John will eagerly join the war council. He will also invite Hob along.
“Wait here Kitz.” Arrow said as he started to follow the shaman and the others.
On the way to the war council, Hob has a moment of reflection. “Boy Hob, you sure you’re not in over your head this time?” As he thinks this, he loses focus and bumps his head into John’s back. Oh, right. You’re always in over your head. But seriously Hob, what are you doing here?
His mind daydreams about the events of the last few days. After having more fun than is healthy at the brothel, Hob felt himself in a state similar to many brothel patrons, he felt himself missing his wife. So, he decided to visit home for some rest and relaxation. Anticipating a home-cooked meal, a beer, and some familiar sex, life was good in Hob’s eyes. She may not have the looks of the girls at The Dragon’s Tail, but I have to admit I love the girl, he thought.
Mentally, his mind continues to go over the events of his return home. Opening his front door and holding a bouquet of flowers, Hob says cheerfully: “Hi honey, I’m home.”
There is no reply. That’s strange, thinks Hob. Maybe she isn’t home.
“Honeeeey? Are you–” CRASH! KASHATTER! His sentence is punctuated by the sound of a large ceramic pot shattering just over his head. “And where have you been, husband?” a voice says angrily from within.
“Now Samantha, I’ve been out earning us fabulous riches of course.”
“I KNOW where you WENT,” Samantha yells and whizzes another pot at Hob’s head. “But, where have you BEEN!” she continues to yell, her voice getting increasingly angry.
“Now honey, darling, calm down. I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you mean…” Hob says nervously.
“Oh no! You know what I mean! (KACHOW, there goes the china). Because I KNOW where YOU’VE… BEEN!” says Samantha slowly, her short and stout frame beginning to resemble more and more an overweight wolverine.
“Well honey, why are you asking then, haha, if you already know?” says Hob, stupidly. *Oh no, not the Wangxie vase! *he thinks between dodges.
“The WHOLE TOWN knows where YOUUUU’VE BEEN!” She says. “MISTER HERO, BACK FROM HIS GRAAAND ADVENTURE, DRINKING AND WHORING IT UP LIKE THE KING OF THE ASSHOLES.”
A small voice interrupts from the back room. “Mommy, what’s a whore?”
“NOT NOW HIB!” yells Samantha.
“Honey, honey… clearly this is all some sort of misunderstanding. I came to see you as soon as I got back,” Hob boldfacedly lies.
“LIAR! LIIAAARRRR!!! …AAAAAARRRGGHH” She cries, tugging her hair, before leaping at Hob in a frenzy. She chases him around the house, striking at him violently with a broom whenever she gets close.
“HELP! HELP! MAD WOMAN!!” yells Hob, followed by “Ow!” as Samantha nails him a good whack on the head. Continuing the chase, he runs into the far bedroom.
“Hi dad,” says Heb. “Hi son,” Hob replies cheerfully. “Boy, you sure have gro-ooown,” his voice wavers as he dodges an overhead broom smash and runs out of the room. “Be good to your mother,” he advises, before running through the front door and never looking back.
*Oh yeah. That’s why I’m here, * Hob thinks, and continues to follow John to the war council.
The woman leads Khan, Dur’dan, John, Hob and Arrow through the campsite until eventually reaching a large tent of fluttering red hide covered in painted depictions of battle. She pulls back the tarp and the group enters single file, Karikhan having to bend over as he goes.
It takes the humans’ eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness: Inside the tent there is a long circle of patted smooth dirt sectioned off by rings of undyed cloth. Sitting circled around this are five Shelic of varying age and equipment. The obvious head of the group is the sole member seated in a low chair, elevating him above the others. He is old, his head and jaw caked with white stubble, but still quite fit, brown arms layered with wiry muscle. About his neck is a necklace of yellowed and cracked fangs, which Karikhan immediately knows to be pulled from the mouths of orcs the man has killed. He is nude from the waist up and wearing a soft flax-linen sarong to cover his lower body.
To his left are a pair of much younger men, one of them obviously his son, who, while resembling his father, lacks a certain amount of his presence. And the other is a middle-aged man wrapped in supple leather armor. To his right are a pair of middle-aged men each wearing bulky and hooded (hoods lowered) abas, one with a long beard drained of color and the other clean-shaven with a head of dark brown hair. All five of the men have their weapons of choice laid out across their laps.
The head of the group delivers a curt nod to Khan and his guests and allows them to take seats around the circle at the center of the tent floor. Once gathered the party can more closely examine what has been set before them: Within the ring there are little mounds of pebbles here, a swirl of gravel there, a tiny crater of mud filled with a few precious ounces of water, and so on. Soon it becomes obvious to everyone- it’s a map.
The head explains the situation to Karikhan, who relays it back to the party. A day and a half ago scouts returned to the camp with news of a discovery: The site of a massacre nearly twenty miles north, still within the territory of the People of the Voice. The dead included about forty male Shelic and their mounts, though little else could be gleaned and the number of killed is likely to be higher as orcs and goblins tend to eat a fair number of those they kill. The greenskins who killed them, and it was greenskins, as evidenced by the two dozen goblin corpses (and a handful of slain orcs for good measure), had stripped the Shelic dead clean. Clothing, weapons, supplies, all swallowed by the horde. Why men of a neighboring tribe were entering Voice territory is unknown. But the greenskins encountered them and butchered them.
The horde has presumably been aware of the position of this last Voice camp for days if not weeks, but they show a patience unheard of in greenskins and their exact location is unknown. The People of the Voice could muster about a hundred and fifty warriors, most of them lightly armed and unarmored. They all possess mounts but are not all suited for mounted combat and operate more similarly, as John Fredrickson understands it, to the dragoons of his own peoples’ nobility: Men who use their enhanced mobility to position themselves favorably on the battlefield but actually fight on foot.
The head of the Shelic council gives Karikhan (and by extension, his guests) the floor for comment.
John waits for his lord to speak. Then he remembers: For once, HE is in charge! He grins as his eyes set with determination. No more will he have to wait for his superior, bumbling or otherwise, to speak his mind before putting forth his solution! John clears his throat, and begins:
“Gentlemen, in war, knowledge is power. We must know what we know! So, I ask: What DO we know? We have two main forces: The Shelic cavalry, and the Dwarves. Dur’dan, correct me if I am mistaken, but your men are heavily-armored infantry, correct? I propose a strategy: The hammer and anvil. The Dwarves, accompanied by my men, will find a defensible spot. We will fortify it as well as we possibly can, and lure the horde straight towards us. Meanwhile, the Shelic tribesmen will use their superior mobility to place themselves behind the attacking force. When we have engaged the horde, the Shelic shall charge from behind. Thus trapped, the monsters will flounder uselessly until all are killed!”
Karikhan says to everyone in the room, "We should investigate the massacre, to discover why a different tribe was here. Their task must have been important indeed, for so many warriors to be assigned to it. It will require a small group, for which I nominate the crew who investigated the delve; myself, Dur’dan, Hob, Arrow, and John.
Meanwhile, I will call upon the beasts of this land to track the horde. They can not hope to hide from us for long."
Karikhan is aware of his limitations for discussing strategy or tactics. He is not gifted for leadership, let alone organizing a war party. He will wisely remain silent while bigger minds than his decide how to lead the combined forces of dwarf and man.
Dur’dan is silent for a moment as his mind races for solutions. He has never been in a battle of this magnitude but basic rules still apply.
“Kahn I agree that if we must go investigate we should only take a small band but I’m not quite sure this is worthy of our time. If they had any important information on them it is probably lost, and if there were any survivors they would have arrived here by now. However if you want to go I will follow.”
He turns to John, “Your tactics are superb, however they will expect the shelic to be here, not us. If we show ourselves on the front line we lose the surprise. If the shelic hold the front lines while we flank it would be more devistating because they would not know we are here until we are already upon them. And this is only possible if we can find a location that allows us ample protection and the ability to hide our forces out of sight. If we cannot find such a location we will have to do this the hard way and out everything on the front lines. The Crookback would be an excellent vantage if they come through there. Put our archers on top and funnel in thier numbers like we did at the delve.”
Dur’dan stops for a moment to survey the room and see if the council agree with what he says and to allow anyone else with plans to speak.
The head of the war council looks at Hob and Arrow. When the decline to speak he looks to the other Shelic on the council. First his son speaks, his voice even and quiet. He stands and leans out over the map, gesturing to the expanse of emptiness east of the representation of the Voice camp. His father listens in silence, unmoving until the speech is finished, when he looks to the next of his advisors. The leathered, middle-aged man to the son’s left has a deep and harsh voice. His weapon is a spear similar to Karikhan’s and he gesticulates with it as he talks, eventually slamming the weapon into the pile of pebbles likely representing the Crookback. The head of the council looks to the two men on his right. They glance at each other, exchanging wordless looks before one of them leans in and whispers to the head.
The head turns his attention back to Karikhan. He speaks in his native language to the shaman.
Karikhan says to Dur’dan, “There are two lines of reasoning. One opinion is to lure the horde into the Burning Sea, where the Shelic are more maneuverable. Another opinion is to engage the horde in the Crookback, where the position is more defensible.”
“It is no coincidence that a large group of warriors comes here, right before our attack is planned. The Voice is speaking to us, but we cannot know what it is saying until we visit the massacre.”
Dur’dan nods his head. “If your instinct is telling you we need to check out that massacre then by all means let’s do it. I like the idea of fighting in the Crookback, where numbers don’t matter. We can even set traps like large boulders that we can drop on our enemies heads. As well as archer support. I have a small group with crossbows that will focus fire in the big targets with the priority being bringing down that giant. Secondary targets are leadership. Whether it be Orc or Goblin. Anything that seems to be giving direction is to die.”
Dur’dan finishes talking and waits for Kahn to either relay the message or rise to leave. He figures it would be wise to follow rather than lead as to not step on toes. He needs these allies for more than the Greenskin issue.
John will catch Dur’dan’s eyes and nod silently. He agrees that they who are guests should tread carefully. “If you say we should go and scout, than go and scout we shall.”
Karikhan will allow time for the others to make any closing statements.
After everyone is finished, Karikhan says, “Prepare to ride out in the morning. I have work to do tonight.”
He exits the tent, and walks to the horse he summoned back at the delve. “You have been a noble companion. Thank you for your service,” he says to the animal.
Khan will walk with the horse, out of sight of the camp. When he’s far enough away not to be disturbed, Karikhan will wait for a vulture or other bird to fly overhead, and command it to him. If Khan is successful, he’ll kill the bird, and cast Bind Beast on it.
Dur’dan nods and raises to leave. He will go and make camp, even though he will probably not sleep at all. In the time he is not sleeping he will be going over every scenario he can think of in his head. He will prepare himself mentally for the carnage that he is about to face. He will also take this time to sharpen his axe and his back up that also hangs from his belt. He will also inspect his bow and make sure his quiver is not hungry for more arrows. He must be ready for what is coming.
The first night at the camp of the People of the Voice is a cold one. The Burning Sea earns its name at midday but in the dead of night the temperature plummets. Karikhan rides into the darkness without a word and the Shelic know better than to follow. An hour later there is the scream of a horse and the lighting of a distant bonfire that burns throughout the night and morning.
The visiting Platinum folk recircle their wagons on the southern side of the lake on the edge of the Shelic camp. At the heart of the camp is the party. Dur’dan sits awake through the night, occasionally glancing up at an alien and obscured sound coming from the north. He shakes his head at the thought of the savage magic taking place and at length wonders what his ancestors would think of him. He runs his thumb along the edge of his axe, unflinching when it draws blood. A fine weapon, but it was crafted especially for him. The youngest of his brothers there were no ancient relics left to be passed to him. But he’s warlord now and it is in his hands that the fate of his clan rests: Perhaps at some point in the far future a descendant of his will be holding this axe and boasting its line of succession in the heat of some roaring fire at the heart of Nal Oddosk.
John Fredrickson sleeps easily. He is used to a life on the road with his previous masters and takes well to being on his own for once. It is the first night of many that he does not dream of trolls and of a beautiful blond knight, armor torn open like paper.
Arrow sleeps soundly, safe in knowing that no matter what danger, whether it be a sneaking goblin or a trampling giant, he is safe in the care of his lizardfolk friend. But he can’t help but think, moments before he slips into unconsciousness, that a true elf has no need for sleep, and it is a cold reminder of what he is.
Hob drinks himself into a stupor, overtaken by sleep and snores far too loud for his size.
The night passes…
In the early morning those sleeping are awoken by the shouting of men. Dur’dan, Hob, Arrow and John all sit up and look to the south, their sight blocked by a gathering crowd of armored dwarves, all chanting in their gruff language. The members of the party spring to their feet and push their way through the press of bodies to investigate. The crowd is formed in a circle around a twisted and long-dead willow, a rope tossed over its single, thick branch. A massive man has been kicked to his knees in the shadow of the tree, dwarves holding him down as one of their number prepares a loop at one end which is quickly pulled over his head and tightened around the neck. The man is pulled to his feet, where he towers above the dwarves around him, hands bound behind his back. He is a hideous specimen with mottled skin and thick, greasy hair, a pair of curled tusks betraying his orcish heritage. He is wearing a boiled leather vest and matching bracers, a fat splot of yellow paint on his chest marking him as a Yellow Sun.
“Stop!” He booms, voice deep and full of panic. “Stop! Let me go!” A trio of dwarves take up the other end of the rope and shoulder it back, dragging the half-orc back along the ground a few feet and lifting him from the ground where he swings from the tree by his neck, legs thrashing wildly.
Those dwarves and conscripted humans that have not yet joined in the whooping and cheering do so now, eager to see the monster killed. Kittix looks to the others in the party.
John will push through the crowd, drawing his sword as he does. He’ll chop through the rope with his sword, then stand over the half-blood to protect him. “Have you no shame?” he roars. “We call the Greenskins monsters–and rightfully so–because of their actions, not their blood. And yet, here we are, treating this man as we would expect them to treat us! I ask you, if we act this way, what makes us better than them? What sets us apart? What makes us deserve the victory we hope to win?” John stops to catch his breath. “We will ask him why he is here. If he came here with hostile intentions, I will gut him myself–as I would any other enemy, man or Orc. But if he came in peace, we will treat him better than the Horde would treat one of us!”
His speech over, John will point his sword at the half-orc. “What are your intentions?” he’ll say simply.
The dwarves immediately go silent when the human cuts the half-orc free, some of them readying weapons as whispers and mutters spread throughout the crowd. Shouts call out, in both dwarven and Arcadian, “Traitor!” “Orc-lover!” The longbeards among them are more composed but make no move to silence their men, instead looking to Dur’dan for guidance.
One of the dwarves standing over the gasping halfbreed, a redheaded young pup (by dwarven standards, anyway) draped in chainmail, brandishes a short sword at John. “What are you doing, human? Do you know what this thing is?”
A handful of John’s conscripts snap out of their daze and push through the crowd to somewhat reluctantly stand at their commander’s side, all facing the half dozen or so dwarves that begin to encircle the panting Yellow Sun.
“Goro, Trimere!” Arrow yelled as he rush past the crowd.
Arrow will draw his bow and stand between Tusk and the mob.
“Dur’dan get your men under control!” Arrow yells towards the dwarf
“Tusk are you alright?” Arrow said without looking away or lowering his bow from the mob.
John will reply to the dwarf in the dwarf’s native tongue and an angry yet controlled voice, “A person, just like you or I, but with the misfortune to be sired by an Orc.” He raises his voice now, speaking in his own tongue now: “How many of you have been hampered by your birth? Perhaps you were born to a peasant instead of a noble. Perhaps you were sired by a short, ugly man, and inherited his luck with women. Or perhaps your father was a traitor, a criminal, or a gambler. I ask you, are you less of a human, or less of a dwarf, because your father’s father’s father did not own land? No! We judge dwarf, man, or elf by his actions! And we look down on those who judge by birth, do we not? Do the bards not tell tales of heroes of common birth who slew a dragon or saved a kingdom? Do heralds not sing of peasants-turned-knights who lead an army or marry a princess? I ask you this: Why should we judge man, dwarf, or elf in one way, and orc in another?”
Dur’dan steps forward, annoyed. And bellows at the top of his lungs, spraying the unfortunate few that are in front of him with spit,
“I gave no such order for this madness, for you to string up an ally by his neck! I want the Dwarves responsible for this to step forward immediately! The rest of you get out of my sight and prepare for the REAL enemy!”
When those responsible come forward Dur’dan will make them apologize for their insubordination and to the half-orc they nearly killed. He will then speak to them in hopes of not diminishing their morale.
“I know you see him as an enemy but I assure you he is not, when they enemy presents itself you will know and this Yellow Sun will have your back in battle. We need all the allies we can get if we want to survive this war and the next and you are not doing us any favors by attacking our allies. Do NOT disappoint me again or so help me it will be you hanging from the trees.”
Dur’dan will go to the half-orc and shake his hand,
“Please forgive my men, they are fine warriors but they sometimes are blinded by hatred, it’s what drives them to survive.”
He looks to his companions and motions for them to put away their weapons. Dur’dan is weary with his burden but it is his to carry. He cannot control his people in camp, how the hell will he do it in battle. He removes his helm and runs his hand through his hair. He will also address his meager army with the same message he delivered to the others. Telling them to be ready, and to treat their allies with the respect they would show a fellow Dwarf.
The young Dwarf that pulled his sword on John will get special attention in the form of a boot in the back. He will then pull the Dwarf in close, real close, speaking in Dwarven, as to set an example.
This man is my friend. We have fought side by side and he has had my back through it all. You ever draw on him again and I will cut you down myself. Now get out of my sight.