[centre][img]https://i.imgur.com/8b7GSaW.png[/img] [h1]To Become a Warchief[/h1] [h2]Part 2: The Curse of the Bull[/h2][/centre] [hr] The victory of Zlot over the tribe of Snop had sent ripples of fear and awe throughout the Striped Lands: A true boarzerker, a chosen of the Killer of Killers and the antagonist of every horror story and wicked legend, walked the soil of Galbar. Worse yet, the vile Zlot was nothing less than a Voot, and the many mortals calling the south of the Land of Origins their home, recalled with terror the oppressive reign of the Voot warchiefs before the tribe was undone by the Black Sun. Yet while Zlot was a threat, he was as much of a threat as an arrow was; he could kill any living thing, but only if drawn and aimed by an archer of the right caliber. And Zlot was loyal to his cousin Draznokh, and as long as his blood hunger was sated, he would remain as such. At least for the time being. As the weeks passed, it became clear to Grand Agricultist Krang that Draznokh had long since surpassed him in terms of popularity. Ever since he had convinced the vile bull to get rid of the Blood Swarm, the frightening visage of Krang had met more resistance, more backtalk, than before. The tribe of Pate, Krang’s tribe, was slowly turning away from him, many remembering the legacy of the Vootlands with increasingly more awe than shock. Krang had one last chance before the ultimate price; if he was not to challenge him outright and lose his life in single combat, he would choose to rely on one final quest - one that would surely do away with him. Draznokh made the trip up the giant hill several times per day now. He had not idly let the time pass since his moral victory of Krang: his political opportunity had seen him force Krang to accept him as a high laysnouter of the Agricult, a position not equal to Krang’s, but one where he effectively functioned as his lieutenant. He thus held office at the temple atop the giant hill, ruling alongside the seething priest. In fairness Krang had had no choice; the Pates did not number enough snouters for his Agricult to hold all the power by themselves anymore. The Voot clique, backed by Draznokh’s will and Zlot’s muscle, managed to strike much harder than their tiny size would seemingly allow for. Any hidden attempt to murder Draznokh would immediately draw attention to him; his hatred for the hesnouter was brighter than Itzal. Any murder, even the basest misdemeanour, would be traced back to him. It was thus at one congregation of the Agricult atop the giant hill that Krang gathered the innermost circle of the group and said sourly, “[i]Brother[/i] Draznokh… In the name of the Vile Bull, I address you as his highest servant.” Draznokh, like the rest of the innermost members, had been sitting on pillows fashioned from the pelts of enslaved beastmen. He stood up and entered the centre of the circle, where he kneeled and spread his arms out to the side with immersion. “Voice of the Fields, Brother Krang - what does the Taskmaster have in store for me?” Krang squinted angrily. Draznokh smeared on thick with titles when he was mocking him. With a voice like poison, he replied, “Your efforts against the Snopans, while crude and disproportionate, have offered us temporary respite from their senseless attacks. As the descendent of Krooshus Pate, I thank you on my ancestors’ behalf for your loyalty to the tribe.” Draznokh bowed his head. “Be it in the name of Pate or the Horned One himself, I submit to your will.” Krang sneered. “... Your sense of duty is [i]admirable[/i]...” The hesnouter collected his hands behind his foldy back and walked over to the edge of the temple platform. “Come. Gaze across the fields with me.” Draznokh rose and followed him. The rest of the council, understanding that this looked to be a conversation for four eyes, decided to leave. With the two of them alone, Krang snarled, “Do not think for a second that this is your doing.” Below them sprawled a vast plain, starry with torches and campfires. Trees had been chopped down by the score and the place where there had once been forest were cleansed of every stump and plowed by armies of snouters. The humble garden that weeks ago had just kept the Pates scraping by, was expanding every day, eating up the overgrown lands like an inferno. Draznokh couldn’t help but smirk. “... But it kind of is, isn’t it?” Krang drew a knife, but stopped short of Draznokh’s ear. “Oh, come now, Krang, I’m just teasing you.” “Know that it takes [i]every[/i] fiber of my being to not bleed you dry whenever I lay eyes on you.” Draznokh didn’t even pay him a glance. He merely stared out towards the horizon with a grin one could punch. “Your squeal better than you threaten, Krang. It is times like these when I truly wonder why I was ever afraid of you.” He finally turned and looked into the diverging eyes of the other hesnouter, neither eye affixed on him, but both equally filled with rage. “Now are you going to kill me or are you going to tell me what mess I need to clean up for you?” Krang breathed sharply through his teeth and lowered his quivering knife-hand. “You should be thankful that I value my own life over my ambition…” “Honesty, at last.” “[i]However[/i]... I will ask that you do one last thing for me.” Draznokh raised a brow. “[i]Last[/i], you say?” Krang sighed. “I tire of this game, Draznokh. ‘High laysnouter’ my rump… I haven’t been in charge of this tribe ever since the swarm disappeared. Do this one thing for me, and I will in the sight of gods and mortals declare that the line of Pate will step down from leadership in favour of the line of Voot.” Draznokh temporarily failed to contain his excitement and turned a little too fast. Krang felt the hairs on his skin tingle with anticipation. Hook… “Do we have an agreement?” Draznokh curled and uncurled his fingers. “What is it you need?” Line… “Our metalworkers have complained about the rising price of copper. The merchants from the sea say it’s due to a production shortage somewhere by the Western Falls. I want you to go there and settle this matter.” Draznokh mellowed out and cast a distant gaze across the horizon. Krang pursed his lips. “... As you know, securing the flow of copper is essential for ensuring proper maintenance of tools, armour and weapons. Bone is strong, but we should not place all our eggs in one basket.” “The Western Falls are quite far from home,” Draznokh said quietly. Krang nodded. “Oh yes,” Krang assented. “But a diverse array of resources at hand will ensure a strong and well-prepared tribe.” He leaned in. “A strong and well-prepared [i]Vootland[/i], chieftain.” Draznokh slowly turned to face him, a smirk on his snout. “You know that I know what you’re trying to accomplish here.” Krang shrunk ever so slightly, but regained his composure with a nod. Draznokh continued, “Do you expect me to go off somewhere far away again to die so that you won’t have the blood on your trotters? Hah!” Krang snarled. “... Alright, fine. If honeyed words are not enough, perhaps you will respond to action.” He took his knife and carved a rune in his palm with a quiet wince. Draznokh did not know its effects and felt himself harden his stance. Krang raised his knife-hand calmingly. “Not to worry – this is only an insurance for you.” “What is it?” “Shake my hand,” said Krang, “and you will force me to make good on my promise. Come home alive after accomplishing your task, and I will surrender the tribe to you under pain of death.” Draznokh furrowed his brow. “And if I don’t?” Krang withdrew the hand and shrugged innocently. “Then there won’t be much of an agreement anymore, will there? Now, do we have a deal?” Draznokh pondered thoughtfully. “You sacrifice quite a bit for such a simple mission. What is it that you are not telling me?” “Nothing that you do not already know. I am just hoping that my luck will turn and that I will be rid of you forever. No one in this tribe can kill you; no one outside of the tribe can kill you. At this point, I am praying that a rockslide will rid me of both you and your blood-bloated cousin.” He shook his bleeding hand. “[i]Do we have a deal?[/i]” After a moment more of reflection, Draznokh squeezed the hand. A small light flashed from the cracks between their fingers and disappeared as quickly as it had blinked. Draznokh smirked and looked into his palm: a rune just like Krang’s had etched itself into his skin, but not in a way that caused him any harm. Krang shook his palm, which still bled, and Draznokh snickered. “You have just dealt yourself a shit hand, Krang. I will be expecting a feast upon my return. Prepare a good speech and clean that tongue – you will be licking my trotters soon enough.” As he stepped down the stairs of the temple, Krang rubbed his bleeding hand. He could not help but snicker, too. “... And sinker,” he giggled. [hr] The next day, Draznokh, Zlot and ten others set off westwards, heading for the trading post of Ralhu, situated safely on the opposite side of the peninsula from the cursed river Lick. The trek wasn’t long - the group maintained a quick trot of fifty paces walking alternating with fifty paces jogging. They stuck to the beaten path, passing through Pate and Pate-loyal territory for the most part. Yet it would not be a scot-free journey. On the second day, when passing through rival Nu-Voot territory, Draznokh and the rest had to downright wrestle Zlot to the ground to keep him from assaulting a bypassing host of farmers working the floatato paddies. While Zlot could kill them with a flick of the wrist just like he had the Snopans, the Nu-Voots were many – more than even Zlot could handle. They eventually managed to calm him down. The mood maintained an uneasy tension ever since. Draznokh could feel it just as everyone else felt it: They were leaving the Vootlands, and their bodies – their very souls – were screaming at them to turn back. Snouters weren’t meant to leave home, and with every step, the knot in their hearts tightened. This felt wrong. “But Draz… Who will tend my fields when I’m gone?” Zlot asked maniacally. It was the fourth time in an hour. Draznokh was starting to believe he had gone senile. “Like I’ve said,” he squeezed through his teeth, “you told Jura to take care of them – she [i]will[/i] take care of them.” The giant hog, who most people thought had no concept of fear, quivered like a newborn puppy. “B-but she’ll never manage to tend to all of them! And, and my wives! They’ll be unfaithful in my absence, I just KNOW it!” “They won’t, Zlot, calm down–” Draznokh choked, or rather, a hand the size of his head nearly crushed his windpipe in a single grab. The monstrous boarzerker dragged him up into the sky by the neck, eyes aflame with instinctual panic. “YOU KNOW NOTHING! I NEED TO GET HOME!” “... lot! … Z… lot!” Draznokh stuttered. The others tried to wrestle him back down. Draznokh felt his eyes roll back and his breath falter, but just before he lost his conscious, the boarzerker regained his sanity. He immediately dropped him, Draznokh crashing to the ground like a sack. The snouters swarmed him and tried to breathe life back into him. Droog, a competent shaman, started chanting healing spells and casting dried moss powder over his body. Slowly, Draznokh came to. Zlot pushed everyone else aside and held his cousin in his arms. “Draz! Draz! Oh, Draz, I’m… I’m so sorry!” “Think–” A cough. “... Think nothing of it…” Draz wheezed and massaged his bruised throat. With weak eyes, he looked around at the faces of his comrades. “... Look at us. Hardly two days away from home and we’re completely losing ourselves.” He snorted sharply. “The curse runs thick in our veins, brothers, but for an instant – a wink, is all – consider that you are leaving home, for the sake of home.” Variegated nods hopped from head to head. “The bull granted us means to till and fight,” he patted his bony snout, “but times change. Already our enemies are adapting to our tactics with pikes and armour. Zlot can piece mail with his tusks, but he is alone in such a feat. If we are to survive, we too must adapt.” He gestured a hand to the direction they were going in. “And adaptation is that way and that way alone. Yet I realise this quest may be beyond some of you.” Eyes shifted away and Draznokh’s frown deepened. “I will grant you a chance to turn back. This will be the only time I do so peacefully. Turn around now before we reach the Iris Sea, and there will be no consequences.” He studied the stoney faces of his companions. “Think hard about this. Know that even if I do not make it home, should any of you turn on me after we have left the shores of the Striped Lands, not even death will stop me from haunting your miserable existences. It’s now or never.” A moment longer passed. Then Zlot stepped forward. Draznokh, despite his strict demeanour, could not dismiss his disheartened frown at the sight. “... Of all people…” “I’m sorry, cousin,” Zlot sighed, “I do not belong this far from home. Without the firm hand of a hog, how will the sows at home behave? My crops will not grow without my governance – that little which grows will rot a-root.” He gestured down the path they had come from. “An empty death on foreign soil, where no Voot has ever set its trotters – I will take a lifetime of shame rather than abandon the hearth and the field.” Draznokh grit his teeth. “... Very well. A promise is a promise. Anybody else?” Out of the eleven he had brought with him, seven ended up leaving with Zlot. Draznokh and the remaining three hesnouters stood in the clearing for a small while until the others had passed beyond the line of sight. Draznokh then turned to the others and snorted quietly. “... I will admit: I had expected more to remain.” “A betrayal, I say,” mumbled the shaman Droog. “Maybe, but one that is my fault. I put too much faith in their will to resist the curse. Without the full party – without Zlot – we can no longer rely on strength as our primary tool. We were not exactly a raiding party before, but now we are hardly a beastman hunting team. From now on, our first weapon of offense is wit.” He tapped one of his tusks. “Save these for when negotiations go sour. Until then, stick to your tongues.” He surveyed the faces of his companions and sighed. “... For what they’re worth.” [hr] By the afternoon of the following day, the considerably diminished party finally reached the harbour town of Rhaam, a middling settlement ruled by the Herring King, one of the seven fabled monarchs of the Siblings, the sprinkle of islands situated in the south-west of the Iris Sea. The Siblings numbered eleven islands in total, home to all manner of mortals and beasts who descended from or themselves were people who had been drawn to the sea and decided to make it their habitat. Here were croakers, beastmen, snouters, dwarves, goblins, goatfolk, even humans. The many cultures of the islands lived intertwined with one another, connected by the water and the things that traversed them. Some were boatbuggers; some were swimmers; some sailed boats drawn by aquatic beasts – the sea welcomes all modes of transport that float. Rhaam was far from the biggest settlement under the Herring King, but it had its specialty. “UGH! Gods, what is that stink?!” growled Vadym, a fat-bellied grain farmer and the largest remaining in the group. The shaman Droog sniffed and grimaced. “[i]Garum[/i]...” he remarked sourly. “I have heard the goblin merchants tell nightmarish tales about the ‘rank of Rhaam’. Plug your nostrils, lads.” “What’s a [i]garum[/i]?” whined Shtook, a root farmer and an ardent acolyte of the Agricult. He clutched his talisman, a bone necklace that resembled a little rake, as though prayer would save him from the ungodly stink. “It’s a condiment that the seapeoples are quite fond of, supposedly,” Droog continued. “A product of fermented fish innards, salt and time, I believe.” “[i]Innards?![/i]” squealed Shtook in disbelief. “Indeed. The rest of the fish is used for different purposes.” “Bull’s loins,” swore Vadym and threw the sky a glance. Sundown was luckily approaching – only a little extra sweat coalesced on his forehead. As the group entered into the town, they were greeted by bustling streets, more languages in minutes than they had heard their whole lives, and smells and noises completely foreign to the Vootlands. Spices and herbs, sweets and sours, burnt and rotting – the familiar scent of black soil seemed like a distant memory. Buildings of wood and mud flanked the dirt road streets on all sides, winding along the river of people that kept the afternoon alive. After an initial stroll, the streets began to snake their way down a hill which eventually dove into the sea; there, at its feet, was a bustling harbour and a grand market. Their descent through the city down to the harbour below was accompanied by yells and hoots by nearby merchants pushing fish, seaweed, salt, shellfish and fancy rocks in their faces. Stalls selling pearls, pretty shells, coral art and fishing equipment were as densely packed as carrots in a bunch, forming a labyrinth that the snouters had to laboriously traverse. “Pig-bro! Pig-bro! Pearls for sow, yes?! Pearls for sow?!” Vadym pushed the little half-hyena aside with a snort. “Back off, pup!” “Oils for cheap! Ooooooiiils for cheapy-cheap!” “Shrimp kebab for a [i]shwoty[/i]! Shriiiiimp kebab for a [i]shwoty[/i]!” “Gaaaarum! Gaaaarum! No meal complete without gaaaarum!” Droog muttered. “All this noise is making me nauseous.” “It’s more likely the garum,” Shtook pointed out. Draznokh sighed. “We’ll be at the harbour soon,” he said and pointed ahead. Rows of piers, boatbugs, boats and beasts stuck out of the crowds of fishermen, divers, cooks and merchants like stiff hairs out of a scalp. The snouters halted, trying to get their bearings. “Alright, brothers… We need to find a skipper who can take us to the Western Falls. Droog, do you have the payment?” Droog extracted a small pouch of cowries from his pack, carefully collected from all the trade the Pates had engaged in with foreign merchants. “Three hundred [i]shwoty[/i], eager to find their future owner.” “Alright, not too loud now…” Draznokh cautioned. “... Remember, we need to pay for the return journey, too. Be frugal, but respectful. Get us a good deal.” Droog nodded and went off. Draznokh turned to the others and said, “While we wait, I suggest we see if we can boost our numbers some. Go out and find us some foolish souls who are willing to accompany us to the Falls. I don’t care who they are – if they are gullible enough to come along, we will find a use for them.” The two nodded and spread out. The rest of the afternoon was spent recruiting, scouting and haggling. The shaman patrolled the docks with an idle trot, drinking deep in the selection of vessels docking at the pier. There were floats pulled by boatbugs, large bugs with carriages on their backs, oarboats with crews of goblin slaves, and many more. He approached one shovelling dried kelp into the trough of a large boatbug and said, “Good brother, would you be willing to take me and my three hesnouter companions to the Western Falls? We will pay handsomely, for certain.” Droog poured his soul into a courteous bow to seal-faced humanoid, who turned around and eyed him up and down. The seal then burst into a guffaw and thumbed over his shoulder. “HAH! Oinky, you alone would break my Esmeralda’s back! Hooey!” He slapped his knee with a flipper hand and waved him away. “Gave me a good laugh, that. Good day to ya.” Leaving Droog momentarily dumbfounded, the selkie returned to the shovelling, the boatbug tapping the pile eagerly with a pair of antennae. The shaman then quietly moved on, trying to hide the pink hue in his cheeks. A distance away, Shtook dejectedly walked away from a cackling gang of dwarven buccaneers. “FOR HOW MUCH?! HAH!” they spat after him in between the squeals. The spectacle was drawing quite a number of eyes, and Shtook’s rosy cheeks showed through his fur and turned them a blacking red. Vadym didn’t have much luck either, though instead of laughter, he was met with threats: “Fakkin’ grunty, I’ll smack yo shit, I swear on me mum!” He ended up running away from the tide of shiv-wielding goblins he had proposed should join them. By the end of the day, the three of them returned to Draznokh empty-handed. “Nothing?” the leader grunted. “Nothing,” the three lackeys echoed. Draznokh groaned. “... To reemphasise – we need a vessel and a crew. We absolutely [i]cannot[/i] do this on our own.” “... Yes, we are aware,” Vadym grumbled. “So then do it again,” Draznokh growled. “And find me someone before–” “Honourable tusklords,” came a voice. The four snouters turned to face a robed and bejeweled elf, her hair tied in a crescent knot that pointed skywards like the erect tail of a cat. Draznokh took the lead as usual and stepped to the front. “Yes?” The elf bowed deeply. “Blessings of the Ox, the Triple-Goddess and the Green Mother upon you all. I come bearing a message from Her Excellency Tidelady Arsantahl, mistress of the Little Brothers and Minister of Terrestrial Affairs under his Majesty the Herring King.” The snouters exchanged looks to see if any of them were wiser than the others. The elf ignored their ignorance and continued, “Her Excellency bids you welcome to her demesne of Rhaam, a humble speck of the mighty realm of the Greatest of the Seven. She apologises for the sorry state of the village and hopes that its amenities prove sufficient for your cultured beings.” Draznokh furrowed his brows at the comment, allowing his eyes to once again gaze around the metropolis. “... We thank Her Excellency for the concern.” The elf bowed again. “Your gratitude means everything to her. In fact, Her Excellency would like to invite you all to her humble abode for tea and a meal. Should you accept, it would be my honour to guide you along the way.” Draznokh probed the expressions of his companions. Shtook pursed his lips. “Well, I have been feeling a little peckish for a while now.” Vadym concurred with an [i]mhm[/i]. Droog was silent, but did not seem to protest. Draznokh shrugged and eventually said, “Very well. After you.” “No, after you,” the elf insisted and the five of them ascended from the docks and back into the town. After what felt like an eternity swimming through the masses in the streets, the number of people eventually faded as the surrounding buildings fancied up something fierce. Mud huts and wooden shacks gave way to skillfully cut sandstone foundations topped with wooden mansions with curved roofs and colourfully painted walls. Greens, reds, whites, blues – rainbows of colour unimaginable in the Vootlands. After a while, the group crossed onto a great white plaza, dotted with small, isolated forests and flower beds. In the centre was a tall marble foundation that seemed to spike the sky like a lonely mountain. Atop was a large palace with a roof of jade and walls of fine coral. The snouters stood dumbfounded as the elf ascended a staircase. “Come now,” she encouraged. After stepping upwards and upwards for what felt like hours, the five all eventually reached the top, where they were greeted by an eagle-like fowlfolk dressed in beautifully patterned silks. She threw out her arms in greeting and bowed courteously. “Honoured tusklords of the Lands of Voot, be welcome,” Tidelady Arsantahl greeted and straightened herself back up. “I trust the journey was comfortable?” “So much stone,” whispered Shtook in what almost felt like discomfort. The lack of forests and fields around them intensified the homesickness. Draznokh swallowed as much as he could of the torturing sensation and bowed back. “The Tidelady showers us with undeserved riches by presenting herself. We are honoured.” Arsantahl giggled. “Oh, a charmer – how fun! Come in, come in. You must be famished!” The group entered the palace through a hallway of pillars and came to a scene of five small tables arranged in a horseshoe with the middle one being slightly larger. The tables were set with steaming dishes and bowls of all sorts of meats, seafood, vegetables, salads and stews meticulously prepared for their arrival. The snouters licked their lips gluttonously, but even Voots and Pates knew to wait for the elder to eat first. Arsantahl gracefully stepped over to the middle table, which had been positioned on a small platform above the other four. When she walked, her dress hardly showed it – she seemed to almost hover. Once she had sat down, she beckoned invitingly. “Please, sit.” The snouters did as they were told and the fowl regarded them patiently. “Now…” she said and picked a morsel between her claws, “... What seems to have brought four snouters to want to sail the Iris Sea, hmm?” [hider=Summary!] A billion years ago, this post started with Draznokh and Krang arguing over shit. Krang knows he cannot get rid of Draznokh without making him a martyr, so he sends him on a suicide mission to restore the copper mines in the far west, faaar away from the Vootlands in the vain hopes that he'll find some way to kill himself. Draznokh agrees and travels off towards the port city of Rhaam, situated on the southern end of the big middle sea, called the Iris or the Iris Sea by the Vootlands snouters. They decide to split up to try to get a ship and a crew, but quickly realise the people there are woefully overpriced. Just as all hope is lost, the gang is summoned to the Tidelady Arsantahl, the local governour and servant of the Herring King - one of the big shots in the Iris Sea island kingdoms - and she starts asking them questions about their business. [/hider]