Private Tales To Err is Human

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Volker was indeed quite a curiosity around the village, though the interest died out within the first week when everyone got a good look at the human. After which he appeared more like an asset in the village than a stranger.
The orcs would lazy around most of the time or hon their skill. Hunting days were scarce and few between, as the quarry could feed a tribe for a long time. But of course, the herds would move on, and so, the orcs would need to leave too.

A few days from now the tribe was more active than usual, as property was packed up, foods were preserved and travel gear was readied up.

Today, sometime during midday, everyone appeared to be ready to move out. Even Gorsgoya's hut was near empty by now.
 
Volker sensed the unease in the camp. It was a natural rhythm of hunting creatures to follow herds, especially in areas they couldn’t farm. He could walk, albeit gingerly, and had tried to maintain his physique as much as he could. His livelihood was based off being in good physical condition. Otherwise he repaired Gorsgoya’s things as best he could, replacing the sinew on baskets and sharpening tools. He didn’t mind helping and preferred to work.

But slowly the hut was emptied and the tents packed. Volker stood outside, dressed, unsure of what to do. He would have to follow them. They were still his only source of food and water, and he did not fancy being picked off by something. He approached them, still limping but without a word of complaint.

Mabess
 
The anxiety came to a standstill all of a sudden.
The tribe was still.
All was packed.
Yet nobody moved.


From the brush came a party of two huntresses, they waved their hand and the front of the tribe began to move at a lieasureable pace.
Gorsgoya rode over to Volker. » I doubt you'd make it even a hundred meters. I'll help you get on. «
 
Volker eyed her horse. He didn’t like horses and the feeling was bloody mutual. Most animals hated him. They smelled the madness in him, or the black magic, or perhaps the wraith he served. One or a combination of these reasons kept most beasts well away from him, or bucked him off.

However he didn’t have much of a choice. The terrain was unsteady even to a man with two good legs. He nodded at Gorsgoya. “Your mount will not like me.” He warned her, eyeing the animal distrustfully.

Mabess
 
Volker eyed the leopard and growled at it, lifting his lip a bit. He didn’t have much of a choice. To be left behind was to be dead. He gingerly clambered on, grasping handfuls of the ash leopard’s fur to prevent himself falling off. He was tense as a bow, ready to be thrown at any moment.
Mabess
 
»Try not to disturb it as is.« Gorgoya wheezed. »Kashkhana is a good girl, treat her well.«

No momentmore could they have spared as they rode out from the now derelict village.
The huts in due time would erode from rain and sun.
The ash pits blown away by the wind.
New trees would grow from the debris.
All would be as it once was.


What was before a lively village was now replaced the by the changing vista of the mountains in a backgrop that turned from blue to gold.
The warmth of fire quickly left bodies, and the lack of movement only left the thick furns on one's back to shield them from going ever colder.
 
Volker didn’t look back. He clung to the back of the cat, but it was a rather awkward way of holding on. He didn’t want to touch Gorsgoya, but he was in serious danger of falling off if he didn’t. He settled for grasping her shoulder, head down and his other hand grasped painfully tightly in the cat’s fur.

Mabess
 
The evening turned to night, night turned to daybreak.
And such, time has passed among the same mountains, some whiter, than others as they passed from north to south across the land; zigzagging between well-trod paths.

Rations were meagre, they were all that they had packed.
A stop at the evening sometimes proved a stew of rabbit that was snatched up along the route, of course, it would be gone by the next morning as they made their leave.

Any question for when and how long was returned empty worded, and as when one would think they might have acquired sores from riding too long.


Fire.
No moment was spared as the ashlanders began cutting down the wood boundary and selectively setting up controlled fires to clear the wood.
The sky quickly turned ashen and the ground charred and black.
Even Gorsgoya left Volker alone, but she helped the clan in the matters of hard labour. That time was long past her.

Cutting, chopping, digging. In no time, the silence of travel was replaced by the joy of work and building.
House frames were erect in no time, only the earthen body still lacked.
 
Volker couldn’t help much. He slowly found a place to settle down, and watched them. Nomads were skilled creatures, and he could learn from these people. They cleared brush through controlled fires, making what was essentially a blank canvas for their camps. When they moved, the wounds on the land would heal. He watched them erect wooden frames, no doubt to build mud daub huts.

It would be long and exhausting work. They would need a water source, and mud daub worked best with some sort of mold. Perhaps he could help shape their raw materials? His fingers itched to work.

Mabess
 
As the Ahslanders worked on the village. A few of the huntresses slipped away with the consent of the village. Among them was Ubabe. It seemed as if they were going for a hunt, seeing how others bid them good luck as they departed.

»Volker, « hollered that one elderly voice again. Gorsgoya walked over to the outskirts of the action. Around her wrist the basked he had repaired, thought it empty for now, likely yearning to carry goods once more.
»You look like you want to take part, h-hee, « she wheezed again before coughing downwards.

Perhaps it was a miracle that she was so longlived.

Volker
 
Volker watched the hunters leave. He was talented at hunting, and it frustrated him. He could have actually contributed to a hunt. He frowned and watched them depart. He was useless like this...or at least he felt useless. He couldn’t resist the small growl in his throat. He was frustrated.

Gorsgoya taunting him didn’t help. He snorted at her. “If you have tools needing repairing or weapons to be sharpened, give them to me.” He called to her. “I can also cook, or prepare spears.”

Volker couldn’t stand not being useful.

Mabess
 
»I can smell a dedicated soul from a mile away, « she pinched her lips before leaving.
The elder seemed to have left to some of the dashing young orcs, who after some convincing, handed her something.

Horsgoya returned with the prize in her lovely basket, which she presented to him.
It appeared to be a wobbly hammer, in dire need of repair before it ends up hurting some green-brown fingers.
 
Volker watched her walk over to some of the younger, stronger orcs. Why couldn’t they have been put in charge of him? He wouldn’t have argued with the view. Gorsgoya returned with a rusty looking hammer in her basket. He took it and looked it over, waggling the head in his palm. It needed a new haft. He pulled the head free and set the old handle aside; it could be used for firewood.

He needed a replacement. He slowly, carefully pulled himself to his feet. He had to hobble a bit like a crane, and it was slow going, but he needed a firewood pile. He sifted through the one he found, exchanging the old haft for a tough length of mountain ash. He cut it down to size, making sure the extra bits found their way back to the firewood pile, and hobbled back to his blanket.

Volker began stripping the bark off the ash, and shaping it with his shorter knives. He stopped to check the hammer head’s fit every now and then. He needed it snug but not too tight, or the wood would split. He watched the young orcs as he worked.
Well...he could still enjoy the view from here.

Mabess
 
As soon as Volker had worked his first, Gorsgoya returned with a new set of tools.
»Found your place, hee-heeew, have you? See I have more, you know. They much prefer to build than maintain, and if they can avoid it, they'll hop at it, heeee, on the first opportunity.«

This time she brought an axe, it seemingly still sturdy, yet its shaft was cleft, and perhaps it could use some sharpening too. Gorsgoya brought some other knickknacks that would have helped him with that.

It seemed this brief business would be quite the ordeal. Buckets needing repair, knives in need of resharpening and so much more.
As soon as one would have been done, another arrived, and the orcs seemed to work only so much faster for it and a village stood tall by twilight when a gentle sea of gold was still by the horizon.
 
Volker gave her a look. “Maintaining one’s tools is critical to being a good craftsman. My blades cut well and deep, with no nicks or pits to the blade. Their tools will last longer if they learn this lesson.” He told her as he examined the axe. He buffed the handle with a small vial of oil normally reserved for his knives, and sharpened the axe to a razor edge.

He was glad to be useful, but by twilight he was near exhausted. He’d worked on their tools, repaired the broken ones to the best of his ability, and rested. He still wanted his own weapons back. He looked at Gorsgoya. “If you trust me with an axe surely you would trust me with my knives again.” He ventured.

Mabess
 
»Ohhhhhh, I don't even trust you with your teeth, should I bring some pliers and muscle next? « Huffed the elder.


The Stormcallers would pride themselves with their work ethic, even if the Asshlanders as a whole were seen as hard-working orcs.
Quick to mobilise and quicker to organise.

A village was quickly arranged and wood was chopped for the evening burning flames. engulfed in work one hardly even noticed when the hunting party returned with a splendid carcass of a...griffin!
What a mighty beast.

Work ended swiftly.
 
Volker glared at the old woman. Still no progress from her. He snorted, and turned back to his work. He was hard working and quiet, and helped the men sharpen and repair their tools. But even he had to admit he was near-ravenous with hunger once evening approached.

He frowned when people stopped their work to look at...a dead Griffin. Volker shook his head. Griffins were great and noble creatures. He wouldn’t have killed one so recklessly. He ignored his hunger and finished work on another hatchet, laying it aside.

He wasn’t about to eat anything without being invited to it.

Mabess
 
And of course, food would not come so soon.
Talk about the huntresses and their might flared up as they gathered. The usual most prized prey was bear, the most common was a boar or a stag.
A griffon was much larger, much more difficult to bring down. And the huntresses, including Ubabe who was among them, were momentarily revered.

The carcass of the griffin was laid before the tribe and between the elders, whom Gorsgoya had joined.
Among them was the head shaman of the tribe, who, as per tradition would divine through hieromancy.
He picked through the carcass of the Griffin, extracting various entrails and observing them, studying them, testing them.

The other Ashlanders watched intently before the Shaman rose and first declared the hunting grounds for the next trips before asking the chieftainess for a name.
Mabess, cross-armed looked over at the huntresses before declaring »Shirammor«.
»The village be blessed!« The shaman then declared before tossing the entrails into a sacrificial flame.

The orcs cheered.
 
Volker couldn’t abide waste. He did his best to recycle everything he made or used, and he watched the ritual with an odd sense of pragmatism. He frowned as they threw the entrails into the fire. Useless, and smoked horrifically. What could have been tubing, gut string, or rawhide was now just a charred mess in the fire. Things like hearts and lungs were edible, they were spilling blood on the ground, and were they just going to waste feathers?

It was like an itch in the back of his head. Waste. The name meant nothing to him. Apparently it meant the village was blessed, but he discarded useless tribalism. They’d thrown half a days meal into the fire. He sighed and shook his head, slowly easing himself up onto his feet. He needed to move, even though he was hobbling.

Mabess
 
Some of the bystanders by the tribe welcomed Volker in as he approached. Some hunk offered to help him stand if he would have struggled too much on his own.
While everyone was into merrymaking, a few descended upon the griffin to prepare it for mealtime.
Plucking, skinning, cutting, chopping... the meat was later handed off to the cooks who continued from thereon.
»I see unease on your face, « Mabess calmly spoke in her usual demeanour. She almost came out of nowhere to see eye to eye with Volker again.
 
Volker eyed the other man, but ultimately refused aid. He did want contact with other people. Appearing weak in front of a culture that obviously prided strength was not something he was likely to do. He stood quietly, shifting his weight and grabbing a nearby stick to lean on. He smelled Mabess before she approached, watching the process of cleaning the Griffin.

“Why the waste of throwing the offal into the fire? It is edible, or could be given to your cats.” He asked her, his eyes not moving from watching them. “I disagree with the killing of a Griffin, unless the bird initiated the attack. Griffins are intelligent creatures, not foolish boars.”

Mabess
 
The beefcake shrugged his shoulders before leaving, perhaps to help hack some hunch into delicate pieces ready for roasting.
Though, other Ashlander matters were at stake.

Archaic, distant, beyond comprehension.
Sometimes one had to sacrifice something of the present to bargain for a better future.

»A sacrifice is no waste; if this is beyond your comprehension I understand.« The She-orc tilted her head, raising a brow and smiling. »And a griffin is no different from a gnoll. Competition for prey and territory is natural, just and right in the eyes of the world-cycle and the sacred year.«
 
Volker could see the logic of killing the Griffin. When put in terms of prey competition, he could empathize. There was not enough game to go around here, and it was likely that the Griffin wouldn’t hesitate to pick off an orc or two if it became hungry. He nodded. “The sacrifice is useless. All you have done is burned entrails you could have used. Would your gods desire your wastefulness, or would they rather you use all of what they have seen fit to give you?” He asked her.

He watched them divvy up the carcass and shook his head. “There are better ways.” He said. “The old woman refuses to give back my knives. I do not like being parted from them. They were made from the bones of my mother, and they are key to what makes my family what they are. I would see them returned.”

Mabess
 
»It is how we, the stormcaller ashlanders do,« briefly commented mabess with her deep, yet still gentle voice before addressing the blades. It was no reason to blame the elder shaman now, was it?
»I am withholding them from you for now as a courtesy, and when you are able to trek the mountainside downward for your duty, they will be returned no sooner than then. You have my promise.«


»Now, hurry up, the meal is done,« the smell of bone broth already filled the tribe boundary. And meat was enough for everyone. Mabess herself preferred to pick off meat from between the spine joints.
 
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