Thorgrim Sekkrhrafn
Explorer
Prologue: The Calm Before...
Haavok Tnepr Th’Udhaar, eldest surviving scion of Gheh Udhaar and heir-apparent to one of the most powerful ghehs in the Tzo’lad’zyu Imperium, inhaled deeply, the crisp, icy air of the foothills at the base of the Shirkharmana range filling his lungs. Overhead, the dark skies were almost pristine, devoid of clouds and illuminated only with the dull grey of Ssakar, the largest and only visible of the Nine Moons tonite.
“A good omen, yes?”
The warrior turned about, facing his old friend, whose voluminous liturgical vestments barely moved as the latter walked carefully over to his side. “Take my word for it, Haavok,” the priest smiled through his carefully pleated and braided beard, the corners of his lips reaching up into his sharp cheekbones. “The Ishvhara, himself, made reference to the sanctity of the singular-mooned night.”
“I don’t need the word of the Unnamed One to convince me of that, Daanak,” Th’Udhaar shook his ebon head, tightly-braided black locks swaying from side to side. “The less illumination we have, the better.” He glanced back at the looming Shirkharmana mountains and gestured with his sharp chin. “The passes should be almost abandoned by now…but I wouldn’t put it past the Osh’Rhihaan’zyu to wait a couple of more weeks before they evacuate Omash for the season.”
The priest blanched. “Surely not! It’s already Samaya-shadhu and the deep winter is scant weeks away.”
Haavok inhaled deeply once more and slit his nictitating eyelids over red, cat-like eyes, protecting them from the sudden gust that ripped past the two, inveighing against former Legionnaire’s hlema armour as if it were no more protecting than rice paper. He shivered involuntarily. “I know the Osh’Rhihaan, priest. Trust me. Under normal circumstances, I would agree with you. They’d’ve pulled camp last month. But now…with the recent skirmishes in the Bay of Hhallasapur…” he shook his head. “I’ll be willing to wager they’ll’ve held on to Omash for a little bit longer.” The half-Zjiate grinned wolfishly, splitting his ebon-black face, revealing the sharpened incisors of his father’s race. “Just in case our Imperial Legionnaires get restless, of course.”
A gruff snort from behind brought the two to bear. “They’ve been restless since the Prithakha, give or take a couple of hundred generations…”
“You would know,” Daanak sneered. “How many of your brothers have been stationed up there, Talok? Ten? Twenty?”
It was an old joke, of course, one which the Orcish Savhat never failed to respond to…however futile the effort was. “As far as I know, I have no brothers—or, for that matter, sisters,” Talok sighed melodramatically, a sound which whistled through the double set of tusks that curved out of his porcine snout. “A fact you know very well, Daanak Rh’Ssoor.”
“Oh, he’s mortally offended!” the Idist priest mocked, placing a hand on his chest.
Haavok rolled his eyes. “Gentlemen…”
Talok Rh’Oomak lifted a brow over his black eyes. “I don’t suppose it would matter if I pointed out that Daanak started it by insulting my ancestry…”
The warrior shook his head disgustedly. “Monks and priests…you would think men of such callings would act with more dignity.”
“Yes, but you know us better than that,” the priest chuckled. “Where would he be if not for my—thus far vain—efforts to instill a sense of humour into his grotesquely-thick skull, hmm? I daresay, without me, our friend here would be so culturally inept he’d be an embarrassment to his entire race, barely a generation or two from some knuckle-dragging dhalisa-herder! Why, those poor souls stationed up there in the Shirkharmana—kinsmen or no—have better social graces than he. And we’ve known him for…oh…”
“Some twenty years,” the monk proffered.
“Too long, that’s for certain!” Daanak declared. “And see?” he looked back at Haavok, who was busily scanning the lower reaches of the gargantuan mountains that lay ahead…and trying very hard to ignore the bickering of his two companions. “Look what my efforts have given me! He’s as much personality as a dhalisa—and they have none!”
Talok, long-suffering but ultimately unfazed by his friend’s barbs, shook his head wearily, tightly-braided locks scraping over his cured-chorij armour. “Friend Haavok, I can discern no sentient thought-engrams within my mind’s range. In fact, I am having a hard time discerning any thought-engrams, sentient or no.”
“How far would you say you can account for?”
“No more than a ri or two, maximum,” the Orc replied through pursed lips. “Certainly far enough so that we would see them long before I could sense them…if just barely.” He nodded in the warrior’s direction. “Your vision, though, could probably stretch that range even further, seeing as your people’s visual acuity is greater than mine.”
Haavok grinned. “I’m only half-Zjiate, friend,” he reminded the Savhat gently.
“Not that anyone can tell,” Daanak snorted playfully. “I swear, you look much more like your father than your mater, Haavok.”
“Perhaps it is mine eyes,” Talok interjected, “but I have a hard time discerning between you and thy sire’s people as well.”
“Shorter tail, lighter skin,” the warrior replied, returning his gaze to the mountains ahead. “Though, it is true, I still have the second opposable thumb and nictitating eyelids of the Zjiates. To me—and certainly to my father’s people—the differences are obvious.” He sighed. “So, tell me: how likely are we to make it before the snows close the pass?”
“Very likely,” Talok replied. “Winter begins early for the Osh’Rhihaan on their side of the Shirkharmana. And though it follows within a couple weeks on our side, that should be more than enough time to ascend the pass and, it is hoped, arrive at a very empty Omash.”
“Gods willing,” Daanak added.
“Blasphemer.”
“Heretic!”
Haavok held up his hands, palms up. “Enough! Gentlemen, please! You’d think the two of you were shell-mates! Bhaash’s balls! You act worse than my brothers and they have the excuse of being shell-mates, to say nothing of being dead! Are you certain you’re not related?”
Both priest and monk glanced at each other warily, eyeing the other with ill-hidden disgust. Then, simultaneously: “I think not!”
Haavok Tnepr Th’Udhaar, eldest surviving scion of Gheh Udhaar and heir-apparent to one of the most powerful ghehs in the Tzo’lad’zyu Imperium, sighed deeply and silently cursed the luck he had to’ve chosen his friends.
I should’ve stuck to my dhalisa, he thought. At least she doesn’t talk back…
Shirkharmana (SHEER-kar-MA-na)--: (lit: ‘tall spires’).
The highest mountain range on Maas, the Shirkharmana rises up from the
extreme south-south-east of the continent Tzo’lad and touches the very
edge of space. Taking up nearly the entirety of the isthmus it resides
upon, it doubles as the border between the Tzo’lad’zyu Imperium and
the Osh’Rhihaan’zyu Hegemony.
The highest mountain range on Maas, the Shirkharmana rises up from the
extreme south-south-east of the continent Tzo’lad and touches the very
edge of space. Taking up nearly the entirety of the isthmus it resides
upon, it doubles as the border between the Tzo’lad’zyu Imperium and
the Osh’Rhihaan’zyu Hegemony.
Haavok Tnepr Th’Udhaar, eldest surviving scion of Gheh Udhaar and heir-apparent to one of the most powerful ghehs in the Tzo’lad’zyu Imperium, inhaled deeply, the crisp, icy air of the foothills at the base of the Shirkharmana range filling his lungs. Overhead, the dark skies were almost pristine, devoid of clouds and illuminated only with the dull grey of Ssakar, the largest and only visible of the Nine Moons tonite.
“A good omen, yes?”
The warrior turned about, facing his old friend, whose voluminous liturgical vestments barely moved as the latter walked carefully over to his side. “Take my word for it, Haavok,” the priest smiled through his carefully pleated and braided beard, the corners of his lips reaching up into his sharp cheekbones. “The Ishvhara, himself, made reference to the sanctity of the singular-mooned night.”
“I don’t need the word of the Unnamed One to convince me of that, Daanak,” Th’Udhaar shook his ebon head, tightly-braided black locks swaying from side to side. “The less illumination we have, the better.” He glanced back at the looming Shirkharmana mountains and gestured with his sharp chin. “The passes should be almost abandoned by now…but I wouldn’t put it past the Osh’Rhihaan’zyu to wait a couple of more weeks before they evacuate Omash for the season.”
The priest blanched. “Surely not! It’s already Samaya-shadhu and the deep winter is scant weeks away.”
Haavok inhaled deeply once more and slit his nictitating eyelids over red, cat-like eyes, protecting them from the sudden gust that ripped past the two, inveighing against former Legionnaire’s hlema armour as if it were no more protecting than rice paper. He shivered involuntarily. “I know the Osh’Rhihaan, priest. Trust me. Under normal circumstances, I would agree with you. They’d’ve pulled camp last month. But now…with the recent skirmishes in the Bay of Hhallasapur…” he shook his head. “I’ll be willing to wager they’ll’ve held on to Omash for a little bit longer.” The half-Zjiate grinned wolfishly, splitting his ebon-black face, revealing the sharpened incisors of his father’s race. “Just in case our Imperial Legionnaires get restless, of course.”
A gruff snort from behind brought the two to bear. “They’ve been restless since the Prithakha, give or take a couple of hundred generations…”
“You would know,” Daanak sneered. “How many of your brothers have been stationed up there, Talok? Ten? Twenty?”
It was an old joke, of course, one which the Orcish Savhat never failed to respond to…however futile the effort was. “As far as I know, I have no brothers—or, for that matter, sisters,” Talok sighed melodramatically, a sound which whistled through the double set of tusks that curved out of his porcine snout. “A fact you know very well, Daanak Rh’Ssoor.”
“Oh, he’s mortally offended!” the Idist priest mocked, placing a hand on his chest.
Haavok rolled his eyes. “Gentlemen…”
Talok Rh’Oomak lifted a brow over his black eyes. “I don’t suppose it would matter if I pointed out that Daanak started it by insulting my ancestry…”
The warrior shook his head disgustedly. “Monks and priests…you would think men of such callings would act with more dignity.”
“Yes, but you know us better than that,” the priest chuckled. “Where would he be if not for my—thus far vain—efforts to instill a sense of humour into his grotesquely-thick skull, hmm? I daresay, without me, our friend here would be so culturally inept he’d be an embarrassment to his entire race, barely a generation or two from some knuckle-dragging dhalisa-herder! Why, those poor souls stationed up there in the Shirkharmana—kinsmen or no—have better social graces than he. And we’ve known him for…oh…”
“Some twenty years,” the monk proffered.
“Too long, that’s for certain!” Daanak declared. “And see?” he looked back at Haavok, who was busily scanning the lower reaches of the gargantuan mountains that lay ahead…and trying very hard to ignore the bickering of his two companions. “Look what my efforts have given me! He’s as much personality as a dhalisa—and they have none!”
Talok, long-suffering but ultimately unfazed by his friend’s barbs, shook his head wearily, tightly-braided locks scraping over his cured-chorij armour. “Friend Haavok, I can discern no sentient thought-engrams within my mind’s range. In fact, I am having a hard time discerning any thought-engrams, sentient or no.”
“How far would you say you can account for?”
“No more than a ri or two, maximum,” the Orc replied through pursed lips. “Certainly far enough so that we would see them long before I could sense them…if just barely.” He nodded in the warrior’s direction. “Your vision, though, could probably stretch that range even further, seeing as your people’s visual acuity is greater than mine.”
Haavok grinned. “I’m only half-Zjiate, friend,” he reminded the Savhat gently.
“Not that anyone can tell,” Daanak snorted playfully. “I swear, you look much more like your father than your mater, Haavok.”
“Perhaps it is mine eyes,” Talok interjected, “but I have a hard time discerning between you and thy sire’s people as well.”
“Shorter tail, lighter skin,” the warrior replied, returning his gaze to the mountains ahead. “Though, it is true, I still have the second opposable thumb and nictitating eyelids of the Zjiates. To me—and certainly to my father’s people—the differences are obvious.” He sighed. “So, tell me: how likely are we to make it before the snows close the pass?”
“Very likely,” Talok replied. “Winter begins early for the Osh’Rhihaan on their side of the Shirkharmana. And though it follows within a couple weeks on our side, that should be more than enough time to ascend the pass and, it is hoped, arrive at a very empty Omash.”
“Gods willing,” Daanak added.
“Blasphemer.”
“Heretic!”
Haavok held up his hands, palms up. “Enough! Gentlemen, please! You’d think the two of you were shell-mates! Bhaash’s balls! You act worse than my brothers and they have the excuse of being shell-mates, to say nothing of being dead! Are you certain you’re not related?”
Both priest and monk glanced at each other warily, eyeing the other with ill-hidden disgust. Then, simultaneously: “I think not!”
Haavok Tnepr Th’Udhaar, eldest surviving scion of Gheh Udhaar and heir-apparent to one of the most powerful ghehs in the Tzo’lad’zyu Imperium, sighed deeply and silently cursed the luck he had to’ve chosen his friends.
I should’ve stuck to my dhalisa, he thought. At least she doesn’t talk back…
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