The Barbarians of the High Moor RP Thread

[Maverick 40]

((This thread is meant to be an entirely IC thread involving the Tribes of the High Moor and your individual characters. Please, all are welcome to post their characters plight of survival in this hard wilderness))

The plight of your people is upon you. You are the Champion, the Skald, the Shaman that your people now look to for defense. You are one of the barbarian tribesmen from High Moor and you do not shy from combat, you rush forth to take what is yours by force and subdue that which dares to threaten you, but what now lies before your tribe is unlike anything you seen before.

You hear the Skald of your tribe tell his Cheiftain the on goings of the the other more southern tribes:

"A report by some of the tribes scouts, another large and even more vicious tribe is moving up slowly from the south killing Bugbear and hobgoblin where they found them. Some of the tribes have decided to begin uprooting, heading northwest toward the mysterious forests that border our moor and taking up our ancestors call to forage forth and claim better lands. Some of their scouts entered that forest, they have yet to return and so those tribes have begun to form tented camps upon the outskirts, nervously awaiting the return of their scouts.

The other tribes whom remained behind to defend their hard earned lands have now begun to be seen moving as well and the tales of their battles with this new tribe from the south, seem terrible and disastrous. The families whom now come to the tented village have brought with them a panic which needs be dealt with.

They have put forth a call to arms, to unite our peoples Chieftain and they ask for our Berserkers and Skalds to cry our great war cry! What would you have me tell them?"

[Maverick 40]

The barbarians moved into the valley between clearing and the hobgoblin Village. The fifty warriors they brought that day looked around at the still and quiet of the morning and knew then that something was wrong. No wildlife was about, except for the forever challenging flies whom now seemed in great abundance. The warriors could smell the cooking of rank meat and steam as it blew in from the west at the sight of the Hobgoblin Village, but their scouts and shaman were not about.

The barbarians and berserkers looked to their Chieftain who stood within the center of their line with his great spear and shield ever at the ready. A bronze jeweled crown sat upon his head, as long blond locks of hair fell down upon his hide armor. The chieftain of Thunderclap had come prepared for war but his crystal blue eyes looked about for a foe he had been told would be here, but whom he could not see.
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Too long had his rivals, the Foesplitters, held sway over this land. They would be shown the righteous way, the way of the true god whom reigned terrible vengeance from the sky. It would be he, through the great power of his god, that would show his people who truly was meant to reign supreme. The chieftain looked up into the grey sky and a calm over came him, his god would be with him this day. He felt victory within his grasp.

It was then that the powerful chieftain looked back toward the rocky pass of the east and saw the doom-bringers, the Blackfeather clerics watching on from above and grinning. The Chieftain spat upon the ground, looking up in defiance but he then noticed that the doom-bringers were not watching he and his warriors but alas were looking past them to the ridge beyond. It was there when the Chieftain looked that he first saw the harbinger of his doom.

There stood the black beasts holding their spears, sharp white teeth could be seen snarling behind black helmets. If this was not unsettling enough, upon the beasts two spear points held the heads of hobgoblin shamans, a look of shear terror seemingly upon their shriveled dead features. The chieftain took one step back and then felt the prying eyes of his men. He knew that these men looked to him for courage and morale and so he raised his chin higher, calling forth in his own tongue, "Beasts, what space you claim here will be your own grave site, turn back or face us in combat!!!"

Then the valley seemed to come alive with shrieks and sounds that none had heard previously. Drums soon began to beat and the chieftain then knew why there were no goblin shaman about, for their killers soon rose the ridge to join their sentries. They rose in the hundreds, surrounding the band of barbarians on all sides but the rocky pass behind them. Then rhythmic cry began to ring out from amongst the beasts, shrill and unyielding. The barbarians on the end of the line began to fall back but the chieftain cried out, "Destruction comes the father of the skies!" and struck his spear within the earth, with it a great crack of thunder rang over head.

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The barbarians moved into a circle of shields and spears that any wise creature would see as death but these black beasts did not see what others saw. They had been hungry for so long, they did not know the taste of food. Here these fool things were, seeking to thwart them from their next meal. They would not allow that to happen!--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Chieftain had been in many battles before and knew the most terrifying look of all was that of desperation upon an enemies eyes. That was how these beasts were looking down upon him. It did not matter, his god was with him he thought as he picked up his spear and beginning to clap it upon his shield to his own rhythmic pace. His men followed suit and soon the whole valley rang of shield and drum, beastly howls and cries of defiance.

The chieftain did not know which of his men it was until after he called out his Blood Rage, and charged forth. The nearly naked giant warrior charged with his shield and spear across the field and up the ridge-line. Then the blacks charged down upon him and the rest of the valley like a rushing dark flood. As his warrior's rank tightened, the chieftain lost sight and could not see what happened to his man. Rage boiling up within him, he cried out to his god while stomping his foot upon the ground. A great lightening bolt crackled down from the sky to light his spear.

"Let them come, let them die!!!", the Chieftain cried out in defiance and his men took heart, each man gritting his teeth and tensing his muscle. What came down upon them now, snarling black beast, ragged blade, claw and spear would have broken any lesser man but this was the proud Thunderclap tribe whom broke for no one. They stood their ground and as the first of the beasts entered into charge, some of the barbarians charged out to meet them, the rest of the shield wall sliding into place to close the gap.
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The great crash of these terribly swift creatures upon the shield wall sounded like a giant wave breaking upon a rocky cliff, and the barbarians shifted back as their feet gave way to the force. They quickly recovered though, stiffening against the pull of the tide, and so began the great struggle. The Doombringers continued to smile down from atop their perch in the rocky crags. Their once fellow tribesmen were now in a desperate struggle and it would finally be their god that would free them, as they had prophesied. The day of their deliverance from the shackles of their own people were at hand.

They watched as the black wave poured through the shields like water to take the Chieftain of the great Thunderclap Clan. He did not go without a great struggle, as he called down a great storm from the sky in defiance, that rang down on his own people as well as the beasts. Man and beast alike who were struck by the great conflagration, lie in smoking ruin, but alas there were many more beasts than men and the Chieftain was soon over taken. The beasts did not kill him though, instead holding him pinned upon the ground.

The Head Priest of the Blackfeather tribe then nodded in grim satisfaction for he knew what was to happen next. The black sea began to part below them as a large and terrible looking Shaman came forth. The being wore a large skull, perhaps of a manticore of a helm, a jagged tooth necklace hung about it's neck and large spear it carried for a walking staff. When it approached the Thunderclap Chieftain, the shaman took his captured spear within its hands studying it as he began a long and deliberate enchantment. A mist began to swirl around the beastly shaman as it raised this spear high into the air. Then, suddenly and with a great violent force it drove the butt end of the spear down upon the Chieftain's chest.

A great crack of thunder could be heard overhead as the Doombringers looked down in awe of this spectacle. The once great Chieftain of the Thunderclap clan now lie a shriveled up corpse, the likes of which men whom had been dead for decades might look in their graves. The Beastly Shaman seemed to grow in size, it's muscles rippling in a manner that could been seen from hundreds of yards away.

Then the Blackfeather clerics' smiles ran from their faces as the Shaman looked up upon the crags for which they stood. These beings steal souls from the Dead God, they thought although truly within the back of their minds they feared loosing their own souls to this beast. They now looked down upon the carnage with dismay, looking to one another with mutual confusion. It was now clear that what lie before them was far greater than any one tribe. They could not rejoice in their breathren's death as they watched the beasts hack the bodies of the dead apart.

It was as then the thought, The battlesong were right, came into their minds as they saw the black beast flood rushing up the pass. They knew having watched the flood of these beasts upon their brethren, that despite their barbarian swiftness, they could not outrun this threat. As they all began to look frantically at one another, the head priest stepped forward and began a chant. Suppressing their rising alarm, each Blackfeather looked from one to the next and began to circle around their master, just as the Thunderclap had around theirs.

Suddenly, the un-molested bodies below began to come to life, reaching up to mindlessly claw at the life before them. The Black flood suddenly stopped and turned to finish this new threat. The Doombringer Priest took one last look down and there caught the one eye of the Giant Shaman who had already moved half way up the pass. As the being's grotesque kin ran by, it simply continued to stare back up as if it wished to express This is unfinished business. Urgently, the Doombringer turned and began to retreat, his priestly order in tow, save that all of them loose their souls this day.

They ran, for a full day and near into night before they were found by their kin whom they once had forsaken. They unwillingly found that which is greater than any earthly fear, that of their soul's utter and complete obliteration. They knew now, that the only hope they might have lie with their weaker kin and so they labored, in great despair...........

[Maverick 40]

A teenage girl sat upon a once great cobblestone road of the High Moor, now reduced to not but dirt upon its surface and mud upon its shoulders. The men's plaid woolen trousers walked by and she seemed not to care, for she wailed tears of pure agony, grasping a letter within her hand.........

"Dear Hilga,

I rejoice to hear that your people have now moved to return to our ancestor's home in the north. I however, can not make such a move from a land that offers me such promise. I must decline your offer to proceed with you. Please, do not take this as rejection, for I do love you in so many ways that our people do not understand. Still, while we have found each other as such kindred spirits of art and literature, I fear that to move north, would only subject me to further the limitations that our people place upon us.

We shall always have that which is truly important, the full moon's fever of partnership and one in being. There can be no greater bond, no matter the sense of distance. Our time learning under the Bard's of Ole will not be forgotten by me and it will be with pleasure that I look back upon our kindred spirits in union to smile. May your people's god smile upon you, as Milil does ours.

I know that you say the men of your tribe are boorish, but in time, I am sure you will grow to love one of them. Because, if not, then what is this life really for anyways?

Your muse,

Aelfric Battlesong"

.........Hilga kept crying with her head held within her hands. She cried until a giant of a man, wearing thick hide armor and a two handed axe strapped upon his back, came to scoop her up within his arms. As he did so, the letter fell into the mud and the teenage girl began to cry out, "STOP, NOOO!!!!", but the large barbarian didn't stop, he trudged down the road as Hilga screamed out.

Her people were returning from which they came, and the promise that had been offered to Hilga was being torn from her heart. She wouldn't stop twisting and flailing about as the barbarian carried her, his strong, confident stride marching single-mindedly towards their home. "Why won't you STOP?" she wailed. But it made no difference, the barbarian soldiered on with little concern or recognition of her suffering. Eventually, her body and soul completely drained and every last drop of energy being used up by her anguish, she gave way to a deep slumber. When she awoke she was lying within the cold, desolate camp that Hilga had grown up in. It took her a minute, as she woke in a frantic manner, to realize exactly where she had come from and when she did her inner being had felt as if it had been obliterated.

She curled up within the bear fur blanket, her knees tucked within her arms as a terrible retching cry went out that could be heard for many a tent. She lie there, alone and crying for some time to come, and no one came to see her pain. The pain of one sent to realize a world, a world of which she could never be a part.............

[Caleb]

// Reserved for Deacon

[Maverick 40]

The tribes that are left now build large segregated camps within the sanctuary of the Northwest High Moor. The Tribes Chieftains conduct informal meetings where shouting and chest beating could be heard through the large tent. The tribal warriors, shamans and priests all warily watch each other, sharpening their blades and grasping their amulets. While the women, children and elderly of the once proud Thunderclap tribe have come, there is still no word if there were any survivors of the disastrous battle that took their chieftain.

The people nervously await word, while the food and water grows scarce. Fights begin to break out amongst several tribal warriors, with some taking advantage of the Thunderclap's happenstance, laying claim to several of the new widows. Seeing this looming danger, the remaining Chieftains have called forth a meeting of their greatest Warriors, Shamans and Clerics.

((Meeting this Sat. 26th 1pm EST, or 6pm GMT)

[DMogorgon]

(((It has been pointed out that there is lore depicting the High Moor as a dangerous and uninhabited region.

There is other lore (FRwiki) - in the "Misty Forest" entry - where it says that there are occasional incursions into the forest by Barbarians from the high Moore. The wiki is version 4.0, and it may be a lore inconsistency, but this was the basis of my introducing this barbarian arc.

There are additional sources listing it both uninhabited, and with sparse goat herding barbarian tribes.

In order to square these inconsistencies let us assume the following.


1. The high Moore are large enough to where a few small barb tribes migrating through is plausible, and could have been missed by chroniclers.

2. Given their small numbers, and how dangerous this region is, it would be safe to assume that these barbarians keep a very low profile to avoid being picked off by hobgobs or eaten by trolls. They are more the barbarians who skulk in the crags and canyons amid the mist of the rockier regions, staying out of sight until they pounce on their prey or enemy, rather than the kind that ride down the plains beating their chests and shouting challenges into the wind.

Adjust RP accordingly and all should be fine.)))).

[Maverick 40]

Their long road traveled, the Barbarians returned home having failed their mission. They told stories of the giant walled village, their terrible tricksters and how they tried to fool their party into submitting their proud barbarian locks of hair. While the barbarians were triumphant in destroying this great ruse before anymore of their kin could be accosted, they were bested within the dirty streets by the iron bound men of the Flamist Fist.

The ordeal had left them caged and just when they thought to be put to death, they were thrown forth from the walls and told not to return without the honor of a match to the death. This great insult would be avenged one day and while the barbarians still breathed, they would remember all the riches and gold to be had there.

Still, they returned with no arms for their people to fight with and no provisions for the hungry. They must hope now that the scouts of the Grayfox make haste and will return with good word from the Misty Forest.......

[Storm Munin]

The raven cawed as it noted the frozen carcass in the soggy snows.
As it ended its flight to sit down on a nearby pine branch to await the arrival of its kin it kept its eyes firmly on the lucius food source littering the bloodspattered ground beneath its crook.

Suddenly the bitter cold morning mists surrounding the glen parted as a female figure slowly but purposefully strode from the swirling mists covering the surrounding patches of pines. The tall figure stopped in front of the fallen one to watch it for a moment, then she lowered the handaxes in her tattoed hands.
As the first sunbeams touched the snows and golden hair she gazed up at the raven revealing more tribal tattoes covering her cheeks below the smudged painted line running horizontally across her emerald eyes.

No one steals from the kin and live, kin of the Snowraven. This one I leave for the murder to feast upon.

The young woman named Lida grunted as she stuck the axes into her belt before lowering down to pick up the full pack left at the fallens side.

The raven cawed again as she left the scene.

[Maverick 40]

They walked through the town astounded not as they were by the the large walled village but by the weakness these people betrayed. "How could they live so well and be so weak", they kept thinking. They saw the walled hut where men came from, mugs of ale within their hands. The barbarians mouths ran dry and a contempt began to run their thoughts.

Their people had always struggled for survival out in the cold hard wilderness, it is what made them the strong but here these sheep were getting fat, with no one to challenge them. The barbarians inner rage grew but this time they were more cunning. They had learned from their time in the walled city, to save ones rage for the right time and not without the numbers of your tribe to call out with you!

Chickens ran and dogs chased but these people did not pay any mind. The Winterfang Priestess and Foeclever warrior turned to look at each other with a telling glance. Only the Battlesong Skald still looked on in wonder, while her two tribal companions looked on with hunger. Hunger for arms, for battle, for drink and for power.

Barbarians have a strange knack for survival and they soon found a pass leading up the cliffs to a plateau over looking the ill-defensed village. It seemed the village cared more to protect itself from the sea, how strange this seemed to the Barbarians. Now walls this time, no iron men in numbers. The Winterfang and Foeclever looked to each other and smiled.

Their people's strength was themselves, but their wooden shields and spears betrayed them against the Dark Tribe. Here these people stood, sheep with iron weapons but not for long......

[Amaer]

((sorry I couldn't make it. 1am GMT is a bit difficult for me midweek.))

The ancient Blackfeather crone hunched over her campfire, rheumy eyes watering from the smoke. All she could do was await the return of the last scouting party and anticipate her final journey to Myrkul's side. Surely it would not be long, now...

[Maverick 40]

The tribal clerics, skalds and warriors sent to retrieve supplies and weapons from the "written people" have now come to a great impasse. As now the Grayfox and Battlesong wish parley, the Winterfang and Blackfeather wish pillage and take. Only the stoic and chiefly bound warriors sent by the Foecleavers seem not to presume a response laid before them. The proud priestess of Auril and one such warrior even coming to blows over such distinctions.

It seems the tribes are in greater threat of falling apart and moving separates toward their own destinies, as the blood spilled by this endeavor has sent a unbeknownst consequence forth, to decide the balance of power. These tribal representatives return and begin to make their preparations when the Chieftain of the Foecleavers calls forth a meeting of the tribes. It seems he now calls upon the tribal right of "The Pit", to once and for all settle this matter between the two rival factions.

Just as this this order is received by the Battlesong Tribe within their South Eastern camp, a horn of alarm. As the tribes people step forth from their huts and tents, it can be seen up along the rocky ridge above, the "Dark Tribe" has arrived. The people do not think, they grab what they can and they run............

[Amaer]

At the camp of the Foecleaver tribe, a circle of sharpened stakes had been driven into the ground, surrounding a crude shallow-sided pit that had been dug from the damp earth.

Here, the challengers of the tribes were to meet and decide through force what could not be agreed through diplomacy.

In the Blackfeather tent, a wizened ancient crone hunched bent over a hissing cauldron. She carefully placed crushed bloodroot and whinnis mould into the boiling mixture, acrid smoke issuing forth and making Vardha Blackfeather cough violently.

"The mixture is ready, young Xaros..." she croaked. Two other figures stood in the gloom, one tall and armoured, the other a fair young woman with brilliant white hair. The young woman nodded to the warrior, who stepped forward, offering his cruel curved sword to the old witch.

Muttering words in some abyssal language, the crone plunged the blade into the vile concoction, which churned and boiled all the more violently. As she held the sword aloft again, it momentarily flared with a putrid green incandescence, before fading back to dull gray metal.

"We should test it. Fortunately, I have prepared a subject," muttered the old Blackfeather, roughly dragging a drugged and bound wolf from the shadows and laying it at the warrior's feet. "A gentle cut will suffice."

Xaros Blackfeather took his blade and dragged it across the wolf's hide, splitting its skin. Blood poured from the wound, congealing and turning black as it hit the air. The wolf's shudders swiftly stopped as it quickly died.

The ancient crone could barely contain her pleasure, "A success, I think. As long as the other tribes do not suspect foul play, we are sure to triumph. You must tell your father nothing, young Winterfang..."

The Winterfang priestess tightened her lips and nodded grimly, before stepping wordlessly into the cold night air.

Vardha turned to the Blackfeather tribe's champion. "You face the champion of the Battlesong. They will not be an easy foe, despite my magical assistance. Do not fail us."

((to be continued))

((DMorgogon/Mav40: if this deviates from what you agreed, please let me know and I'll amend it))

[Amaer]

The hour of the Pit Battle came at last. Dark storm clouds gathered over the High Moor and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. The fate of Ulgoth's Beard would be settled that night.

The Greyfox and Battlesong tribes had selected their champion, a tall and handsome blonde-haired warrior from the Battlesong chieftain's own honour guard. In either hand, he wielded an ornate axe, and his movement was swift and agile as a forest cat. If he triumphed, Ulgoth's Beard would be safe and the tribes would look elsewhere for resources to battle the Dark Tribe.

Facing him was the Blackfeather champion Xaros, a tall, bearded warrior in spiked plate, bearing a viciously curved sword and a tall shield hewn from the scales of some great beast. His victory would sanction the Winterfang and Blackfeather plan to raid Ulgoth's Beard, taking the supplies of the City Tribe to use against their inhuman foes.

As the hosts, the Foecleaver first put on a show of their own martial skill, with various tribal champions facing each other in non-lethal shows of strength and prowess. Torus, Holden and Thorgrim Foecleaver emerged as the heroes of these combats, with Thorgrim having to be pulled away to prevent him from slaying his opponent in battle-fury.

The hour of reckoning came, and the champions of the Battlesong and Blackfeather circled each other, their weapons drawn. The Battlesong champion issued a mocking challenge, trying to throw the Blackfeather off guard, but he remained silent, moving slowly in his heavy armour.

Fast as a viper, the Battlesong hero flung himself through the air, bringing his axes down in wicked unison. Xaros Blackfeather managed to place his great shield in the way at the last moment, barely deflecting the attack. His counter attack was violent, his blade just missing the lightly-armored Battlesong warrior.

The Battlesong laughed out "Your armour makes you too slow!" as he attempted to dance around the great shield to make another strike, but Xaros lashed out with the shield itself, sending the warrior sprawling. Taking his moment, the Blackfeather swung his blade again. This time, it did not miss, but the Battlesong warrior still managed a dodge, leaving him with nothing but a shallow cut across his chest.

He prepared to counterattack, only to realise that his "minor" wound had already started to spew forth great gouts of blackening blood. His face was a mask of horror - it appeared that the minor nick had somehow become a mortal wound. Xaros Blackfeather smirked as he pushed his foe into the mud.

Hilga Winterfang was the first of the tribal priests to reach the fallen Battlesong. "He is already dead" she announced, barely able to hide the triumph in her voice.

The Foecleaver chieftain acknowledged the victor. "Xaros of the Blackfeather. It seems you will have the honour of leading our assault on the village of the written people. Let them pray that their deaths are swift and honourable."

((to be continued, and sorry about the cheesy, predictable choice of video!))

[Amaer]

((I've moved the action to the clifftop as it seems like a better direction for the tribes to have come from, rather than marching through the Farmlands and along the Chionthar))



The war-host of the High Moor gathered on the cliffs above Ulgoth's Beard.

The Aurilite priestess Hilga Winterfang addressed the warriors, and was about to outline the battle plans when a young skald ran up from the woods. It was Nerys Battlesong.

She demanded an audience with the leaders of the attack and pushed her way through to the Winterfang position.

She told how she had returned to the Battlesong's last encampment to find them missing. Tracking her kin into the woods, she found signs of battle, but no bodies. Eventually she came upon a ridge, overlooking a valley where her tribe had prepared to make their last stand. Through the mist, she could make out terrible dark humanoid shapes on the opposing ridge - an army of hundreds.

With the howl of unholy war horns, the horde spilled down the mountainside and onto the Battlesong. They were doomed. One woman against the horde, Nerys had instead withdrawn to find reinforcements and now found herself here.

Hilga Winterfang expressed her frustration at Nerys' inability to tell them more about the Dark Tribe or their motives, and instead deemed that they continue the original plan to assault Ulgoth's Beard.

The warhost would wait until dusk, when the men of Ulgoth's Beard retired to the taverns to drink themselves into a stupor. At this point, Nerys and a small Battlesong complement would peacefully move to the lighthouse, then quench the fire lighting the Sword Coast below. Torus Foecleaver, one of the heroes of the pit fights, would accompany them.

At this signal, the Aurilite priestesses of the Winterfang led by Hilga would summon a freezing blizzard upon the village, scattering any remaining defenders and driving them into cover.

Nerys Battlesong expressed distaste at this plan, preferring a less violent approach, but the sly diplomacy of Vardha Blackfeather convinced her it was the better way.

Once the worst of the blizzard had subdued any opposition, Xaros Blackfeather will lead the Foecleaver warriors into the town for pillage. Vardha Blackfeather would follow them with the shamans to provide support and healing.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, bathing the coastal town in an amber glow as it sank into Umberlee's depths...



Nerys Battlesong tricked her way to the top of the lighthouse, spinning a tale of wanting to watch the sunset while her tribesmen waited below.

The rest of the warriors gathered in the woods, awaiting the signal.

Soon, Ulgoth's Beard would know their wrath...

[Maverick 40]

They strolled grinning through deep fog, naught but a few feet could be seen before their faces but they heard the sounds of surprise and chaos about them. They had not known what to expect from these weak people but what they came to find was nearly laughable.

The one town's watchman had found them first upon the cliff tops before the Battlesong could perform her task. He was cut down customarily by the combined might of the Blackfeather and Foecleaver champions while the priestess of Winterfang had called for a zone of silence. She laughed while she thought she saw the watchman mouth the words, "I don't even know how to use this....", while he threw his spear to the ground.

The town went on oblivious to the coming chaos, as the rest of the Aurilite Priestess joined in a chant. A cold fog began to envelope the town, rain turned to sleet and snow while the villagers moved quickly for the protection of the town's buildings. Then, the Battlesong's mission was done, the signal fire went out for the ships within the harbor and the signal for battle went up for the Barbarians. The leader of the Winterfang turned to the frail woman beside her whom wore a dark cowl and with a terrible scowl nodded.

As the old woman began her own chanting, shouts of alarm went up from the town's small graveyard. The old woman began to cackle as the Grayfox Shamaness began her rage, followed by that of all the tribes warriors as she led them down the cliff face screaming. The Aurlite head priestess called down ice storm to pelt down upon the town, though she could not see through the fog as to where.

Now, they all walked calmly through the streets while their warriors went building to building, taking what they wanted, food, drink, gold, women, all that barbarians craved once they had begun their battle rage. When it was all done, the merchants of the town were on there knees before them cowering. While most of those within the village lived, any whom bore arms were cut down. All that was left was to take what they wanted.

They loaded the town's horses with weapons, armors and sacks of gold. One of the Foecleavers fancied the merchant woman and so she too was taken. Then as suddenly as it had come, the fog had gone and so to had the barbarians. They would use what they gained both in arms and battle lessons against the mighty black tribe. They would no longer stand to be the prey, they were learning how to hunt..........