Honestly, it looks quite good. We all look back and cringe from time to time, but it absolutely meets the standards of the thread (which is advanced I may remind you). Also, no problem on the spelling difference :-) Trips me up with some European GMs in the past as well.
Deprived of a part of the herds, the Horselords migrated further into the steppe. The rest of the late chiefs [Ulden Strongsaddle] horde had scattered after their gruesome defeat. Many fetched their kin and wives and kids to bring them to safety. I am certain now, as I watch back, that it was this, that saved the Clan. Without an amassed force, the cursed Bronzespears had nowhere to strike at. Sure, they could make a few of the herds theirs, slaughter a family in their yurts here and there, but the Clan had become like fog and shadow; ungraspable in the vastness of the Spirits Own Steppe.
Meanwhile as it became clear that this war was over for the time being, we sisters went to the circles. The circles of menhirs. Holiest abode of the Spirits. Where the Winds sing and merrily dance around the unmoving ghosts of the deep earth. All the maidens, the mothers and the crones met. We danced Skyclad in the shadows with the Spirits to honour them, to Ask them to lend us guidance. And we discussed and decided who would get to support which of the possible new Chiefs in the coming trials.
Young as I was, none of the most likely contenders became my ward, and thus half a year later I found my way to my new Master. Ready to serve him. Not even a son of Ulden was he, just the son of his brother. Still the instant I laid eyes upon him I knew that this man had the makings of greatness. Taller and of a lighter build was he than his Uncle, but his muscles seemed to move like ropes under his skin. Where Ulden had lumbered heavily and mightily like a bear this man strode elegantly and proud like a tiger.
As I rode into his camp, between the good dozen yurts of His wife (He had yet only one)and brothers and sycophants, a hush quickly spread among these people. They had seen coals and cloaks like mine on many a Spirit healer or Wiseman in their time, but when they saw my eyes of green, they knew that this was a witch, no less, riding into their mids. Some kneeled as I dismounted.
‘The Knowledge has chosen you, Jannum, to compete. Will you serve the Spirits? Will you take my service? Will you please with success?’
In answer this proud man smiled, a pleased glint in his Eye.
‘If you bear me a Child once I won, I will,”
I was startled by this cockyness and gathered more of my cloak around my maidly bosom. Yes, I would need to become a Mother to fulfil my new role as a more senior witch soon, but normally this happened in secret during one of the witch nights, and the Man sacrificing his semen would be sacrificed to the sun and moon and winds in turn. His blood used to wash the new maiden Witches coming after us from their worldly tether.
“You will sacrifice your seed to the Spirits but not your blood? Careful what you talk Planesrunner, this is Heresy.”
He stood and strode towards me, stopping nearly touching me, and looked me in the eyes.
“Oh, but If I win I will sacrifice my blood for the Spirits. I solemnly swear that I will give it. I will shed it as I avenge my Uncle, and drive the Bronzespears from our Lands. Nay, from the Steppe altogether.”
I laughed, as there was nothing else to do… this man would win the trials easily, if I gave him a little edge, and all just to get his member under my skirts. Oh, the untamed power of youth.
The day of the Trials had come and a city had formed around the menhirs. A city of tents, man and horses. A city of sweat, piss and blood. Standards of Chief Uldens war army where still erected here and therem even a year after the fact. The red horsehair that still signified his Chiefdom. Above a single strand of whitest mane, waving, signifying his death. The Winner of the trials would get to burn all these, and then choose a new colour for his standard.
The First three trials went well for my champion, but he was far from the best. To tall was he to be the best of Riders. Too lanky for the throwing of logs. Yet soon his time would come, I knew.
Sweat was gleaming on his bare chest as he entered the ring, the sword I had gifted him in his hand. A duel to first blood. Too valuable where all these men. Each would be needed as a warrior and leader of men, soon.
No one knew that the metal he was holding was the best that one could find. A gift from the spirits no less. For the night I had come to him first a Star fell willingly from the tent of the sky. A messenger from mother Moon. A gift of the spirits and a token of their favour.
The ground very slightly trembled when it had rushed above our heads. And not much later we could hear the wailing of a child in terror. One of the young lads who had been watching the horses came running. As we followed him we found the unbelievable. A Horse had been beaten to pulp and spattered over a radius of a few metres of where the Star had hit. Within the smouldering carcasses ribcage I found it. A heavy rock of Moon steel. A material no man’s hand could make. But once the Spirits had given it: oh, what fine weapons could be made from it? A Godswort, a spiritblade. A Sword for a King of men. A Blade like the old Pharaos of the Paledune had wielded ages ago.
And now, after I had rode weeks to find the smith for such an instrument of destruction, to see it gleaming eagerly in Jannums hand brought a tear to my eye. I had known when the spirits had shown the iron to me that Jannum would be Chief. With him I would become the Sage Advisor of the Chief of the Horselords. So, Giddy was I that I nearly missed it. One swift stroke from both opponents was all, and the Blade had been bathed in blood. Before our eyes we could see, seemingly delayed, how the fingers of the opponents’ sword hand fell to the ground with the sword that they had been holding.
Chief Jannum laughed. He had started to laugh after his blade had struck down the first opponent and I felt like he had not stopped as he won against all five in the other contests. Maiming two, and killing one. There was no question who would lead the Horselords.
Our cloaks and skirts and hoods billowing around us, in the wind we Sisters of the Knowledge stood. Upon the monticule, above the slaughter, cursing the despicable traitors. True traitors they were, these unholy Bronzespears with their wicked host of strangers. Forsaken had they the Image of their Ancestors. Spat had they, upon the face of the mighty four winds. Left the caring care of Moonmother and Sunfather. Truly by rights the Spirits had to be with our brave Horselord men. Helping them crush this incursion into the lands of herds and Spirits.
Bravely they made that sons of whores’ bleed, yet against these strangers there was no victory to be won, darker forces being in league with them. Not even bravest of the brave, son of Sun and Moon, mighty Ulden was able to vanquish them. Yet fearless he flew right into their middle on his steed. Cutting them all like stalks of grass, trampling them and making their blood spray upon his unyielding mien like a crimson oceans foam. Always towards that thrice cursed General Sunwalker.
Yet it is known that grass is a sea of blades truly and as he closed the distance towards his holy goal of cutting off that sand adder‘s head the thousands of cuts slowed him ever more. Not even brave enough to meet him in battle was this master of the cursed. Cowardly denying the brave Ulden the duel that was rightfully his, by having a thousand of his men sacrifice their life to stop the unstoppable in time. Only by sacrificing this multitude of his best men he (Sunwalker) lives and Ulden died. Blessed be they by the blood of Ulden that touched them as they died by his mighty hand, for they were unwitting tools of this cowardice.
Even greater, though was the (cowardice) of traitorous Leathermane, for nowhere near battle was he seen in this maelstrom. Commanding his Bronzespear men from the savety deep within their ranks. He shall die, his [...] eaten by [...] as he deserves it, cursed be he and all his descendants hereby by the word of the meek, in the name of Chief Ulden Strongsaddle.
With the Loss of our mighty Leader the Horselord’s brave hordes had to retreat. Back into the land of the Spirits. Back, to alarm the rest. Back to rouse the sons of Ulden for the most capable of them to take his place as the new Son of Sun and Moon. Blessed by the winds shall be he, the new custodian of the Spirits Lands once he has emerged victorious from the duels against his brothers. Now we Witches make haste to collect the dispersed Hords of the Horselords, and to save guard what the Spirits have given and the men who guard it, so this calamity may be averted and banished from the holy lands once and for all.