, the Broken Tusks have followed mammoth herds in a circular migration pattern spanning most of the western Realm of the Mammoth Lords. The people follow traditions handed down from time immemorial, including the art of survival in a harsh land and rituals which were already old when the world was young.
But things have changed. The warm seasons are shorter, the winters longer, and the game sparser. In spite of these difficulties, the Broken Tusks maintain what traditions they can, largely in denial to the realities of the changing world around them. At present, they’ve temporarily settled in their familiar stomping grounds, the once-verdant Gornok Plain, for the spring thaw and to observe the following’s ancient vernal ceremony, the Night of the Green Moon. Their elders, including the centenarian Grandfather Eiwa, have put on brave faces for the sake of their following’s youngest generation, many of whom are coming of age in a world still reeling from demonic warfare.
Though spring should be a time of cheer and renewal, a sense of dread hangs in the air around the Broken Tusk camp. The elders stubbornly believe the best way to address the chronic food shortage is to maintain the path they’ve walked for the past century. Yet many of the youngest generation believe that exploration might be the group’s best hope for survival. With their leaders paralyzed by indecision, it will fall to the Broken Tusk’s newest band of scouts to reignite their people’s nascent spirit of adventure and, with any luck, guide the following toward a new era of prosperity...
Chapter 1: Broken Tusk Moon
16 Pharast, 4722 AR
Grandfather Eiwa's request was clear: hunt down and bring back a meal worthy of the upcoming Night of the Green Moon. Head scout Wipa has instructed you to prepare for the day's hunt, the heavily pregnant half-elf strapping on her own weapons and tools. Your fellow scout-in-training, Pakano, grins as he sharpens his spear. "This is going to be fun!" he laughs haughtily.
The day ahead promises to be exciting...
Branwyn stares at the pregnant belly. Egg hatch soon. The woman’s strength is admirable. Even the large woman who took her from her nest and taught her the value of not eating people never bore a child. Many ways to be strong.
At fourteen, Branwyn has the body of an adult. Indeed, she was already tearing kobolds and wolves with her talons at the age of four. She was born to kill for meat. Just not the way her mother did. Cannibalism bad.
“Fun. Will get messy.” She raises a leg overhead to comb the hair from her face with her talon, taking care not to brush out the soiled mudlily. “Is why I wear flower.” She smiles at the scout, baring her pointed teeth.
The young male looks delicious. Branwyn stifles an urge to sing for him.
Arianda felt very much out of place. She had only been here a week or so, since the tribe had rescued her. She’d only recently felt like her strength had returned, and now they want her to go hunting? She had never hunted before!
But, she was grateful for being saved, so she didn’t argue when the tribal leaders made it clear she was to go as well.
"Messy, indeed. Don't be in too much of a hurry for the fun, Vöglein*," Jorum says with a grin, reaching over and ruffling the girl's feathers in a friendly gesture. "We don't want so much fun that Arianda has to unpack her prayers."
The young man steals a glance at the newest member of the Following - the healer, Arianda. Something about her piques his interest. As his eyes subtly trace her form through the heavy clothes worn against the cold, a hand shoves at his hip. He turns to look down at the halfling standing next to him. Cyrene glares up at him with narrowed eyes.
Okay, maybe he wasn't being as subtle as he had thought.
'What?' he tries to sign to her, in an attempt to keep the conversation between the two of them. 'I was just checking to make sure she was geared up for the hunt.'
Valda emerges from her tent and takes stock of the camp. The sunlight shining through the crisp winter air illuminates a scene of sublime beauty, and she tries to fix the image in her mind to write a song about it later on.
Her gaze falls on Arianda, shifting uncomfortably as the other Broken Tusks bustle around her. The skald makes her way over to the following's newest recruit. The half-elf is a few inches taller than Valda, but the red-haired Kellid has a much more muscular physique. She grins and pats the cleric on the shoulder.
"The hunts can get dangerous," she says in her clear voice. "We will be grateful to have a dedicated healer along with us today. Do not worry your pretty little head. We will keep you safe."
She notices Jorum not-so-subtly checking Arianda out from across the way and gives him a pointed look. Quite the wandering eye, that one has! Valda only hopes that it would wander her way more often, instead of towards the few 'exotic' southerners that are part of the following.
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Cyrene responds with a flurry of sign language that gives the impression of a hyper-active fur-ball but the statuesque figure next to her replies in words instead.
"My Granddaughter does not believe you." Sabach says, it's hallit flawless and utterly without accent. "You have been making your intentions known for some time. If you wish to reconsider then you should be clear about it. I will not accept anything less."
Cyrene kicks the angel in the shin and turns her nimble fingers on her 'grandfather' instead. The angel nods slowly, fixes Jorum with a glare and then follows Cyrene as she bounces over to Valda and waves cheerfully.
"Cyrene greets you Valda." Sabach translates. "And you Arianda. You are most welcome today."
Cyrene meanwhile waves to get Arianda's attention and then starts gesturing slowly, pointing to the cleric, then herself, cupping a hand across her heart and then stretching her arms wide to encompass the group. Then she walks her two hands together and intertwines her small fingers.
"She hopes that you will be friends." Sabach adds without expression. "Do you like the mammoths?"
Branwyn has grown used to Jorum mispronouncing her name. She smiles pleasantly because correcting him might hurt his feelings.
As he and Cyrene talk with their hands, Branwyn raises a wingtip and studies her feathers. The hand-talk looks hard to understand. I learn kick. Is easier.
Arianda nods to the muscled woman. ”Just…want to do my part. I owe your people so much for saving me. It’s the least I can do,” she says as she fastens her sword belt clumsily around her waist.
The priestess turns to the pair approaching and quickly falls to her knees in humility at the heavenly outsider. ”Th-thank you. I hope so as well,” she answers without raising her head.
At the question about the mammoths, she nods enthusiastically, hoping not to make offense. ”They are magnificent animals.”
“Is no debt, Arianda,” Branwyn replies. Her mind’s eye looks back a decade, comparing her past with the moment she swooped to the pretty cleric.
”We save you, you join us. Is same for me when I saved. People save me, I join them. Is how it works.”
Branwyn thinks her explanation is dumb. She stops talking.
Arianda slowly rises to her feet as others speak, namely the harpy directly to her. She nods in reply. ”Not everyone feels the same. I am grateful yours is a kind heart that sees things as I do,” she adds with a smile.
Branwyn no longer thinks her explanation is dumb.
She returns the smiles, this time keeping her lips together, so teeth are not bared.
Valda thumps her hand against her chest in salute to Cyrene and Sabach. She stifles a laugh when Arianda falls to her knees. Valda has never been much of the religious type, putting her own faith in her strength of arms and burgeoning skaldic magic instead of Sister Cinder or another deity. Still, she has seen first-hand Sabach's prowess on the battlefield, and she welcomes having the halfling and her grandfather in the scouting group.
"Are we ready to depart? Pakano's likely to run off on his own if we don't hurry up!" Valda says, shaking her head. The headstrong young hunter's arrogance and foolhardiness are well-known among the Broken Tusks.
Jorum closes his eyes realizing that, once again, he's fumbled something, somewhere.
Gods above, why can't women be easier to understand?
Looking for something to occupy them before they leave, he makes an effort to check that some of the newcomers have their gear arranged properly. The fact that he begins with Arianda doesn't really help his position, but he seems oblivious to attention he draws.
"Here," he says, adjusting her weapon belt. "You want it loose, but not that loose. And you want it over your outer coat."
Branwyn sees Valda's salute. She does the same. Her wing is brought against her breast. The feathers fold silently against her breastband.
A solitary feather gently falls from wing to ground. Branwyn’s eyes shift from the falling feather to the people she is saluting.
“Am ready,” she replies to Valda.
As she speaks, she notices Jorum helping Arianda adjust her clothing. Lacking hands, Branwyn often needs such help. But she will not ask a male to help. She checks her breastband and waistcloth, then whispers to Valda, “Am ready?”
Arianda froze as the barbarian man approached and began making adjustments to her gear. She was still uncertain of the social dynamics of the tribe and who was who, so didn’t want to offend anyone. So she stood there, still, with her hands at her sides as he fiddled with her sword belt. ”Yes, of course. Sorry,” she apologizes.
Valda rolls her eyes and taps her foot impatiently while Jorum "helps" Arianda. When he finally finishes, she leads the group to join Wipa and Pakano.
With the expert aid of head scout Wipa, tracking down a suitable beast for the feast is easy. Pakano all but whoops with excitement during the hunt. With the quarry in sight, now comes the hard part—killing it.
In the forest copse beyond some thick foliage, dim morning light outlines a lone bull moose nearly as big as a baby mammoth. The moose casts a wide shadow on the ridge to the north. The sound of trickling water from a stream to the west intermingles with that of the moose idly munching on the tender grass sprouting from the recently thawed tundra. Your hunting party lurks behind thick foliage, planning the right moment to strike.
“This is our prey,” Wipa whispers. “We must not startle him. If we do, and he charges us, our only choice is to run.”
Her solemn, quiet words are met with a snort from Pakano. The young Kellid hunter's beautiful face perpetually bears an arrogant sneer. “Let’s just get him,” he growls.
Wipa silences the youth with a wave of her hand. “This animal is our superior in strength, size, and speed,” she says calmly. “Before we strike, we must try to press our advantage.”
"No need to be sorry," Jorum replies with a friendly smile. "You didn't know before and now you do." He gives her a nod before stepping away.
Seeing that Valda is tending to Branwyn, he turns his attention to Cyrene.
Kneeling down to make sure her coat is closed tight, he says, "You always leave it hanging half open." He spends a moment adjusting the ties. As practice, he signs the words as well. "Don't want to be bringing home a Cyrene-cicle," he adds with an affectionate tap under the halfling's chin.
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With slow and careful movements, Jorum reaches down and plucks a rock from the semi-frozen ground. With a quick snap of his arm, he sends into some bushes on the other side of the huge creature.
Unfortunately, the movement attracts the moose's attention, rather than the stone.
Arianda looks around and says ”If it runs, I believe it will run through there,” pointing at a game trail. ”I’ll…see if I can make that hard for it to do…”
She then makes her way over, collecting sharp branches as she goes…and then falls unceremoniously into the game trail, dropping her stack of branches as she moves to catch herself!
Branwyn sings like the lead performer of a Cow Moose Opera!
She edges closer, strutting and swaying her tail feathers.
Valda holds back a laugh as Arianda pratfalls. She moves to cover for her, though, quickly picking up the sharp sticks and placing them in the right spots.
Between all of your efforts, the moose is throughly vexed! Before you can capitalize on the advantages, though, Pakano charges forward, yelling wildly! Unfortunately, like Arianda, he trips and falls beneath the mouse's hooves, immediately falling unconscious!
The moose bellows at Jorum and lopes towards him! The sharp sticks make it clumsy, though, but Cyrene's distraction is not enough to spare Jorum from a devastating blow! The mouse's antlers tear into him, and he goes down!
Branwyn gets into her ▶️stoked flame stance. She ▶️strides, fast and furiously!
”Oh no!” Arianda mutters before stepping towards the fallen hunter. She sends a wave of healing magic towards him from afar, though. But it seems some of its power is lost in the intervening distance.
Valda quickly begins to sing an inspiring song. She moves to flank with Branwyn, swinging her greataxe!
"Wow, you'd think we were trying to kill it or something," Jorum grumbles to himself as consciousness returns to him along with multiple points of pain that Arianda's healing hasn't quite dealt with.
He looks up into Cyrene's face filled with concern and smiles. "I'm fine, Angel," he says before rolling to his feet and grasping his blades. Hoping that she doesn't see how his hands shake, he steps in to strike at the angry moose.
Both Branwyn and Jorum hit the moose twice, leaving it badly wounded. It stomps and bellows, trying to frighten Branwen, then thrashes its antlers at the harpy! It hits her twice, and it's the monk's turn to fall!
Arianda reaches a hand out towards the harpy, and a wave of healing energy washes out and over her as well.
She looks to Jorum and asks ”Are you alright?”
"I'm fine," Jorum replies without turning his head. "Make sure Branwyn is ok." He continues to slash at the bleeding creature.
Branwyn ▶️stands.
She sees how Valda sings as she swings her axe. Branwyn harmonizes.
Branwyn kicks the moose, then Jorum slices it again and again, and with the final strike, the hulking animal finally falls!
In the aftermath of the fight, Valda moves to help Pakano. Despite his embarrassing fall, he is remarkably unscathed. ”Ugh, you all just had to steal all the glory!” he scowls.
Wipa emerges from her hiding spot and nods in satisfaction. ”Any fight you can walk away from is a successful one. Well done.”
The head scout instructs you on how to butcher the moose’s carcass. This process takes several hours, as it involves removing the hide and organs, carefully segmenting the skeleton, and carving out the meat. All of it must be taken back to camp.
Arianda asks the injured to gather for her to examine. As she does so, she mutters ”If my tools hadn’t been stolen by those orcs, I’d be able to help with these more.”
She sighs and says ”As is, I’m nervous to use the last of my healing magic until we get you all back to camp.”
Wipa informs her she has some supplies Arianda can use, which the priestess thanks her profusely for, then sets to work…
She is able to patch Jormun up nicely, her hands gently placing poultices and bandages.
Branwyn’s unique anatomy, however, leaves her perplexed. ”I’m sorry. I’ve never tended to a harpy before. When we get back to camp, I will ask for Iomedae’s blessing to heal you further.”
Valda gives an appreciative nod to Branwyn for the harmony. She sings a hymn of healing to mend the harpy’s lingering wounds. ”Whatever doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” she says, ruffling the girl’s feathers affectionately.
She then moves to Arianda and claps the half-elf on the shoulder. ”That might have been a lot worse without your healing spells. We are lucky to have you among us.”
Arianda looks at her feet in shame. ”Or maybe killed it before anyone got hurt had you had someone here who didn’t fall flat on their face and ruin the ambush right off…”
”You cannot blame Pakano for being a fool,” Valda says with a hearty laugh. The other scout gives her an angry look.
Arianda blushes furiously! ”N-no! Not him! Me! I was talking about me!” she stammers in embarrassment.
Jorum claps a hand on Arianda's shoulder. "Nah, Pakano took care of that for you," he says with a laugh. "You did great. We all did great."
Knowing that respect is what is called for in this circumstance, he then turns to Wipa and then Sabach in turn.
"Thank you elders for your guidance and forbearance. We wouldn't have been successful without you," he says, bowing to each of them.
“You ruin nothing. Four of us fall down, Arianda. But you pick up two of us.” Branwyn thinks a bit, struggling for more better words. Cannot give ha-ha words like Jorum. “I huntress. You life-saver. Without good life-saver, huntress fall down is death.”
Once the moose’s parts have been harvested, you hike back to the following’s camp. The other members of the clan celebrate your victory and help store the parts for the coming feast. You’ve earned some rest, and have the rest of the afternoon and evening to yourselves...
Branwyn finds a place to relax. I sing like cow moose today. Sing is good? Is good if not sing to man, she thinks.
She raises her wings, stands with one talon in front of the other, puffs up her breast…
AaaaAAAaaaAaAaaAaaAAAaaAAwK!?!
Both wings cover her mouth, but too late to stop the discordant banshee-screech. Blushing furiously, the harpy’s eyes dart about.
Nobody hear that? she hopes, but even the deaf and the dead heard that. The only consolation is that she definitely does not have to worry about accidentally alluring a virile male.
Arianda had returned to the communal “female recruit” tent for women who were rescued or joined that had no husband. She made her way to the furs that had been designated for her to use as a “bed” and began working the clasps to her armor and sword belt to get them off and store them away before adjusting her heavy robes and fur cloak back to a semblance of order. There was a gods awful screeching from somewhere in camp, causing her and several of the other women to cover their ears. Oh, gods…I hope that doesn’t happen often…
She used her magic to clean off any residue of blood from the fight and butchering, then headed back outside. She folds her arms across her ribs against the cold, and heads over to the fire where she sits and huddled near it alone.
Valda is working on the words to a song memorializing the day's moose hunt when she sees Arianda sitting by herself. Shaking her head, the skald grabs some extra furs from her tent and moves to sit by the half-elf's side, draping them over her. "No sense freezing to death for the sake of pride," Valda says.
She gives the cleric some time to warm up, then asks, "How are you finding life among the Broken Tusks?"
Arianda smiles as the muscle bound woman approaches with another fur. ”Thanks,” she says demurely.
”Honestly? I was terrified at first. In the south, we are told many many horror stories of barbarian raiders and tribal savages. What they do to their captives. But,” she pauses and smiles, ”You have all been so nice to me.”
After a brief pause, she asks ”So…how do you stay so warm?” as her eyes move over all the exposed muscle Valda has on display.
Branwyn peers about as she quietly moves to the women’s tent. She sees Arianda and Valda by the fire and moves to join them.
She hears the last part of conversation. How I stay warm? “Have feathers.” She folds her wings over herself like a cloak.
But she thinks about the word ‘Barbarian.’ She has an answer for that too. “Other Mother is nun. Is also Barbarian. Is also dead. But when Other Mother alive, is nice.
“One day, Other Mother rescue children. Captor of children fight, lose, and say ‘I yield’ to Other Mother. Other Mother grab man by face, her thumbs in his eyes. Is messy, is death.
“This is Barbarian. Is kind to kind. Is brute to brute. You are kind. Barbarian not hurt you.”
Branwyn stares at the fire. If her eyes tear up, the ladies will blame the smoke.
"The Broken Tusks are kind to outsiders. But there are other clans that are not so friendly. Be grateful that we were the ones to find you," Valda says.
She smirks when Arianda looks her up and down. "I do not have feathers like Branwyn here, but I have spent my whole life here in the north. My body is used to the cold. Stay here long enough and you will adapt, too."
Arianda shivers at the explanation. ”I don’t think I’ll ever adjust that much,” she says.
As Branwyn speaks in broken Taldane, Arianda struggles to follow. But eventually gets the gist of her final remarks. ”I suppose there is some measure of civility in that. In truth, not all too different than the southern kingdoms. And more honest about it, for s-sure.”
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Cyrene has a, very small, tent of her own, which is pitched right next to the larger communal tent. After a couple of unfortunate incidents with people getting up in the night and other changes it became clear that she needed her own space - for her own safety as much as anything else, but the halfling has never liked being alone and so spends as much time as she can in more communal spaces.
As she joins the rest of the chatting circles she starts signing, with Sabach acting as her voice as she usually does.
"The southern kingdoms are no better, that is certain." The angel says, keeping its eyes on its charge. "Cyrene and I have been chased from place to place for many years, simply because of who she is. It is good," Cyrene waves and signs something with greater emphasis. "I apologise, she says it is wonderful to find a people as accepting of differences. She also says it is time to feed the young mammoths and would you like to come with her?"
Sabach hasn't made it entirely clear who any of the statements were addressed to and Cyrene is looking from face to face with a hopeful smile so...
Branwyn is not good at talking. She thinks she is better at feeding mammoths. She looks at Sabach, at Cyrene, at Sabach… at Cyrene. “Feed mammoths? I help?”