13 Dec 2012
The Frost Gut Tribe (Ogre Kingdoms) - Project link - http://www.ogrestronghold.com/forum/index.php?topic=25911.msg342864#msg342864
Yselte buried the axe-head into the cutting stump and looked at her hands. She had been chopping firewood all afternoon, and the blisters on her hands had swollen and burst hours ago. The haft of the axe was a mess of slimy gore. A few feet away, her mother was scraping a stretched hide. She envied her mother for being able to sit, and simply draw the bone-knife across the lea
ther, but knew that it was dextrous work. A young girl could not be trusted with something so important, and chopping firewood not only built up her strength, but also gave her good practice with an axe. But still, her hands were sore, “Why have you stopped Yselte- you’re hands? Remember child, ‘Blood for the Blood God’” Yselte turned her eyes northward to the roiling skies, “and skulls for the skull throne,” finishing the blessing for her mother. Her father had been away on the longships for two months now, carrying the judgement of their fierce god to the soft wastrels of the South, and doing his part to ensure that the Gorehunt Tribe would remain in Khorne’s favor for another season.
As she reached a raw hand back towards the axe, she saw a trio of dark shapes cresting a distant drift of windblown snow.
“Mama, Gormach is back from the hunt!”
Yselte’s mother stood up from the tanning rack and squinted into the snow. When she saw Gormach and the other boys crest the next hill, she crossed her arms and waited patiently,
“Get the fire ready in the yurt, Yselte, it looks like they’re carrying a meal.”
With a fire burning, Yselte heard her brother and the other hunters crunching through the snow. Yselte and her mother lived in one of the outer yurts. It had been difficult for her mother to have children, and Yselte’s older brother Gormach was still barely thirteen winters old, too young to be a proper warrior, and therefore, Yselte and her mother were not yet welcomed into the circle of War Kin at the center of camp. She ran outside and hugged her brother.
Gormach’s shirtless torso was streaked with blood, and he had a bitter gash on his shoulder. Two youths behind him each looked worse for wear, and Gormach carried the lifeless body of a fourth over his shoulders. He dumped the cadaver onto the snow,
“Jorund” he grunted at the body. Yselte looked at it – great hunks of flesh had been ripped from the bone, and the head was only a lumpen sack of bone and gore. He had been her friend, only half a year older than her brother.
“How did he die?" her mother asked,
“Like a Gorehunt – with an axe in his hand,” one of the boys replied, Tyrgulf. His right arm hung limply at his side.
“That is good,” Yselte’s mother replied, “at least he died well. I cannot say the same for you three,” the survivors tried to look away from her darkened eyes, “take the body to his mother, and tell her why you have returned when her son did not”
Yselte looked down at her hands as the boys stepped forward to lift Jorund’s remains – they were still covered in blood, hers, her brother’s, and Jorund’s. She stepped forward to Trygulf and put her small hand on his handsome chest. When he looked at the bloody handprint, Yselte felt herself blush,
“For the strong hunter, who came back when Jorund could not,” she managed.
Trygulf’s mouth twisted with a smile, and he hefted the corpse over his shoulder with a grunt. Yselte watched the two boys walk off to yurt of Jorund’s family, and then fathered her mother and sibling inside.
“We need to move camp by nightfall tomorrow, mother,” Gormach was saying, “We saw them out there – the blue ogres have returned. They killed Jorund, we didn’t stand a chance, we came back to carry the warning.”
Yselte looked at her son from across the flames, “it only takes one to carry a message,” she looked at Yselte and back at Gormach “Hylan was the youngest. You and Trygulf should have died as men”
Yselte was confused, Gormach had been hunting to the North, but the Ogres lived to the South, with the other weak things.
“Blue Ogres? Why can’t hetman Solaus turn them away?”
Gormach looked up from his bloodied shoulder, “Because Solaus’s great grandfather brought them here!”
Yselte was even more confused. Were they Daemons? “Then Solaus must know the banishing curse to send them back.”
Yselte’s mother was already beginning to pack away their few belongings, but she looked over her shoulder at her daughter, “They’re not Daemons. They’re not Ogres either. Two generations ago, Solaus’s grandfather Gurrier led the yearly Great Hunt to the South, into Ogre-country. He wanted to bring back the largest kill since Kurran began the tribe, to take over the tribe from the chieftain. The hunt marched to the Ogre Stone, and set their camp. From there, young hunters, much braver than Gormach, hiked over the mountains to attack the grazing herdbeasts of the Ogres and drag them back to prepare for the feast.
“When the Ogres discovered their great beasts missing, they rallied their tribes and made for the Ogre Stone. The battle raged for three days, and many brothers and fathers of the Gorehunt were lost. But on the second day, the Blood God was pleased, and Gorehunt stacked the fresh skulls of Ogres until they buried the Ogre Stone, and they split open the ribs of the fallen as a feast for the crows. With a glut of meat for the feast, the Great Hunt returned to the tribe.
“One pale moon later, a tribe of Ogres marched North, past the Ogre Stone. The chieftain led the warriors of the Gorehunt into the snow, and they bit their axes and howled their warcries, and the Ogres marched around them, turning their backs. Old Gurrier called out to the Ogres, and walked to speak with their fat leader. He returned saying that the Ogres did not want to make war. They were seeking something, ‘a world without a Maw’ he said, but he didn’t know what that could mean. Too afraid to fight, Gurriel convinced the Chieftain to let them pass.
“Young hunters followed the Ogres however, proving themselves in battle against the stragglers who fell behind, and dragging the carcasses back to hang high upon the spires to Khorne. Your father brought back two large, fur-covered Ogres, dragging them alone after they killed the rest of the party. He was a braver warrior than Gormach, a true warrior. But the Ogres soon ventured further North than even we dared to go, and the last hunting parties said that they saw the Ogres disappearing into a blizzard, leaving nothing behind but a trail of frozen and butchered Ogres, and footprints in the snow.
“Years later, the coward Gurrier was gunned down in battle by the weaklings of the South, as he deserved. With him, almost all memory of the wandering Ogres died. But it was not long after that they returned. On the night of the season’s fiercest blizzard, they marched out from the snow to lay waste to the camp of the Gorehunt. Man and woman stood side-by-side to fend them off, and it was only when the storm abated that the attackers retreated, leaving burning yurts and half-devoured bodies behind them. They were different now though – their skin was blue, like a frozen man’s, and their hair had turned pale and white. Their blood was colder than an ice river, and their breath frosted like a cold morning.
“Solaus will not speak of them, just like his father and his father before him, except to say that they call themselves the Frost Guts Tribe, and that their leader is a great Ogre named Fjaldur IceEater. Others with the gift of omens and visions speak more, and say that they are the same Ogres who passed by the camp those many years ago, and that as punishment for Gurrier’s cowardice, the gods took them into their realm and remade them, as a curse upon the Gorehunt forever more, doomed to appear on the coldest of winters to slaughter us or drive us across the wastes.”
Yselte’s mother looked at Gormach, who gazed forlornly at the flames, “remember Gormach, the gods do not forgive at coward,” and turning her attention to young Yselte, “and the women should not suffer a weakling.”
The siblings nodded sullenly, as their mother continued to chastise her son, “Next time, I expect you to return with a trophy, or not to return at all – that is the way of the Gore Hunt.”
**Written by CaptainSarathai @ Librarium Online**
---------------------------------------------------------
The GoreHunt Tribe (Warriors of Chaos) - Project Link - http://www.librarium-online.com/forums/projects/219549-gore-hunt-tribe.html
The longhorn blew once more, to signal the return of the raiding party, but there was no reply. They had found the camp by the tendrils of cooking smoke that twisted up into the grey skies above. Chains of slaves followed behind them, to be offered to the Blood God, and behind the slaves, great beasts from lands beyond were guided, or pulled as carcasses through the
snow, the warhounds snapping at them like horrifying sheep-dogs.
Skahl knew there was something amiss even before the first of the horsemen came riding back from the site. He, and a few of the other men, broke into a jog, to greet the onrushing riders.
“What news brother Gorehunts?” one of the footmen shouted as the riders approached. The fast cavalry rode by in a torrent of snow and snorting horses.
“The camp is gone!” one of the riders shouted to the men on the ground.
Skahl and the others broke into a run. A steep bank of snow hid their view of the camp, and they scrambled up it’s uneven side. Pausing at the top, they could see the scene of carnage laid out before them.
Everywhere, the snow was churned to bloody slush. Camp fires, and war-fires, still smoldered. They had only missed the battle by a day, at most. Yurts were trampled, and bodies – pieces of bodies – lay strewn about in the crimson mire. Stahl turned around to see the rest of the warband taking up positions, in preparation for a possible ambush. He sniffed the air. Blood. And nothing more. He signaled that all was clear, and as one of the best hunters among the Gorehunt, they took him on his word. Skahl took a single look at his companions, and descended the hill into the wreckage of their homes.
Skahl located his family yurt. On the outside of the camp, it would have been one of the first to be attacked, and only a few bone stakes marked where it had stood. Kneeling into the snow, he followed three sets of footprints out, away from the camp, towards where the battle would have been joined. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his wife, and his son Gormach, making their way into the battle-line. The smaller feet would have been Yselte. When Skahl saw the smaller prints turn back towards the yurt, he almost managed to smile. Yselte – always stubborn and ready to fight. If only she had been born as son, she would have been as ferocious a warrior as any of the Gorehunt.
Skahl followed the footsteps until the became confused with the dozens of other tracks leading towards the site of the battle. Bodies dotted the path, they had been routed – or had withdrawn to the campsite. Confused. Broken. Skahl fell to his waist in a deep snowdrift, only to pull himself out and carry on towards the battle. Others of the tribe watched as he led the way. He fell upon the pile of corpses, frozen stiff and stuck together with blood and the liquids of battle. On his knees, he dug through the mass, seeking any sign of the fate of his wife and son. There, near the bottom of the pile, he found them. Gormach first, his dead hands frozen to his axes, eyes wild. His lips were drawn back, teeth bared like a wild dog – he had died in a frenzy. Two layers of blood – the first, daubed in markings of fresh kills. Three, at least. The second layer was from the battle, and the countless deep wounds on his flesh. He had died a warrior. Skahl would be able to burn him among the honored dead, a proud, but childless father. Beneath Gormach, Skahl’s wife. She was no less battered than her child, and her axe was close by. Had Gormach fallen defending her? It would have been early in the battle, before the route, to be buried beneath so many other fighters. Skahl knew his wife would have been on the front lines, dragging Gormach by his scruff if she’d had to.
Skahl pulled them from the ruin, dragging them clear. As he turned, he saw others approaching the pile, tracking footsteps and looking for their families. He bit back tears, Gorehunts did not cry, only blood, or frothing rage, could pour from their bodies – but his anguished howl pierced the darkening sky. Others joined him, finding only shattered dreams among the broken bodies.
Skahl backtracked, picked up Yselte’s trail and followed it back to the yurt. Her body was not among the slain, what happened to her after Gormach and her mother sent her back? Footsteps circled the yurt. She had run, several times it seemed, towards the battle – only to be turned back. She had sat, perhaps to wait? Skahl saw a second pair of footsteps enter the yurt. New ones, not his family. Someone had taken his daughter, and dragged her from the yurt, out into the snow. He followed the marks for a short time, they led away from the camp, and the battle. His daughter’s warrior’s fate had been denied her. Skahl’s face twisted with rage. He tracked the intruder’s footsteps back the way he came. Across the camp. To Lyfig’s yurt. Lyfig was standing like a stone, dumbfounded.
“Your son!” Skahl roared, shaking Lyfig from his stupor, “Your son, Tyrgulf. He is a coward. Deserter!”
A crowd began to form, drawn towards the disturbance. Skahl wrestled Lyfig towards the approaching Gorehunts.
“His son is a coward. The entire family – shamed! He has taken my daughter, dragged her into the snow.”
Lyfig broke the hold, and scrambled to his feet, “you have no proof” he managed to say. Skahl shoved him back, and pointed at the tracks leading out of camp.
“That is your only proof? Footprints? If you wish to shame my family, you’ll have to do better than that.”
Skahl drew his axes, and lunged at Lyfig.
“Halt!” a voice commanded from within the crowd. The hunters parted, and their chief stepped forward, “Khorne cares naught from whence the blood flows, but I do. Our warriors should be spared. There is vengeance afoot, but not among ourselves – you can settle this, after we’ve dealt with whoever attacked our homes.”
Skahl rounded on the chief,
“He shames the entire Gorehunt! How can you spare a man who’s own kin are a blemish upon the favor of our tribe? You would risk our favor with Khorne, for this man? For a coward?”
Behind the chief, a hush fell over the tribe.
“You challenge me, Skahl Ironmane?”
Skahl’s eyes darkened, “if you stand between me, and avenging my family, I will kill you for less”
The fight was brief. As Chief and Warrior struggled across the snow, the tribe descended upon Lyfig, holding him captive until the winner was decided. As the flurry of blows subsided, Skahl stood alone, bloodied, but victorious. With a roar, he raised the chieftain’s head into the air. Lyfig’s shout of defiance was choked with blood as the tribe fell upon him like a pack of hounds, tearing him apart in a frenzy of gory revelry.
When the frenzy finally came to an end, the tribe looked to Skahl.
“We camp here for the night, honor our dead.”
The tribe nodded solemnly. “And what of the spoils of our Hunt?” called one man.
Skahl looked at the glut of prisoners, and the train of beasts brought back for the feast, “Destroy them. We have no need for them now.”
Skahl swalked towards the tribe’s warshrine atop one of their great herdbeasts, where the chief made his throne. He sat down and watched the men hack apart the slaves, offering each severed head and spray of arterial blood to the glory of their god. A short time later, two men approached, with a third held between them. Skahl leaned forward on his throne with a questioning look,
“This man is a witch.” spoke the first,
“Indeed, his treacherous magic burned Kurner alive, and boiled Welf from the inside”
The man held between them looked as though they had beaten him savagely, but only managed a smile.
“Then why do you not burn me, witch” Skahl asked the leering man.
“Because I think we are men of reason, you and I, and hope we might make a deal” the wizard replied smoothly.
“I do not make ‘deals’ with wretches such as wizards. If you have anything to offer, tell me where to find my daughter, and the son of Lyfig”
The wizard closed his eyes, lost in thought, before opening them again, “The fates will not say.”
Skahl kicked the man with a heavy boot, sending the trio nearly tumbling from the warshrine, “Then I will earn the favor of Khorne and he will make them speak!” he roared, “get this waste out of my sight, you should have butchered him with the others”
One of the Gorehunts placed an axe to the man’s neck, preparing to execute him in his master’s presence and earn favor with their new chief.
“Wait!” the wizard cried, “you say you wish to earn the favor of Khorne? I may be able to assist you there.”
The executioner hefted his axe, “silence – you have nothing more to say to our chief, wretch”
“But I know who has attacked your camp. And I know where they have gone.”
For a second time, the tribe seemed to fall utterly silent. All eyes were on Skahl, and the wizard. From the ground around the warshrine, none could hear what transpired between the two men. Skahl waved the man away, and the wizard’s two captors dragged him off, to be chained in brass. Skahl stood atop the warshrine and looked over the assembled tribe, all eager to exact bloody revenge on the beasts who had slain their families. Skahl raised the longhorn to his lips and blew a single, keening note. The sounding of the Gore Hunt, and the tribe roared with approval. They would be marching to war.
...
Ten years later, Skahl, Champion of Khorne, chained in fury, sat atop his throne. His Juggernaut snorted, and pawed anxiously at the sandy ground. For a decade, the Gore Hunt had been unceasing, a decade of marching, sailing, and war, in pursuit of the Frost Guts tribe who had slain their kin. Over the age, Khorne had heaped gifts of his approval upon the tireless Gorehunt tribe. Brass armor and Juggernauts from the Daemon-forges of Zharr. Hounds from the litters of Khorne’s own. Banners of brass, torn flesh, and flowing blood to mark their victories. But for ten years, the fates had remained silent about the fate of Skahl’s daughter.
Today, the wizard knelt before him upon the sand. The heavy brass collar of Khorne locked around his neck, forcing an ever-flowing stream of blood to run from the chafed and abused flesh beneath it. The wizard had never complained, and although Khorne may have loathed magic in all it’s guises, the wizard had never once fallen from grace, and had even fought in battle alongside the Gorehunt. But now, he had run out of chances. If the fates would not speak today, then his head would merely become one more amongst the towers of skulls the Gorehunt had left in it’s wake.
The wizard mumbled incantations and drew sigils in the sand. Skahl could smell the fear on him as he implored the fates once again, as he had every day. This time though, something was different. The desert air was alive with ozone, and an odor of brimstone seemed to rise up from the dusty ground. The sky above darkened, and the sunset lit it an ominous red. Rain pattered down upon Skahl’s iron armor, hissing and steaming. He turned his head just enough to see his wide pauldrons – it was raining blood. At last, the sky split with a loud crack, a portal to the realm of mad gods torn into the very skin of reality. Through it, Skahl could see Bloodletters blowing loud upon brass horns, heralding the arrival of a dark shape at their center.
Valkia, consort – no, princess – of Khorne, descended into the bleak desert. The Gorehunt, even Skahl, immediately fell to their knees, and lowered their eyes. Valkia looked disdainfully at the wizard who seemingly summoned her, and in a flash his collar glowed red and molten hot, and he fell wailing to the sand.
“Skahl Ironmane – rise.” she commanded in a voice that was at once beautiful and terrifying. In her, Skahl thought that he could almost see his wife, long lost to him. Many of the Gorehunt probably could, she was the breathing epitome of a warrior-queen.
“I have not come to the summons of your paltry wizard, I have come only with permission of our master, the Lord of Skulls. You seek your daughter. The girl who was once your daughter still lives, but she is no longer your daughter – she belongs to Khorne. However, I have not come simply to tell you her fate, for she has fallen. She has left the service of Khorne for another, and as keeper of his handmaidens it falls upon me to make it right. And for this task, I am enlisting you. She was your daughter once, there could be no better servant to trust with this task. Your survival has only continued through your favor with Khorne, or I would have killed you myself for siring such a disgrace.”
Skahl looked at the woman for a long time. This was connected to Lyfig’s son. He knew it – he had lost their tracks in the snow, and now – now he had once again forced dishonor not only upon the Gorehunt, but upon Skahl’s own kin as well.
“Tell me where to find her, and I will restore or to Khorne’s will, or slay her myself,” he spoke to Valkia. The woman only laughed, a fierce and beautiful sound,
“Tell you where to find her? No, servant, I will do you one better. I will lead you to her.”
**Written by CaptainSarathai @ Librarium Online**
Yselte buried the axe-head into the cutting stump and looked at her hands. She had been chopping firewood all afternoon, and the blisters on her hands had swollen and burst hours ago. The haft of the axe was a mess of slimy gore. A few feet away, her mother was scraping a stretched hide. She envied her mother for being able to sit, and simply draw the bone-knife across the lea
ther, but knew that it was dextrous work. A young girl could not be trusted with something so important, and chopping firewood not only built up her strength, but also gave her good practice with an axe. But still, her hands were sore, “Why have you stopped Yselte- you’re hands? Remember child, ‘Blood for the Blood God’” Yselte turned her eyes northward to the roiling skies, “and skulls for the skull throne,” finishing the blessing for her mother. Her father had been away on the longships for two months now, carrying the judgement of their fierce god to the soft wastrels of the South, and doing his part to ensure that the Gorehunt Tribe would remain in Khorne’s favor for another season.
As she reached a raw hand back towards the axe, she saw a trio of dark shapes cresting a distant drift of windblown snow.
“Mama, Gormach is back from the hunt!”
Yselte’s mother stood up from the tanning rack and squinted into the snow. When she saw Gormach and the other boys crest the next hill, she crossed her arms and waited patiently,
“Get the fire ready in the yurt, Yselte, it looks like they’re carrying a meal.”
With a fire burning, Yselte heard her brother and the other hunters crunching through the snow. Yselte and her mother lived in one of the outer yurts. It had been difficult for her mother to have children, and Yselte’s older brother Gormach was still barely thirteen winters old, too young to be a proper warrior, and therefore, Yselte and her mother were not yet welcomed into the circle of War Kin at the center of camp. She ran outside and hugged her brother.
Gormach’s shirtless torso was streaked with blood, and he had a bitter gash on his shoulder. Two youths behind him each looked worse for wear, and Gormach carried the lifeless body of a fourth over his shoulders. He dumped the cadaver onto the snow,
“Jorund” he grunted at the body. Yselte looked at it – great hunks of flesh had been ripped from the bone, and the head was only a lumpen sack of bone and gore. He had been her friend, only half a year older than her brother.
“How did he die?" her mother asked,
“Like a Gorehunt – with an axe in his hand,” one of the boys replied, Tyrgulf. His right arm hung limply at his side.
“That is good,” Yselte’s mother replied, “at least he died well. I cannot say the same for you three,” the survivors tried to look away from her darkened eyes, “take the body to his mother, and tell her why you have returned when her son did not”
Yselte looked down at her hands as the boys stepped forward to lift Jorund’s remains – they were still covered in blood, hers, her brother’s, and Jorund’s. She stepped forward to Trygulf and put her small hand on his handsome chest. When he looked at the bloody handprint, Yselte felt herself blush,
“For the strong hunter, who came back when Jorund could not,” she managed.
Trygulf’s mouth twisted with a smile, and he hefted the corpse over his shoulder with a grunt. Yselte watched the two boys walk off to yurt of Jorund’s family, and then fathered her mother and sibling inside.
“We need to move camp by nightfall tomorrow, mother,” Gormach was saying, “We saw them out there – the blue ogres have returned. They killed Jorund, we didn’t stand a chance, we came back to carry the warning.”
Yselte looked at her son from across the flames, “it only takes one to carry a message,” she looked at Yselte and back at Gormach “Hylan was the youngest. You and Trygulf should have died as men”
Yselte was confused, Gormach had been hunting to the North, but the Ogres lived to the South, with the other weak things.
“Blue Ogres? Why can’t hetman Solaus turn them away?”
Gormach looked up from his bloodied shoulder, “Because Solaus’s great grandfather brought them here!”
Yselte was even more confused. Were they Daemons? “Then Solaus must know the banishing curse to send them back.”
Yselte’s mother was already beginning to pack away their few belongings, but she looked over her shoulder at her daughter, “They’re not Daemons. They’re not Ogres either. Two generations ago, Solaus’s grandfather Gurrier led the yearly Great Hunt to the South, into Ogre-country. He wanted to bring back the largest kill since Kurran began the tribe, to take over the tribe from the chieftain. The hunt marched to the Ogre Stone, and set their camp. From there, young hunters, much braver than Gormach, hiked over the mountains to attack the grazing herdbeasts of the Ogres and drag them back to prepare for the feast.
“When the Ogres discovered their great beasts missing, they rallied their tribes and made for the Ogre Stone. The battle raged for three days, and many brothers and fathers of the Gorehunt were lost. But on the second day, the Blood God was pleased, and Gorehunt stacked the fresh skulls of Ogres until they buried the Ogre Stone, and they split open the ribs of the fallen as a feast for the crows. With a glut of meat for the feast, the Great Hunt returned to the tribe.
“One pale moon later, a tribe of Ogres marched North, past the Ogre Stone. The chieftain led the warriors of the Gorehunt into the snow, and they bit their axes and howled their warcries, and the Ogres marched around them, turning their backs. Old Gurrier called out to the Ogres, and walked to speak with their fat leader. He returned saying that the Ogres did not want to make war. They were seeking something, ‘a world without a Maw’ he said, but he didn’t know what that could mean. Too afraid to fight, Gurriel convinced the Chieftain to let them pass.
“Young hunters followed the Ogres however, proving themselves in battle against the stragglers who fell behind, and dragging the carcasses back to hang high upon the spires to Khorne. Your father brought back two large, fur-covered Ogres, dragging them alone after they killed the rest of the party. He was a braver warrior than Gormach, a true warrior. But the Ogres soon ventured further North than even we dared to go, and the last hunting parties said that they saw the Ogres disappearing into a blizzard, leaving nothing behind but a trail of frozen and butchered Ogres, and footprints in the snow.
“Years later, the coward Gurrier was gunned down in battle by the weaklings of the South, as he deserved. With him, almost all memory of the wandering Ogres died. But it was not long after that they returned. On the night of the season’s fiercest blizzard, they marched out from the snow to lay waste to the camp of the Gorehunt. Man and woman stood side-by-side to fend them off, and it was only when the storm abated that the attackers retreated, leaving burning yurts and half-devoured bodies behind them. They were different now though – their skin was blue, like a frozen man’s, and their hair had turned pale and white. Their blood was colder than an ice river, and their breath frosted like a cold morning.
“Solaus will not speak of them, just like his father and his father before him, except to say that they call themselves the Frost Guts Tribe, and that their leader is a great Ogre named Fjaldur IceEater. Others with the gift of omens and visions speak more, and say that they are the same Ogres who passed by the camp those many years ago, and that as punishment for Gurrier’s cowardice, the gods took them into their realm and remade them, as a curse upon the Gorehunt forever more, doomed to appear on the coldest of winters to slaughter us or drive us across the wastes.”
Yselte’s mother looked at Gormach, who gazed forlornly at the flames, “remember Gormach, the gods do not forgive at coward,” and turning her attention to young Yselte, “and the women should not suffer a weakling.”
The siblings nodded sullenly, as their mother continued to chastise her son, “Next time, I expect you to return with a trophy, or not to return at all – that is the way of the Gore Hunt.”
**Written by CaptainSarathai @ Librarium Online**
---------------------------------------------------------
The GoreHunt Tribe (Warriors of Chaos) - Project Link - http://www.librarium-online.com/forums/projects/219549-gore-hunt-tribe.html
The longhorn blew once more, to signal the return of the raiding party, but there was no reply. They had found the camp by the tendrils of cooking smoke that twisted up into the grey skies above. Chains of slaves followed behind them, to be offered to the Blood God, and behind the slaves, great beasts from lands beyond were guided, or pulled as carcasses through the
snow, the warhounds snapping at them like horrifying sheep-dogs.
Skahl knew there was something amiss even before the first of the horsemen came riding back from the site. He, and a few of the other men, broke into a jog, to greet the onrushing riders.
“What news brother Gorehunts?” one of the footmen shouted as the riders approached. The fast cavalry rode by in a torrent of snow and snorting horses.
“The camp is gone!” one of the riders shouted to the men on the ground.
Skahl and the others broke into a run. A steep bank of snow hid their view of the camp, and they scrambled up it’s uneven side. Pausing at the top, they could see the scene of carnage laid out before them.
Everywhere, the snow was churned to bloody slush. Camp fires, and war-fires, still smoldered. They had only missed the battle by a day, at most. Yurts were trampled, and bodies – pieces of bodies – lay strewn about in the crimson mire. Stahl turned around to see the rest of the warband taking up positions, in preparation for a possible ambush. He sniffed the air. Blood. And nothing more. He signaled that all was clear, and as one of the best hunters among the Gorehunt, they took him on his word. Skahl took a single look at his companions, and descended the hill into the wreckage of their homes.
Skahl located his family yurt. On the outside of the camp, it would have been one of the first to be attacked, and only a few bone stakes marked where it had stood. Kneeling into the snow, he followed three sets of footprints out, away from the camp, towards where the battle would have been joined. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine his wife, and his son Gormach, making their way into the battle-line. The smaller feet would have been Yselte. When Skahl saw the smaller prints turn back towards the yurt, he almost managed to smile. Yselte – always stubborn and ready to fight. If only she had been born as son, she would have been as ferocious a warrior as any of the Gorehunt.
Skahl followed the footsteps until the became confused with the dozens of other tracks leading towards the site of the battle. Bodies dotted the path, they had been routed – or had withdrawn to the campsite. Confused. Broken. Skahl fell to his waist in a deep snowdrift, only to pull himself out and carry on towards the battle. Others of the tribe watched as he led the way. He fell upon the pile of corpses, frozen stiff and stuck together with blood and the liquids of battle. On his knees, he dug through the mass, seeking any sign of the fate of his wife and son. There, near the bottom of the pile, he found them. Gormach first, his dead hands frozen to his axes, eyes wild. His lips were drawn back, teeth bared like a wild dog – he had died in a frenzy. Two layers of blood – the first, daubed in markings of fresh kills. Three, at least. The second layer was from the battle, and the countless deep wounds on his flesh. He had died a warrior. Skahl would be able to burn him among the honored dead, a proud, but childless father. Beneath Gormach, Skahl’s wife. She was no less battered than her child, and her axe was close by. Had Gormach fallen defending her? It would have been early in the battle, before the route, to be buried beneath so many other fighters. Skahl knew his wife would have been on the front lines, dragging Gormach by his scruff if she’d had to.
Skahl pulled them from the ruin, dragging them clear. As he turned, he saw others approaching the pile, tracking footsteps and looking for their families. He bit back tears, Gorehunts did not cry, only blood, or frothing rage, could pour from their bodies – but his anguished howl pierced the darkening sky. Others joined him, finding only shattered dreams among the broken bodies.
Skahl backtracked, picked up Yselte’s trail and followed it back to the yurt. Her body was not among the slain, what happened to her after Gormach and her mother sent her back? Footsteps circled the yurt. She had run, several times it seemed, towards the battle – only to be turned back. She had sat, perhaps to wait? Skahl saw a second pair of footsteps enter the yurt. New ones, not his family. Someone had taken his daughter, and dragged her from the yurt, out into the snow. He followed the marks for a short time, they led away from the camp, and the battle. His daughter’s warrior’s fate had been denied her. Skahl’s face twisted with rage. He tracked the intruder’s footsteps back the way he came. Across the camp. To Lyfig’s yurt. Lyfig was standing like a stone, dumbfounded.
“Your son!” Skahl roared, shaking Lyfig from his stupor, “Your son, Tyrgulf. He is a coward. Deserter!”
A crowd began to form, drawn towards the disturbance. Skahl wrestled Lyfig towards the approaching Gorehunts.
“His son is a coward. The entire family – shamed! He has taken my daughter, dragged her into the snow.”
Lyfig broke the hold, and scrambled to his feet, “you have no proof” he managed to say. Skahl shoved him back, and pointed at the tracks leading out of camp.
“That is your only proof? Footprints? If you wish to shame my family, you’ll have to do better than that.”
Skahl drew his axes, and lunged at Lyfig.
“Halt!” a voice commanded from within the crowd. The hunters parted, and their chief stepped forward, “Khorne cares naught from whence the blood flows, but I do. Our warriors should be spared. There is vengeance afoot, but not among ourselves – you can settle this, after we’ve dealt with whoever attacked our homes.”
Skahl rounded on the chief,
“He shames the entire Gorehunt! How can you spare a man who’s own kin are a blemish upon the favor of our tribe? You would risk our favor with Khorne, for this man? For a coward?”
Behind the chief, a hush fell over the tribe.
“You challenge me, Skahl Ironmane?”
Skahl’s eyes darkened, “if you stand between me, and avenging my family, I will kill you for less”
The fight was brief. As Chief and Warrior struggled across the snow, the tribe descended upon Lyfig, holding him captive until the winner was decided. As the flurry of blows subsided, Skahl stood alone, bloodied, but victorious. With a roar, he raised the chieftain’s head into the air. Lyfig’s shout of defiance was choked with blood as the tribe fell upon him like a pack of hounds, tearing him apart in a frenzy of gory revelry.
When the frenzy finally came to an end, the tribe looked to Skahl.
“We camp here for the night, honor our dead.”
The tribe nodded solemnly. “And what of the spoils of our Hunt?” called one man.
Skahl looked at the glut of prisoners, and the train of beasts brought back for the feast, “Destroy them. We have no need for them now.”
Skahl swalked towards the tribe’s warshrine atop one of their great herdbeasts, where the chief made his throne. He sat down and watched the men hack apart the slaves, offering each severed head and spray of arterial blood to the glory of their god. A short time later, two men approached, with a third held between them. Skahl leaned forward on his throne with a questioning look,
“This man is a witch.” spoke the first,
“Indeed, his treacherous magic burned Kurner alive, and boiled Welf from the inside”
The man held between them looked as though they had beaten him savagely, but only managed a smile.
“Then why do you not burn me, witch” Skahl asked the leering man.
“Because I think we are men of reason, you and I, and hope we might make a deal” the wizard replied smoothly.
“I do not make ‘deals’ with wretches such as wizards. If you have anything to offer, tell me where to find my daughter, and the son of Lyfig”
The wizard closed his eyes, lost in thought, before opening them again, “The fates will not say.”
Skahl kicked the man with a heavy boot, sending the trio nearly tumbling from the warshrine, “Then I will earn the favor of Khorne and he will make them speak!” he roared, “get this waste out of my sight, you should have butchered him with the others”
One of the Gorehunts placed an axe to the man’s neck, preparing to execute him in his master’s presence and earn favor with their new chief.
“Wait!” the wizard cried, “you say you wish to earn the favor of Khorne? I may be able to assist you there.”
The executioner hefted his axe, “silence – you have nothing more to say to our chief, wretch”
“But I know who has attacked your camp. And I know where they have gone.”
For a second time, the tribe seemed to fall utterly silent. All eyes were on Skahl, and the wizard. From the ground around the warshrine, none could hear what transpired between the two men. Skahl waved the man away, and the wizard’s two captors dragged him off, to be chained in brass. Skahl stood atop the warshrine and looked over the assembled tribe, all eager to exact bloody revenge on the beasts who had slain their families. Skahl raised the longhorn to his lips and blew a single, keening note. The sounding of the Gore Hunt, and the tribe roared with approval. They would be marching to war.
...
Ten years later, Skahl, Champion of Khorne, chained in fury, sat atop his throne. His Juggernaut snorted, and pawed anxiously at the sandy ground. For a decade, the Gore Hunt had been unceasing, a decade of marching, sailing, and war, in pursuit of the Frost Guts tribe who had slain their kin. Over the age, Khorne had heaped gifts of his approval upon the tireless Gorehunt tribe. Brass armor and Juggernauts from the Daemon-forges of Zharr. Hounds from the litters of Khorne’s own. Banners of brass, torn flesh, and flowing blood to mark their victories. But for ten years, the fates had remained silent about the fate of Skahl’s daughter.
Today, the wizard knelt before him upon the sand. The heavy brass collar of Khorne locked around his neck, forcing an ever-flowing stream of blood to run from the chafed and abused flesh beneath it. The wizard had never complained, and although Khorne may have loathed magic in all it’s guises, the wizard had never once fallen from grace, and had even fought in battle alongside the Gorehunt. But now, he had run out of chances. If the fates would not speak today, then his head would merely become one more amongst the towers of skulls the Gorehunt had left in it’s wake.
The wizard mumbled incantations and drew sigils in the sand. Skahl could smell the fear on him as he implored the fates once again, as he had every day. This time though, something was different. The desert air was alive with ozone, and an odor of brimstone seemed to rise up from the dusty ground. The sky above darkened, and the sunset lit it an ominous red. Rain pattered down upon Skahl’s iron armor, hissing and steaming. He turned his head just enough to see his wide pauldrons – it was raining blood. At last, the sky split with a loud crack, a portal to the realm of mad gods torn into the very skin of reality. Through it, Skahl could see Bloodletters blowing loud upon brass horns, heralding the arrival of a dark shape at their center.
Valkia, consort – no, princess – of Khorne, descended into the bleak desert. The Gorehunt, even Skahl, immediately fell to their knees, and lowered their eyes. Valkia looked disdainfully at the wizard who seemingly summoned her, and in a flash his collar glowed red and molten hot, and he fell wailing to the sand.
“Skahl Ironmane – rise.” she commanded in a voice that was at once beautiful and terrifying. In her, Skahl thought that he could almost see his wife, long lost to him. Many of the Gorehunt probably could, she was the breathing epitome of a warrior-queen.
“I have not come to the summons of your paltry wizard, I have come only with permission of our master, the Lord of Skulls. You seek your daughter. The girl who was once your daughter still lives, but she is no longer your daughter – she belongs to Khorne. However, I have not come simply to tell you her fate, for she has fallen. She has left the service of Khorne for another, and as keeper of his handmaidens it falls upon me to make it right. And for this task, I am enlisting you. She was your daughter once, there could be no better servant to trust with this task. Your survival has only continued through your favor with Khorne, or I would have killed you myself for siring such a disgrace.”
Skahl looked at the woman for a long time. This was connected to Lyfig’s son. He knew it – he had lost their tracks in the snow, and now – now he had once again forced dishonor not only upon the Gorehunt, but upon Skahl’s own kin as well.
“Tell me where to find her, and I will restore or to Khorne’s will, or slay her myself,” he spoke to Valkia. The woman only laughed, a fierce and beautiful sound,
“Tell you where to find her? No, servant, I will do you one better. I will lead you to her.”
**Written by CaptainSarathai @ Librarium Online**
AshBorn
Check my Gnoblog to see my Frost Tribe Ogres!
Check my Gnoblog to see my Frost Tribe Ogres!