Out of the Mist - the life of Cynric of the Greyfox

[kleomenes]

///a place to post some of the backstory of my character Cynric, as well as put to paper the various aspects of Greyfox tribal life - as you will see these stories cover a historic chronological period but I may extend them to contemporaneous times if warranted///

[kleomenes]

Approximately 1335 DR

The looming figure was shrouded in the dark shadows cast by the fire, huge, hulking, covered in matted fur, the outline of a mighty axe just visible. Despite himself, Cynric’s legs trembled as he followed his brothers forward, but all fears were banished when a gentle, powerful voice rumbled forth. “Sons, come, sit.” The three of them sat down sat down quickly around the fire, the eldest Lorsa in the middle, Eslax on his left and young Cynric on the right. Excitement shone in all their eyes as their father Rigo sat opposite them, grinning widely as he looked each of them over.

“My sons, you grow bigger after every hunt! 15 summers and already a giant, Lorsa? Ha!” their father exclaimed, sitting opposite them, resting his long axe in his lap. The dust of the trail was still on his boots, fresh from the hunt. “Just looking at you makes me feel older.” His laughter rumbled, like a rockslide, and all three of his sons looked upon him with a bemused, confused expression. As the laughter faded, Rigo beckoned Lorsa over. “Come boy.” Lorsa rose and approached his sire. “Take this axe.” Rigo ordered, a smirk on his lips, sensing his son’s surprise. "Go on, take it.” With trembling hands, Lorsa reached out and grasped the long haft, taking the weight of the weapon and holding it steady with all his youthful strength. Cynric and Eslax looked on in wonder. Never had they been allowed to touch Rigo’s weapon of choice before. “Go, show it to your brothers.”

Lorsa obeyed, and Cynric and Eslax eagerly clamoured round their elder brother. Both were younger than him, Eslax eleven summers and Cynric only eight. Lorsa had to hold the axe up for his brothers as they clasped the haft, and ran their fingers along the blade, his expression proud. There was a merriness in Rigo’s voice as he spoke. “If the winds blow well, Lorsa will wield that axe one day, but you should all know of it, all three would be worthy.” The youths stayed quiet, admiring the weapon. “It has stood me in good stead over the years. Sometimes I have had to change the haft, and sometimes change the head, but the axe has never let me down.”

At this, Cynric frowned. “But then, it’s not the same axe!” Rigo laughed. “Ale in the tavern, boy! Yet only for those who cannot see.” Cynric scowled, the other boys grinning a bit, although confused themselves. But Rigo continued. “Now listen to your father. It is the same axe, because it’s the fire in the heart of the Warrior wielding it which matters. Remember that my sons, and I will have taught you the thing hardest learnt.”

[kleomenes]

Approximately 1337 DR

A balmy summers day was coming to an end as three youths sat on a high bank, their legs dangling over the clear-watered pool which lay beside the Greyfox summer camp. Each was tired from the days tasks, whether it had been carrying a hunter’s kills back to camp, helping shape wood for tent poles and axe hafts, or even gathering nuts and fruits for food. Now, though, their time was their own.

Eslax’s brow was furrowed, all his energy focused on trying to tie reeds into a rope-knot. Barret, of even age with Eslax, sat next to Cynric. Both were throwing stones into the water, laughing as they disturbed lazy dragonflies. “Bet I can throw further.” said Cynric, a smirk on his lips as he threw his pebble out into the pond. It made a loud plop, ripples spreading out wide across the pond. A smug look was soon on the boy’s face. “Beat that!”

Silently, Barret picked up his own stone. His eyes narrowed, his arm went back and out went his pebble, a good ten feet further than Cynric’s. “Ha!” he cried. “Bah!” Cynric growled. Now it was Barret’s turn for a smug look as the ripples from his stone replaced those of Cynric’s. So intent was he on his victory, he didn’t see the smaller boy lean over and reach towards him – rather he just felt the shove which launched him clear onto the water!

Barret sunk like a stone, the frothing water settling , with no sign of him breaking the surface for what seemed like an age. Cynric’s triumphant expression faded and he leaned over in worry. “Barret?” he cried. Even Eslax set down his reeds and looked down into the pond, concerned. It was then that Barret exploded out of the water, jumping up to grasp Cynric’s leg and pull him in. “Yah!” was all the younger boy had time to cry before he fell beneath the surface, before bobbing up immediately a grin on his face. The two of them kicked and slapped water each other, laughing., spraying Eslax in their fervour. “Troll sons!” he spat, annoyed, and dived in, immediately trying to dunk both under the water.

The splashing, crashing, shouting, and cursing could be heard back in the camp. Children from all over the camp ran to come and see what was happening, got splashed, and jumped in. When angry mothers pulled them all out of the water to attend the feast, they soon found the camp filled full of soaking yet exhilarated members of the next generation.

[kleomenes]

Early 1340 DR

“They will be down soon” Barila said, squeezing her brother Cynric’s shoulder warmly. Her voice was soft, and she tried to be brave, only a summer older than Cynric but wise beyond her years. She couldn’t hide the sadness within her, though. The grey skies above were reflected in both their hearts. But she shed no tears: that would not be right. The two of them waited underneath the bluffs , the chill wind tugging at their furs, blowing their hair before their eyes as they watched the cloud of birds circle up above the peak one last time, before dispersing like so much smoke into the wind. Finally they saw a group of figures descend, two of them carrying something heavy between them. Both brother and sister stood in silence, waiting, as the figures descended over the rocky scree. Stern Agara was first, the shaman matter-of-fact as she swept past the pair, on towards the camp. “It’s done. The spirits of the air have blessed his passing.” Following her came the others, Irala, their mother, attired as the warrioress she had been in her youth, and then Eslax and Lorsa, carrying between them a long, sewn skin, within which was a heavy, dead thing. Last Cynric and Barila had seen that skin, it had been unsown, and on it had lain the cold corpse of their father , Rigo. Solemnly, the shield-maiden and beloved children of Rigo returned to the Greyfox camp with a warrior’s cold corpse.

When they arrived back, the feast had already been prepared, Agara having gone on ahead to be sure of such. The whole tribe was gathered around a vast, unlit pyre. Lesser fires surrounded it, upon which meat was already being cooked, and around which mead was already being drunk. Yet all fell silent as Eslax and Lorsa approached the pyre and laid their grim package upon its summit. Then, breaking the silence, Gul the Skald stood up and spoke.

“I, Gul, will speak of Rigo. I was with him in his last battle, when we went to confront our foe, the ogre chief, the leader of goblins great and small, the one who called himself Manrender. in his lair, licking his wounds as he was. Three times three of our tribe had he killed over the years, and we vowed it would end. Like the gale, we were, cutting down the last of his slaves, the ones who had run away in our last battle. Manrender was wounded, but when he stood to face us in battle, the flames flickered in the hearts of even the bravest. Not Rigo though, he stood his ground, he took mighty blows on his shield till it was shattered. He blocked mighty blows with his axe till it was split. And so the beast was slain by us as we crowded round it. Rigo did not survive Manrender’s anger, but his bravery gave us victory. This I saw of Rigo son of Aellar .”

Gul sat back down, and the tribe cried out, slamming feet on the ground, a rumbling, rolling wave of noise. The son’s and daughter of Rigo joined in. And then, another stood, Ona the Skald. “I was not there. Tell me more tales of Rigo son of Aellar.” And so did the comrades of Rigo stand and speak of him: Ubin the axeman stood, and spoke of happy times with Rigo around the camp fire, sharing mead and tall tales. He mocked the fallen warrior’s monstrous hangovers. Barrel-chested Engal, a mountain of a man, stood and spoke warmly of a man who never abandoned a fellow warrior. He also laughed, talking of Rigo’s stubbornness. Irala stood and spoke of Rigo as a young man, winning her heart, an expression on her face that Cynric had never seen before. Then, she smiled, sharing her annoyance at Rigo’s booming laughter.

When all the tales were told, the shamans came forth, in their full attire, and the tribe fell silent. First the youngest began to sing, a soulful tune in the language of the beyond: part lament, part plea, part command. Gradually, more and more shaman joined in, the song rising in volume and urgency. To the outsider, perhaps it would sound like noise, but not to the tribe. Finally, the Speaker for the Dead’s voice echoed out, joining the song yet apart from it, pure, clear, her eager command answered by those beyond. Flames burst up around the pyre, licking over stacked wood, reaching towards the sown bag. Still the shamans continued, and even more voices could be heard, voices from beyond, the spirits answering the tribe’s cry. The flames burnt furiously, a gout bursting over the wrapped animal skin, burning it to ashes, burning hot, so hot, burning the body, burning the very bones themselves, dissolving all in the flames. And as they did so, the voices stopped, both spirit and shaman, their task done. All knew Rigo had passed among the ancestors.

The silence was broken when Engal raised his flagon and roared “One last drink, Rigo!” Uproarious laughter echoed round the camp and the feast began in earnest. Yet despite the revelry, the family of Rigo held sorrow in their hearts. Even as they were handed cool drink, and hot, juicy meat, their eyes were drawn to the flickering flames of the pyre. Yet for the tribe, there was respite. Boisterous warriors bragged of their prowess. Women danced and sung. Couples were made, hearts were broken. It was a feast, it seemed, like any other. Cynric drank and ate, tasting nothing, his mind clouding with grief and alcohol both, as darkness fell and the feast wore on. He barely noticed when men and women came to pay their respects to the family. Yet the memory would give him comfort in later days.

The next morning, while the tribe slept after the nights reverie, Rigo’s shield-maiden, and his sons and daughter, climbed the remnants of the pyre to where the bones had been. Each took a handful of ash, mixed it with water from the river nearby, and smeared their faces, marks of grief to be born with pride. Then a bowl was filled with ashes, and they climbed the bluffs again, together, silently. Upon reaching the summit, in among the blustery winds, Irala cast the bowl’s contents up into the air, to be swirled away. “For the Grandfather.” Only now did they cry, tears coursing trails down their ash stained cheeks.

[kleomenes]

1340 DR

“Come on, keep up!” Hora snapped, her greying hair and stooped body belying her fierce demeanour and bitter determination to see her domestic tasks completed. Cynric followed in her wake as she cut a path through the busy camp, his arms laden with freshly cut timber, brow still sweaty and hands sore from the effort of cutting it. Hora stopped before her tent, before which lay a cauldron and the blackened remains of last night’s fire. Barely taking a breath, she barked her next order, “The fire won’t build itself boy, get on with it!” before ducking into her tent.

When Hora reappeared, peeling knife in hand, Cynric had started building up the fire. As she sat before the tent, beginning to peel turnip for the nights stew, she muttered in the boy’s direction. “No, angle the logs, let the fire breathe! Haven’t you learnt anything?” Silent, he rearranged the logs, the sounds of wood and wood and the scraping of knife on turnip was all that could be heard. “How’s this, Greyhair?“ Cynric asked, as he stood back, a proud look on his face. “Better.” the old woman said “Now bring some water. The cauldron boy, the cauldron!”

Full of fresh water from the river, the cauldron was heavy, and Cynric was panting by the time he returned to Hora’s tent. Twice, he had nearly tripped and spilt water everywhere. He had passed where Eslax and Barret were hanging around with some of the others, their tasks for the day done, and looked over at them with longing. By the time he returned to the old woman, though, she was in a foul mood. “How long did that take you boy? Hurry up, hang it over the fire.” “It’s heavy.” Cynric replied by way of explanation. The crude wooden tripod was easy to set up, and soon the cauldron hung over the unlit fire.

“Now, wash these potatoes.” Hora ordered. Cynric picked a handful, sighing under his breath, heading back down to the river with a handful. “No, use the cauldron, I’m not waiting until you get back to start peeling!” The youth bristled, but Hora was already moving to put the turnip peelings in a bucket, and didn’t notice. Soon the washed potatoes were placed before the crone, and she got to peeling. “Change the water.” she said, not looking up. It didn’t seem like she heard Cynric’s loud sigh, either.

The second journey was as upsetting as the first. Cynric’s friends were play-wrestling and playing tug-of-war. Cynric was fetching water for an old woman. With each step, the cauldron was heavier and heavier. Huffing and muttering, the youth finally returned to Hora’s tent. The old woman pushed herself up from the half-chopped vegetables, wincing from age as she walked over to look into the cauldron as Cynric tied it back up over the fire.

“You didn’t rinse it properly boy! Look, there’s still potato dirt in it.” the old woman chided. “Go rinse it and get some more.” she said as she turned, waving him off, and padded back to her vegetables. Cynric’s mouth dropped open. His brows clouded with a frown. Slowly, deliberately, he clasped the side of the cauldron and flipped it over, tipping the water out onto the firewood. “What ye doing, boy!” the old woman shrieked. “You idiot!” But already Cynric was striding off, calling back to her. “Wall you in!”

Lorsa’s face was like thunder when he found his little brother wearing a guilty look while sitting outside their tent. “Horsa just came to me.” he growled. “She is a...” Cynric began, before the warrior darted forward, cuffing him round the chops, before pulling the youth to his feet with all of the strength of a warrior with twenty summers behind him. “DON’T TALK!" Lorsa roared. "I don’t want to hear it!” He shook his little brother, anger in his eyes as he snarled. “Is this the way you behave now that our sire is gone? Is this how you honour his memory? How you honour your mother who still draws breath?”

Lorsa let go, his anger fading quickly. Yet there was an edge in his voice still. “You are going to go back and apologise to the woman. Then you and I are going to go out, cut her more wood, build her a fire, and cook her stew for her, while she relaxes. Then you will apologise again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Cynric squeaked, his expression clouded, cheeks flushed with shame.

The warrior’s voice changed, almost soothing now. “We are the sons of Rigo, brother. Remember to act like it. Now come on.”

The two headed off towards Hora’s tent, the penitent and the warrior both.

[kleomenes]

1341 DR

They both look bigger, that was the first thing that came into Cynric’s head. Jada’s sons loomed over Eslax, shadowed in the firelight, the two of them laughing, their arms round each others shoulders to steady each other. Eslax’s own face was twisted with anger as he spat at them, pulling himself to his feet. “Idiots! There is ale all over me!”

“Blockhead, can’t take a joke?” said Pohl, the younger one, stepping forward. “Just because you sit around while we drink!”

“Drink!” yelled Reon, older, bigger. He looked like a bear. Cynric sensed Barret tense beside him.

“Wall you!” Eslax snarled, furious, soaked in ale.

“Yeah, wall you.” Added Barret, stepping forward out of the shadows. Cynric padded after him, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Too much mead!

“What’s it got to do with you?” snarled Reon, ready for a fight. And those were the last words that were said. Pohl leapt at Eslax. Barret leapt at Reon, Cynric charging after him. The two big lads laid into each other, Cynric circling around behind. Eslax and Pohl pushed and shoved. Reon grappled Barret. Eslax tripped over a log, and both him and Pohl fell to the ground. Cynric jumped on Reon’s back, holding his arms still. Eslax scrambled up, kicking Pohl away. Barret thudded his fist into Reon’s gut, the victim gasping, defenceless. The air was thick with ale fumes, and the grunts and snarls of young men who couldn’t handle their drink.

An unkempt, yellow haired creature came out of nowhere, slamming into Barret from the left, knocking him away Small hands balled into fists rained blows at the young warrior. Barret raised his arms, defending himself, until the shock war off. “Hey, its just a girl!” he laughed, and easily grabbed the flailing limbs. “Calm down!” He commanded, an amused grin on his lips. The girl responded with a knee between his legs.

“Burning....tent....” Barret groaned, falling to his knees, then to his side. The four hooligans all winced in sympathy, frozen by the spectacle.

“Raaarrgh!” The girl cried, breaking the silence. Nerys, the young daughter of Taban, charged at Cynric and Reon, limbs flailing, bowling them over. "Waaaalls!" Cynric cried before the wind was knocked out of him. The three of them became a pile of kicks and punches.

“WHATS GOING ON HERE!” roared a loud, strong voice. Taban stode over, and dragged Reon and Nerys to their feet by the scruffs of their necks.

*Fools!” scowled Lorsa as he pulled his younger brother Eslax to his feet and threw him away from where he had been holding Pohl in a headlock. “This is a feast, not a fight!”
The combatants looked sheepish, as the elders pushed them apart. “You take care of yours, Lorsa, and I’ll take care of mine” said Taban, and they shared a look, and a sudden smile. “Celebrate” said Lorsa, and they both laughed, dragging their respective penitents away.

[kleomenes]

1343 DR

It was a hot day, the bright sun filtering through the branches of the small wood through which Cynric stalked. It was cool under the eaves though, and the forest was still, silence broken only by the occasional birdsong and the soft movements of the hunters to the left and right. Four of the half dozen or so tribesmen, including Cynric, carried a hunting spear. Two carried longbows, no arrows yet nocked. Most were warriors grown, but Cynric and Vorric were yet to come of age, cutting their teeth on the hunt.

They reached a forest clearing, lit bright by the sun. Leran, the grizzled hunter leading them, stopped, and raised his hand, and at the signal the Greyfox sought cover at its edge. The spear armed warriors hid behind bushes and trees, Cynric finding cover behind a fallen log. Behind them, the archers took up positions with good lines of sight. When all were hidden, Leran let out a shrill, chirping cry, mimicking birdsong. Barely a few moments later, sounds echoed from deep into the wood. First, the crashing of bodies through undergrowth, and then, the squealing of a panicked boar. The hunters waited, though. Cynric gripped his spear, breaths shallow. The sounds grew louder, and now the cries of the other half of the Greyfox hunting party, those driving their quarry on, could be heard. They grew louder and louder, something large and maddened forcing its way towards the hidden hunters.

Suddenly, a large boar broke cover, charging across the clearing, wide eyed, piggy eyes dazzled by the sun’s sheer light. Blinded, it charged across the clearing – right at Cynric! Arrows whickered through the air, both missing the fast moving beast. “Steady your spear, boy!” thundered Leran, as it became evident the boar would not stop. Cynric’s breath stopped, his raised spearpoint wobbling. Sharp tusks and frenzied squeals filled his world.

And he took flight, fiery pain filling his world, shouldered aside by the beast. The spearpoint gouging a scar down its muscular flank. Landing with a thud on his back, he saw Vorric launch his spear, taking the boar in the shoulder. It reared up, before an arrow appeared in its throat, then another. It squealed, and died, hot blood spilling onto the forest floor.

The others were patting Vorric on the back when Cynric pulled himself to his feet. “Good throw boy! Stopped the beast in its tracks. Arrows finish the thing, that’s how we do it!” Laran chuckled, clearly pleased. He turned to Cynric. “And you, stood your ground. Good! Next time hold your spear straight and you might have a kill.” Cynric winced in pain, his left arm throbbing. Laran laughed “That busted arm, that’s your lesson. Remember it!”

[kleomenes]

Winter, 1343 DR

The bitter, syrupy liquid was still warm when Karth raised the wooden beaker to Cynric’s lips. The thick sludge filled the youth’s mouth, and he swallowed, trying not to gag. He felt the heat rolling down his gullet, and filling his belly. “Drink deep boy.” Karth growled, and raised the beaker again. Another mouthful, hot, cloying, and Karth stepped away. Light from the crackling fire threw his craggy features into shadow as he spoke to his three charges, voice low.

“You climbed this crag as children, to be judged by the spirits and the North Wind. The Feymilk burns hot inside you now. Reach for the spirits, let them see your soul, and hear their message. Leave as warriors grown.”

The shaman stepped back, disappearing into the darkness, and all there was now was the fire, the gentle breeze, and the sounds of night. Suddenly, a gasp split the air. Garl stumbled forward, his ham-sized fists rubbing his eyes, his bulky shape collapsing into the twilight at the fire’s edge. Rela was next, her breaths quick and shallow, clenching her fists into tight balls, her dark eyes screwing shut. She doubled over, nut brown hair covering her face.

Then it hit Cynric, a rush of warmth and heat as the sounds of the others faded, replaced with the beating of his heart, and the sounds of the gale in his ears. He fell to his knees; he fell further than that, impossibly far, and he flew high in the clouds, far above it all. He was wrapped in ice as flames burst forth from within. He was chained down, and yet ran free. His eyes fixated on the fire, he could see the fire. He could see within it, the shapes moving. The fire faded, but the shapes remained. There were so many!

Mountain Lion, claws sharp.

Falcon on the wing.

The Bear, belly empty.

Leaping Salmon.

The Eagle, proud.

The Wolf, slipping through the forest.

The horse, running free.

There was one though, he was drawn to it. The Goat, making its way across rocky ground, split with ravines and crevasses. Here, it wandered along the ravine, until it found a fallen tree over which it could cross. There, it leapt from rock to rock to cross a fast flowing river. Soon, it came to a mountain, reaching high into the clouds, sides sheer and unforgiving, dotted with bitter and twisted mountain shrubs. It began to climb, dauntless, sometimes gracefully stepping up the sheer sides, other time gripping desperately to an overhanging branch before pulling itself up. Up it climbed, up, up, up, disappearing into the clouds....

The fire burned low, smouldering, the chill of night on him. Karth’s grizzled face filling his view. “What did you see?” he asked. Cynric sat up. Garl and Rela were both sat nearby, glassy eyed, lips formed into grins. Husky voiced, Cynric replied. “The Mountain Goat.” Karth gave out a short, barked, laugh, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, now you say the words. Stand!”

Dark shapes appeared. Warriors of the Greyfox, clutching gnarled branches, hooded. The three youths – were they still? – stood, knowing what was to come, accepting it. Warriors formed around each, standing ready.

“They have seen the Spirits, and been judged by them.” Karth called out to the assembled warriors. “Now you judge them, Greyfox! Let them say the words!”

Cynric spoke at the same time as Garl and Rela, their voices crying out in unison. “Today I am a warrior!” Immediately, the warriors around them lashed out with the branches. Stinging blows rained down onto Cynric’s arms. Hisses of pain echoed out, each aspirant suffering the same. Yet they spoke again. “I must show you the fire in my heart!” Another hail of stinging blows, raining on their backs. Cynric gasped. Garl grunted. Rela bit her lip. Yet the trio shouted out their purpose again. “I travel with the spirits of the north wind!” More blows, this time on thighs and calves. Cynric stumbled, nearly fell. But didn’t. His head swam, the wind was in his ears. The Feymilk still burns.


Then Karth’s hand was on his shoulder, warm, healing. “Let the Wind’s soothe you, warrior. It’s time to feast.”

Down below, in the camp now. The fires burned bright, and many were stood around them. The smell of roasted meat.

A wooden cup filled with ale was thrust into his hand. “Drink!” A voice, familiar. Eslax? Barret? Vorric?

Cold ale in his belly, seeping into his bones. The night was warm, he was surrounded by smiles. More ale!

Strong hands clasp his shoulders. Another voice, again familiar. “Little brother, you’re a warrior now.”

Gentle hands take his left. A female voice. “Brother.” Rough hands clasp his right, another woman. “Son.”

Laughter! “A goat? Wall me! What sort of spirit is that!” “Shut up, you. You probably saw a toad!”

More ale!

The campfires burn hot, the skald shares a tale.

Drums and pipes. The sound of tankards clashing, cheer s and happy cries. Men and women on their feet. "Come on, warrior! Dance!” Warm brown eyes, glassy like his, swirl through the crowd, swirl round him. A soft hand in his.

His head swims, he is hot and cold, he has never been happier.

The fires fade, the noise dies down, the tribe begins to sleep. But with him still are warm brown eyes, and the soft hand in his. And he finds something new, soft lips too.

[kleomenes]

1344 DR

The contents of the pot simmered at just the right temperature, the smell filling Cynric’s nostrils. Salivating, the young warrior took up the wooden bowl and spoon which had been left out and helped himself to a generous portion, heavy with lumps of meat. Blowing on the bowl, helped himself to a large mouthful, a grin on his face. Satisfied, he drew aside the leather flap of the large tent, and went inside.

“Took your time” said his mother, Irala. She was sat sewing, mending a pair of breeches, her grey/black hair loose. Her voice was gentle, her lined face wearing a smile. “I see you found your meal. Can’t you cook for yourself, then?”

Cynric grinned “Its good enough to lure me back to visit you, at least!”

“Bah, leave me alone in my old age, would you?” she replied, hurling the breeches in Cynric’s direction. He ducked, shielding the bowl. “Gah!” Irala laughed.

“Stand up, let me look at you. Are you eating properly?”

“Mother! I was here last week!” Yet he stood as Irala limped over and inspected him.

“Hm. Not wasted away yet. Sit.” He did. “Are you enjoying your own tent? You’re your own man now, you can do what you want.”

“Yeah....its good. I mean its strange, not having you and Barilla around, but I’m a man now, a warrior. I need to stand tall.”

“And to drink to the small hours before stumbling back to your tent, knowing you wont get shouted at by me, or wake your sister?”

Cynric grinned. “And that.”

“Its good isn’t it, freedom. I remember when I was young...”

“Oh for the love of...I don’t want to hear some story about flowers.”

Irala leaned forward, and pointed an accusing finger at Cynric. “You should listen to me, young warrior. I wasn’t a woman of flowers, I was a shieldmaiden! First thing I did when I came of age was get my own tent. And I did what you do, drank, and fought, and, well, I did what I liked.”

“Heh. Well I suppose.” Cynric looked a bit sheepish.

“No suppose about it. I fought alongside the men, and I was better than most until my leg was crushed. What do you think drew your father to me? It was my strength, and the fact I made my own way.”

“Eh...” The young warrior was uncomfortable.

The ageing warrioress wasn’t impressed. “Grow up. There’s a reason I am talking to you about this.”

Cynric frowned.

“Barilla told me you thumped some young buck who gave her a bracelet.” Irala’s grey eyes regarded her son coolly.

“I know the man.” growled Cynric. “He’s not good enough for my sister.”

Irala’s eyes narrowed, and her tone was sharp. “Yet you do what you want, and anyone you chase is good enough for you in your eyes? Who gives you the right to choose for Barilla?”

“Eh...”

“No,, i am serious. It is our way, Cynric. I lived the life I chose, you live the life you choose. Don’t forget, so can Barilla. We are free.” Her admonition finished, Irala’s eyes softened. “Now, eat, my son.”

[kleomenes]

1345 DR

The mist lay like a soft blanket over the cold earth as dawn broke. Dark shapes could be seen moving ahead – even in the grey murk, the hobgoblin sentries did not tire in their vigil. Heavy footsteps and the creak and rattle of boiled leather armour and cruel arms could be heard over the morning still. Hobgoblins rarely let their guard slip, and were fierce fighters. Yet they were also brutish and cruel, blind to the spirits. They would never know the land like the Greyfox.

Cynric waited with a dozen Greyfox Warriors lead by the grizzled Taban, concealed in the scrub as close to the hobgoblin raiding party as they dared. Each had dulled their blades and helms with dusty earth, and smeared hands and faces with the same muck. Four warriors carried longbows, and now the night was coming to an end, they began to finger the sharp arrows in their quivers. Yet, they waited.

The mists began to clear, little by little, and movement could be seen in the camp below, as the hobgoblins began to rise. There looked to be roughly a score, although it was hard to tell, the mist tenaciously clinging to the earth. Savage grunts could be heard as the beasts broke their fast and exchanged insults. They seemed preoccupied, yet still the Greyfox waited. Now the dark shape of the ridge behind the raiders’ camp could be made out. They had thought to keep themselves hidden in its shadow, but the eyes of the spirits see differently to those of mortals.

Shouldering packs and readying themselves for the march, the hobgoblins didn’t hear what to the untrained here sounded like the cry of a falcon. They even didn’t notice when the first of the arrows arched out from the mist covered ridge and fell among their number. One took an arrow in the throat. Another grunted, the shaft piercing his boiled leather under his arm as he lifted his pack onto his shoulder, thrusting deep into his flesh. But the silence was broken when another howled, his foot pierced by an arrow, doubling over to tear it out even as the hobgoblin war leader roared his orders, rallying his warriors to his side and turning to face the shrouded shapes rising from the rocks and scree of the ridge.
“IINTO THE WIND!” a voice cried, raising an axe high, and figures opposite formed a line a short way up the slope, a dozen or so. They cried and shouted curses down at the hobgoblins, their voices familiar, their Illuskan tinged with the familiar Greyfox tones. Yet still, the warriors Cynric was with stayed hidden. They didn’t rush to aid their comrades on the hill, although hands clenched axe-hafts, and arrows were nocked. Hobgoblin warriors rushed towards the Greyfox before them, their war leader snarling and growling at those who tarried in discarding their packs and drawing their weapons. When they were all committed, all exposed, that was when Taban breathed in and roared at the top of his lungs “OUT OF THE MIST!”

Two things happened at once. Firstly, the Greyfox on the hill raised their shields, to absorb the charge of the hobgoblins and protect themselves from what they knew was coming. Secondly, arrows whistled through the air, striking the exposed rear of the charging hobgoblins. One fell, an arrow between his shoulder blades. Another arrow thudded into the arm of the war leader as he roused his warriors on, and he roared in agony. A third, missing all hobgoblins, thudded into the shield of one of the Greyfox on the hill.
Immediately, a wave of panicked confusion fell on the hobgoblins, their charge faltering. Some turned, desperately seeking the source of the arrows falling among them, but by then Taban had led his warriors out from the scrub and they were thundering towards the startled beasts. “GREYFOX” they cried, Cynric’s voice hoarse with the effort. They pounded towards the milling hobgoblins, axes raised high. To the right, Kharn charged forward, a bestial growl on his lips, twin axes at the read. To the left, Lorsa clutched the Axe of Rigo, their father, running beside Taban straight for the war leader. The cry was taken up by the Greyfox on the hill, “GREYFOX”, and they charged down into the hobgoblins, catching the beasts like the jaws of a wolf.

The charge hit home, and all was thunder, Cynric’s world shrinking only to the foe before him. Battle. A large beast, it thundered a two-handed mace into a Greyfox warrior’s shield, and he staggered away, arm broken. This one is mine, then. Yet this gave Cynric the chance he needed, and he crashed into the beast, shield raised high, even as it swung the mace in his direction. The hobgoblin staggered, the wind knocked out of him, yet he remained on his feet, digging his heels in and relying on muscle mass, clasping the shield and tearing it away, unbalancing Cynric. Yet the young warrior managed to swing with his axe and catch the hobgoblin with a wild blow to his shoulder. The beast roared in pain, stumbling back, and Cynric regained his balance, leaping at the hobgoblin again as it drew a cruel bladed dagger. I’ve got you! Another axe blow struck it on the shoulder, this time with more force, and the creature staggered, falling back, but not before kicking out savagely into Cynric’s knee, sending the young warrior tumbling.

Cynric lay panting in the mud, winded, for a moment, head swimming, the cries of battle and the clash of steel on shield all around him. Then he saw a shadow looming and rolled to his knees. The hobgoblin was on his knees, determined to fight on, despite the wound to his shoulder. Murder was in the beasts eyes. Rigo’s words, from the night before, came to Cynric. “Don’t hesitate, they won’t.” He reached around madly for his axe as the hobgoblin lurched forward, knife raised. There it is, Cynric’s hand closed round the haft, and he lashed out, blindly. The hobgoblin fell back, the axe embedded in his skull as Cynric looked on, panting. Done.

By the time Cynric pulled himself to his feet, the battle was won. The hobgoblins had died where they fought, or been cut down as they tried to run, outnumbered and out-thought by the Greyfox war party. The cries of the wounded could be heard, but the Greyfox losses had been surprisingly light. Taban was clapping Lorsa on the back. “Your father reborn! Cut the legs from under the beast, you did, they had no fight after that” He then turned to the others, a wide smile on his blood flecked face. “Tempos was with us today. GREYFOX!”

[kleomenes]

1346 DR

Mafa stood, anger twisting her usually kind face into a savage grimace. She flung her cup at the burly warrior sitting opposite her, spraying the fire and those sat near him with wasted ale even as the cup itself struck its target a glancing blow on the side of his head.

“Snivelling kneeler! I don’t know why i EVER had ANYTHING to do with you!” the woman snarled, and turned on her heel, disappearing into the darkness of the camp. There was silence for a few seconds, utter bemusement on the men’s faces. Cynric broke the silence. He wiped his cheek, hand wet with beer, before licking it off with a grin. “Stupid to waste it, eh?” Lorsa, a lurid bruise already rising from where the cup had hit him, laughed. Even Eslax smirked, shaking his head. Barilla, sitting opposite, was less amused.

“Do you mean to piss on her, brother?” She asked, without much kindness. Lorsa blinked, the smile frozen on his face, and looked across at his sister with no little confusion. Barilla continued. “You’re well grown now, Won’t be long and you will have lived thirty winders, mother reckons. When will you grow up and do your duty?”

Lorsa frowned at this, his burly frame tensing, the axe-man’s usual good nature not taking well to such needling. “You’re saying I don’t swing Rigo’s axe as often as I should? The goblin men might say you lie, in that.” Eslax tensed, and even Cynric’s amused smirk faded.

“There’s more to being a man than swinging an axe, Lorsa. You can’t keep hiding behind me, Cynric and Eslax. We’re grown. We don’t need you looking after us.” Barilla spoke, still stern, although her eyes softened at the end.

“I don’t know.” Cynric interjected, his smirk returned. “ I like still being an idiot.” His elder brothers both laughed, but Barilla was not amused. “For once, shut UP, Cynric.” Seeing the look on her face, he acquiesced.

“What’s the problem?” Lorsa asked, a helpless look on his face. “I go to her often.” Barilla rolled her eyes, responding. “Well that’s just it, often, but you still go elsewhere. That’s fine for youth.” Lorsa growled at this, but remained silent as Barilla continued. “Yet should be fathering sons and daughters for the tribe, and she should be bearing them. You dishonour her by staying as free as the wind before this is done.” The final statement was plain, matter-of-fact. “You tell her she is not a prize to you.”

“Bah....” Lorsa rumbled. “She is.” The man’s choler struck Eslax and Cynric silent. Barilla stood, drained her mug, and offered her eldest brother a helpless shrug. “Words, only.” and turned to follow her friend.

“Wait.” Lorsa said, quickly, jumping to his feet. “I’ll go. I’ll need a bigger tent” Barilla smiled happily as he stalked off after Mafa.

“Barilla the slaver.” chided Cynric, a wolfish smirk on his lips. Barilla's cup struck him full in the face, cracking his nose – a better throw than Mafa’s by far!

[kleomenes]

Early 1347 DR

“Why do I always have to carry the thing?” Cynric whined, hefting the deer over his shoulder, a clean arrow wound still visible in its throat, as he trudged down the trail behind his brother Eslas, the dusk’s gloom growing by the minute.

“I track it. I stalk it. I shoot it. Remind me what you do again?” Eslax replied evenly, his path through the rocks and roots which marred the path considerably more patient and graceful than his brother’s.

“Bah.” Cynric muttered, kicking a root angrily. It had been a long day, mead and meat awaited in the camp, and could not come a moment too soon. “You will drink tonight Brother? Have some fun for once!” he chided after a few minutes, some of his vexation fading as they neared the summit of the cliff which overlooked the camp. From there, it would only be a winding trail down to the heath on which their tents were pitched. The hunter replied sardonically at first. “Probably I will, if..” The words were cut from his mouth though, struck dumb by what lay below, as he reached the edge of the steep, sheer slope.

The fires of the camp below, lit now that dark was beginning to fall, still welcomed the brothers. Yet panicked figures of tent wives and children could be seen scurrying in the evening’s failing light, and a knot of elder warriors, those who were left at the camp, hurriedly formed a shieldwall at the camp’s edge. The tribe had been surprised, and Greyfox of the generation past took arms in desperation again. Here, the cruel twin axes of Stegar the Reckless, there the raven shield of their own mother Irala. At the head of the warriors stood Taban, the grizzled warrior brandishing his mighty greatsword.

The reason for the alarm was obvious. Towards the camp there thundered a war party of orcs unlike the tribe had ever seen. Their whoops and yells denoted fierce pride, not furious abandon. Their arms and armour, black even in the dusk’s light, were sharp and hard. They moved not in a mob, but in a pack, a great beast of an orc at their head, brandishing a mighty, spiked mace. The battle would soon be joined, and the orcs were between the brothers and the camp.

“We’ll never get down in time!” wailed Cynric. “We climb.” Replied Eslax, already appraising the outcrops and roots on the cliff face, the goal solid ground 30 foot below. “Are you mad?” Cynric hissed, casting aside the deer, but Eslax just smiled and turned, beginning to descend. “Mark my hands and feet, Brother!”

At first the descent was easy enough, but as Eslax pulled away, it became harder to see where he put his hands and feet. “Slow down Brother!” Cynric hissed, then his foot slipped, rocks clattering down the side of the cliff, dangling by his hands, still ten feet from the bottom. Eslax hopped easily onto solid ground. “Jump! Ill catch!” he hissed, over the roar of battle as the orcs finally reached the shield-wall. “Eh, and...try and roll.” The stranded warrior dangled for a few moments, let out a hissing sigh, and dropped....

...both staggering to their feet, Cynric winced as his weight went onto a twisted ankle. “Could have been worse.” Eslax smirked. “Could have been better!” Cynric growled, as they looked towards the battle. The black shapes of orcs through themselves at Greyfox warriors, fearlessly, axe and jagged blade meeting shields on both sides. Yet, incredulously, straggler orcs on either side did not charge forward in a blind rush, instead trying to circle to the left and right, to pick their targets and surround the camp’s defenders. “We must stop that, Brother.” Said Eslax, pointing to the flaking orcs before notching an arrow. “I can’t charge.” Cynric indicated his injury, unhooking his axe from his belt. “Arrrows and noise then, eh?” he added, removing his shield from his back, gripping both tightly. “Into the wind Brother!” the youth said with a grin. Eslax drew back his bowstring. “Into the wind, Cynric.”

Cynric began to bang his axe upon his shield, and yell loudly. “Greyfox! Greyfox! GREYFOX!” This was nothing to warriors locked in combat, alone, but when but to the orcs prowling the flanks, it was as the scent of blood – particularly when Eslax began to rain arrows down on them, striking exposed backs and arms and taking one in the throat. “Eh, easy that one, Brother!” Cynric chided, as the pair prepared to sell their lives dearly – and slowly.

At the boundary of the camp, the Greyfox fought bravely, fiercely, but the orcs were too strong. Even with Taban laying about with his greatsword, slain orcs at his feet, the tribesmen were hard pressed. Even then, victory was possible, but the mighty orc champion was not to be defied. He grasped one of his own warriors and hurled him into the Greyfox line, battering a hole in it, forcing back the warriors near Taban, before lurching forward, swinging his mace round in a mighty blow, barely parried, which shattered the warrior’s blade. The pair disappeared into the throng, stabbing, scratching, striking, before the orc rose again, its fangs bloody, and roared its victory.

But then more figures stood up in the scrub near the camp, and a familiar, clear voice rang out. “THE NORTH WIND BLOWS!” – restraint, cunning and stealth achieved total surprise, the returning warriors tearing into the orcs before they could react. At their head, Lorsa, the Axe of Rigo hewing left and right, cutting the legs out from under one orc, the arm off another, back handing another to knock it out of the way, clearing a path to one target – the orcish leader. Too late the creature realised the danger as the mighty axe swung round. It roared its defiance even as a mighty blow cleaved its skull in two.

The battle was won then, but it was not done. The orcs did not break like one would expect. Instead, savagery was given release, and each had to be put down like a wild animal. More Greyfox blood was spilt before it was done. Cynric took one, and a blow to the head. Lorsa another, and a savage kick in the guts. But the Greyfox were victorious. As the orcs were dragged away, to be cut up and left to rot, the toll was clear. The aging warriors who had stood against the the orcs were all wounded, Irala, limping heavy, supported by her sons as she hobbled back to the camp. Yet she was lucky, as others had suffered worse. The solemn daughter of Taban could attest to this, her bloodied axe forgotten, blood and drying tears smearing her face as she helped carry her father’s mangled body back to the camp, his throat still bloody from the orc warchief’s rending tusks.

[kleomenes]

Summer 1348 DR

“The camp’s three times as big!” Garl muttered, as he thread his ponderous way through the mass of guy ropes and unlit campfires towards the centre of the camp. His bulk cleared a path though, through which Cynric and Eslax could follow, giving Cynric plenty of time to watch the new arrivals. The chiefs of all the tribes had come to this, the place their ancestors had first camped upon the Moors, back when they were all Greyfox, and each one of them had brought bodyguards, wives, advisors, sons and daughters. This was not just to be a council of the tribes, but a great meeting of a people once united, now divided, but with much in common. Called by the Battlesong, the chiefs had met in the morning mist, and all assembled had thought to be well into drinking and games by now. Yet the kegs lay untouched, the stones unlifted, the axes unthrown. Instead, even as the sun fell from the sky, the chiefs remained locked in talk in the centre of the camp, and their followers grew more and more anxious. This restlessness was the reason for Cynric, Eslax and Garl’s circuitous journey.

They passed the tents of the Battlesong, smiles greeting the three warriors, the wavering yet beautiful song of an ageing skald, speaking of an ancient hero, wafting across to them as they made their way onwards- there would be time a plenty to listen at the feast tonight. Next came the tents of the Winterfang, hostile and harsh. Cynric lingered, staring at an ice-maiden as fair and deadly as the snows of winter. She turned her nose up and turned away, not meeting his gaze. “Ice-walled...” he muttered, before Eslax pulled him away. Marked by a boundary of skulls, the dark tents of the Blackfeather were easily avoided,. And well they were, as from within one fell and sinister words could be heard. A grey-haired crone watched the three young Greyfox as they passed, silently, daring them to speak. The men shivered and hurried on.

Next came the tents of the Foecleaver, proud, haughty. Warriors sharpened axes, some impossibly burly for men, betraying the admixture of orcish blood. They did not greet the Greyfox, standing as the three warriors passed, showing their strength. Garl bristled, and his mood was foul when they came upon the tents of the Thunderclap, savage, feral, displaying the broken arms of defeated enemies, and little else. A cluster of warriors, men and women, were drinking together before their tents.. A shaggy, bearded warrior, with a shaven, tattooed head, stood as they passed, calling out a challenge to Garl. “Hey, big Fox! Come here and give us your fury. I want to beat down one of you whelps before the feast!” Garl glowered, reaching for his axe – as quick to fury as the Thunderclap themselves – but it was Cynric who replied, looking around the camp dramatically. “Eh, no point Bald-man! You have nothing to give us but your sister there.” He pointed to a burly, square-jawed woman. “And... none of us want her!” Eslax sighed softly behind them, as the Thunderclap warrior snarled and others leapt to their feet.

Just then, a ripple of commotion spread through the camp, and bodies began to trickle, then flow, to the centre, where the chiefs met. Harsh words forgotten, both Greyfox and Thunderclap followed, joining a mass around the meeting area, where final words were being said, some harsh.

“It is agreed then?” Said Chief Esa, of the Greyfox. His grey furs, and the mighty “Grandfather Sword” on his back marked him as such. He raised his voice over a rumble of discontent. “We wait for the Battlesong to send out emissaries to see if the southerners and others will fight, and we meet again in the new year.”

The battlesong chief, a tall, fey man with grey eyes, spoke up in his commanding, yet poetic voice. “Whatever we do, we must do it together. We have to ask ourselves if it can wait six moons.”

“Tsch...” The blue clad chief of the Winterfang sneered, and conferred with his Aurilite shamans.

A haughty warrior with two wicked, curved swords spoke up with a sneer, the new young chief of the Foecleaver. “If anything is to be done, give your warriors to me. I’ll lead, the Foecleaver have the strength needed. The only price is recognising Foecleaver strength, you and your sons.”

“Kneel, you mean?” Snapped Chief Esa. A wave of anger spread across the spectators at the prospect. Garl, Cynric and Eslax joined in the clamour. Such a thought!

“You should, when weak.” Came the prideful reply. Angry disputes broke out immediately, voices raised in heated discord.

A man with much in common with a cliff face stood up, his thick arms and face criss-crossed with scars. The wicked axes on his back were crude and his armour battered, yet this man was a killer, no doubt. The chief of the Thunderclap’s roar cut through the discord. “ENOUGH! WE WILL FACE THE HORDE. If you do not come, we will do it ALONE! Are you all so weak and AFRAID?”

Cynric saw Karth sharing urgent words with Chief Esa, Pleading words, almost. Yet the chief of the Greyfox scowled, turned and headed into his tent.

With that the Thunderclap delegation left. They were followed, silently, by the Blackfeather, angry words following both. Yet the other Tribes soon followed, scowls on their brows, despite the agreement to meet in the new year. The Battlesong’s hoped for alliance was in tatters.

[kleomenes]

Autumn 1348 DR

The orcish axe smacked into Cynric's shield, chips of wood flying. The beast roared in frustration, its anger only only intensifying when the Greyfox warrior flicked his shield, tearing the axe out of the orc's clawed grip. Disarmed, it bared its fangs in a defiant roar before Cynric buried his axe into its face, snarling in triumph.

Kicking the body away, Cynric tore the axe from his shield and looked about, seeking out a new foe. The din of battle echoed between the trees: axes in wood and flesh, the crash of shields, the roars of man and orc vying for supremacy. Yet the Greyfox had planned their ambush well, only a few knots of orcs among ever tightening circles of tribal warriors.

Here, Ovuth, the Speaker of the Dead, hewed at an orc's legs with his fetish axe. The shaman's face was smeared with the Raven's black, marking the oath of vengeance the war party had sworn. His spells had begun the fight; his rage would be present for the end.

There, Velka slashed at a wounded orc, her face twisted into a rictus grin of rage, the blue tattoos on her face giving her the aspect of some avenging spirit of the Feywild - as if she was the personification of the very same that all the Greyfox warriors here had invoked before the ambush. She shrieked in triumph when the orc fell, swirling her longblade around her head, glistening with orc blood.

In the thick of the fighting, Lorsa swept the Axe of Rigo in mighty arcs, hewing orc bodies or limbs with each blow. He was mighty in his wrath as he bellowed out challenge after challenge. He had sought out the orc war leader first. Now lesser creatures stood before him and they were no match. Fatigue and wounds did not slow him.

The battle wound down. The last orc fell, hissing defiance to the last. Greyfox finished the orcish wounded, tending their own injuries, bringing their own dead together, ready to be born back to the camp for proper burial. The three brothers came together among the carnage. Each was streaked with the sweat, dirt, and gore of battle. Lorsa, proud, bore the Axe of Rigo across his shoulders. Eslax, twin axes at his side, walked with the grace of a forest animal even now. Cynric, shield slung on his back, bloody axe cradled in his hands. He drew up, inspecting a notch in the blade, frowning.

"Eh...they may be thick, but so are their skulls." he said with a grin. "I am needing a bigger axe."

Eslax smirked. "You use the Axe well, Lorsa. The head as well, you burnt their tent."

Lorsa laughed. "I saw you both. When you jumped on that orc-scum's back, ey Eslax? The look on its face! And that warcry Cynric, it came with the echo of Rigo himself!"

"Eh." replied Cynric "It wasn't Rigo. It was the rock I kicked when charging. My toe hurts more than anything the orc-scum did!

The brothers were laughing together when Ovuth came to speak. His face was solemn, but proud, as he spoke to Lorsa. "Son of Rigo, today your leadership has honoured those who came before you. We have exacted blood price for our fallen. Let the Ravens take the dead, but no honours to the orc-scum, let them meet the worms as well. I will..."

The shaman was interrupted as a young scout, Nadar son of Halgi, ran over. "Lorsa! We can hear orc cries in the forest. More are coming, many more!"

Word was given and the Greyfox gathered round Lorsa, holding silent, brandishing weapons in tight hands. At first all that could be heard was the wind rustling through the trees and the cries of forest birds. Sighs of relief could be heard, and one wit made a comment about feathered orcs.

"Quiet, Cynric." hissed Lorsa.

Then, distant, it could be heard. Whoops, barks, snarls, yells. None of these words adequately described the sound; rather, it was the noise of unrestrained fury, a hunger for war and blood which had no limit. A noise which could only arise from a war party of orcs far beyond the one the Greyfox had just defeated in size.

Stony faced, the assembled warriors looked at each other. They had all sworn vengeance on the orcs, swearing death before defeat. Yet their oath had been made with thought to vanquishing the war party they had just defeated. A score of Greyfox remained, tired, battleworn. They were needed to defend the tribe, not to throw their lives away now.

A soft voice broke the silence. "Orcs are blind in the wild. They'll follow smell, but they won't know how many they follow, not when we make the forest a mist. We scouts can lead them off."

The warriors looked at Eslax, and young Nadar stood beside him. The scouts met their gazes with chins held high, as the orcish cries grew ever louder. Cynric's eyes, though, rested on Lorsa: a brother, and the one whose command would save or condemn. Yet, the bearer of the Axe of Rigo just nodded.

Ovuth stepped forward, his hand disappearing into a pouch to emerge with palm masked in soot. "Son of Rigo, Son of Halgi, the Raven's wings beat hard yet you stand firm. Blood of kin hotter fire than your own blood. Honoured, you'll be, by our fires." The shaman then smeared each scout's face with soot: black streaks on each cheek.

There was little more to say. Eslax and Nadar disappeared into the forest, heading towards the bestial roars of the orcs. Lorsa raised the longaxe of his father, indicating for the others to follow, and began to move quickly in the opposite direction to the scouts. Cynric, with narrowed eyes, watched his elder brother as he led the war party off. He turned, to look in the direction that Eslax had disappeared. Then, with a scowl, he followed the others.

[kleomenes]

Autumn 1348 DR

Nowhere more to run, a sheer drop ahead. Fast running water of the stream they had been following plunging down a sheer drop. It would take time to climb down, the baying cries behind showing they'd run out.

Lorsa's hulking form turned, jaw set, his blue eyes looking each warrior over. "How many?" he asked, his voice a thing of rock, steady, looking back through the thinning forest. Wighurd took a swig from a flask, breathless, then spat and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, grey-flecked beard moist with spilled water. "More than three dozen, but not by much."

They all knew what that meant. After the arrows that began this chase, they were too tired, too wounded, too few.

"No more running." Lorsa growled. He jumped on a nearby rock. "The pigs found us. Now they find our axes, eh?" Some bitter laughter echoed round. "When we see the spirits of our ancestors, we bring them many orc heads!" Lorsa's voice boomed out, fearless.

The warriors took up positions. Hidden behind trees, crouched behind rocks or bumps in the land, or along the bank of the stream. Lorsa stayed on his rock, though.

The baying snarls and cries came nearer. "Their blood's up." Wighurd murmured. Next to him, Cynric grinned. "We are wanting it out, not up."

The first uruks appeared among the trees, running fast, tireless. Their fangs bared, axes and cruel blades raised high.

"RRRAAAAAAAAGRH!" came their bellowing roars as they bounded towards Lorsa. He raised the Axe of Rigo high and his booming voice began the Greyfox reply. "The North Wind Blows!"

"The North Wind Blows!"

"The North Wind Blows!"

"The North Wind Blows!"

"The North Wind Blows!" cried Cynric.

The Greyfox stood and let fly with arrow and hurled axe, bringing down the leading orcs. Ovuth stood high, fetish raised and the clouds above boiled as bolts of lightning came down, searing orcflesh. The spirits of the dead answered the old man's call, laying one last blessing upon the living before they were reunited.

Yet the horde came on.

"Shields high!" snarled Lorsa, and he leapt down from the rock to cleave the first uruk to make it to him in two with a mighty sweep of his greataxe.

Cynric, shield locked with those near him, roared his defiance, striking at an orc's face...

...the weight of them broke apart the shieldline...

...another orc came at him, twin axes clutched, incongruously small, in its meaty fists...

...the first sliding off his shield, the second still gripped hard, as he cleaved the arm off. Another blow finished the beast...

..."Close up! Together!" someone shouted...

..."Smash you, big axe man!" snarled one of the beasts...

...an orc bounding past, its axe finding something solid. Iver grunting in pain, a soft sound amid the roar of battle...

...Cynric's own axe cleaving the beast down from behind...

...another beast, roaring, appearing before him, a huge maul raised, swinging down in a slow arc....

...he had time to see the huge muscles of the beast flex as it swung, and the many tatoos over its body. Maybe a leader? he thought, madly...

...his shield moving like a nimble bird to take the blow...

...a crack! Shield? Bone?...

...Painted shards of wood spinning through the air, the rest hanging uselessly off of a uselessly hanging arm...

...Pain! Such pain!...

...Another blow, a fist to the face, a sensation of the world spinning, a thud...

...why was the ground moving?...

...the roars of the dying filled his ears...

..."Wighurd! Back to back!" someone shouted desperately...

...Silence. Did he pass out?...

Eyes focusing through the pain, a huge shadow looming over him. No, two. The first growled something about death in orcish, and the other shadow left with a triumphant snarl.

Not shadows. Orcs. And the one standing was laced with tattoos, and leaning on a maul. Broken common. "You not dead? You die now, human. Smash legs furst though." It raised its maul, laughing.

A roar, not bestial like theirs. Familiar, though laced with pain. Lorsa. And another roar, an orc, squealing in death-agony, then a thud.

The tattooed uruk turned, baring its fangs in shock. A blur, a mighty shape bowling into it with a snarl of pure rage.

Eyes focus, seeing the two mighty warriors, orc and human, wrestling, hands round each others throats even as they spilled over the side of the cliff, followed by their discarded weapons. The roar of the waterfall masked the sound of their landing.

Darkness.

The flutter of wings. A crow squawked. Pain.

Cynric pulled himself onto his side, then his knees, then up. Bodies lay round about. Man, orc. Beaten, speared, stabbed. None alive. Mutual hate had ended it. He struggled to rise, left arm useless. Bruised all over. To his knees again. He crawled to the edge. The bodies lay at the bottom, broken on the rocks below, dusted by the spray of the falls.

It took an age to get down. He slipped the last few feet, rolling with luck onto his good side. Lorsa lay near by, a few feet from his adversary. He seemed just as he always had, apart from the shattered skull. Cynric crawled over and knelt next to him. There were no words.

A snarling cry echoed from somewhere in the forest. More. Survive.

He began to push himself to his feet. He stopped. Something glinted in the water. Haft splintered about a third of the way down, but it was there. The Axe of Rigo. Bloody hand reached out, and touched it under the cold water. Fingers unfamiliar on the wood.

Its not mine.

His hand clasped round the haft, tight, just below the blade. But someone has to take it.

///I had planned more "backstory" elements to lead through to the arrival of Baldur's Gate, covering the suffering of the Greyfox Tribe and the final destruction of the camp at the hands of the orcs. However, I am minded that narratively the tale is better stopping here! The Greyfox and Barbarians of the High Moor threads have more information on the fall of the tribes; and IG, we saw them rise again///