Chapter 1: Torrentmoot
Though the orcs of Belkzen aren’t known for getting along with each other, much less outsiders, there’s one notable exception to this stereotype: the Flood Truce. Each year, from late spring to early summer, the collected snow and ice in the Tusk Mountains rapidly melts. Flash floods flow down the mountains and arroyos onto the Flood Road, temporarily turning it into a riverbed. The sudden influx of water leads to explosive plant growth, which draws the aurochs from their wintering grounds into the now-verdant area. The aurochs are vital to the survival of the Belkzen orcs; they serve as a primary source of meat and hides. The orcs of Belkzen refer to this annual phenomenon simply as the Deluge.
Dozens and dozens of orc holds establish camps near the Flood Road. These camps can range in size from ten individuals to over a thousand. Unlike the rest of the year, however, while the orcs are here, they set aside all conflict. They won’t necessarily aid other holds, but they stay out of their way and let each hold gather what resources it can.
Ardax the White-Hair succeeded Grask Uldeth as the head of the Empty Hand hold following Uldeth's assasinaiton. Ardax quickly proved himself a prudent leader, and when the Whispering Tyrant, Tar-Baphon, returned to demand the service of the orcs, Ardax rejected him by mounting the heads of his envoys on the city walls. The lich retaliated, and Ardax led a united force of orc holds against Tar-Baphon’s forces in the Battle of Nine Broken Skulls, a crucial victory that led all the holds of Belkzen to accept him as their overlord.
Now, Ardax wants to see more come out of the Flood Truce than an agreement for orcs to not kill each other. With Tar-Baphon’s recent attempt to regain control of Belkzen, he knows that there must be some deeper cooperation between holds to keep them from getting picked off individually by the lich. To that end, Ardax has personally invited dignitaries from a number of holds, as well as a numerous outsiders, to a place he calls Torrentmoot. Ardax hopes that this time of peace can become a productive way to build new alliances and strengthen old ones.
To this end, he has invited each of you to his camp. It is late spring, about three weeks before the Deluge will begin. A dry, rocky expanse spreads out in all directions. The only visible plants are scrubby bushes that cling to the edge of a flat, dusty roadway, which gently curves to the north. To the east of the road the land rises to a low plateau that’s bare except for a sprawling encampment. Beyond that, white-capped mountains are visible in the distance.
Within the encampment, two dozen tents stand in an oblong circle around a large central bonfire. The tent walls are mostly formed from hides on wooden frames, and colorful banners flutter from their peaks. Split logs form rough benches throughout the common space, and at least forty orcs and dromaars are engaged in conversation or friendly contests of skill and strength.
You are each provided a space to set up your own tents. If you didn't bring your own, you are shown to one of several aurochs-hide tents for you to share with others in the same situation. While not luxurious, these tents each have several pallets piled with aurochs-hide bedding and a thick, aurochs-hair blanket. You have complete freedom to wander the campsite until Ardax is ready to speak to you. Food and drink is delicious, plentiful, and free.
There are about 50 visitors at the camp. About 35 are dignitaries from various organizations from across Avistan, including many representatives from Belkzen’s orc holds. The others are members of Ardax’s retinue, here to help keep the peace, maintain the camp, and keep visitors from getting themselves killed in the unforgiving wilderness. Aside from the orcs and dromaars, you spot a human couple and a pair of hobgoblin soldiers.
After setting up his tent and carefully stowing his gear, Skytar wanders to the campfire where the hobgoblins are circulating and begins begins chatting with them over a tall serving of ale. "What brings you so far north, cousin?"
Njinga kneels outside the entrance of her pavilion, one hand across the eggs and ouroboros of her shield, the other, unfastened from her arm, is already strapped to the other side of it. "Mother of Hearth and Wall, still my mind, quiet my fears, strengthen my arm, and guide my words. Let me be as a bulwark until twilight comes."
And if you can stop my dress uniform from itching, and smite some of the fleas in this camp, I wouldn't mind.
For a moment she debates arming, Will they respect me more if I'm armored like a warrior? Will they think I'm here to fight them?
"Wise decisions begin with a full stomach; questions can be later."
She leaves her shield and helmet on display before her tent as if to display her colors, Mazludeh's symbol, at a joust. Fighting not to tug at the starched collar of her uniform, she goes in search of something that looks palatable to human stomachs, preferably vegetarian.
As she fills her plate, she looks at the humans and hobgoblins with some curiosity. I suppose the Knights of Lastwall aren't the only ones who wish to speak with Ardax while the flood keeps him peaceful. Still, she knows that her mission here is to speak with orcs, so she asks after one of the few leads she'd been given before her march here.
"Excuuke elnej, jiak kij Ukir Njinga Doɹamokuɹ ɹo Knights of Lastwall. Nalkɹamal iuk- Excuuke -ayh avhe yrcuk ɹo Mahja Kaumzajaɹ?"
I have to get better at the R's
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With his tent already set the narrow but strong orc emerging from within steps out to finish the set-up by planting a small sturdy iron rod into the ground outside the entrance. Hanging from the rod was the mark of the Steel Eaters, or at least his version of it since there was no unified clan banner. An iron wrought orc-skull jaw clenching a raw iron nugget between it's teeth.
Stepping back he examined his work, the sturdy aurach hide tent of his own standing proudly ready to house any who might earn his respects. Clambering back into the tent to retrieve a sturdy four pronged cane which he leaned on lightly to take the weight off of his bad foot. The fact that it already started to bother him a sign of the coming shift in weather, and given his clan none would likely dare make an enemy of the Steel eaters for fear of losing their privileges to their superior armaments.
With everything set up and all of his important things stowed away and locked he ventured out unarmed to mingle with the others in the camp. Spying the odd sight of a human dignitary asking for those who once followed the banner of the sun. He ambled up to her side and proclaimed loudly.
The orc gave a cut laugh swotching to a tongue likely more amiable to the human for her sake. (Common)"So what brings a knight of lastwall to these parts? The rumors of our aurach steaks travel so far, Sir?"
Melor smells of forge smoke, and oil, standing about average height for an orc, despite the slightly lean in his posture off of his left foot onto the cane. He wore a pair of leather gloves over each hand, though the left had it's fingers cut off to allow him greater dexterity while the other remained whole gripping the cane.
The Suns, right. I knew that. Dil, Dilim, Dilimul...
"The rumors of your cooking? Yes, they have traveled far and well," she manages. "But no, it is not steaks I search for, but swords. When the Whispering Tyrant rose, all hands were needed, even the Empty ones. I hope that a common enemy may lead to a true bond at need."
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"Well then it's hardly The Burning Suns you'll want towards your cause if it's to get blades. Noone makes finer weapons and armor than the Steel Eaters." He said with a prideful puff of his chest.
"But you'd have to prove yourself quite the worthy one to earn that right." He looks at some of the other folk around, "But if that dusty bag of bones tries to reach out you'll find no clan holding back from smashing the crusty geezer's bones! Isn't that right folks?" he roared to the others trying to get a rousing cry from them on their feelings about the Whispering Wounded Tyrant.
After setting up his tent and carefully stowing his gear, Skytar wanders to the campfire where the hobgoblins are circulating and begins begins chatting with them over a tall serving of ale. "What brings you so far north, cousin?"
The hobgoblin in command gives Skytar a crisp nod in greeting. "I am Subcommander Nix," she says. "This is Lieutenant Knarr." She gestures to her companion, who thumps their fist against their armored chest. "General Azaersi has dispatched us to represent our glorious nation of Oprak. Your warchief sent an invitation to us in a belief that orcs and hobgoblin can find common ground in our shared, historical vilification by human neighbors. Our general saw some wisdom in at least exploring this relationship."
"And in our shared hatred for reckless necromancers, I'm sure," Skaytar agrees with the hobgoblins. "The Whispering Tyrant has threatened this region for the last time with his dread wizardry."
The muscles in Njinga's abbreviated arm tense for a moment above the crimson scarf tied to her stump, and in a motion no longer mirrored,she rubs the fingers of her hand across the branded sword on her palm. "An imprecision, I apologize. Blades and the warriors to wield them. I have no doubt that without any sort of arrangement you would all fight with ferocity, but-" she makes a fist "-with the same strength, you can strike a greater blow with unity."
Ask him about himself; you're not just here for the Empty Hand.
"Are you the emissary for the Steel Eaters? What do you seek here for your people?"
Qísìk Beqk smiles when Nix gives the orc the 'talk'. Yes, Azaersi had insisted certain phrases be hammered into their noggins before giving them the okay to head on out to Belkzen. Admittedly, she had been tougher on Nix and Knarr. It's been a while, and Qísìk still hasn't been able to figure out whether that's because Azaersi expects more from those two or that she's aware of Qísìk's ability to soak up information like a sponge. Whatever the reason might be can wait, because there's ale to be had.
Dressed in what must be noble regalia (by hobgoblin standards!), a wiry hobgoblin joins Nix, Knarr, and the orc. He hobbles forward using a cane and, unlike the other two, doesn't strike the orc as a soldier. "Oh, us hobgoblins do abhor magic so very, very much! And necromancers practice some of the vilest magic there is! You can rest assured knowing that the people of Oprak will stand with you against the Whispering Tyrant, if not physically, at least so in heart and spirit. Oh, forgive my manners, my name is Qísìk Beqk, of House Beqk. Our Lady sent me here as a liaison."
Skaytar nods vigorously at Qísìk, "Nothing wrong with a little communing with nature or sending some prayers in the right direction, but wizardry is Just. So. Dangerous."
From the look on his face, it appears Skytar has some personal experience with the topic.
"One shaky line on a rune or mispronounced syllable and BOOM."
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The muscles in Njinga's abbreviated arm tense for a moment above the crimson scarf tied to her stump, and in a motion no longer mirrored,she rubs the fingers of her hand across the branded sword on her palm. "An imprecision, I apologize. Blades and the warriors to wield them. I have no doubt that without any sort of arrangement you would all fight with ferocity, but-" she makes a fist "-with the same strength, you can strike a greater blow with unity."
Ask him about himself; you're not just here for the Empty Hand.
"Are you the emissary for the Steel Eaters? What do you seek here for your people?"
Melor rubs his chin for a moment noting the palm rubbing and the tattoo. "Ahh, I see." He motions her over to one of the log benches neae the fire, "Sit with me a moment. The lingering ache from my trip doesn't play well with my foot."
Taking a seat on the bench Melor looks over the knight once more. "I would not call myself an emissary for my hold. But we must be vigilant that we do not give weapons to those unworthy you see. Think of me more as a scout, or perhaps even a showing of what we can offer. Beyond my own word I cannot dictate what path the hold takes. Some see us simply as crazed prophets and hermits huffing the fumes leaking up from ancient dwarven holds in the veil between the darklands and our own."
He lets out another chortle releasing the cane to settle next to him as he pulls a small wrench from his belt and pulled his full glove free. Revealing an intricate prosthesis, which he begins to fiddle with.
"Some may be right, but they would find their spirit flagging when faced with the real possibility of being outmatched by a favored hold. My interest is more a personal one however, I'd like to see where this moot goes. I believe that the holds together would be a powerful nation. One that could swing the favor of any battle as we've seen in the past. But that would require the chieftains to submit their authority to a single grand chief. Or most believe and they don't wish for their clans to be swept up and forgotten in this upheaving change."
Switching to a flat screwdriver like tool which he crams in his mouth just long enough to apply a small dab of a thick pale paste into the inner workings of his armature he continues. "I believe that it may come to happen like in the times of our forebearers when all clans rallied into a council, to keep their ways true, but to stand united against a common foe. Not just to survive, but to thrive once more."
He slots the screwdriver back into his tool pouch and tests the mobility of his hand again.
"I would see what Ardax has in mind for us all. Survival, Ascendance, or Ruination."
The hobgoblin offers Skaytar a sly smile. "Danger is inherent to this world of ours. A lack of understanding can either be the starting point of a learning process or, if not addressed, become a veritable pitfall for its owner to fall into. Isn't that why we are all here? To acquire knowledge and insight, to forge new ties that bind us in understanding? Anyway, let us drink. We'd be fools to waste words when drinks are to be had. Cheers! To Belkzen, to Oprak!"
After a short time, the camp staff begins to gather everyone near the camp's bonfire. A white-haired orc wearing a well-made coat of aurochs leather and bone jumps onto one of the split-log benches. His voice cuts through the sounds of the camp and all eyes go to him. “Welcome to Torrentmoot,” he says. “For those of you I’ve not met personally, I’m Ardax. I have invited you to Belkzen, and I’m pleased to see you.
“You’ve arrived during the Flood Truce. For those who are new to Belkzen, this is a time of plenty in which the many holds that make up our glorious nation agree to peace with each other. Soon the floods come,” he says, pointing to the north. “When they do, the roadway to our west becomes a river. After that, the quickened plants along the shore sprout, followed by the herds of aurochs.” Ardax smiles slightly. “I’m jealous of those of you who get to see this for the first time. It is truly glorious.”
Several orcs in the camp nod in agreement.
“But that’s still weeks away. Until then, I ask only that you respect the truce and get to know others in the camp. Some have traveled far, while others have lived here their whole lives. If you are thoughtful and careful, you might just find allies and make friends that can lead to fruitful alliances.”
Ardax pauses a moment then raises his voice even louder. “For now, enjoy our hospitality!” The orc deftly leaps off the log and begins speaking with a nearby group.
Skaytar cheerfully lifts a drink with the hobgoblins, "To a future of cooperation. May we learn, and not the hard way."
Qísìk offers Ardax a slight bow when he finishes his speech and jumps off the log. It seems the waiting game is still going on strong, but Qísìk doesn't mind waiting. It gives him time to think, to reflect, to ponder. And to wonder. Why are they here? Is Ardax expecting an event that requires witnesses? Or an attack that requires additional victims? The possibilities are endless and each one is like a path or road, and the hobgoblin will use whatever time he gets to explore as many of them as possible.
Now, with Ardax out of the picture, he can resume sampling the local ale. "Well, it appears we are to stay put for a little while longer! How horrible, being tied to this place with ample food and ale, what have we done to deserve such a cruel fate? Cheers!"
Njinga's lips twist into a smile when she sees Melor's hand. "It seems your goals and mine are aligned then, mister...?"
***
After Ardax's speech Njinga makes a point of finding someone other than the other Ironhand to speak to. Perhaps Azaersi's emissaries? She has been receptive to our overtures.
"Well, it appears we are to stay put for a little while longer! How horrible, being tied to this place with ample food and ale, what have we done to deserve such a cruel fate? Cheers!"
"I've seen less pleasant deployments," she allows with a smile. "I am Sir Njinga Ironhand of the Knights of Lastwall. Are you part of General Azaersi's diplomatic corps? I have not fought alongside your people, but my siblings in arms surely have."
"Something like that, yes." The answer is accompanied by a friendly toothy smile, a hobgoblin specialty. He gets the newcomer a drink to ensure she feels welcome and then introduces himself. "I am Qísìk Becq, special liaison. I come with the gift of knowledge, and in this here place, I hope to acquire more knowledge. Consuming books is my forte, swinging a sword is not."
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Njinga's lips twist into a smile when she sees Melor's hand. "It seems your goals and mine are aligned then, mister...?"
The orc looks at Njinga, "Melor, Melor Ironhand of the Steel Eaters. I suspect we will see how closely our goals align as the moot continues Sir Ironhand." He smiles and pulls his glove back on deciding to rest here a bit and people watch for a while.
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After a bit of people watching Melor stands and moves over to his fellows who have begun drinking and feasting.
Snatching one of the free mugs himself he gives it a whiff before smiling and downing the draught. "Let us hear of accomplishments since our last gathering." He points to Skaytar calling him to be the first to share tales of daring-do.
"A daring escape is what I have to offer, Ironhand," Skytar begins. "I was serving as an emissary to a group of arcanists in eastern Varisia, hoping to recruit their magical expertise. I had heard dark rumors of the place, but they were the only arcane school willing to take in one of our kind. "
"I studied there for months, picking up the rudiments of their craft, but one night I was awoken by terrifying screams from the dormitory wing. A department of the Academy specialized in harnessing the powers of the mind to empower their wizardry, and one of them had somehow manifested a creature straight from their nightmarish imaginations into the center of the college. Even the senior staff could not contain it, and by the time I was able to escape, it had scraped clean the minds of a dozen students."
The orc takes a moment to have a deep draught of ale.
"I would consider the mission a failure, but I certainly learned a few things. What of you, brother? How have you kept since the last moot?"
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"Hmmm daring escape indeed. It does not do well to manifest everything the mind wanders towards does it?"
Melor pats the satchel in his lap causing it to clink with metal on metal sounds. "Many things have kept me busy this cold season, delves into the ancient catacombs beneath Belkzen to uncover things of our shared ancient past. Striving towards perfecting the pinnacles of orcish weaponry, which would likely have dealt a telling blow to your mind beast were I there." He laughs heartily to try and tear Skaytar out of his mellow revelry.
"One such improvement I hope I have the honor of sharing with the holds soon, should Ardax give us a chance to prove ourselves."
The hobgoblin takes a step back as he obviously wasn't here last time, he'd hate to infringe on what might be a meaningful ritual of sorts. He cradles his mug with one hand and rhythmically taps his fingers against it while listening to the orcs sharing stories. Embracing individuality and entrusting happenstance, or fate if you will, to pave the path forward seems to be a reoccurring theme.
"Ardax sure stoked the fires of ambition going by what I'm hearing and seeing. And that, I can assure you, is a good thing."
Njinga nods. "The beacons are lit, now we just need to see who will answer."
You pass the rest of the night with conversation, fine food, and drink. Early the next morning, after you have broken your fast, a tall, muscular dromaar with a high topknot approaches you, nodding in greeting. She has a beautifully made bow strapped to her back and carries gear suggesting she’s ready to leave the camp. “I'm Hign Bonesnap. Interested in learning more about the Flood Truce and what it means to Belkzen?” she asks, halfway between a question and a challenge. “If so, come with me. I’m leading a hunt to bolster our supplies and teach folks a thing or two about what it means to survive here.
“The aurochs know before we do when the Deluge is going to happen. They smell it, I think. If we can find some of the beasts, we’ll get some useful supplies and also a better sense of exactly when the floodwaters will arrive.” She pauses for a moment, then says, “Coming?”
"Are we hunting the auroch, or observing them?" Skaytar inquires. "One of those requires bringing more bandages along, I think."
Qísìk gives the dromaar a curt nod. "I accept your invitation. It will be the first time I get to hunt with orcs, and I expect to learn a thing or two." Though going on a hunt, the hobgoblin doesn't bring a bow or some other sort of ranged weapon. Going by his neatly kept fingernails, Qísìk is not in the habit of performing manual labor.
"I am not much of a hunter, but you will have what aid I can offer," Njinga replies with a touch of formality. "Your bow is beautiful, Hign Bonesnap. Where did you get it?"
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Melor joins the group on their outting the next day. Bringing along a crossbow as well as the large body of what looks like a barrel-less firearm given the trigger, superior stock made with metal and some kind of rubberized material.
Contrary to his light loadout around the camp yhe day before and his use of a cane he carries a large rucksack that strains to hold itself together despite the triple stitching on the shoulder straps.
"Of course I shall join as well. One can only get so much done by oneself and I would see the merit of all those who have come to the peace floods this year."
Hign gives Skaytar an appraising look. "We will be hunting the aurochs. It is vital to survival here, but I certainly don't expect someone to take a life if they don't want to."
When Njinga asks about her bow, Hign smiles proudly. "You like it? I crafted it myself. I am happy to show you the technique I used later on."
She turns to all of you. "We’re heading into flat, dry terrain with low scrub. Visibility should be good, though that works to the advantage of the hunted and hunter equally. I have a few hunters who plan to come along already. If any of you are skilled at tracking and living off the land, you’re welcome to pitch in. I expect we will be gone at least three days, maybe a week at most. Make sure you bring enough supplies to support yourself; this isn’t some Taldan guided hunt. We leave in two hours, with or without you."
You have a little bit of time to prepare before departing. True to her word, Hign leaves at the appointed time. The hunting party sets out a few hours before midday and heads north. Hign prefers to keep the Flood Road within sight, knowing that aurochs tend to trace its path without walking down its center. The first day passes without incident or any sign of aurochs.
Qísìk tries to assist the hunters with his knowledge of nature. There is a problem, however, as the hobgoblin is completely unfamiliar with the terrain he finds himself in. To complete this disaster, he also has zero experience with aurochs.
Suffice it to say, he learns a lot yet offers nothing in return.
"I don't mind taking a life, I'm not keen on taking a horn to the guts," Skaytar comments.
During the first day of tracking, Skaytar chats with the scouts, but it's clear that it has been a while since he was out on the range.
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"Can't recommend against the horn in the gut enough." He raises his right arm showing off the glint of steel under his sleeve. "Northern beasts got me good once, managed to roll out of the charge and only ended up losing the arm. Would have been a dead man if I was just a bit slower."
He slaps Skaytar on the back in a friendly gesture, "But don't worry about the Auroch, it's the other plains creatures you need to be weary of."
During the first day Melor puts his proverbial nose to the ground to show the others that despite being one of the members of the 'smithing cult' he hasn't lost his skills as a hunter and in fact seems quite at home tracking down prey. Perhaps something to do with his comment the other day about the Northern beasts.
"Gut wounds aren't so bad. If a healer gets to you quick they can get you all sealed up before you die or anything putrefies. Guard your head, guard your heart; I can take care of anything else that doesn't fall off you."
Melor makes some progress helping Hign and her two hunters track the aurochs, while Njinga reassures the group with her calm demeanor.
You set up camp for the night, eager to rest up for the next day's journey. However, just before you are about to go to bed, a rumbling beneath your feet gets your attention. A few moments later, two large creatures burrow up form the ground 40 feet to the west of camp! The immense insectile beasts clack their mandibles, sizzling green drool splattering the ground beneath them!
"Ah, nature."
Skaytar steps quickly over to Melor. Fiery lines drip from his fingers and etch themselves on the orc's strange weapon, glowing on its barrel and stock.
"Let's see what you can do with that thing."
The hobgoblin reaches for his cane but sees that the blasted bugs are well out of caning range. He invokes arcane words of power and showers one of the nasty-looking bugs with fire.
"This isn't what your aurochs look like, right?" Njinga asks with a note of concern in her voice.
She swings her shield across her body, tightly gripped in her ironhand, and flings a scattering of shrapnel vaguely near the closer beast.
Njinga's needle darts sail harmlessly past the creatures, but Qisik causes one of them to smolder. As Hign and her hunters scatter, the two beasts scuttle forward before spewing forth cones of sizzling acid!
The hobgoblin deftly avoids the worst of the first blast of acid, but he is caught off-guard by the second blast!
Acid drips off Skaytar and he looks at the creature in disgust.
The orc channels healing energy into himself and those around him.
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The orc screams in pain as his cloths and much of his skin is burned by the caustic acid. Whipping his weapon to bear, left hand holding the weapon up with a carry handle and the other looped squeezing the trigger. He opens his eyes just enough to squeeze off a trio of deafening blasts at the creatures, the eight barreled monstrosity rotating after each cacophonous blast of sound and light.
The destructive power of blackpowder and iron is shown immediately with the hellish bark of the weapon and it's internalized ignition striker, the knuckle bone sized iron balls ripping into flesh with reckless abandon. Melor has to stop as the acid stings his eyes too much to keep firing at the moment.
Njinga hisses through her teeth as she takes the brunt of the creature's acidic spray. Hold... hold... She waits until the crack of Melor's firearm has stilled, and then she tries to impart that Calm onto the creatures.
Melor opens fire, swiftly taking down one of the creatures with a pair of shots and injuring the other one. Qisik scorches the second foe with his magic, and Njinga attempts to calm it, but it resists the spell, fighting against the soothing urges.
The surviving creature scurries up to attack Melor with its acid-dripping mandibles.
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Although mostly blinded by the acid Melor tries to defend himself by getting his weapon between the death worm and himself and succeeds partially as the thing clamps down on the barrel and his arm in the process.
"Jealous of yer friend!? Have a taste yourself ya overgrown pest!"
He pulls the trigger again allowing the weapon to fire.
He then tries to retreat taking staggering steps backwards, swinging the weapon ineffectively in defense.
Melor's shot blasts through the back of the creature's head, and it lets go of his arm as it falls, twitching, to the ground.
Hign and her hunters emerge from their positions of cover once the threats have been neutralized. "Ankhravs," Hign says. "They are a common danger in Belkzen. You handled yourselves well against them."
"Stinking pests; good work, everyone," Skytar, glad for the help of his companions, settles in to clean the acid from his clothes.
"Shall we hold a moment so I can help with the wounds?"
Njinga begins with a prayer to Mazludeh, then begins work on everyone's injuries. Still, despite how common the ankhravs are in Belkzen, acid sprays aren't a common wound to her, and she's less effective than she might wish...
The rest of the night is quiet, giving you plenty of time to heal your wounds before the next morning. After breakfast, you strike camp and continue your hunt for the aurochs.
"Back in Vigil, we mostly left hunting trips like this to the Scouting School of the War College. Or if you fell behind your unit when you were running the wall circuits. Is it the same here? With focuses like that?"
"Each band has their own ways," Skaytar informs Njinga. "I was sent as an emissary outside the Hold, myself."
"These fellows are doing their best to inform and supply the gathering."