Open Chronicles The Great Rites

[Hath Charosh]

Open to all Orcs. OOC Thread

Penteth Charosh, between Aberresai Savannah and Falwood

The dawn was greeted with the soft songs that were individual to each tribe. There was a buzz around the camp. Young bloods eager to prove themselves were psyching themselves up for the challenges. Others were more focused on the spiritual aspect of the ceremony and took time to reflect on the last quarter of a year. The noise was pleasant, deep voices in the distance searching for harmony. Later the raucous singing and heavy drum beats would build to crescendo as the eclipse began. For now the blue moon and its great rings were still chasing the sun, cresting the horizon as the golden light of the sunrise spilled across the savannah.


Soon she would swallow the new day, but the Rites began before that with the trials, challenges, and displays of skill. There was more of an air of anticipation about that aspect than was typical. Several tribes had honoured the Charosh by joining them for the celebration, but there would be a distinctly competitive nature between the different clans. It was mostly friendly, and the more experienced orcs were expected to stop anyone dying, but accidents happened.


Hath knelt on the grass of one of the large clearings. The males of clan Charosh on one side, females on the other, mated orcs to the side showing care and attention in completing each other's markings. He had a clay bowl of white paint and was trying to match the designs that the orc in front of him had started. He filled in Jureck's back where he could not reach with slim lines. Then they would swap. Hath had contrasting swirls of purple and white already painted across his shoulders and bare chest. Fierce white lines streaked down his face.


Purple was a difficult dye to obtain. The inner circle of the clan and the chieftain's blood were the only orcs from Charosh that would use the colour. He was the estranged son of the chieftain. His father had died when he was young and Kardidua had taken control of the clan, found a new mate. It was for his own safety that he was kept on the fringes of the tribe, where he was not seen as a threat to the bloodline of Kardidua's mate.


His bow was strung, and the spare also. He had carefully selected a dozen of his best arrows. His axe had been padded and he had chosen a shield in case he was required to represent the clan in the duelling. It was not something he was renowned for within the clan. His half brother was half as broad across the shoulders again, just as quick in a short bout and and exceptional swordsman. There would be high hopes for him, but his ego was as large as the shoulders it rested upon. Already there were three females kneeling on his right and taking the time to paint his arm. Hath avoided eye contact.

 

[Scabhair]

The day was yet young when Scabhair had yawned herself awake, stretching the slumber from her limbs. It was the first good night’s sleep she’d had in weeks – though not hers, it was an orcish home, and she felt a calm about her she hadn’t even noticed was missing.

Now she was poring over the back of another huntress, carefully drawing the rich red paste across toned muscle. Others around here were doing the same, repeating ancient patterns that she’d seen in settlements both old and new. The occasional orc was already singing, others were murmuring among themselves about the coming day. Still more were simply savouring the serenity of the moment, the sense of peace that was etched deeper with each line drawn across scarred skin.

When she finished up with the huntress the bowl changed hands, and the woman started on her back in turn. Scabhair grinned wide at the rising sun, hair tumbling forward as she dipped her head for a few dots to follow the curve of her spine up her neck.

Each cool dab of the fingers left a lingering feeling behind, a point of contact with the soil that had born the paint. When the fires came and the Pillar lit up the sky, an orc had to be grounded, lest the wind whisk them away to the stars.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath strode into the other group of Charosh orcs and approached Scabhair with little ceremony. He made eye contact and dropped to his knees on her right hand side. His torso was already marked from head to toe, bright purple already fading as the paint dried, but the two colours a stark contrast to his dark olive skin. The wide purple streaks and swirls were etched with fingertip painted bands of white.

He said nothing and neither did the huntress behind Scabhair, she continued working down the sides of her neck and across her shoulder blades. Like all archers the right side of her back had greater muscle definition, Hath noticed.

Between his knees he set down a simple clay bowl. Two circles of purple and white lay at the bottom, mixing into a faded pink where they touched. He held out his left hand, palm facing upwards and nodded towards her right hand.

 

[Mabess]

Mabess rarely ran errands, diplomatic even, and this tribe was very far from home indeed. Yet seeing all these new locations was intriguing on it's own. How different these orcs were, how different the land, and Mabess before only knew of those that wandered the spine in it's full lenght. The settlement too was far more numerous, it's buzzling activity quite a change from the usually quiet home back in the mountain sides.

Mabess came the previous day, rather late, at least whle traveling in company. The chieftain of the ashlanders was wholly in calm and looking forward to meet the leader of this settlement, and even participating in the foreign event.
Of her beloved, only Voratyr and Gromnar came, Hyorhal chose to stay behind for a myriad of reasons. Joining the painting rites with the other couples, many glanced her way as two painted her sides in a steel-like gray paint topped with an ashen white. »My husbands, yes, I have more than one.« , »We are inseparable« , » Have you not had a deep connection with more than one?« She chitchatted with the other curious dames, finding the interest rather flattering.
Though when her turn came to paint, Mabess ran out of ideas and painted both her loving men identically.
How different these orcs truly are. But women...women will always be the same.
Gossip was quick to start among the mothers, and Mabess pined in, catching drift that those fond of eachother would add to the paint on the arm. And of course her eyes were set on Hath and Scabhair. They were seen together and traveled so too. Surely they'd grown close in time? This reminded Mabess of her own youth in fact, she smudged some tan paint on Gromnar's nose playfully as she mildly smiled, closing her eyes: »Do you remember those days in our youth? Of the starry night skies in the cold mountain air...«
»It started with a fight of course!« Gromnar scoffed before being cought off guard by the smudge, sending off a sincere yet extremely brief smile. A brief stutter in his proud demaneor.
And that's the man she loved.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

When he came, he came with the dawn. The smell of western sands clung to the rugged ramshide and fraying silk enshrouding his mountainous frame. And for those who could not smell, his blue skin amidst the sea of savannah green sang of the Great Mothers and First Fathers, the tall peaks of the Sereti, not so tall and wintry cruel as the Spine, but proud and ancient and weathered by sea air in the north and hot desert winds in the south.

Steady step set his long, dark braids to swaying and they swept around bizarre lamellar pauldrons girding his shoulders.

Pale, deepset eyes glittered with guarded watchfulness, made warning by his many weapons: a straight-bladed and thin dagger at his waist, a killer's tool, matched by a scabbarded kilij on his hip, but both surpassed in threat by the mighty horse-killing sword which he wore upon his back like a challenge - all made of the patterned Telling Steel, named Seric or Wootz, forged in the heart of his homeland by like ogres.

So he came into the midst of a clearing, large and silent and foreign.

 

[Scabhair]

A thin furrow appeared in her brow as Hath strode across the clearing and knelt before her, paint in hand. Though they’d been at it for a good spell now, Scabhair hadn’t yet managed to work out the logic behind the division. The couples were on the far side, clearly mated for the intimacy with which they drew the marks onto each other.

It was the rest that had her confounded. Mostly the men were on one side and the women on the other. Children ran about between the two, painted first so they’d not disturb the rest of the process. But now they were mostly done, plenty of women were wandering to the other side, and just as many men to theirs in turn.

At his prompt Scabhair offered her bare right arm, curious despite the hint of apprehension that came with lack of understanding.

Well, she’d find out eventually. How important could it be, really?

~

Hath wrapped his hand around her wrist from underneath. A gentle graze of her fingers against the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrist and Hath was reminded that she drew from the thumb. The different techniques meant that some of the physical characteristics of their trade were not in common.

In solemn silence he went to work. After dipping his thumb in the purple paint he started to create thick bands that spiraled around her lower forearm. Slowly he dragged his thumb as he twisted her wrist to complete each. Rather than one continual track there were three disconnected bands that ended in sharp streaks.

The hunter behind Scabhair had now moved to the small of her back. Soft murmurs of hushed chants could be heard around them, accompanied by the occasional sound of stone on wood as more dye ingredients were ground into paste to make paint.

Satisfied, Hath dipped his finger tips into the white. With more care he edged the bands on the lower side before drawing something akin to a spearhead on the back of her hand. At full draw it would be pointing towards her target. The design was simple, almost mirroring, without copying, the designs across his chest.

Hath finally offered her a brief smile and began to stand.

~

She echoed his smile, but it was fleeting – as he rose, Scabhair caught his hand in turn, brow furrowing deeper. As usual, curiosity got the best of her, and she broke the silence that seemed to prevail throughout the ritual.

At least she had the good sense to whisper.

“Do I… do the same for you?” She made a shallow gesture to his unmarked right arm, uncertainty written all over her face. “You didn’t tell me anything about this part.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Just a few feet from Mabess, Kardidua Charosh was working on her mate. Dathimm was an orc of enormous stature. It would take her time to finish painting his entire torso. In stark contrast to Mabess and her mates there was less affection on show between the pair. Her great love, Hath's father, had died twenty years ago. Dathimm had led a small pack of fierce orcs and she had needed to stabilise the clan. He had been a sensible choice. After all these years she was fond of him, but the bond would never be as strong.

She paused and watched with interest as her eldest crossed the field. Despite being the eldest he could not be shown much favour and had lived on the fringes of the tribe with his uncle. Dathimm and his supporters might have driven him away, or worse, if he had been perceived as a threat.

Kardidua wanted the bloodline of her previous mate continue. Even if that might have meant Hath leaving the tribe. The evening before Scabhair had candidly admitted that she could not bear children and therefore would not keep Hath. But there was Hath, kneeling on her right. Kardidua made brief eye contact with Mabess before very quickly trying to wipe the displeasure from her features.

---

His heart pounded a little faster inside his chest. The slight elation he had started to feel came crashing down in an instant. It wasn't his place to explain this part to her. Within the tribe the gender lines didn't matter for much of their daily lives. They didn't separate into roles to the extent humans did, females did not devote their entire lives to offspring. In some cases the lines did matter. He had assumed one of the others would have explained.

There was no point avoiding it now. If he walked away then the huntress - who had stopped painting to look distinctly awkward - would have explained and he might have had to watch Scabhair wipe her arm clean from a distance. At least the misunderstanding could be cleared up now.

Hath cast his gaze around and pointed. Jishini was approached by one of the young apprentices of the shaman. Hath could not recall his name. Wiry lad with stark white hair. He knelt beside her and held out a hand, but she turned away and he left.

“This means I want you to observe me during the Rites. To decide if I might be worth your attentions. An orc goes to the other side and may ask to paint several people.”

He nodded his head towards Rowesh. She embodied almost every physical attribute typically considered attractive to an orc. Slim, sharp tusks, broad hips, broad shoulders, large chested and with exotic brown eyes. Her entire right arm was covered already and they were early in the morning.

Hath sighed. “You may remove it if you wish. I am sorry.”

He was far too distracted to notice the newcomer in the center of the field. His younger brother, Bathyr, was not.

Grozkalla was approached by a group of the largest of Charosh orcs. Some were not that much smaller in stature than himself. Most wore next to nothing that was not paint, but two guards were armed.

Bathyr greeted him with a pleasant call and a nod of respect. The Rites were a time of celebration, not suspicion.

“You have come to honour Clan Charosh at our Rites?” he asked. His fist was brought lightly to his chest in respect.

 

[Graella]

Graella rose from her sleeping furs, tired and somewhat groggy. Her tribe had arrived at an odd hour, a side effect from their travel. No doubt her mother had already been up, with her lovers, painting each other. Graella yawned, stretching her arms, tusks showing briefly. She scratched her head, staring at her small bag of clothes. It was a small smattering of her things. This was a celebration. She wasn't out here more than to show her strength, maybe participate in the events and support the Ashland tribe. Speaking of. Graella smiled as she dug through the ashes of her small fire. Her hand came away covered in ashes and she grabbed a small bit of lard from her own satchel. She sat and slowly painted herself with the ash mixture. Then she did the same with the small bits of charcoal from the dead fire. Crushing the pieces in her hand, she slathered the lard and charcoal in the same hand and used her other hand to begin scrawling opposing swirls to the pasty white. She finished and washed her hands in a small portion of water and ash, the lard came away clean, leaving her hands better than she had started. She smiled. Her little discovery. Ash could clean so much. Graella dressed carefully and strapped her weapon to her side, weaving a peace tie from the blade to the scabbard, a show of faith and a declaration of peace for her comrades. She was here to celebrate with her kind, her kin.

The Orcess emerged from her small A-frame tent already painted, already ready for the day. She smiled, she had no qualms about what she'd declared. She was her own woman, and she'd refuted any advances by painting herself in the privacy of her tent. She wasn't going to allow even the concept of another painting her to even grow. No. She was Ashland, The daughter of the Chieftess. She made her way to the small area of cooking, stealing herself a flat piece of bread and covering it in pieces of uncooked meat, bacon, deer strips, and a third she hadn't seen before. She sauntered back over towards the display of orcs painting and not painting, of asking and denying. She folded the flatbread and bit into it, chewing as she watched, her eyes roaming over her mother and her lovers, they seemed to be nearing the end of their display. Grae took the time to braid plaits into her hair, tying small knots to keep the tresses from flying loose, her improvised taco in her mouth as she did so.

When she finished she broke off another piece of her breakfast and waited. She was ready, but she had only needed to paint herself. She smiled, and slowly took stock of the tribes present. Of course Charrosh was here, some tribes she recognized, some she did not. She'd have to ask mother about them. Were they planning on having a meeting? Would mother allow her to sit as her second and be present for these talks? She wasn't sure. She had hopes of being there, helping and supporting her mother. She shrugged mentally, it mattered not. She looked over the field, trying to decipher what tests there would be. If there was any chance she might make her mother proud. Graella shifted on the stump she'd chosen for herself, sitting tall and proud, tusks bared to the rising sun. She eyed the orcs, would there be a morning display? She was excited, last time she was just a small one, knee high and running around starting fights with the other kits. A small one approached Graella, a young lad barely two summers. Graella smiled and tilted her head. He was nervous. Sent over by older lads who had smirked and smiled and joked behind their hands. A jest. Poor lad, they expected him to be turned away no doubt. Graella took the bowl of paint and gestured for the lad to turn.
"What is your favored weapon?" She asked, and the lad smiled. "Axe!" He declared with a high pitched voice. And Graella began to swirl and decorate his axe arm, drawing emphasis to muscles that would one day grow and swell with use. The group of youngins that had put him up to it were slowly filtering away, bored that their prank had failed. The boy turned, and smiled at her, thanking her for painting him. She nodded and he gestured to her sword, then her arm.

"I will not be taking the paint of others, but I will wear a token as a sign of friendship." The lad nodded. "I am glad to have achieved as much." He said as he smiled and dug through his leather bag. What he withdrew was exquisite, at least to Graella. A small bird's wing still adorned with its feathers, all matter of colors. Blues and browns, blacks and whites. Graella smiled wider, accepting the offering of a small boy. She nodded. "Beautiful, thank you my friend. Should the others pester you, tell them to come ask me what I think. That should shut them up for you." She tied the bird wing into her hair, and the boy bounded off with a large toothy smile. Graella went back to her breakfast, taking another large bite of the raw meat.

 

[Mabess]

»Graella is as proud as Hyorhal, « spoke Voratyr to the group. »A bit too bold and still has much to learn and experience, « he turned to Mabess. Voratyr was her oldest husband, and the son of the snow-wolf chief. Mabess only nodded, but knew that the girl of the twin cubs will do grand if she stays true to herself.
Soon catching the glimpse of Kardidua Charosh. It would be impolite to speak, but the Charosh Chieftain seemed troubled, noticing the failing positive visage, as if something were amiss.
»In such festive times, flowers blossom. I am grateful that you accepted us, Ashlanders to attend, « the chieftainess spoke one to another, bowing her head to Kardidua whom was a decade senior to Mav.
Mabess was painted with two conflicting minds belonging to her husband's. Half was sharp and bright, the other mild and deeply ornate.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Kalla touched two fingers to his neck, then chin, in greeting at their approach.

“Blessings of Annuk be upon your tribe.”

He lowered his hand and looked through the speaker.

“I am Kalla, from the Ogres of Seret, where the Sword Lions of Kherkhana bring you greetings from the mouth of the Baal-Duru. And of Rajashah, which sits in silence.”

 

[Scabhair]

Yes, Scabhair, how important could it be?

She resisted the urge to close her eyes. Why couldn’t she have kept her mouth shut? Just this once?

No use crying over a snapped bowstring, of course.

“I—”

She’d trampled ten men in the final rhetoric exam, graduated with merit, and now she was tongue-tied. Amongst her own people. Over a man.

Last night’s conversation rushed unbidden to the fore, and it was all she could do not to clench her fists. Had the chieftain talked him into this? The woman had seemed fair, but there was a wily glint to her eye. On some level she couldn’t even begrudge her – it took seeing the world in shades of gray to lead well. There were no simple decisions.

Though she couldn’t see her anywhere, Scabhair would swear in that moment that Kardidua’s gaze was boring into her.

Fuck this.

“Don’t apologise to me.” Her grip grew firm for a moment before she turned his forearm over and held her own out for the bowl of paint. She dipped two fingers into the mixture, paused in thought, then began applying the star-glyphs of the steppe to his dark skin.

“Just… could’ve told me earlier.” Finally her expression relaxed somewhat, lips quirking up into a smile. “Not like we spent almost a month on the road together.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

He nodded, lips matching her smile almost immediately. He was not used to feeling his emotions go through such a powerful swing back and forth. He watched her work on his arm intently.

“The men are not supposed to talk on this side of the field,” the huntress said, deciding to explain Hath's silence. “And the same the other way. If the answer is no, you are expected to move on and not try to convince someone with words to accept your mark.” There was a flutter deep below his ribs when she marked a more sensitive patch of skin. He tilted his gaze back up to watch her looking at her work.



Neither of them could have seen the look of disapproval that had crossed Kardidua's face at this distance. It had been there for a fraction of a second before she had turned back to the arduous task of painting her mate's enormous torso. Between personal happiness and the good of the clan she would always choose the latter.

She wanted the clan to grow. This was still her son and the balance was closer than it would normally have been. She would not interfere in the matter, despite having spent the previous evening discussing whether there was a pleasant girl of suitably low rank that might have caught Hath's eye instead.

"And you are welcome, it honours us," Kardidua told Mabess. The group of mated orcs that formed the third group included a number of leaders from across the tribes. "Your mates will compete in anything today?" she asked.



Bathyr wasn't one for long-winded welcomes so he simply offered his arm for the forearm grip that was typically used as a greeting in the area. "Has anyone found you a tent to stay in yet?" he asked. Clearly no one had for Grozkalla was still carrying his weapons, unpadded. Unless a tribe had assigned him as one of the guards for the day. Even during the Rites there was a chance the humans from Vel'Anir or another tribe would attack. Even if all custom dictated that a tribe that dared attack another during the ceremony were worse than humans.

 

[J'Darak Moghahk]

A faint memory fluttered around the skull of the Black Orc as he trudged across the Savannah towards the expansive Charosh camp, it's tents able to be seen from far off even to the untrained eye, across the flat scrubland and arid dirt. It was a memory of his father and perhaps of his mother, as well as his brother. Heavy brows knitted tightly and the worn features of his dark grey face creased in worry lines. Most born from rage.
He remembered visiting when he was very young, his father had taken part in the Trials as well as many of the men of his tribe from the Steppes, though he could not remember if this had been once or many times in the clans rather tumultuous history, Moghahk had no doubt it was long forgotten. Positioning the rope across his bared shoulder a little more comfortably, he dragged the two Flatland Gizelle behind him he had hunted, his heavy bow slung across his back with the black great-axe; Gja'Tok fastened with crude animal hide wraps.

The steppe Orc had arrived in the very early hours of the previous day ahead of the Ashlander party, scouting ahead for the group. If he had been honest with the Chieftain, it would have been that he preferred his solitude over the bustle of the Orcish caravan, the Ashlanders had been welcoming enough, especially after he had helped with a few troubles they had in the Spine, but he did not feel as though he belonged.
J'Darak had not felt belonging in decades, only the skulls that rattled against one another across his expansive torso had his commitment. Sometimes he wished he had started a count on how many had tried to challenge him, though he supposed he may not have been able to count that high, he only had ten fingers after all.

This thought troubled the berserker momentarily.

His self doubt on his mathematical ability was soon put to the back of his mind when he smelt the morning fires of meat and no doubt Savannah vegetables. As was custom among his Clan; even if they were shattered, Moghahk had brought a gift of food from their lands as a sign of good faith. Most tended to avoid the burly Orc as he trudged through the camp, with his broody scrunched features, his beady golden eyes that never seemed to blink, dark grey flesh that seemed to struggle to cover every deep cut muscle in his form. For someone his age, he was in impeccable condition, if you disregarded the innumerable amount of scars.
He made an educated decision to largely avoid the gathering of couples and singles with their marking rituals, he had no place in it. Only a few ceremonial markings appeared on his skin, four diagonal red lines across his chest of smudged dirt and clay, showing his status as a berserker, a Skull-Taker and a white and red paste-like handprint slapped across his left pectoral, his own.

Draal Gulhag would crush bones and skulls, mixed with the blood of their hunts into wide, low rimmed communal bowls, this would be passed from person to person. Their hands would then be pressed into the bowl and coated and placed upon the flesh of their kin, a sign of companionship, commitment and community, with no one left to take part in the ceremony Moghahk had done it himself on the edge of camp.
Though he had marked each of the seven skulls adorning his person, five were Gnoll across his chest on a thick leather sash and two were human hanging from each hip of his knee length hide loincloth. Each skull was exceptionally well taken care of, yellowish white and without many markings from the skinning that had taken place, each was missing their lower jaws and had a large flat red and white handprint placed across the upper face.

Even among his brothers and sisters, his kin, there would no doubt be thoughts of a barbaric nature, but to Moghahk they were a sign of his struggles and his victories. None had bested the Black Orc and with the way things were going, J'Darak did not think anyone ever would.
Finally the thought let a dopey grin spread across his tooth filled mouth as he dropped the gazelle in the center of a large gathering of Orcs who were partaking in the early feasting. He only recognized one present, Graella if he remembered correctly.
"Graasemsk, Kin of Mabess." He rumbled to the She-Orc, placing two fingers to his forehead and stroking down the bridge of his nose in greeting. His voice was like crushed stone, guttural and deep, no doubt ruined from the decades of roaring like a beast unchained. A bowl of broth was handed to him which he accepted with a deep incline of his head and he sat himself down on a mound of earth close, but not too close to the woman.

Drawing a heavy duty blackened dagger from a sheath across the small of his back, he cut a deep groove into the edge of the bowl, so better to pour the liquid into his mouth; his jutting tusks and jagged looking teeth made it almost impossible to properly drink.

Hath Charosh | Scabhair | Graella | Mabess | Grozkalla

 

[Mabess]

Watching Kardidua, it took and one one to connect the displease upon the chieftainess was linked between her son and the bright minded she-orc.

»Hmm hmmm, « Voratyr murmured. »The stars, they spoke to me last night and told me to preserve my energy,« was the last he hummed before giving Mabess' markings detailed touch ups here and there. He seemed to enjoy this more than
»I may compete, I assume my children will too. Graella is already a lustre among the young,« Mabess chuckled.
»Stand still, please, or I'll never be done,« Voratyr quietly spoke.
»Of course, I shall show my might« Gromnar scoffed, briefly flexing his muscle, the dry paint crakling upon the tension.

Mabess would have leaned closer to ask quietly about the matter, but that would make Voratyr bug in again. Gazing directly at Kardidua's eyes to gain contact, then briefly glancing at Hath and Scabhair, she picked up two flowers, one violet and another red, raising them up to her hair as if she was actually speaking about them to onlookers.
»Do you think these flowers are meant to fit together?« She asked discretely bout the concern.

 

[Graella]

Graella settled into her seat again, watching the form of J’Darak walk into view. Graella chuckled, mirroring his greeting, touching her forehead and down the bridge of her nose with a grin.

“Graasemsk, J’Darak Moghahk.” She said, voice higher and softer than his. She watched as he settled onto the ground next to her stump. Even if she sat straight up, he still was taller than her. She tilted her head, her arms crossed over her chest, the offset black and ash colored paint setting off the olive green of her skin. She tilted her head to look at the orc, the braid falling to one side.


“J’Darak, will you join in the wrestling?” She asked, curious as ever. She had questioned her own activities for the day. Determining that if her mother had no use for her, then she would participate in the carving, sword play and wrestling tests, and throw some axe later for kicks. She never held to her plans for things like these. Though wrestling was up there on her list. Her mother no doubt would participate as well. And her lovers. Graella’s eye wandered back towards the trio. She wrinkled her nose a bit. She lifted her chin, tusks baring slightly before looking at J’Darak. She had a small displeasure in the opinions of her mother’s lovers. Particularly one, who was as stiff as if he had a stick in his rear.

 

[Scabhair]

Her motions hitched as the huntress made her remarks, but she tamped down her own biting words and resumed the work. This was not her clan. This was not her tribe. She would not challenge their custom.

She would enjoy wiping the ground with the woman in archery, however. The thought kept her at bay, her fingers digging into Hath’s arm a touch harder than she’d intended.

These were the aspects of tradition she was hard-pressed to swallow. At home she’d clashed with her aunt, her mother, even the Shaman. Her attempts at rational discussion were always drowned out by emotional arguments and this is how it’s dones, and it was always Scabhair who lost her patience in the end and rode off to cool her head.

Now she was older, and didn’t have her gathamhr besides. Grin and bear it, then.

Scabhair said nothing more after that, hoping that Hath could read her expression well enough.

They needed to talk.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Kardidua felt her mate shift beneath her touch at the bold proclamation from Gromnar. Dathimm was supposed to be overseeing some of the events today, not competing. He would bristle irritably later if he had to watch an outsider come out ahead of the Charosh orcs. It would all be forgotten after they retired from the event together. There was still a chance she could bear one more child.

Whilst she recognised the subtle prompt from Mabess she was not sure how to reply. The issue was complex, not one that could be distilled into a guarded response.

“They might. I’m in two minds and I think what could be said has been,” Kardidua replied.

“It’s just a flower,” Dathimm rumbled.

“The shooting will start soon,” Kardidua explained to move away from the subject. “I will need to go and start them off.”



Hath gave a curt nod, understanding her look with just a glance. He had already got away with explaining the traditions with barely a curious glance. However, given the look they had shared he didn't want to continue a serious conversation right here. Especially with the huntress still finishing with the paint.

Rising to his feet he walked away, trying to sort through the diverse mix of emotions. He wanted to feel pleased, but wasn't certain that he could allow himself to yet.

“He went without going to mark anyone else,” Fenthawr commented from behind Scabhair. She said it as if it was good news. Just a few metres away Rowesh had a stocky warrior trying to cram his mark into the last few inches of her right arm. Apparently she was quite happy to have a selection of makes to choose from through the day.

Hath might have left immediately but he lingered just a few metres from the crowd. Fenthawr finished Scabhair's back and left with her bowl of paint in the direction of the male corner of the field.

 

[Jason Chronicles]

Kalla stared at the forearm for a moment, as if in curiosity, then started - as if remembering the symbology would not be finished until he too reached out, and so he did, clasping arms with the orc and wondering at the foundational meeting. Greeting, yes, and trust. Grip the sword arm and you could not draw.

"Tent? No, none have offered. Shall I pitch my own?"

He had a small bundle of cloth strapped to his back, beneath the horse-slayer's scabbard.

 

[Scabhair]

Earlier she might’ve asked the other orcs for more details. That wish had withered. She thanked Fenthawr with a shallow nod and stepped out of the line so that the others could finish their painting.

For a moment she willed herself to forget the baggage that surrounded the patterns and simply view them as they were. There were symbols she recognised; far more still that she didn’t, though perhaps they carried no meaning at all. Aesthetics weren’t only a human thing.

Sometimes an orc just liked to look nice. There was no shame in that.

Unfortunately, they weren’t only pretty lines. Talk about dry-firing a strung bow. Scabhair let out a grounding breath, willing her earlier excitement to return.

He wasn’t hard to spot at the edge of the clearing, hovering like an elk watching the pond for a hunter ambush. She’d made it halfway before another woman caught her elbow – Ishini? Ieshinn? – and claimed her attention. “You are competing in feats of marksmanship, yes?”

Scabhair nodded, silver eyes flicking to Hath. They needed to talk… later.

“Then come with me, and bring your bow. We begin when Chief Kardidua joins us.”

And there went her mood again.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Grozkalla

"Jinto, find him a spot," Bathyr said to one of the silver-haired warriors at his side. The veterans were passed the point of having aspirations of leadership themselves. Several saw Bathyr as the logical next choice for chieftain and were always seen close to his side. They offered protection and support in return for an easy life if he ended up leading the tribe.

Grozkalla would be led past the wide clearing with the great pyre in the centre. It was ready to be lit when the eclipse began. There was open ground between the boundaries of land occupied by Charosh and the seperate patches of open ground offered to each of the visiting tribes to occupy. On the way Jinto would give him a brief rundown of how the day would proceed. Such a powerful orc likely had a good chance of finding some honor for his tribe in the events going on through the day before the eclipse was met with fire, music and chanting.



Hath watched as Scabhair left, realising that he would also be expected at the line if Jishini was collecting Scabhair. Leaving that look unexplained left a tension across his shoulders. Not something that would be welcome for the competition. It suddenly didn’t seem to matter as much as it should have.

He took a breath, pushed unnecessary thoughts aside. He could make an arrow fly true with a hungry savanna troll bearing down on him. It would take an around round of arrows to be taken out of the running with the first batch so those could be used to steady his nerve.

Kardidua stood at the end of the line, facing the archers. Most were right handed, but all turned to face her. By the time he had familiar bow in hand he was feeling more settled in himself.

The chieftain watched as several orcs led the chant.

We stand, they cried before the response bellowed out from the line, firm

We stand

Tall

We stand

Proud

There were many chants to meet battle used across the tribes. This one was often used when an outnumbered tribe made a stand against a larger force. Arrows would be shot until they ran out or the archers were overrun.

Scabhair was several places ahead, back to him. Hath looked down at his right arm, feeling echoes of her touch as she had marked him. Before his feet was a small basket of arrows. Some wore quivers, others had their arrows impaled in the ground. Hath always avoided the latter; the chance of missing a clump of mud in the tip and dropping short of the mark was small, but could be disastrous.

 

[Mabess]

Her gaze was at Kardidua, before shifting it to the young adults. She would have said more but the event was son to begin.
The flowers she only tucked onto her hair.
»Gromnar, you should compete too.«

Then when it began...

Mabess was among the spectators, the others of her tribe not competing with her.

 

[Scabhair]

Scabhair did not chant with them, though it wasn’t out of resentment. It was simply not her custom, and thus she did not know the words. The Aiforn faced their enemies to the mighty roar of the gathamhr.

While the Chief spoke, Scabhair systematically tuned out all the noise that didn’t matter. She listened only to the wind, watched the wisps of flame and smoke curl through the air and the tall grass bend to its whim.

A call to start cut through the background din, and the row of archers moved as one. The Charosh and other savannah tribes all held their longbows, but stragglers like herself and those from further out drew their own – recurves and flatbows, horned staves and deflexed limbs – until the line flickered with colour and variety they brought together.

The onlookers sang and drummed their feet against the ground as flights of arrows were loosed towards the distant targets.

No bale of hay was spared that morning.

 

[Hath Charosh]

The first arrows all left the line in almost the same instant. But the hail of dark arrows did not land in an orderly fashion. Hath had snatched his release and saw his fletchings sticking up from the ground a few feet before the target. As the others nocked their second arrows he let his gaze settle on the target.

It was a roughly man sized bale that had been tightly packed. White cloth had been pulled around it to make it easy to sight. In the centre was the yellow circle that would only become important when the field had been narrowed down. His gaze came to rest there as the chorus of strings thrummed a second time. That spot alone was where his arrows belonged. No where else.

He nocked, drew and released in a short span. There was him and the target. The breeze gentle from left to right. It barely pulled his arrow before it thudded into the yellow. Hath grunted, nodded to himself and put another arrow there.



Kardidua turned towards Mabess, already bored of watching the line or archers draw and release. They looked resplendent in their fresh paint. By the time the skies grew dark and the pyres burned it would already by dull and flaking. By the time the pyre had burned itself out and the sun returned it would be streaked and smeared and colours mingled.

"You have many children?" she asked.

 

[Mabess]

Mabess leaned slightly aside, offering space besides her for Kardidua. »Plenty enough I'd say, some already carving their own path through life.« The chieftainess crossed her arms, letting out a subtle chuckle.
She then nudged the gaze at her bold daughter, the apple of her eye. Wherever she last stood.
»Graella is with me here.«

 

[Scabhair]

Above all else, Scabhair focused on her pace. The Aiforn had clashed with the Huungok for one whole long day once, and the memory was still alive in her mind whenever she took up her bow.

They’d fought with abandon then, desperate to whittle down the greater numbers of their enemy. Never before nor after in her life had her arms and back ached so. She’d spent all her arrows before the sun had rose to zenith then. Half the battle had been picking arrows from the fallen and returning fire. The other half had been a blur that began and ended with her axe in hand, dripping red ichor into the hungry soil of the steppes.

Since then she always made sure to relax her muscles and let her bow rest between each arrow. There was no need to rush here, and what anger remained in her gut she would save for the butchering. No waste in putting all her strength into the swing of an axe, then.

Exhale, draw, and release; her last arrow pierced the hay, completing the little grove of fletching jutting out from the yellow circle.