Nieszka

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

Hmmm... The Tribes people worship the Wanderer and the Pantheon, which includes the Wisdoms, creatures important especially to the lore of their priestesses, their wise women. It'd be interesting to work out how they would view a character who thinks himself cursed by them.

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

I can certainly work with that, though I don't know how to work good Salizsi into my tribal lore. What say you to the origin of Soulsteel? @Flagg

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

If the Saliszi had soulsteel in the Godsfang mountains, it likely wouldn't be too far of a stretch to say that the secret of its making still lies in that region, unless of course, they acquired it after leaving the peaks. If they did find it after leaving, then who's to say why they left? I am warming up to the idea that the secret lies within the mountains themselves, however.

And as for living under the Saliszi Empire, well the Godsfangs are as much in Drathan territory as they are in the Saliszi's, and the Saliszi Empire has not been able to conquer the Dratha. Maybe they weren't able to make any offensive move against the people of the mountains.

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

Since the Saliszi came from a single tribe of mountain folk, the Arakkai living there now predate the Saliszi empire.

Edit: @Aristo Perhaps the original Saliszi were exiled for their practice of human sacrifice by the other tribes of the Godsfang mountains.

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

If Barsabbas spent any time in the Godsfangs at all, he probably had some interaction with the strong people that make that land their home.

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

Five Days after Origin

In the pale light of cold dawn, Cerys moved among her people, touching hands and exchanging the occasional encouraging word. They were hungry, many of them sick or wounded, the women violated, the children still wide-eyed with shock. The vicious attack by Drathan slavers had taken them all by surprise, had shaken even her strongest. Where she walked, eyes deep set in pale faces turned up to look at her, hungry for hope and reassurance, and her steps were trailed by prayers.

They had been struck just after dawn, after most of the tribe’s hunters gone on their daily quest to provide food for their kin. Many of these had been ambushed by parties far outnumbering their own so that even when the great war drums sounded the call to return home, few but the wise men and women were left to protect the old, the young, and the expectant mothers. Scores of her people had been taken as slaves and those left were in no condition to pursue the attackers.

Worst of all, Cerys, reborn in shadow, Chosen of the Wanderer, could do nothing for them. She had not the skill to mend their wounds, the medicines to cure their fevers, the food to warm their gaunt bellies. She was as hopeless as the weakest of her followers, and the realization shook her burgeoning belief in her own power. It seemed that the priestess’s first lesson as Voice of the Wanderer would be one of humility.

And so, Cerys roused her people for the last leg of a journey that had begun four days prior, an easy trek made long and arduous by the failing strength of her people. They climbed carefully down the western slope of one of the great Godsfang Mountains, following an ancient path to the largest tribe of the Arakkai. Cerys’s acolytes, Ilys and Ariadne each assisted the wounded and in her own arms, the priestess held a child, a small girl who had tucked her soft face against Cerys’s neck to sleep. In this fashion, Cerys and her followers entered the tribe of Eranor Blackwater to seek shelter and a place among his people.

In the center of their village, the chief himself awaited their parlay, having had several hours notice of the party’s slow descent into his territory. He was garbed as if for a feast, his shoulders adorned by a heavy bearskin that hung over the dark iron of his breastplate, his fingers gilded with rings of silver. The Blackwater tribe was the most prosperous of the Arakkai people, and its lord did not mean to let the desperate newcomers forget it.

Fighting to control her fury, the priestess handed her sleeping burden to the child’s mother, the girl too drained to make a protest, and fell to one knee before Chief Eranor. Behind her, Ilys clenched her teeth and looked away, but made no protest.

“Before you stand the remnants of the tribe of Manon the Swordsinger,” Cerys began, keeping her voice low and differential. “Of these, there are fifty warriors, many wounded, three servants of The Wanderer, a tanner, a blacksmith and his apprentice, and a number of children, elders, and expectant mothers. We humbly ask a place in your clan as fallen allies, to lay down our own clan name in exchange for a place here.”

The priestess watched Eranor Blackwater calculate the addition of resources to his people, saw the glaze of ambition cloud his eyes. He would take their land, their sacred places, their strength. He would name himself Uniter and march on the other clans of the Arakkai. It was as Cerys had hoped, but still, she despised the eager blindness with which he invited unknown danger into his midst.

“I don't know your face,” he said, no doubt thinking himself clever for not answering her request right away.

Cerys swallowed but answered with no pride. “I am but a servant, Chief Blackwater, a simple priestess to the Wanderer.”

The big man nodded and spread his hands wide. “Welcome, people of the Blackwater,” he said, the feral gleam never leaving his eye.

With a silent affirmation from their priestess-leader, the Unbroken dissolved into the bigger tribe.

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

The Unbroken

Here there is a place and a purpose for all those who languish beneath the rule of the Drathan Empire, a life for the weary, the scarred, the downtrodden. Here you will be lifted up, given a place and the tools needed to secure the fall of our enemies and the unity of peoples and gods. Raise up your fists and your voices, friends, for we are not only the Unbroken but also the Breakers, the shapers of a not-so-distant Future! -Cerys Shadowborne

Origins

On the last day of the third year of her training, Cerys was taken to mirror lake, as was tradition. Her left ankle was shackled to a boulder on one side of the clear pool set in the depression at the peak of the Godsfang’s highest mountain. The stone in question was stained with the blood of prayers and sacrifices from generations of Arakkai priestesses, a mark of their most sacred places. Two bowls were set before the young woman, both of a dark, stained wood, impossible to tell what color they once had been. One brimmed with Ichor, the other held nothing but a very sharp knife. Two older acolytes were set on watch, but neither spoke.

For seven days and nights, no food or drink passed Cerys’s lips but for the chilling water of the mountain lake, cold even in the height of summer. She did not move during this time but sat crosslegged, her arms resting on her knees and her head bent as if in prayer except when occasionally taking water. Around her, cold day and night passed, reflected in the mirror lake as though it was less a body of water than a window looking into some distant world.

On the morning of the eighth day, Cerys was roused from a haze of feverish prayer to find the lake strangely shaded, though no clouds crossed the sky and the sun shone fiercely from her high perch. With trembling fingers, the priestess lifted the knife to the crook of her elbow and pressed gently. The skin almost flinched apart, repelled by the dark blade, and Cerys skillfully maneuvered the bowl to catch her spilling blood. It filled slowly, but she would not need much.

Cerys dipped her right-hand palm down into her own warm blood and then into the thick pool of ichor in the bowl beside it. Without pausing to let the excess of either liquid drip off, her placed the dripping hand in the center of her chest, sending red-black droplets falling intimately down her torso, slicking a few stray strands of her long, dark hair. Before the potent mixture dried, she dragged her forefinger down her soft lips and again under her eyes, across her nose, in the center of her forehead. The dark liquid was sticky and hot against her sensitive skin, but as the last drop fell into place, her vision deepened. She could see him, mere feet away.

The Wanderer was movement incarnate, a dark mass of shadowy tendrils curling sinuously about itself, sometimes reaching out, sometimes condensing. Struck by the presence of the powerful spirit, Cerys rose slowly, her eyes never leaving the twisting form. For several long moments, nothing happened, and when the Red God spoke, it was in the voice of multitudes, a hundred hundred voices all whispering in unison.

“Do you fear me?” It asked, its strange multi-voiced chant lifted in curiosity as if it was unfamiliar with the feelings of man.

“Yes,” Cerys said honestly, her heart beat thundering in her chest, her body weak from so many days without sustenance. “But,” she went on, “That will not stop me.”

As the last syllable fell from her lips, the mass rushed forward, enveloping the priestess in inky shadow. It touched the markings of her face and chest and then was gone, all traces of blood and ichor gone with it, and the faint sound of a thousand voices laughing ringing in Cerys’s ears.

It could have been nothing but a dream, Cerys supposed, a hallucination brought on by too little to eat and too many days and nights subjected to the harsh mountain climate. But when she again looked into the lake, the unfamiliarity of her own reflection startled her. The priestess’s once dark hair had been leached of its deep color, falling silver across her shoulders, and the shadows of the markings she had made on her skin remained. She was Chosen, her people’s long hoped for champion.

But when Cerys and her two acolytes finally returned to the clan’s village to share the good news, nothing was left but destruction.

The People

The Unbroken are currently made up of the remnants of Cerys’s birth clan and the tribe of the late Eranor Blackwater, now both under the command of Cerys. More will flock to her banner in time.

The Arakkai: A race of pale skinned, dark haired mountain-dwelling people. They are as hardy as they are savage, a strong people that value skill in battle, freedom, and the vicious Red Gods they serve.

Their Religion

The Unbroken worship the Pantheon, especially the Wanderer, the Red God they believe will one day unite all of the others.

Name: The Wanderer, The Traveller, Messenger of the Red Gods or simply Dark Messenger
Type: Red God
Description: This powerful, if incorporeal, spirit makes the whole world his shrine. He cannot stay in one place for long. He is unique among the Red Gods for not being in opposition with any other gods, and those that worship all of the great spirits venerate him as the voice of the Pantheon, while others consider his presence as a sign of ill fortune. The Wanderer speaks to few, but those he chooses are marked for either greatness or great failure.

Their Leader

Name: Cerys Shadowborne, Voice of the Messenger and Defender of the Unbroken
Description: Much smaller than reputation paints her, Cerys stands at 5’4, 118 pounds. She is lithe and fit with long, silver hair, pale skin, and dark eyes.
Race: Human (Arakkai)
Faction/Unit: The Unbroken
Location: The Godsfang Mountains
Synopsis of Role: Leader-Priestess of The Unbroken

Captain of the Guard

Name: Rhys Blackwater
Description: Tall, dark haired and almost always to be found with a stern expression carved into his features.
Race: Human (Arakkai)
Faction/Unit: The Unbroken
Location: The Godsfang Mountains
Synopsis of Role: Protector of the Shadowborne Tribe

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

@Flagg

You know just how to warm a nerdy girl's bloodthirsty heart. I'll edit that into my lore sheets and write up a bit on the place and culture.

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

I think the Great White Erg fits my needs better because it'd be more difficult for Cerys to build an army in a land that already has a set government. I had imagined something less fixed, a number of lose tribes governed only by themselves. I am sorry to give up the cold climate though. I love my pale-faced priestess.

Blood on the Sands: Azoth at War (Open!)

@Flagg

What lies in the Great White Erg?

I'm looking for a place far away enough from the Dratha empire that Cerys will seem to come from nowhere and close enough to be raided for ichor or slaves.