Stories from the Steppe - episode 2
Stories from the Steppe – Episode 2:
Katarn stares into the dulling fire and strums his finely crafted lute in a detached way, delicate and complex tones washing forth like a babbling brook to caress the ears of those around him. The moon is high in the night sky, threaded across with thin strips of cloud and limned silver by the goddess’s pale luminescence. The fresh spring night air wafts across his face in gentle zephyrs, lifting a strand or two of his fine hair and carrying with it the mixed and familiar taints of horse, mutton and leather.
Hulven prods the embers with a stick, stirring them back to flame and clears his throat to speak in gutteral gnoll. ‘You are lost within, Katarn Harper, what do you see there?’. Bodies shuffle round the fire, leaning in with interest to hear the elf’s musical voice again. Such questions had oft been the start for a song or a story and these horse folk did so love a story.
Katarn had first met the nomads in an act of such staggeringly open naivety in the face of their justifiably fearsome reputation that they had become friends with this stranger elf. His childish delight in learning their songs and traditions had warmed them to him in an instant and now his return to their camp after a month among the city folk had both surprised and impressed them. But he has changed. Even for an elf now he carries his years with perceptibly greater weight, like an old man.
He lifts his eyes to the moon, and a single tear runs down his cheek. He knows that these folk consider such openly emotional behaviour unseemly in a man, but he cares not, for his minds eye wanders far away in memories riven with fear, companionship and loss. They’ll not judge him hashly, after all, he is not one of them.
‘I see within a mark upon my heart that was made not by a wound from a foe, but from the bonds of companions torn from me in battle. You would not wish to hear of it for it is a story of your own time not more than one moon past when your tribe fled from a foe it could not understand and could not fight. Would you have me tear open your wounds too so newly healed?’
The ring of huddled shapes mutter and shift uneasily. Hulven grunts. ‘Your part in the ridding of that demon song is not well known leafborn, yet you were there among the heroes. You have gifted us many times with your fine stories and songs, helping us to find it in our hearts to see a better time ahead despite what has befallen us. Now you call for help, speak, and we shall lift you back into the saddle. Tell us of your deeds and ride again with pride’.
The sombre mood lingers a moment, then Omuja slaps Hulven mightily on the back, ‘hah, a pretty speech Hulven, the pointy ear will make a woman of you yet’, and laughter rings across the grassy plain. Hulven scowls, then breaks into an embarrassed guffaw, cracking is horn cup against Omuja’s leather jack tankard and sinking a draft of the bitter barbarian ale. Omuja, quaffs from his own vessel and leans in to Katarn, noisily wiping the froth from his thin moustache with the back of his hand. ‘Still little brother, girly Hulvena has a point, just what did happen up in those hills?’ Grunts of enquiring assent emerge from the flickering shadows.
Katarn waits for a perfect moment, eyes back on the flames now dancing merrily again, then lifts his head. Silence falls. The traditional start to all stories in this tribe never disappoints, and it’s familiar cadence clatters from his throat in gutteral gnollish to the delight of all around, 'Go-gesh na, go-gesh na, go-gesh na...' (‘so it goes, so it goes, so it goes…’)
