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Post by talis on Dec 6, 2015 22:20:52 GMT
The door to the Chieftain's room creaked open, the old brass hinges protesting against the great weight of the door, as they always did. Outside, the rosy light that heralded sunrise was just beginning to stain the eastern sky. Yet still the light of campfires and mead halls refused to go out, and the sounds of song, cheer and lute flickered through the air with the dying flames: the last embers of a day's celebration, stubbornly refusing to be extinguished. Hortak Ironbelly plodded across the fine carpet, resting his candle on the bedside stand before letting out a sigh of exhaustion and contentment. Finally, after all the years of effort and war, after the long day of celebration praying in the Cathedral of Erasmus, parading through the streets of Thundercrown, reveling with his people and awarding the valorous, he had a moment of quiet to appreciate what had been done. Victory. Independence. Relief. They roiled and washed through Hortak as he sat on the rich chieftain's bed, rushing forth like the waters of the Ryn when he had opened Thunder Dam. Hortak smiled to think of what he had achieved, what his people had achieved. But just as quickly as these emotions came they were followed by another:
Trepidation.
Slowly, Hortak pulled back his sleeve. With one hand he unfurled the tight, white bandages wrapped around his forearm. The skin underneath was wrinkled and stained. Roughly, ugly blotches reached up to just under his elbow. Pressing his finger onto his arm, Hortak could feel the pressure on his muscles underneath, but not the touch of his own hand. The skin was senseless. dead. He reached out and grabbed a small bag that rested alongside his candle. Carefully, he removed a granular mixture of hers and chalk, meant to clean the arm and retard the spread, and rubbed it gently against his arm.
Should he retire? He wondered as he cleaned the marks and re-bandaged them. When the disease had first appeared he had been in the middle of a war; stepping down would have been disastrous for the clan. But now that they had victory he could easily step aside, let someone else rule during peacetime, perhaps retire to some hermitage or monastery in the mountains like Garlog. The precedent was there, many chiefs before him had done the same, when they felt their time was up. The Elders wouldn't like it though; they were already watching for new threats, and they didn't like to see former Chieftains hanging around. It wasn't good for the Clan's stability.
But it was not the Elder's disapproval that made him want to remain; it was a sense of incompleteness, of not being done. The war was over, yes, but Hortak was content to let it end there. What good am I, he wondered, if I can only lead during strife? I want to be known for what I will build, not just for what I have destroyed.
And there was much to do. The missions to the wastes had been cut short by war, now that work could begin anew. If there was one thing fifteen years of fighting the southerners had taught the Firetooth, it was that they had far more in common with their wastelander brethren than they had thought. Alliances could be forged there: the Stonefoot and Wolfwyrd could be befriended, the Ironskull taught the error of their ways, the Khagan invaders driven from the south. If the Firetooth did not wish to be surrounded by southerners they must make sure their kinsmen to the west were enlightened and united. That was a vision Hortak wasn't sure his successor would share. Not yet, at least.
"So much to do, so little time." He said to himself, pinning fresh bandages into place over his arm. Then he blew out his candle and went to bed. In the morning he would speak to the Chief Priest and the Elders. A new day was dawning.
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Post by talis on Dec 13, 2015 6:51:24 GMT
Duties of Kinship
Cathedral of Erasmus. Winter Solstice.
Light emanated from the long windows of the Cathedral of Erasmus in the early morning; a bright orange glow in the darkness before dawn. Thousands of Orcs crowded into the enormous cathedral, stragglers still climbing the high steps that lead into the majestic building. Each one carried with them some vessel to hold a flame: a lantern, a candle, a lamp, even a piece of cloth or a wooden stick. Despite the doors of the Cathedral being wide open to the frigid cold outside, the interior of the cathedral was pleasantly warm, thanks to the grand hearth that ran the length of the Cathedral's center, never ceasing to burn in the twenty or so years since it had been lit. Tens of thousands of Orcs crowded into the great hall. The Chief and the Elders had cleared a spot near the central dais where they stood, surrounded by their courtiers and retainers. Others stood where they could, even filling up the upper balcony. There was no seating here; every Orc was expected to stand. Chief Priest Dollan of the Northern Orcs entered from a reserved side door. As he stepped inside the reverberating conversations of thousands of mouths hushed. The crowd shuffled to make a lane for him. Smiling, the Chief Priest advanced. Behind him, two acolytes carried the holy books, gilded and bound in the finest casing, aloft. Dollan lead them forward. Mounting the steps of the great dais, he turned and received the tomes one at a time before lifting them and placing them on a solid oaken podium. Breathing in, Dollan looked around at the sea of Orcs, calming savoring the moment. Chief Hortak had done well, making sure that attendance was high. He could see some of the more obstinate elders finally attending. Up on the balcony, a wing had been cleared out and seats placed for the various delegations that were attending the service. Dollan could see representatives from several nearby nations and Crimson Robes of the Vaekirate's representatives. Even old Chief Priest Staas was there, a sure sign of Vaekirate support. Flipping open the Aedaknam, he read the words aloud in a stern, resounding voice. "And so Aed bestowed unto us three expectations; first among them, Duty, for unto Aed we must prove ourselves able-bodied and willing to serve our purpose divinely stated as He desired. 'Your brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters and so too many more will look to you for guidance and a strong hand,' spoke He unto us and so too do we speak unto our children as they shall unto theirs; it is a person's Duty to serve their people and do unto them honorable and respectable actions that grow pride in their hearts for their homeland.""So Speaks the Aedaknam, holy book of Aed. As we enter into this time of prayer and celebration, as we take the light of Aed's flame out into the bitter cold of the darkest winter, to drive away the darkness of ignorance, calamity and malice, let us remember these words." Dollan opened his arms, gesturing emphatically as he looked around the crowd. In his earlier days he had been a bard, before Aed had called him; he still knew how to entertain a crowd. "That Aed's light is to be spread not only to the faithful but to the heathens and the heretics. That it is our Duty and purpose to guide others into his embrace." He gestured to the hearth, burning and cracking on either side of his podium. "When you take these flames, do not covet them! Aed's warmth is to be spread to all corners of the earth, to drive away curses, false gods and spirits. "How is it, then, that our kinsmen still live in ignorance?" He asked almost reproachfully, as if the crowd was a small child who had been caught hoarding pastries. "Is it not our Duty as Firetooth to be a source of guidance and a strong hand? What guidance do we give, if we huddle around our flames and let our neighbors freeze in the burning-ice of ignorance's winter?" He paused, gauging the reaction he had evoked. "Yes, you know of what I speak: our neighbors and kin, the Orcs of the wasteland. Who will guide them on the right path, if we do not? The heretics of Elon, who reject the Vaekir? The Survaekom, who wish to take their lands and replace them with their own people? No! The people of the wastes are our responsibility, to teach or to abandon, under Aed ever-watching." "There are those of you here who would subjugate our kin..." Dollan spoke vaguely. He alluded to the Survaekom colonial policy, yes, but also to the more hawkish Firetooth who wished to conquer the waste. He needed to persuade them, as well as the isolationists. "...and bring them Aed's word at a gun's point. Do no such thing! For as Raegar the Prophet himself spoke: Through might of arms I shall break them; those heathens who refuse to see Aed's light. But for those who will listen I will speak, to those who will listen I shall share His wisdom. No conquest is worth the blood that is shed when Aed's word can be spread through that which it was first shared; words.
""And is there any doubt that our kin are ready to listen?" He stalked around the podium energetically. "The Stonefoot follow Aed! The other clans hunger to know our god! No! The time for war has not yet come: Aed's mighty blade is reserved for the unrepentant and stubborn, them we will conquer and bring to the light. But for those who will listen, it is our Duty to speak to them. To Take the Burning Fires of Aed's light into the darkness and share it, until the flames Spread from one side of the waste to the other, illuminating night's darkness in glorious light!" "I have brought low the Heathens to the North, West, and East as I have made bow those among the South who opposed me; not through weight of men nor sharpness of iron nor swiftness of horse have I done this. No, this great feet was done by Aed, His Light shines through me still, and He has shown me how Men will bow and kneel and bend before Him for all creatures were made by Him and thus all creatures will know Him when His light is shone upon them." He quoted the Raegarnam now eagerly, his voice rising in pitch as his sermon gained fervor. He could see the lights shining in the eyes of his listeners now, inspired by his words. "Here now, we have an Opportunity to bring Aed's light, as the prophet did before us. And that is why, as Chief Priest of the Northern Orcs, voice of Aed and the Vaekir, master of the Cathedral of Erasmus and Elder of the Firetooth, do upon my sacred authority call you to take on the Mission to the Wastes! I call upon all faithful, in the north and the south, to step forward as they are able and to assist in bringing light to the Wastes. And I especially call upon you, the Firetooth, to step forward and take up this holy mission! As you light your vessels and take them out into the cold-dark before dawn, remember your duty towards your kin in the west, take heart in Aed's purpose, and go!" He paused, letting the cheers subside. Then, nodding in reverence to Hortak and the Vaekirate delegation, he raised his hands and, in a rumbling classical survaekom, pronounced a blessing upon the entire attendance not just to drive away the spirits of darkness and disease that stalked the winter nights, but to do Aed's holy work by bringing those flames to those who would hear them."
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Post by talis on Dec 21, 2015 3:26:37 GMT
Goreknife Clan Camp, Wastelands The Goreknife camp was a large village of felt huts along the Ort river. Families huddled around burning fireplaces as the bitter winds of winter howled across the prairies, biting deep into exposed skin. The grey, overcast sky above was oppressive in its omnipresence, stretching across the enormous horizon and threatening frozen rain and sub-zero nights. Those who had to go out bundled up in thick layers of fur and wool that covered from head to fingertip to toe. Female orcs here wove thick coats, tanned leather and watched children while the males herded sheep, and tended to their wargs. The village stank with the smell of wolves and sheep. A horn bellowed from the plains, a herald of returning warriors and new visitors. A gaggle of bundled children ran out of the village to meet them, evading the admonishments of their mothers. The adults were more grim, and watched the newcomers with wary eyes; their guns and bows resting ready for use. Four figures rode into the camp: two warriors of the Clan, and two Firetooth. Where the Goretooth wore leather armor under wool cloth the Firetooth instead wore chainmail hauberks under dyed linen, the glint of metal peaking out from their thick sleeves and necklines. One wore a solid steel cuirass, and both had swords at their sides and rifles of fine craftsmanship, far exceedingly anything the Goretooth owned. Out in the wastes, the nomads acquired whatever steel weapons or guns they could buy or loot. Wargs they could breed to immense size and ferocity, and their bows of horn and sinew were deadly and expertly crafted, but when it came to weapons of metal Firetooth and Southern craftsmanship far outstripped their own. The two Firetooth dismounted from their wargs; the soft ground beneath their feet devouring the sound. They were just as wary as their kinfolk, and kept their eyes open. There was no outright hostility here, but neither was their trust. The two Firetooth took from the back of their warg a small chest and, following their guides, entered the largest of the felt tents. The howling of the cold wind outside could be heard all the more clearly inside the quiet of the felt tent. Thick rugs and carpets lay strewn about the floor, light filtering in from a small, open hole at the top of the tent. Several figures sat in a circle around the tent, resting on thick cushions. All except two, who had small, wooden stools. "Chief Furgol, Elder Gotal." The first Firetooth bowed to the waist towards the seated figures. "I am Regmer Wargchaser, and I speak for the Firetooth. We bring you greetings, and a token of our goodwill." He stepped aside, allowing the other Firetooth to step forward and place a small, wooden strongbox in front of the two figures. He opened the lock with a quick "snap" to reveal its contents: a small chest full of gold coins, atop of which lay an embroidered gold chain set with diamonds and a long, steel saber of excellent quality. The blade glimmered with reflected lamplight as Chief Furgol picked it up. He had a horrid, white scar across one side of his face, and despite the cold sat bare-chested on his seat. His beard was rough and tangled, and his skin a greenish grey. No doubt he was a veteran of many battles. Indeed, to be chief of a wastelander clan required great skill and prowess, to have anything less was to lose the respect of your warriors. By the way his men sat silently around him, this was assuredly not the case for Furgol. He handled the blade with experienced care, weighing it in his arm. Aside from being a fine blade, it was gilded with a golden back and handle, and a verse from the tale of Ort Goreknife, founder of the clan, was etched into the spine in orcish script. This was a gift that went beyond mere custom - the amount of gold and the value of the weapons amounted to a modest bribe. "Welcome to my hall. What brings you so far in bad weather?" The middle-aged chief grinned, placing the blade across his lap. The Firetooth relaxed as he spoke. His formal words of greeting were the assurance they needed: by custom they were now under the chief's protection as guests and travelers in his clan. "A common enemy and common ambition." Regmer replied. "Chief Hortak has declared that we will march on the Kazan as soon as the winter storms pass." "And you want the Goreknife to ride with you." Furgol observed, "Why should we involve ourselves in the Firetooth's quarrels? We have nothing to gain shedding our blood on your behalf." "No, you do not." Regmer admitted, "But you have plenty to gain shedding blood on your own behalf. After we crush the Kazan their lands and goods will be free for the taking. Fight will us, keep whatever loot or bounties you take, and when we have driven the humans from our lands, you may take some of their pastures for your own." Furgol brushed his beard with one hand, his eyes drilling into the Firetooth envoy with burning intensity. He had gone to war for less, and against enemies less hated than the Kazan invaders. During the 15 years' war they had dealt much damage to other clans, burning tents, raping women, killing wargs and stealing herds. To kill them, steal their herds and take their pasture was a tempting prospect. "Of course," Regmer continued, seeing that the chief was not ready to respond. "If you do not wish to join, I am sure that there will be other chiefs ready to win glory and wealth while you and yours tend your flocks in peace." "Hah! And if I wait until my enemies have spent their warriors fighting these foreigners, and then take their lands while they are weak?" "Then you may find that they have more gold and allies than you were expecting, and the bards will sing of your cowardice." Furgol growled at that. "I apologize, I stepped beyond my bounds." Regmer conceded smoothly, riling the chief's temper with implications of cowardice and repealing the insult in one smooth motion. "Allow me to express my regret." He removed a small bronze chain, conveniently stowed within his pocket with a dozen others, and presented it to the chief with a gentle bow. "Your proposal is intriguing." Furgol finally decided, accepting the chain. "I will discuss your words with the Elders and Shaman. If the gods favor us, we will ride with you against the Kazan. You are welcome to stay in my home for the time being, and depart when you will." "I am honored to accept your hospitality for the night, Chief." Regmer bowed, "May Glory find our Clans."
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Post by talis on Dec 24, 2015 3:08:54 GMT
A Song for the Wanderers
Redblade Clan, Wastelands Veikan strummed his lure gently, tuning the fine wooden instrument by the light of the great campfire. The winter air was cold - bitterly cold - but none seemed to pay it mind. A small crowd was beginning to form around him: first the children, then the young warriors, then some of the mothers and fathers. They crowded around the fire in reverent silence, taking whatever logs or blankets could be used for seats, or standing open-eyed at the edge of the flames. A couple of the young men added more logs to the fire. The flames flickered and rose, licking the cool air with tongues of burning heat as the new logs popped and crackled. Tendrils of light illuminated the darkness that waited at the edges of camp. Someone had produced a barrel of thick, honeyed mead and began passing it around. A young warrior handed Veikan his own mug - the bard accepted with a word of thanks. "Hm-Hm-Hmm" He hummed gently to himself, stroking his lyre. "The Redblade Clan... You fought in the great war, did you not?" "Aye, we were." One of the young warriors replied, "I was at the Battle of Two Fangs. Got this slicing up a Ranger." The warrior tapped his face, where a livid scar ran from cheekbone to below his ear. The wastelanders had a curious habit of marking wounds with chalk, so that the scars healed white and remained as livid indicators of their achievements. "Twin Fangs?" Veikan smiled, "That was a bloody battle. You must have known Orgoth, sometimes called the frothing?" A few assembled replied with variations of "I know him." "Excellent." Veikan took a sip of his mead and then began strumming his lyre, picking up the tempo considerably. "Then I shall tell you the tale of Orgoth the Frothing and the Kazan Chief Olag One-Eye." He took a moment's pause and then began to sing, his voice a deep, mellow tone that rose and fell as he told his story, strumming his lyre in accompaniment. "Listen now! I will tell you the tale of Orgoth the frothering, killer of men, and his hateful foe: Olag the One-eyed, chief of the Kazan!..." 
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Post by zurajai on Jan 5, 2016 0:55:58 GMT
"My Thane! Come quick!"
The guards a top of battlements all crowded and pointed towards the river, looking to each other only to comment on whatever it was they had spotted before turning their eyes back again. The Thane at command, Osgar Brokenback, hobbled over to the wall with his eternal scarred grimace looking out in a glare to see what the men were so excited about. His eyes went wide and his well-worn hand went to the handle of his horn, pulling it to his lips ready to blow. Moments passed as he stared out towards the west, heart pounding in his chest until at last he lowered the horn with a sigh of relief. At the head of a massive army marching out of the waists could be seen a great assortment of banners yet at the very front came the banner of Odoacer Ironspear, Chief of the Flintskull Clan and righteous convert to Aedak.
Behind Odoacer came the host of the Wasteland, a veritable throng of orcs that stretched far back with numerous banners spotted bobbing from within the ranks, flapping in the wasteland wind and each one proclaiming another Clan's membership in the oncoming army. These were, without a doubt, the orcs who had answered to call to strike down the Kazan and drive them out of Orcish lands. Though the twin books and dome of Aed could be seen emblazoned upon many of the banners of the army it was impossible not to spot the heathen idols of Orcish paganism borne aloft above the horde in small smatterings; it seems that the Firetooth had churned up more than just the Faithful for a war against the humans.
SUMMARY
-- The Firetooth's attempts to rally Orcish forces to expel the Kazan Khaganate succeeds with Odaocer Ironspear marching an army of orcs from many clans and many faiths to Thundercrown to aid in destroying the human invaders.
-- The Firetooth gain a temporary army of 12 Wasteland Warg Riders, 2 Pike, 2 Roundshier, 1 Longbow
Regiments. All units within this army receive a malus to cohesion when fighting together as disparate clans work less effectively with each other.
-- The Firetooth gain a temporary retinue in the form of Odoacer Ironspear (Warrior/General), a Wastelander Orc Chief and convert to Aedak.
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Post by talis on Jan 6, 2016 1:28:30 GMT
First Horde of the FiretoothOrcish Warcamp, southern Firetooth lands  The great camp sprawled out from the riverside in a jumbled mess of yurts and makeshift huts, illuminated by thousands of fires lit to ward off the cold and darkness as evening approached. The voices of carousing orcs, hungry wolves, zealous priests, busy smiths and the occasional brawl rolled across the plains, melding into a miasmic thrum before fading away into the open night. A swarm of vultures and other birds hovered over the camp, diving brazenly to snap up any food discarded or momentarily forgotten, poking through the large pit full of refuse that had been dug on one side. Thousands of wargs rested in pens around the camp, their eyes gleaming in the dark. Hundreds of different banners fluttered in the wind - each Clan had its own little enclave of huts, all facing one another to create some semblance of territory. Zwerkir Hazim had set up a large platform in the vaguely defined center of the camp where he tirelessly preached Aed's word to any Orc who would pass. The great camp was an excellent opportunity to spread Aed's word to the heathens. The warriors who converted here would take the words back to their clans and families, to spread it across the wastes. The Firetooth section was easy to recognize. It was as large as the rest of the camp put together, the red flame flag and dome-and-book of Aedak both flying proudly throughout. More importantly, there was a sense of order to the Firetooth sections missing from the rest of the camp. The Firetooth had kept the paths between clusters of tents clear and open so wanderers patrols could walk through the camp without weaving through a mess of fires and tent cables, and had cordoned off a portion of the camp to serve as a massive forge complex and armory. There hundreds of smiths, gunsmiths and armorers worked tirelessly around swiftly-constructed forges to repair and maintain equipment. The Thanes of the Clan patrolled the lanes and kept up a modicum of discipline. Behind the camp a large firing range had been set up, although that was abandoned in the late hours except for a few diligent souls. Outside the walls another camp had taken form, comprised of camp followers, prostitutes, merchants, doctors, children, peddlers and assorted hangers-on intent on profiting from the moving mass of Orcs. Many were wastelanders, especially the women, who were often wives and slaves, but just as many were opportunistic Firetooth who saw a chance to make fast gold trading for loot and pelts. This section of the camp had no sense of organization whatsoever - shivering slaves slept in the open winter air next to velvet merchant's tents, and peddler's carts sat next to hawker's disjointed piles. Hortak saw all of this from the stone bluff where he observed atop his warg. He heard the sounds, smelled the scents in the wind, and saw the fires, and it made him proud. "You know what this is?" his thane, Redblade, asked. "Yes, I know." Hortak replied, looking over the camps. "It's a horde." A horde. The great movement of Orcs that had threatened the Firetooth time and again. Their history was full ambitious orcish warlords gathering the clans to crush the Firetooth. Now, after nearly a millennium, it was the Firetooth's turn to lead such a movement. Hortak knew the risks, both politically and historically. The hordes of the past had been defeated by the Firetooth; they did not have a great track record. But those hordes had been transient, patchwork alliances knit together by strongmen for the sake of momentary plunder and glory. This time would be different. Hortak had the stable might and technology of the Firetooth backing up the unreliable wastelanders. "You will only get one chance." "I know that. If we can't win their confidence they will go elsewhere, like they did before." "Think you can do it?" "I think it's better to try than to go back and hide in our lands until another threat reaches us. Whether it's another horde or an Empire, something will show up. I'd rather have us being the ones marching and acting." It was better than rotting away to nothing, anyway. "True." "Right. Well enough of this, we'd better get down there. I don't like all those merchants gouging our new 'allies.' Tell Garoth to clear out the shady ones and 'remind' everyone else they're our guests. And hand out some of the stores; I want the wastelanders to remember us for our wealth and generosity." He grinned, letting the pride he felt morph into mirth and ambition. Whatever happened, in the moment he felt strong, daring. He was going to make his mark on history. "Now let's go. We've got several hundred Chiefs to serve at the biggest feast you'll ever see. I want to make sure Odoacer knows we've got his back, and that his clan isn't going to regret joining us."
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Post by aspenivan on Feb 29, 2016 2:40:52 GMT
A Short War and Long Negotiations
The Kazan War was not a long one, nor even a particularly bloody one. For all the Firetooth had built it up to be, few songs of note would be sung about the conflict. Nor would the expected gains come quickly. Having appealed to the Vaekirate for intervention, Islan Garuy Kazan retained control of much of his territory for months as delegates made the long voyage to Messara and back.
Finally, late in the Autumn of 842 YP, the Conclave's decision reached New Arkhaer. The former Kazan lands would fall under Firetooth jurisdiction, the Kazan would convert to Orthodox Aedak, and the Khanate would move to settle the borderlands between the Ikegami Clan and the Firetooth Clan. Islan Garuy Kazan would swear to recognize all Orcish claims in the Wastes, and to never again bear arms against the Firetooth or their allies. Yet, the Firetooth would bear the cost of resettling the Kazan cityfolk and villagers, a massive sum of thirty-thousand jiien, five tonnes of lumber, five tonnes of stone to be paid by the end of Spring. The Kazan would migrate starting with what was left of the Autumn, then over Spring and Summer, to avoid a dangerous Winter trek.
In the meantime, the Firetooth would be suzerains of New Arkhaer; the village of Vostoy would be transferred at the beginning of Spring. It was up to them to decide what to do with the city.
__________
-- Orcish alliance WINS the Orcish Invasion of Kazan: Kazan Khanate will leave, recognizes all Orcish claims, and swears non-aggression with the Firetooth and their allies
-- Firetooth Clan gains New Arkhaer (City), but with 1/2 tax income, Splendor gain, and Piety gain until Turn 6: Spring of 843 YP.
-- On Turn 6: Spring of 843 YP, Firetooth Clan will gain Vostoy (Game Village)
-- Firetooth Clan must pay 30 Gold, 5 Wood, and 5 Stone to the migrating Kazan Khanate over the course of Turns 4-6 (Autumn 842-Spring 843), before the beginning of Turn 7: Summer of 843 YP
-- All Kazan Khanate Nomadic Villages MOVE to plains in-between Firetooth Clan and Ikegami Clan borders
-- On Turn 7: Summer of 843 YP, the Kazan Khanate will have a new capital named New Arkhaer; the Firetooth may rename the current "New Arkhaer" as they like
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Post by talis on Feb 29, 2016 4:05:59 GMT
Hortak stood on the balcony of New Arkhaer's palace, many of the soldiers and clans who had helped claim this city arrayed in front of him. They were strong and healthy; confident at the easy storming of the city and the subsequent loot they had acquired. Much glory came through victory and crushing your foes, but glory gained through gold was just as sweet. Beside him were the other Chiefs who had lead this coalition: Odoacer Ironspear, who had gathered the horde which had proven so decisive in battle; Tahvo Warg-reared, the vicious Jaggedfist Chief; and Erog Stonefoot, of the faithful Stonefoot Clan. Hortak had invited them all to come stand with him and speak. The presentation of unity and coalition was important: this is what the Orcs could achieve together.
"Victory is ours!" He proclaimed, not for the first time. He had made such a proclamation after the Kazan sued for peace, to capitalize on the sense of elation over their conquest of the city. "The Vaekir has seen the justice of our cause, and the Kazan, the might of our arms. Judgement has been rendered, oaths taken. The Kazan chief has sworn to recognize our claims to this land, and to never bear arms against us again. He and his people will withdraw to the east, never to return."
"Now it is time to keep the oaths and promises made to all who partook in this conquest. Many of you have already taken much loot in your conquests; keep it, it is yours and your house's, to use as you wish. As for the lands and city, they now belong to the Ironspear Clan. Chief Odoacer may divide it up as he sees fit to those who have claim for contributing in the war. Many of you will be receiving land, gold, or both. The rest is for he and his Clan to rule. They will guard the south against threats like the Kazan into the future, and provide a bulwark for their allies. Let us appreciate the victory we have achieved here today: we have eliminated a threat against all our clans, and we have secured the wasteland for the Orcs. Let this be a message to all who would encroach upon our claims!" He paused, letting his words sink in before abruptly starting up again.
"BUT." He let the word ring out. "This is only the first step. There remains a threat, an enemy who covets our lands and goods, who would sweep us aside in the wake of their own ambition." Hortak knew that some of the clans here were pagan, and unlikely to sympathize with calls to assault the heretics. But they were, he also knew, small clans, and unlikely to relish the idea of being conquered and absorbed. "That enemy is the Ironskull. Once already they have attempted to conquer the wastes. Now it is time that we bring them a reckoning! Soon we will march forth and seize their land, and this time there will be no calls for intercession; the Ironskull will fall before us and their lands taken.
"Many of you have profited greatly already, or are tired from war. If you wish to rest and return to your new lands you are free to do this. But know that the Firetooth, the Stonefoot and the Jaggedfist will march against the Ironskull Clan. If my words have been true, if you seek further glory and profit, join us!"
((To Zatanna and the mods: Feel free to post if you want your chief to speak up as well))
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SUMMARY:
-- The Firetooth keep the Palace District, the village of Vostoy, and now-abandoned Southern Trade District of New Arkhaer.
-- Odoacer and the Ironspear Clan are granted the rest of New Arkhaer and the entirety of the Kazan's old lands, as well as 5 Gold. They will grant land and money to the minor clans who earned it through assistance, and keep the rest for themselves as a new major clan.
-- All combatants are allowed to keep any loot or slaves they took during the invasion (including the 5 gold from the destroyed iron village)
-- The Stonefoot receive 5 Gold as thanks for their part in the invasion
-- The Alliance marches against the Ironskull Clan. Minor Clans are invited to join in on the invasion if they wish for further loot and glory.
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Post by talis on May 7, 2016 5:02:31 GMT
The Value of an Education
The feast hall of the newly founded Dirgeheart College was hardly impressive, compared to the magnifascent Cathedral of Erasmus or the great longhouse where the Elders presided. But that was by design, for Dirgeheart college was not a single building, but a myriad complex of halls, training yards, stables and other facilities that dotted an entire district. The college, first of its kind in the Orclands, was one thing that the Elders and Hortak had agreed wholeheartedly on: a place of learning built on Orcish culture that could spread the Firetooth's influence throughout the Orclands. For that purpose the Great Houses had funded the construction of the college, granting control of the institution to a council of renowned Master Bards. The college would be open to Orcs from across the wasteland, regardless of Clan.
Now, after years of construction and preparation, the first students were ready to be admitted. Master Torig stood in the center of the hall, pacing around the fire. His students sat at tables which circled the floor, putting the aged bard squarely in the center of everyone's attention. He spoke in a practiced, Baritone voice
"Your presence here is no accident. Someone has seen potential in you and invested in your future so that you could be here. Some of you are here because your Houses believe that you have great potential." The Master's eyes crossed a line of front-row students, scions of the Great Houses. The Whiteshots, Aedswords, Ironbellies and Wargchasers, whose Elders had in large part funded the construction of the college they were now attending. With them were the children of many minor Houses, who had likely invested a great deal of their wealth to win a selection for one of their children.
"Others are here because you were chosen by one of the Masters, and are here under their sponsorship." He caught the eye of a couple older Orcs. Some of them had been apprentices in training before their masters had joined the college. Others had been selected for their skill and promise.
"Finally, some of you are here as guests, chosen to study and bring the knowledge you gain back to your own House and Clan." Some of the students shuffled. For the students from distant wasteland Clans the city of Thundercrown was unlike anything they had seen before.
"But whatever the reason, you are here now. You will have the opportunity to learn and improve. It will be difficult, but succeed and you will bring glory not only to your House but to this college as well."
"Before we begin there are some things you must understand. First: Dirgeheart College is administered by us Master Bards. You are to treat your masters with the utmost respect during your time here, as you would treat your own Elders. Each of you is assigned as apprentice to a specific Master who will be your sponsor while you are here. You will move on, or be expelled, at their recommendation. Therefore it is of the utmost importance that you listen to the wisdom of your sponsor and act appropriately.
"Second: The college currently hosts a number of Masters, primary of bardistry, but also of various crafts including armorsmithing and gunsmithing. In order to achieve the title of Master students must study to the satisfaction of their sponsor, at which point they will be brought before a board of Masters of the field. Although it is not possible to become a master of the martial arts, Chief Hortak and many Elders have expressed interest in recruiting proficient students as Retainers. All students will be taught essential skills including history, song, theology, marksmanship, riding, tactics, smithing and crafts."
"And finally, you are responsible for your own education and achievement. Your sponsor will guide you along the way, but it is up to you to show the commitment and skill to master the crafts that are being taught. Each Master has complete discretion about when a student has mastered a lesson. Learn, demonstrate your skill, and conduct yourself with honor, and you will return to your Houses with wisdom and distinction."
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The Firetooth Clan opens Dirgeheart College, the first Bardic-tradition college and the only formal center of education in the Wastelands.
Students from any Clan are permitted to enter the college, provided they can pay the entrance fees, or are sponsored by a Master.
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