seasong
First Post
Vignette: Chatham
In Old Orc, Chatham means Empty Bowl.
The root 'thahm' is the rune for possession, bowl, hunger and fullness, depending on its context. 'Ehna' ("chew" or "contemplate") evolved from it in the context of 'hethehn' (from 'heth', "to work over" and 'thehn', "food"). But at its root, it means bowl, and all of the promise and pain that can come with it.
'Cha' or 'cho' (it is used both ways) is a rarely used term, because it means not only a lack, but also the fulfillment of emptiness. It is a vessel for enlightenment, empty of preconception, but it is also deep loss and painful hunger.
Chatham named himself when his tribe died. His sister, before that time, was Ohltegahs ("river's root" or "wellspring"), and she was as beautiful as he, born of an uncommonly good combination. Both were tall and gracile for orcs, but still possessed of the bones for daily survival. Blessed with balanced, expressive faces and a gift of voice and rhythm, they became war drummers and story tellers together...
Then the Buhkenahk came.
...
Young and supple, the orc youth slunk through the tree shadows, as silent as any predator of the forest. Although young, he had already spent a lifetime learning to hunt and fight, much like his prey, the warband that had captured his sister.
Slavery was common, even expected among orcs, but the warband that had attacked the youth's home had been cruel and monstrous, killing elders and taking only the young and the women. He'd heard of them, the Broken Knuckle orcs. Once, it was said, they had been a proud people, but then a strong young chieftain had come to power, bearing the mark of lightning upon his right hand, and the new chieftain was ugoht (roughly, "not good in the head" or "scrambled brainpan"). With his rise to power, the warbands were encouraged to believe they strode like titans among the weak, and that other tribes were merely cattle.
The Buhkenahk had always been strong, but now they used that strength carelessly. All tribes have gone through periods of bad leadership, and youthful leaders are often prone to cruelty and acts of arbitrary power... but not all tribes were Broken Knuckle.
The youth paused, pressed tight against the roots of an ancient oak. Before him, they had paused for the night, the only time orcs rested from running. They had killed any who could not serve them, and then left with those who could, and had run since, so they had not had time to think up cruelties or degradations for their victims. And if the youth had anything to say about it, they never would. He snuck around them and loped ahead of their camp, looking for a trap to lay.
He was neither shaman nor warrior, only a young drummer and occasional hunter, but he had often exasperated his elders with his fiendish cleverness and way with words. He planned to use both today, or die trying.
Eventually, he found what he was looking for. A groundmouth, laying quietly as it passively scented the air for meat. The youth prepared the path he intended to lead it down, then got as close as he dared, and then inched just a bit more in...
It attacked, grabbing for him, and he leapt back. Had he not known it would, it would have had a meal, but he was more prepared than it knew. Still, prey was prey. It lurched along the ground, moving slowly after him and he tempted it as much as he could without getting caught. Eventually, he led it to the crevice he'd seen, and jumped across it. It followed, then stopped at the crevice and waited.
The youth began lighting the armful of dry wood and boar's fat he'd set aside. When he had a reasonable fire going, he grabbed it up, ignoring the pain, and sprinted past the groundmouth.
Groundmouths can heal from almost anything except their own digestive juices, but fire hurts. It made a half-hearted attempt to grab the heat source running by, but intended to settle down and wait for easier prey....
Burning pain ignited in the groundmouth's side. The youth had sprinted back in with the fire and dumped it right next to the creature's core. It sprang back, lashing him with its vines, and he bellowed as he slammed into it from the side, shoving it the rest of the way into the crevice, then focused on surviving its attempts to drag him in with it.
...
The warband leader was a big man, and he had risen to prominence only recently, under the auspices of the new chieftain. The tribal chief had the casual cruelty of the young, and had perhaps come to power too early, but this orc was not complaining... no, not when it gave him such opportunity to indulge himself.
As he was now. He'd decided on a game of chance for the newly captured slaves, in which they danced for his amusement and the ones who amused him best were given their meal. He'd enjoyed watching them struggle between dignity and hunger, and then capitulating and treating him like a handsome young buck.
He was still congratulating himself when a youth from some foreign tribe came tripping over his own feet, running straight through the camp. One fist, and the youth sprawled, tumbling up against a tree.
After a moment's look, he decided it was worth not killing - the youth was handsome enough to fetch a price, but more importantly, looked burned and beaten and wet. That wasn't a common combination, and the leader was intrigued.
And after ten minutes of questioning the honey-tongued boy, even more intrigued. Apparently, the youth had found a treasure cache, and been beaten up by a pair of orcs seeking it for themselves. That made sense to the leader, perfect sense, and what made even more sense was that he outnumber the two orcs by more than they'd outnumbered the boy.
He gathered up the camp. Time was of the essence - no use in having the treasure walk out on four legs when it could do so at his leisure, after all!
Shortly thereafter, as the groundmouth surprised orcs not prepared for it, the youth got weapons into the hands of the slaves, and the remaining members of the warband found themselves stabbed in the back.
...
The story spread, and eight warbands of the Buhkenahk decided that Broken Knuckle pride was not served by a story circulating about how a single boy had destroyed one of their warbands. They let no member of the tribe live except the youth who had done it. And when they slaughtered his sister like they might cattle, he finally broke, and began to weep in front of his enemies. They laughed, and finished destroying his tribe.
A year later, his tribe gone and nothing left to lose, he destroyed each of the warbands, one by one. The last few knew he was coming, and wondered what form he might take when he came.
For one, he was a stampede of hydras, driven mad by ancient drumming patterns he'd learned from his ancestors. For another, he was simply death, poisoning their water with the sting of the wyvern and then slipping among them as their strength drained and slitting their throats. For each one, he found a way to kill them. He did not care how long it took, or how personally dangerous it was. They died, and he began work on the next, never repeating himself lest they find the warning adequate.
When they were all dead, he left into the wilderness and drummed his grief for days. Then, emptied of passion, he gradually found life again. His sister spoke to him through the beats of the drum. His tribe spoke to him in the wind and the trees. He was no shaman, but he felt their presence, and he began to find his own way again.
Chatham was born.
Chatham was always a mystery to those who met him. At home in wilderness and city, he is a beautiful orc who lacks even a basic tribe. His loyalty seems to lie only with silver, and his words drip like honey, sweet but providing no sustenance. He carries a spear, but none have seen him fight.
In Old Orc, Chatham means Empty Bowl.
The root 'thahm' is the rune for possession, bowl, hunger and fullness, depending on its context. 'Ehna' ("chew" or "contemplate") evolved from it in the context of 'hethehn' (from 'heth', "to work over" and 'thehn', "food"). But at its root, it means bowl, and all of the promise and pain that can come with it.
'Cha' or 'cho' (it is used both ways) is a rarely used term, because it means not only a lack, but also the fulfillment of emptiness. It is a vessel for enlightenment, empty of preconception, but it is also deep loss and painful hunger.
Chatham named himself when his tribe died. His sister, before that time, was Ohltegahs ("river's root" or "wellspring"), and she was as beautiful as he, born of an uncommonly good combination. Both were tall and gracile for orcs, but still possessed of the bones for daily survival. Blessed with balanced, expressive faces and a gift of voice and rhythm, they became war drummers and story tellers together...
Then the Buhkenahk came.
...
Young and supple, the orc youth slunk through the tree shadows, as silent as any predator of the forest. Although young, he had already spent a lifetime learning to hunt and fight, much like his prey, the warband that had captured his sister.
Slavery was common, even expected among orcs, but the warband that had attacked the youth's home had been cruel and monstrous, killing elders and taking only the young and the women. He'd heard of them, the Broken Knuckle orcs. Once, it was said, they had been a proud people, but then a strong young chieftain had come to power, bearing the mark of lightning upon his right hand, and the new chieftain was ugoht (roughly, "not good in the head" or "scrambled brainpan"). With his rise to power, the warbands were encouraged to believe they strode like titans among the weak, and that other tribes were merely cattle.
The Buhkenahk had always been strong, but now they used that strength carelessly. All tribes have gone through periods of bad leadership, and youthful leaders are often prone to cruelty and acts of arbitrary power... but not all tribes were Broken Knuckle.
The youth paused, pressed tight against the roots of an ancient oak. Before him, they had paused for the night, the only time orcs rested from running. They had killed any who could not serve them, and then left with those who could, and had run since, so they had not had time to think up cruelties or degradations for their victims. And if the youth had anything to say about it, they never would. He snuck around them and loped ahead of their camp, looking for a trap to lay.
He was neither shaman nor warrior, only a young drummer and occasional hunter, but he had often exasperated his elders with his fiendish cleverness and way with words. He planned to use both today, or die trying.
Eventually, he found what he was looking for. A groundmouth, laying quietly as it passively scented the air for meat. The youth prepared the path he intended to lead it down, then got as close as he dared, and then inched just a bit more in...
It attacked, grabbing for him, and he leapt back. Had he not known it would, it would have had a meal, but he was more prepared than it knew. Still, prey was prey. It lurched along the ground, moving slowly after him and he tempted it as much as he could without getting caught. Eventually, he led it to the crevice he'd seen, and jumped across it. It followed, then stopped at the crevice and waited.
The youth began lighting the armful of dry wood and boar's fat he'd set aside. When he had a reasonable fire going, he grabbed it up, ignoring the pain, and sprinted past the groundmouth.
Groundmouths can heal from almost anything except their own digestive juices, but fire hurts. It made a half-hearted attempt to grab the heat source running by, but intended to settle down and wait for easier prey....
Burning pain ignited in the groundmouth's side. The youth had sprinted back in with the fire and dumped it right next to the creature's core. It sprang back, lashing him with its vines, and he bellowed as he slammed into it from the side, shoving it the rest of the way into the crevice, then focused on surviving its attempts to drag him in with it.
...
The warband leader was a big man, and he had risen to prominence only recently, under the auspices of the new chieftain. The tribal chief had the casual cruelty of the young, and had perhaps come to power too early, but this orc was not complaining... no, not when it gave him such opportunity to indulge himself.
As he was now. He'd decided on a game of chance for the newly captured slaves, in which they danced for his amusement and the ones who amused him best were given their meal. He'd enjoyed watching them struggle between dignity and hunger, and then capitulating and treating him like a handsome young buck.
He was still congratulating himself when a youth from some foreign tribe came tripping over his own feet, running straight through the camp. One fist, and the youth sprawled, tumbling up against a tree.
After a moment's look, he decided it was worth not killing - the youth was handsome enough to fetch a price, but more importantly, looked burned and beaten and wet. That wasn't a common combination, and the leader was intrigued.
And after ten minutes of questioning the honey-tongued boy, even more intrigued. Apparently, the youth had found a treasure cache, and been beaten up by a pair of orcs seeking it for themselves. That made sense to the leader, perfect sense, and what made even more sense was that he outnumber the two orcs by more than they'd outnumbered the boy.
He gathered up the camp. Time was of the essence - no use in having the treasure walk out on four legs when it could do so at his leisure, after all!
Shortly thereafter, as the groundmouth surprised orcs not prepared for it, the youth got weapons into the hands of the slaves, and the remaining members of the warband found themselves stabbed in the back.
...
The story spread, and eight warbands of the Buhkenahk decided that Broken Knuckle pride was not served by a story circulating about how a single boy had destroyed one of their warbands. They let no member of the tribe live except the youth who had done it. And when they slaughtered his sister like they might cattle, he finally broke, and began to weep in front of his enemies. They laughed, and finished destroying his tribe.
A year later, his tribe gone and nothing left to lose, he destroyed each of the warbands, one by one. The last few knew he was coming, and wondered what form he might take when he came.
For one, he was a stampede of hydras, driven mad by ancient drumming patterns he'd learned from his ancestors. For another, he was simply death, poisoning their water with the sting of the wyvern and then slipping among them as their strength drained and slitting their throats. For each one, he found a way to kill them. He did not care how long it took, or how personally dangerous it was. They died, and he began work on the next, never repeating himself lest they find the warning adequate.
When they were all dead, he left into the wilderness and drummed his grief for days. Then, emptied of passion, he gradually found life again. His sister spoke to him through the beats of the drum. His tribe spoke to him in the wind and the trees. He was no shaman, but he felt their presence, and he began to find his own way again.
Chatham was born.
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