Stuart's Game History Part 8

(Fire Season 1615) 

With grave thanks the Grazelander families departed on their roundabout route to the south. Kulbrast had asked for one of their mounts, but under the circumstances they could spare not a one. One of the Grazer braves introduced himself to Kulbrast as the son of the chief of the Friends-of-Stone clan, and swore that should Kulbrast ever return then he could choose whichever horse he wanted from the chief’s own herd. Such was the gratitude for Kulbrast’s selfless intervention.

Kenstral had questioned the Storm Voice, one Olios by name, about the local area. A route to Balazar had to be decided in light of the news of lunar invasion. He learned that to the north were the lands of the Sikithi, a Tarshite tribe who, as far as they were allowed, worshipped Urox due to their proximity with the chaos-haunted Hydra hills. The lunars had staged at Dunstop and had established a forward logistics base at Long Lake below Spectacular Falls where they could ferry troops and supplies with ease. This made a journey to the east an unlikely option.

The party now regrouped. Little was said about the refusal of Aransar and Orstanor to join the party in combat although to what extent the bonds of trust had been broken, perhaps only time will tell. Aransar and Orstanor remained adamant that the importance of their quest for the cause of Sartar made the woes of the Grazelanders irrelevant, as harsh as this seemed. The others saw fit not to ask too many questions of the veteran freedom fighters.

The party decided to head north around the bare rock of Mount Defiance and into the valley of the Sikithi tribe, hoping that they could find friendly faces amongst their storm worshipping kin. Aransar argued for a more direct approach, stating that since they posed no overt threat to the lunars that they would suffer little by way of harassment during an invasion. He also mentioned the other way around the issue by heading to the Tarsh Exiles and getting out from behind the Glowline as swiftly as possible. The party were enthusiastic until they considered the uncertainty of the welcome that they might receive from the Exiles and the notorious trophy taking undertaken by some of the warrior women of that tribe.

After an uncomfortable night on the slopes of Mt. Defiance, where Aransar was unable to locate a decent campsite, the party moved north through the evergreen-forested slopes of the hills, framed between Mt. Defiance to the west and bold Kero Fin to the east. They came upon cliffs that overlooked the lands of the Sikithi Vale and could make out at least two villages within the vale, friendly looking smoke curling from two fortified villages several miles to the north. However, as they looked for a way down, it became apparent that none existed, and that the only way into the vale was to the west, and meant venturing into the forested foothills of the cursed and haunted land they had sought to avoid. Fearing ambush, they all lowered helms and kept a sharp lookout. The detour cost them an extra day, hindered as they were by being a mount short. Making up for their discomfort the previous night, Aransar located possibly the most perfect campsite that any had known. A fresh spring emptied into a glade located in a small depression in the rocks. There was game aplenty and all had their fill of fresh rabbit stew and a good night’s sleep. They awoke refreshed and set off once more in the direction of Sikithi Vale.

The foothills in Fire Season had a certain tranquillity as they rode through the sun-dappled forest, Orlkensor and Branduan still riding double to make up for the horse that Kulbrast had lost. Aransar led the way, followed by Orstanor, and Kulbrast had the rearguard. Absorbed in his own thoughts and wearied by the heat of the sun on his bronze covered face, Aransar failed to hear the boisterous singing, but Orstanor, raised among the Amad and ever surrounded by foes, is of different mould, and not only heard the voices but became aware of a spiritual form brushing at the edge of his consciousness. His urgent cry of, “Take Cover!” fell upon sensibilities benumbed by the unexpectedly pleasant surroundings, and only Kulbrast and Branduan took any meaningful action, Branduan diving from his mount and Kulbrast edging his horse, borrowed from Orlkensor, into the cover of the trees. Aransar was left looking around for the threat, and Orlkensor was left, facing awkwardly toward the rear end of his horse and staring down bemusedly at Branduan scrambling for cover below him.

After a little recrimination for the disorganised response to a threat, the party moved to a vantage point on the slope. They could now hear the voices, clearly belonging to a group of men singing a chant in a tuneless Tarshite tongue. Flashes of movement were visible below, and Aransar hailed them. The response was a sight of frantic movement and then silence as the newcomers sought cover in the trees. Then, after more hailing they came forward, a disparate and rough looking bunch of warriors, heavily but haphazardly armed and armoured, with scarred and tattooed faces and arms visible behind unkempt beards. All looked like accomplished killers, and the party was on edge.

They approached in open order, spreading out behind the obvious leader, a cruel eyed bear of a man carrying a great axe with an edge nicked from use. He ignored Aransar who had done the hailing and looked directly at Orstanor. Branduan became uncomfortably aware that the man’s cohorts were all looking solely at him, and with a barely contained hostility.

Aransar made to speak, but the leader interrupted him. “Silence! I will speak only with the Uroxi among you.” Faces turned toward Orstanor who warily stepped forward. “Tell me”, said the leader in a tone that had now descended to a menacing rumble “Why is it that one who my allied spirit has told me follows The Bull, walks with one who wields chaos?” This statement prompted a series of confused looks between the party members, and perhaps Branduan swallowed a little tightly.

“But…” interjected Aransar. “Silence! Answer the question! Do you knowingly ride with one who carries chaos about his very person? Or have the holy senses of The Bull deserted you for your blasphemy?” Branduan’s obvious discomfort had been noticed by both Aransar and Orlkensor who offered a tightly whispered, “You didn’t…?” The leader had eyes only for Orstanor, however. “We are on a sacred chaos killing quest into these very hills, and I will not spare the time or the blood to punish you as I would. You! Surrender the splinterchaos. You! If you would still follow The Bull, you will submit to the scourge. If you will not submit then I will purge you from the Cult ere we part! I am Maneski Storm-Jarl, and I swear this before you all!”

Orstanor was not about to submit to anything, and hefted a javelin. The response from the Uroxi was immediate, as they readied weapons, a murderous gleam shining in the eyes of most. Sensing a futile and costly fight, Orstanor lowered his javelin and submitted. Branduan, slightly shamefacedly brought out the chaotic crystal that Orstanor had already once cast aside, and handed it to one of Maneski’s thane’s, who snatched it roughly from his hand and placed it on an exposed rock. Then, with a snarl, he smashed the haft of his axe down upon the crystal, splintering it to tiny shards. “You others will go out of sight. This is for Uroxi eyes only.” Said the Storm-Jarl.

Orstanor was stripped to the waist and lashed to a tree, face first. He had seen the cruel flail, covered in barbs and sharp blades, and knew what was coming. Picking up a handful of the splinters of chaotic crystal, Maneski waved it in Orstanor’s face, pressed sideways as it was, to the trunk of the tree. “Do you not feel the stink of this filth? Do you not feel the pain of the Storm Bull at its very existence?” he spat, no more than an inch away from Orst’s face, coating him in spittle and filling his nostrils with the stink of meaty breath. “Does it not scream to you of the ever-present and putrid ordure of our eternal foe?” With a gesture from Maneski, the flail bearer stepped forward and lashed Orstanor’s exposed back, inflicting horrendous wounds. Orstanor could feel the warm blood freely coursing down his back. “Do you feel its corruption encroaching on your very senses?” Orstanor could feel nothing but the fire of agony. Another gesture, and once more the flail sang. The pain was so great that it was beyond any tangible feeling, only effect – Orstanor’s knees buckled and he slumped against the tree, his flesh hanging in strips from his ruined back. “You are a weakling from the south, and I see none of the sacred senses in you!” He threw some of the splintered crystal in Orstanor’s face, and rubbed it in with a grimy and sweat covered hand. Orstanor was dying and he knew it. It was only the strength of body that he had been bequeathed by his encounter with Krisa Yor that had kept him alive and conscious thus far, but he knew this would not last. Another blast of liquid fire to his back, and Orstanor felt the flashing ache of the slight breeze on the exposed bones of his torn ribcage. But then, through the veil of agony, another feeling, a wave of nausea and revulsion compounded by, but quite separate to, the unbelievable pain; and at last, he saw. Through his closed eyes, Orstanor sensed a change in the demeanour of his oppressors. Then, an ecstatic flood of soft warmth that seemed to course through his body like a liquid driving pain before it. He felt the bonds that tied him to the tree being cut, and he slumped, face first against it.

The atmosphere was muted and uncomfortable as the party returned. Maneski offered no words, but before he left he placed a hand on Orstanor’s shoulder and whispered in his ear. Then, without another glance at the party, he gestured to his men, who left for the hills, some looking up at the mounted Orlanthi with sadistic grins on their faces. What thoughts coursed through their minds as they looked at the scarred back of their comrade, knitted back together with healing magic, but still covered in drying blood, would be voiced another day. Aransar and Kulbrast turned on Branduan, citing the jeopardy in which he had placed the entire party through his injudicious greed. Orlkensor leapt to his brother’s defence, but there was a forced note to his arguments on Brand’s behalf that spoke of an awareness of his younger brother’s foolishness. Branduan himself offered no defence. In the face of Orstanor’s torment it seemed churlish. As Orstanor finally climbed to his feet and brushed the offensive chaos material from his face, he looked at Branduan and muttered, “Prick.”

The journey down into the vale was muted and awkward. The settlement offered a welcome respite, for it had been an entire season since any of the group had been in a real, living, breathing village. The smells of food and the sights of people readying market stalls seemed so incongruous with the recent experiences of the party that they each wandered off in their own direction. Kenstral sought congress with the locals, and from his attire, they directed him to the longhouse that served as their shrine to Alakoring. Orlkensor asked around and learned that it was time for the tribal moot and the initiation ceremony for some of those nearing adulthood. A ritual circle of combat was being marked under the direction of an armoured warrior, and it was Orstanor who approached this one, asking about the upcoming ceremony. He learned that outsiders would be welcome, if friendly, and that after the youngsters had been tested and bloodied, many challenges would be offered for the chance to fight outsiders to first blood. Orlkensor traded some of the gems that he had pried from the armour of the Yara Aranis priest for a new riding horse, and tended to the transfer of equipment between the mounts. He also negotiated two rooms for the party at the village’s one and only inn. The market began to fill as the clans came in from the surrounding lands, and as night fell and the sounds of ceremonial combat began to ring through the firelit dark, the party could begin to relax for a while…