Sparky
Registered User
The Legend of S'Urok
Moonlight, cold and brittle, falls on the quiet of a sleeping army. Soldiers, tents and palisades all rendered stark in the hard brightness. A wind carrying the scent of tethered mounts, leather and wood smoke shrills through the camp swirling the embers of one small fire. A huddled figure sits close, minding a pot suspended over crackling flames.
Two small points of firelight gleam from within a deep, concealing hood and the figure speaks, voice rich, low and measured, "You have come. Sit."
Banners snap and pop as the wind gusts. The fire leaps, illuminating the face within the hood. A face best forgotten. The deep voice commands, "Sit!"
Pinpoints of reflected firelight flare and vanish within the hood and the figure hunches once again, hands plucking weakly at heavy, tattered robes. Through clenched teeth the deep voice grates, "For the brew will soon be ready and you will hear, for the last time, the Legend of S'Urok."
The fire flares again, bright and hot, searing. Burning into whiteness...
**************************************************************
The sheeting, white snow is blinding, biting. Cold. It is night. The pyre flame leaps and roars as the wind shreds its orange-red tongues, raggedly illuminating the figures that chant and push and crowd as close to the pyre as they dare. The smoke and smell of burning flesh is torn away by the shrieking wind. The dark structure within the flames shifts and embers fly. Orc warriors stretch up their hands to touch the embers, never pausing in their chanting, stamping. Mud at their feet, churned the ice and snow and earth, freezes again as the surging throng passes.
S'Urok can clearly see the structure within the flame. It is a rough thing, and swiftly made. Jaws, fangs and horn crudely described in wood and rope. Mah-kur Muru-ket. Who will bear the sprits of these warriors to Kamakur. With a great crack the structure shifts again, and a multitude of embers swirl into the sky. The orcs together utter a massive and guttural cheer.
Mourners sob and tear their hair and cut their hands, dripping blood into the ice. Crimson gems of sorrow. The Red Sharks were found dead in the wilderness. They were not the first. Some say that Shark has turned away from Crunching Ships. Abandoned the Crunching Ships clan like Kraken.
Geiti thunders at the bodies wreathed in flame, "Red Sharks! Go to Kamakur - to the Dragon!" The orcs surge and howl around Geiti, their chanting growing louder. "Shaman!" Geiti roars, "Come Shaman - the time is near!"
The Shaman growls and only S'Urok can hear. S'Urok and his ever-present shadows, Brahga and Stumbin. "Yes, my chief." The last word is bitter on Hul'Kilay's tongue. He spits it. The old shaman, deep within his furs, hobbles to the pyre.
An old battle, that one.
Oblivious, Stumbin's steady stream of words pours forth, "...and so I suspect that dragons were aquatic creatures once. Given vestigial structures discovered in some more intact specimens... AArrhh!" The bright-eyed gnome cries out and Brahga roughly grabs the small brown hand in his calloused large one. He grins, broken, crooked teeth baring. The old orc bodily swings the gnome around toward S'Urok and shows him the gnome's hand. A bright ember dies on the open palm and Brahga looks at the paragon, "Look, S'urok, mashaka, the little one will die a warrior's death after all." Brahga shoves the gnome down and Stumbin mewls, cooling his hand in the snow.
Where Hul'Kilay has been your spiritual guide, Brahga has been your martial one. He is straightforward and direct. There is little of guile or subtlety in this scarred old warhorse. He looks at you, eyes dark, reflecting the leaping flames.
"So, mashaka," begins Brahga, "A new militia forms. Under what spirit will you lead it?" His faith that your totem will come to you before the new moon is unquestioning.
At the pyre Hul'Kilay reaches into the inferno and screams as the flames engulf his hand. He pulls out a flaming spar and draws a sign in the air with it. The symbol of Shark. It glows and the chanting rises. Buoyed on orcish howling it rises and rises, ignoring the sheeting sleet and snow and banshee wind. It rises. And all below, Brahga, and even Stumbin, howl until breath fails them and all can only watch the symbol, breathless, silent, until it disappears from view.
When it is gone, the flames wink out, vanishing. The pyre is cold, as if the flame had never been. Neither the flame nor the bodies of the fallen orcs. The assemblage departs, moving silently in every direction. Not a word is spoken. Nor will one be until the dawn. The blackened frame sits, jaws shut, sated, dark and skeletal. Snow finally begins to drift up against it.
Hul'Kilay makes his way to you cradling his arm. His eyes bore into yours and he keeps moving. He is headed for the caves. And you are to follow.
Now.
OOC
RG
Moonlight, cold and brittle, falls on the quiet of a sleeping army. Soldiers, tents and palisades all rendered stark in the hard brightness. A wind carrying the scent of tethered mounts, leather and wood smoke shrills through the camp swirling the embers of one small fire. A huddled figure sits close, minding a pot suspended over crackling flames.
Two small points of firelight gleam from within a deep, concealing hood and the figure speaks, voice rich, low and measured, "You have come. Sit."
Banners snap and pop as the wind gusts. The fire leaps, illuminating the face within the hood. A face best forgotten. The deep voice commands, "Sit!"
Pinpoints of reflected firelight flare and vanish within the hood and the figure hunches once again, hands plucking weakly at heavy, tattered robes. Through clenched teeth the deep voice grates, "For the brew will soon be ready and you will hear, for the last time, the Legend of S'Urok."
The fire flares again, bright and hot, searing. Burning into whiteness...
**************************************************************
The sheeting, white snow is blinding, biting. Cold. It is night. The pyre flame leaps and roars as the wind shreds its orange-red tongues, raggedly illuminating the figures that chant and push and crowd as close to the pyre as they dare. The smoke and smell of burning flesh is torn away by the shrieking wind. The dark structure within the flames shifts and embers fly. Orc warriors stretch up their hands to touch the embers, never pausing in their chanting, stamping. Mud at their feet, churned the ice and snow and earth, freezes again as the surging throng passes.
S'Urok can clearly see the structure within the flame. It is a rough thing, and swiftly made. Jaws, fangs and horn crudely described in wood and rope. Mah-kur Muru-ket. Who will bear the sprits of these warriors to Kamakur. With a great crack the structure shifts again, and a multitude of embers swirl into the sky. The orcs together utter a massive and guttural cheer.
Mourners sob and tear their hair and cut their hands, dripping blood into the ice. Crimson gems of sorrow. The Red Sharks were found dead in the wilderness. They were not the first. Some say that Shark has turned away from Crunching Ships. Abandoned the Crunching Ships clan like Kraken.
Geiti thunders at the bodies wreathed in flame, "Red Sharks! Go to Kamakur - to the Dragon!" The orcs surge and howl around Geiti, their chanting growing louder. "Shaman!" Geiti roars, "Come Shaman - the time is near!"
The Shaman growls and only S'Urok can hear. S'Urok and his ever-present shadows, Brahga and Stumbin. "Yes, my chief." The last word is bitter on Hul'Kilay's tongue. He spits it. The old shaman, deep within his furs, hobbles to the pyre.
An old battle, that one.
Oblivious, Stumbin's steady stream of words pours forth, "...and so I suspect that dragons were aquatic creatures once. Given vestigial structures discovered in some more intact specimens... AArrhh!" The bright-eyed gnome cries out and Brahga roughly grabs the small brown hand in his calloused large one. He grins, broken, crooked teeth baring. The old orc bodily swings the gnome around toward S'Urok and shows him the gnome's hand. A bright ember dies on the open palm and Brahga looks at the paragon, "Look, S'urok, mashaka, the little one will die a warrior's death after all." Brahga shoves the gnome down and Stumbin mewls, cooling his hand in the snow.
Where Hul'Kilay has been your spiritual guide, Brahga has been your martial one. He is straightforward and direct. There is little of guile or subtlety in this scarred old warhorse. He looks at you, eyes dark, reflecting the leaping flames.
"So, mashaka," begins Brahga, "A new militia forms. Under what spirit will you lead it?" His faith that your totem will come to you before the new moon is unquestioning.
At the pyre Hul'Kilay reaches into the inferno and screams as the flames engulf his hand. He pulls out a flaming spar and draws a sign in the air with it. The symbol of Shark. It glows and the chanting rises. Buoyed on orcish howling it rises and rises, ignoring the sheeting sleet and snow and banshee wind. It rises. And all below, Brahga, and even Stumbin, howl until breath fails them and all can only watch the symbol, breathless, silent, until it disappears from view.
When it is gone, the flames wink out, vanishing. The pyre is cold, as if the flame had never been. Neither the flame nor the bodies of the fallen orcs. The assemblage departs, moving silently in every direction. Not a word is spoken. Nor will one be until the dawn. The blackened frame sits, jaws shut, sated, dark and skeletal. Snow finally begins to drift up against it.
Hul'Kilay makes his way to you cradling his arm. His eyes bore into yours and he keeps moving. He is headed for the caves. And you are to follow.
Now.
OOC
RG
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