The chanting dies as you approach. The guards hail the man welding the battle axe.
“Mighty Chieftain Aros!” says the older guard. “An embassy from enemy Astorwind, now brothers here in the sacred land of Warne Harsard-Wast, have come seeking parley!”
The man puts down his battle axe and looks to the crowd with his arms spread wide. Now that you are closer to him, you see his eyes are constantly bleeding. He grins to you and to the audience. “Welcome, I say, to our most hated enemies!” he cries. The crowd grumbles at the statement, but remains calm.
“Tell me, why is it that you have come? Is it, perhaps, that the orcs that drove my people from their homes in the mountains are fallen upon your borders?” His smile widens cruelly.
“If so, may I offer them my commendation and you my condemnation.” His grin vanishes, but he does not turn hostile.
My Gosh! Sorry guys, I have been busy these days with some work overload, that almost burned my brain down. I am going to catch up with the story a bit, as some great things are happening here!
Nareth follows the party. He was angry beyond measure, because he had to give away his weapons to the crowd of these barbarians, bathed in the blood of their own warriors.
“ Maybe we should encourage these rituals among these folks? They voluntarily destroy their army... ”, whispered Nareth to Colden with badly covered irritation.
His trusty short dagger was skillfully tucked under a cloak behind his back, away from prying and hostile eyes. The captain was not stupid enough to go completely unarmed into the heart of the camp. He tried his best to assess the situation and think strategically. The Bloodies obviously were plotting evil, and if their party will have to forfeit their warrior's life in the name of these barbaric rituals - well, then Nareth will kill the Priest and either become this very sacrificed warrior, or won't let it happen.
Cold resolve drove out Nareth's anger and the captain almost came to terms with his fate. He became surprisingly calm and thoughtful, especially in the midst of screaming and yelling Bloodies around their group. The stench around distracted and evoked thoughts about past military campaigns. He already saw blood on the battlefield, but behind the walls of Astorwind his memories started to faint.
He stopped besides Colden with his arms crossed and looked at the Priest listening. He will indeed let Colden do the talking for now. They are outnumbered, surrounded and almost unarmed. Definitely not the best tactical advantage. Perhaps it is time to swing tongues instead of blades.
" Refiner Almighty! How on Earth do you let this happen? ", thought Nareth
Colden looked around and realized he might be a bit out of his depth.. perhaps this wasn't such a great idea. Heh, he chuckled to himself in his head and remembered old discussions he'd won in the halls of Astorwind, "I have managed to sway even the most antagonized minds before with my wit and my charm, let's hope it can manage it once more".
"Hail Chieftan!" Colden's voice was thunderous and strong, the voice of an assertive leader. He wanted to make a strong first impression, something tells him these barbarians only respond to strength. He continues..
"Witty remark, I didn't expect the praised leader of the Bloodeye clan would be equally strong with his tongue as with his ax. And now I see why the clan is named the Bloodeye clan" Colden tips his head just a little at this remark, a small sign of respect but just small enough as to not diminish his stature in front of these barbarians, the kind of nod a king would give another king rather than a respectful bowing of the head from a servant to a king.
He decides to speak mostly frankly for now and see what responses he would get. An embryo for a plan already starting to appear in his mind.. it depends on the replies though.
"Indeed, the Orcs that smashed through your ranks like how Winter crushes Summer, is not moving towards Astorwind, in this you are correct. However, Astorwind won't turn tail and hide in.. " Colden sweeps his gaze around their strange surroundings "..whatever this is."
He continues, pretty sure the chieftan would not respond to kind appeals, he's left with a two choices, grovel and ask for them to join or taunt them into action.
"We will soon let you sit here in your little hideout, sucking on the teets of whatever gods you pray to when you we go out and face them and gain all the glory and all the praise from the Refiner as we crush them!" IN this passage Colden uses his bardic skills to weave his song magic into his voice, making it powerful and even more thunderous. He know's he's pushing the limits of the chieftan, but what other choice does he have?
"We ask nothing of you, it's obvious your reputation as great warriors is exaggerated, other than information. What can you tell us about the orcs, their numbers, their tactics, their leaders, their motives? Do this for us and I promise we'll leave the dear orcs where they lie so you and your people can scavenge the battlegrounds afterwards. " The last part is said with pity in his voice.
The vacation was absolutely amazing! Had the best week of my life, as far as I can remember. Thank you for asking
This is not the first time in memory of Nareth, when Colden openly played with fire. He was known for being the indestructible orator in Astorwind and the captain was convinced of this once again.
" Let's see what these morons can answer Colden. However, the captain's dagger is so insignificant in front of the language that these barbarians understand better: the language of violence and power ", he thought, sadly smiling at his beard.
Chieftain Aros puffs out his chest in pride at first when Colden starts speaking. However, his eyes narrow in offense as Colden speaks of turning tail and hiding. Then as he continues, the Chieftain’s bloody eyes veritably pop out of their sockets as he tries to contain his rage.
The crowd, however, seems to be somewhat in agreement with Colden, for reasons unknown to the party. A low grumble of dissatisfaction flows through them at Colden’s words. The raiders are a strong, if wicked, people who respect power and bravery in battle. Perhaps they aren’t so pleased that they ran away from orcs? Perhaps this Chieftain is the one who led their retreat? You may not know.
Chieftain Aros looks around at his people and manages to contain his rage. He licks his lips nervously, but it is the only sign he gives of weakness. If this man has not held onto his power by strength and bravery, he may have held onto it by cunning. Again, you are merely guessing and may not know the full story ever.
“What do the people of Astorwind know of the glories of war?” he shouts at you. “You hide behind your cowardly stone walls, denying the spirits your blood sacrifice on the field of battle, while you grow fat and lazy on milk! You Milkbabes, you novices of war, stand no chance against the enemy on your borders. We, the Bloodeye Clan, read the signs of the spirits. You will be crushed into the dust, for it is not mere orcs you face.”
He turns to the crowd and laughs, pointing both his arms at Colden in mockery. “He thinks mere weakling orcs could challenge the might of the Bloodeye Clan!” The crowd grumbles in anger and insult. “We did not run from orcs! In fact, we did not run at all! We obeyed the signs of the spirits. Their lust for Milkbabe blood would not be spoiled by our refusal to give way before them! No, we harkened to them and read the signs.”
He turns back to Colden, his grin now returned. You can’t help but be surprised by this man. His oratory skills are impressive, especially for a barbarian, and his command of language seems out of place for a tribal leader. It occurs to you that he may not even be originally a raider. You realize you know very little about your enemies and their history, a mistake for which King Corak is responsible.
“You know nothing of the bane on your doorstep. Behold!” he cries, closing his eyes and raising his battleaxe. Suddenly, darkness shrouds his arms and legs, and a very slight dim casts a metallic glint on the light of the sun.
“You are our enemies eternal, but any who enter this sacred place of Warne Harsard-Wast are our brothers, by command of the spirits!” he cries. “Therefore, I give you this gift, brothers, one of prophecy and warning!
“Before the fall of the moon, the spirit Dizrym, he who leads the orcs to Astorwind, shall feast on Milkbabe flesh. The Milkbabe king’s lifeblood shall stain the snow, betrayed by his own.”
The darkness around his arms disappears, and he lowers his battle axe to the ground, his head bowed. The people look at him in awe and at your party in satisfaction at the doom pronounced upon you.
With an extravagant brush of his hair, he reopens his bloody eyes and stares at you as though looking upon the foolish dead.
“You came here in peace,” he says somberly. “You may go in peace... unless, that is, you have anything else you require of your brothers...?” He indicates his tribe with a long stretch of his hands, mocking you and your ignorance of their ways.
Colden is an intelligent and learned man, but he has no idea what lunatic ramblings this chieftan spouts. At least they got something out of it; it's not just orcs and the name of the leader. He also gets strange vibes from this chieftan. Apparently he has some kind of magical powers able to summon shadows and darkness unknown to Colden. Could he be some kind of Shaman perhaps, using his skills of spirit summoning to manipulate the clan?
"The walls we build is no more cowardly than this little retreat of yours. Are YOU out on the battlefield? No, I think you read the spirits' signs of your own defeat and chose to tuck your little tail between your legs and flee. But it's ok, the men and women of Astorwind is here now to take care of the problem, already on the march to meet our enemies on the glorious field of battle. And in the middle of the fray you will find this group (Colden sweeps his arms to indicate his friends), slaying orcs from left to right. (dramatic pause) So sit here idly and rest your tired legs, old man, and spout your bedtime stories until you believe in them."
Colden tries this one last push.. it seemed the crowd responded to his taunting, perhaps they can be persuaded to push their leader into action. If not, they have been promised peace so he makes a calculated guess they can still exit unharmed. He works the crowd now, using everything he learned in Bardic school about how to weave words into powerful messages, to reach the souls of the audience and sway their minds. His old teacher always told him he was a better orator than a singer and that he should stick to skalding.
"We have nothing we require from the likes of you. We came her in search of strong warriors, but found motley group of cuckolds. We will take our leave."
Colden doesn't turn and walk away directly, instead waiting a moment for signs of how the chieftan and the crowd will respond. He gazes to Nareth and Lagrord and gives them a sign of "be ready for anything".
Friends, going on a family trip a few days, back july 29 or 30. I can particpate with short texts on the phone, but expect delays and/or silence. Cheers!
Nareth nods slightly to Colden. He did not need reminders and with his whole appearance depicted a readiness to rush to the Lorekeeper’s defense in case of danger. Together with Lagrord they will be able to hold back the sudden attack of enemies for a while, but the captain would rather prefer a good old duel between two strongest warriors in order to spare the other lives...
But definitely not in this bad tactical situation, to his experience such solutions might be applied between two equal armies, but not between a small bunch of warriors against this laughing and yelling barbarian living tide.
The crowd grumbles in agreement at Colden’s words, which is surprising. In Astorwind, no Muddy speech given to a crowd like today would be taken seriously by any sane member of the society. Such is the lot of Garta, a veritable outcast. The raider’s propensity for human sacrifice and barbarity discredits them. Likewise, the hatred that raiders have for Milkbabes is just as intense. Why would the crowd listen at all to what a Milkbabe dwarf has to say? Perhaps this poisonous place truly does mean something to these savages?
Almost in answer, Chief Aros speaks again to the crowd, not in condemnation but in an effort at persuasion.
“The spirits have often revealed their will to us through our enemies in this our temple—” he sweeps his hands at the garbage and refuse and poisonous, glowing pits around him “—and perhaps you are thinking that such is the case now!
“But let us remember that this is NOT the call to strength and courage, to put aside our fear of death and torture and dishonor to face a greater danger for the sake of survival! No, this is the desperate mewling and deceptive whining of our most hated enemy just as he is about to meet his doom! The spirits have spoken to us all! You saw the great spirit Dizrym devour our men and send them to the great hell awaiting! You heard him tell us to leave this place and return once again when this very foe Astorwind has been crushed by his power!
“Whatever spirit driving Our Foes Astorwind are in direct opposition to the spirit Dizrym! You have already chosen the side of Dizrym when we obeyed his command to leave our homes and come here to Warne Harsard-Wast! Should we now reconsider, Dizrym will punish us all for our betrayal if he wins... and the spirits behind Our Foes Astorwind will never trust our loyalty if they win!”
The crowd mumbles in fear and anger and division. Chief Aros points to Colden.
“No more words, Brother-Foe Astorwind. The decision is upon our people, and we will be bound by it. You have said your peace, and we thank you for it.” With that strangely courteous announcement, he sits upon the ground, cross-legged and places his battle-axe by his side.
Another man steps forward bearing an identical battle-axe, this man with blood painted under his eyes and tattoos all over his bare chest.
“I, Delegate of the East, of the Rising Sun, vote to follow the spirit Dizrym!” he screams. The eastern side of the tribe lifts up their voices in triumph as the man raises his battle-axe and hand to cut his palm. He splashes his freely flowing blood upon the hissing pit below.
A second giant of a man steps forward, this time from the south, you notice. He raises his battle-axe above his head as he steps forward, dragging behind him a small, heavily-pockmarked, young woman by the hair. She is struggling and screaming weakly as she scrambles to keep the force off her head. “I, Delegate of the South, of the Burning Sun, vote against the spirits of Dizrym, to follow our Brother-Foes Astorwind into glorious battle and drive the orcs from our borders!” The crowd in the south gives a shout of triumph and victory. “To appease the spirits for any perceived slight, I offer them the blood of this virgin!” The crowd goes insanely wild as he throws the whimpering woman into the pit. Her screams of pain last only a moment before her death.
A third man, this time from the north, steps forward. He is wearing a large, badly cleaned and cured wyvern head as a helmet. His voice sounds from deep within the skull and would have sounded silly had it not been for the horror and gravity of the situation.
“I, Delegate of the North, Mightiest of the Delegates, of Bitter Winter Herself, vote to follow the spirit Dizrym!” he calls out, his voice muffled and hollow by the thick strange helmet. He lifts his battle-axe and cuts his palm, splashing the pit with his own blood. The crowd, the largest part of the tribe, from the north, raise their voices in a deafening cheer.
A third man steps forward, wearing an old, dented, rusty Astorwind soldier’s helmet and dressed all in black. He has two strong men on either side of him, also dressed completely in black. They look to be warriors, though each of them are maimed significantly. One of them is missing his entire left arm, and the other is limping heavily. He looks to be in incredible pain and is clutching his back.
“I, Delegate of the West, Unheeded Conscience of our Astorwind Foes, of the Rising Night, vote against the spirit Dizrym, to follow our Brother-Foes Astorwind and to aid them, hopefully to restore some semblance of peace to the Bloodeye Clan!” The crowd behind him gives a somewhat weak shout of agreement, and the other delegates, including the one from the south, give him withering looks. “To appease the spirits for any perceived slight, I offer them the blood of these former warriors, crippled by the forces of Astorwind in glorious battle and no longer able to serve in honor. May their deaths symbolize that we bury our grievances and bring about a new age!”
He then forcefully pushes the men from behind into the poisonous pit. They fall to their deaths silently, though once they hit the noxious fluids below they cry out in pain before death extinguishes their voices.
During this exchange, Chief Aros looks on passively, his permanently bloody eyes calm and somber. Every now and then, he wipes the blood from his face.
Once the cries of the two men die, he stands and the delegates sit down.
“It appears our Delegate vote is tied!” he shouts to the crowd. “As you all know, a tie is decided by me, your wise Chief Aros! Before I cast my vote, however, I would hear one more plea from our Brother-Foes Astorwind.” He turns to Colden. “You must now convince me of your cause, for the people have spoken through the mouths of their delegates, and thus they leave the decision to me and the spirits, who bestow their wisdom upon me. The spirits demand that I open my mind, and I will do so, as our wise delegates from the South and the West have argued.”
He raises his battle-axe above his head with one hand, and points with the other to you. “Convince me!” he screams gravely.
Despite his word, you doubt the sincerity of his word and that anything you say could convince him to change his mind; this must just be part of their strange ritual.
Sorry I didn’t post earlier guys, I’ve been working seven 12 hour shifts this week (with one-hour commutes one way) and have only had time to do this as my one thing for downtime. The story isn’t dead, it’s just moving slow. Hope you all are keeping your interest.
Nareth suppresses his anger. He looks questionably at Colden, then whispers:
" M'Lord Colden, if I may. These folks expect us to make a sacrifice or spill the blood. I thinks, these gentlemen", Nareth nods in the direction of the 'delegates of South and West', "... already made a very worthy sacrifices, if I may call it so. I dare to say, I would be happy to make this blood ritual instead of ya. "
Nareth's face expresses readiness. He won't let the Royal Lorekeeper to spill his blood in the name of their barbaric bloodthirsty gods.
btw, any one of you can feel free to answer the Chief. He doesn’t necessarily know who is or isn’t the leader. The only person who shouldn’t would be females, like Garta, as she already told you.
" Easy, matey. I meant cutting my hand and giving some blood to these folks, not killing our party mates!.. I won't allow them to hurt ya or M'Lord Colden."
*Lagrord steps forward, desperately hoping he isn't about to get everyone killed*
"Tell me Aros, you give so many lives to this spirit of yours, has it ever given any back? What has it done that makes it worthy of you and your people?"
Aros looks at Lagrord in a calculating manner, as though seeing him for the first time. It is a new experience for the half-orc. Most people in Astorwind dismiss him or ridicule him. Aros is looking at him as though sizing him up as a potential threat.
“I would not expect a disbeliever from Astorwind to understand,” he says dismissively. The crowd mumbles agreement. “In Astorwind you worship the sun spirit. He is a lazy god, requiring no sacrifice of you, and in return gives you very little. He lies to you about caring for you, and claims that you are refined by your so-called hardships, as you grow fat and lazy on milk, just as he is.” It surprises you that one such as this man knows anything at all about the Sun God. Perhaps he is more than he seems?
“The spirits give us true power, power you could never understand. Such gifts come with a price, however, a price that the Bloodeye Clan is willing to pay!!” His last words rise in a shout to the tribe, and the crowd roars in agreement.
“I would love to banter philosophical and religious principles with one such as you, but I haven’t all day,” he says once the cheering dies down. “So tell me, why should we help you? My patience is wearing thin. The spirits grow restless. And our tribe has much to prepare for in the next few weeks.” The crowd mumbles their agreement.
" Don't ya dare, Preist, to mention the Refiner in vain and talk about him like that! He gives his children a chance to at least die in combat - as it befits a warrior, instead of the perishing under the blade of a sacrificial knife! This is your worship, aye, but what gods demand to sacrifice the best daughters and sons of the tribe, the most worthy warriors and people? Is this a honorable death, ya says? I says, the best, the most glorious death for a warrior is on the battlefield. But this is not the time and not the right place, I says, for religious wrangles. The Castle Astorwind calls for allies and wishes to rally all under one banner against the threat, so all folks can live there lives and worship what they want further! Your People now have a choice: to face the foe and combat it, or continue avoiding it. "
" Do I believe in this myself?.. ", though Nareth suddenly.
The crowd grumbles in anger at Nareth’s word. Only the Delegate of the West nods in agreement, however it is a brief thing that he stops doing once he catches sight of the anger of the crowd and the other delegates.
Chieftain Aros’ face turns red in anger. “Were this the field of battle, we would let our blades speak for the spirits,” he shouts at Nareth. “You Milkbabes would be easy prey for my battle-prowess, and your god is no match for the power of the spirits. Battle would vindicate this.
“However, this is not the field of battle! This is our holy temple, where combat is forbidden. You came in peace, you may go in peace. Guards, please escort them out of our hallowed ground.”
Do you do or say anything else before the guards escort you?
Comments
“Mighty Chieftain Aros!” says the older guard. “An embassy from enemy Astorwind, now brothers here in the sacred land of Warne Harsard-Wast, have come seeking parley!”
The man puts down his battle axe and looks to the crowd with his arms spread wide. Now that you are closer to him, you see his eyes are constantly bleeding. He grins to you and to the audience. “Welcome, I say, to our most hated enemies!” he cries. The crowd grumbles at the statement, but remains calm.
“Tell me, why is it that you have come? Is it, perhaps, that the orcs that drove my people from their homes in the mountains are fallen upon your borders?” His smile widens cruelly.
“If so, may I offer them my commendation and you my condemnation.” His grin vanishes, but he does not turn hostile.
What do you do?
How was you vacation @Skatan ?
“ Maybe we should encourage these rituals among these folks? They voluntarily destroy their army... ”, whispered Nareth to Colden with badly covered irritation.
His trusty short dagger was skillfully tucked under a cloak behind his back, away from prying and hostile eyes. The captain was not stupid enough to go completely unarmed into the heart of the camp. He tried his best to assess the situation and think strategically. The Bloodies obviously were plotting evil, and if their party will have to forfeit their warrior's life in the name of these barbaric rituals - well, then Nareth will kill the Priest and either become this very sacrificed warrior, or won't let it happen.
Cold resolve drove out Nareth's anger and the captain almost came to terms with his fate. He became surprisingly calm and thoughtful, especially in the midst of screaming and yelling Bloodies around their group. The stench around distracted and evoked thoughts about past military campaigns. He already saw blood on the battlefield, but behind the walls of Astorwind his memories started to faint.
He stopped besides Colden with his arms crossed and looked at the Priest listening. He will indeed let Colden do the talking for now. They are outnumbered, surrounded and almost unarmed. Definitely not the best tactical advantage. Perhaps it is time to swing tongues instead of blades.
"Hail Chieftan!" Colden's voice was thunderous and strong, the voice of an assertive leader. He wanted to make a strong first impression, something tells him these barbarians only respond to strength. He continues..
"Witty remark, I didn't expect the praised leader of the Bloodeye clan would be equally strong with his tongue as with his ax. And now I see why the clan is named the Bloodeye clan" Colden tips his head just a little at this remark, a small sign of respect but just small enough as to not diminish his stature in front of these barbarians, the kind of nod a king would give another king rather than a respectful bowing of the head from a servant to a king.
He decides to speak mostly frankly for now and see what responses he would get. An embryo for a plan already starting to appear in his mind.. it depends on the replies though.
"Indeed, the Orcs that smashed through your ranks like how Winter crushes Summer, is not moving towards Astorwind, in this you are correct. However, Astorwind won't turn tail and hide in.. " Colden sweeps his gaze around their strange surroundings "..whatever this is."
He continues, pretty sure the chieftan would not respond to kind appeals, he's left with a two choices, grovel and ask for them to join or taunt them into action.
"We will soon let you sit here in your little hideout, sucking on the teets of whatever gods you pray to when you we go out and face them and gain all the glory and all the praise from the Refiner as we crush them!" IN this passage Colden uses his bardic skills to weave his song magic into his voice, making it powerful and even more thunderous. He know's he's pushing the limits of the chieftan, but what other choice does he have?
"We ask nothing of you, it's obvious your reputation as great warriors is exaggerated, other than information. What can you tell us about the orcs, their numbers, their tactics, their leaders, their motives? Do this for us and I promise we'll leave the dear orcs where they lie so you and your people can scavenge the battlegrounds afterwards. " The last part is said with pity in his voice.
" Let's see what these morons can answer Colden. However, the captain's dagger is so insignificant in front of the language that these barbarians understand better: the language of violence and power ", he thought, sadly smiling at his beard.
The crowd, however, seems to be somewhat in agreement with Colden, for reasons unknown to the party. A low grumble of dissatisfaction flows through them at Colden’s words. The raiders are a strong, if wicked, people who respect power and bravery in battle. Perhaps they aren’t so pleased that they ran away from orcs? Perhaps this Chieftain is the one who led their retreat? You may not know.
Chieftain Aros looks around at his people and manages to contain his rage. He licks his lips nervously, but it is the only sign he gives of weakness. If this man has not held onto his power by strength and bravery, he may have held onto it by cunning. Again, you are merely guessing and may not know the full story ever.
“What do the people of Astorwind know of the glories of war?” he shouts at you. “You hide behind your cowardly stone walls, denying the spirits your blood sacrifice on the field of battle, while you grow fat and lazy on milk! You Milkbabes, you novices of war, stand no chance against the enemy on your borders. We, the Bloodeye Clan, read the signs of the spirits. You will be crushed into the dust, for it is not mere orcs you face.”
He turns to the crowd and laughs, pointing both his arms at Colden in mockery. “He thinks mere weakling orcs could challenge the might of the Bloodeye Clan!” The crowd grumbles in anger and insult. “We did not run from orcs! In fact, we did not run at all! We obeyed the signs of the spirits. Their lust for Milkbabe blood would not be spoiled by our refusal to give way before them! No, we harkened to them and read the signs.”
He turns back to Colden, his grin now returned. You can’t help but be surprised by this man. His oratory skills are impressive, especially for a barbarian, and his command of language seems out of place for a tribal leader. It occurs to you that he may not even be originally a raider. You realize you know very little about your enemies and their history, a mistake for which King Corak is responsible.
“You know nothing of the bane on your doorstep. Behold!” he cries, closing his eyes and raising his battleaxe. Suddenly, darkness shrouds his arms and legs, and a very slight dim casts a metallic glint on the light of the sun.
“You are our enemies eternal, but any who enter this sacred place of Warne Harsard-Wast are our brothers, by command of the spirits!” he cries. “Therefore, I give you this gift, brothers, one of prophecy and warning!
“Before the fall of the moon, the spirit Dizrym, he who leads the orcs to Astorwind, shall feast on Milkbabe flesh. The Milkbabe king’s lifeblood shall stain the snow, betrayed by his own.”
With an extravagant brush of his hair, he reopens his bloody eyes and stares at you as though looking upon the foolish dead.
“You came here in peace,” he says somberly. “You may go in peace... unless, that is, you have anything else you require of your brothers...?” He indicates his tribe with a long stretch of his hands, mocking you and your ignorance of their ways.
The crowd laughs.
"The walls we build is no more cowardly than this little retreat of yours. Are YOU out on the battlefield? No, I think you read the spirits' signs of your own defeat and chose to tuck your little tail between your legs and flee. But it's ok, the men and women of Astorwind is here now to take care of the problem, already on the march to meet our enemies on the glorious field of battle. And in the middle of the fray you will find this group (Colden sweeps his arms to indicate his friends), slaying orcs from left to right. (dramatic pause) So sit here idly and rest your tired legs, old man, and spout your bedtime stories until you believe in them."
Colden tries this one last push.. it seemed the crowd responded to his taunting, perhaps they can be persuaded to push their leader into action. If not, they have been promised peace so he makes a calculated guess they can still exit unharmed. He works the crowd now, using everything he learned in Bardic school about how to weave words into powerful messages, to reach the souls of the audience and sway their minds. His old teacher always told him he was a better orator than a singer and that he should stick to skalding.
"We have nothing we require from the likes of you. We came her in search of strong warriors, but found motley group of cuckolds. We will take our leave."
Colden doesn't turn and walk away directly, instead waiting a moment for signs of how the chieftan and the crowd will respond. He gazes to Nareth and Lagrord and gives them a sign of "be ready for anything".
But definitely not in this bad tactical situation, to his experience such solutions might be applied between two equal armies, but not between a small bunch of warriors against this laughing and yelling barbarian living tide.
Well, at least I won't die under a noble's bootheel
Almost in answer, Chief Aros speaks again to the crowd, not in condemnation but in an effort at persuasion.
“The spirits have often revealed their will to us through our enemies in this our temple—” he sweeps his hands at the garbage and refuse and poisonous, glowing pits around him “—and perhaps you are thinking that such is the case now!
“But let us remember that this is NOT the call to strength and courage, to put aside our fear of death and torture and dishonor to face a greater danger for the sake of survival! No, this is the desperate mewling and deceptive whining of our most hated enemy just as he is about to meet his doom! The spirits have spoken to us all! You saw the great spirit Dizrym devour our men and send them to the great hell awaiting! You heard him tell us to leave this place and return once again when this very foe Astorwind has been crushed by his power!
“Whatever spirit driving Our Foes Astorwind are in direct opposition to the spirit Dizrym! You have already chosen the side of Dizrym when we obeyed his command to leave our homes and come here to Warne Harsard-Wast! Should we now reconsider, Dizrym will punish us all for our betrayal if he wins... and the spirits behind Our Foes Astorwind will never trust our loyalty if they win!”
The crowd mumbles in fear and anger and division. Chief Aros points to Colden.
“No more words, Brother-Foe Astorwind. The decision is upon our people, and we will be bound by it. You have said your peace, and we thank you for it.” With that strangely courteous announcement, he sits upon the ground, cross-legged and places his battle-axe by his side.
“I, Delegate of the East, of the Rising Sun, vote to follow the spirit Dizrym!” he screams. The eastern side of the tribe lifts up their voices in triumph as the man raises his battle-axe and hand to cut his palm. He splashes his freely flowing blood upon the hissing pit below.
A second giant of a man steps forward, this time from the south, you notice. He raises his battle-axe above his head as he steps forward, dragging behind him a small, heavily-pockmarked, young woman by the hair. She is struggling and screaming weakly as she scrambles to keep the force off her head. “I, Delegate of the South, of the Burning Sun, vote against the spirits of Dizrym, to follow our Brother-Foes Astorwind into glorious battle and drive the orcs from our borders!” The crowd in the south gives a shout of triumph and victory. “To appease the spirits for any perceived slight, I offer them the blood of this virgin!” The crowd goes insanely wild as he throws the whimpering woman into the pit. Her screams of pain last only a moment before her death.
“I, Delegate of the North, Mightiest of the Delegates, of Bitter Winter Herself, vote to follow the spirit Dizrym!” he calls out, his voice muffled and hollow by the thick strange helmet. He lifts his battle-axe and cuts his palm, splashing the pit with his own blood. The crowd, the largest part of the tribe, from the north, raise their voices in a deafening cheer.
A third man steps forward, wearing an old, dented, rusty Astorwind soldier’s helmet and dressed all in black. He has two strong men on either side of him, also dressed completely in black. They look to be warriors, though each of them are maimed significantly. One of them is missing his entire left arm, and the other is limping heavily. He looks to be in incredible pain and is clutching his back.
“I, Delegate of the West, Unheeded Conscience of our Astorwind Foes, of the Rising Night, vote against the spirit Dizrym, to follow our Brother-Foes Astorwind and to aid them, hopefully to restore some semblance of peace to the Bloodeye Clan!” The crowd behind him gives a somewhat weak shout of agreement, and the other delegates, including the one from the south, give him withering looks. “To appease the spirits for any perceived slight, I offer them the blood of these former warriors, crippled by the forces of Astorwind in glorious battle and no longer able to serve in honor. May their deaths symbolize that we bury our grievances and bring about a new age!”
He then forcefully pushes the men from behind into the poisonous pit. They fall to their deaths silently, though once they hit the noxious fluids below they cry out in pain before death extinguishes their voices.
Once the cries of the two men die, he stands and the delegates sit down.
“It appears our Delegate vote is tied!” he shouts to the crowd. “As you all know, a tie is decided by me, your wise Chief Aros! Before I cast my vote, however, I would hear one more plea from our Brother-Foes Astorwind.” He turns to Colden. “You must now convince me of your cause, for the people have spoken through the mouths of their delegates, and thus they leave the decision to me and the spirits, who bestow their wisdom upon me. The spirits demand that I open my mind, and I will do so, as our wise delegates from the South and the West have argued.”
He raises his battle-axe above his head with one hand, and points with the other to you. “Convince me!” he screams gravely.
Despite his word, you doubt the sincerity of his word and that anything you say could convince him to change his mind; this must just be part of their strange ritual.
" M'Lord Colden, if I may. These folks expect us to make a sacrifice or spill the blood. I thinks, these gentlemen", Nareth nods in the direction of the 'delegates of South and West', "... already made a very worthy sacrifices, if I may call it so. I dare to say, I would be happy to make this blood ritual instead of ya. "
Nareth's face expresses readiness. He won't let the Royal Lorekeeper to spill his blood in the name of their barbaric bloodthirsty gods.
" Easy, matey. I meant cutting my hand and giving some blood to these folks, not killing our party mates!.. I won't allow them to hurt ya or M'Lord Colden."
"Tell me Aros, you give so many lives to this spirit of yours, has it ever given any back? What has it done that makes it worthy of you and your people?"
“I would not expect a disbeliever from Astorwind to understand,” he says dismissively. The crowd mumbles agreement. “In Astorwind you worship the sun spirit. He is a lazy god, requiring no sacrifice of you, and in return gives you very little. He lies to you about caring for you, and claims that you are refined by your so-called hardships, as you grow fat and lazy on milk, just as he is.” It surprises you that one such as this man knows anything at all about the Sun God. Perhaps he is more than he seems?
“The spirits give us true power, power you could never understand. Such gifts come with a price, however, a price that the Bloodeye Clan is willing to pay!!” His last words rise in a shout to the tribe, and the crowd roars in agreement.
“I would love to banter philosophical and religious principles with one such as you, but I haven’t all day,” he says once the cheering dies down. “So tell me, why should we help you? My patience is wearing thin. The spirits grow restless. And our tribe has much to prepare for in the next few weeks.” The crowd mumbles their agreement.
" Don't ya dare, Preist, to mention the Refiner in vain and talk about him like that! He gives his children a chance to at least die in combat - as it befits a warrior, instead of the perishing under the blade of a sacrificial knife! This is your worship, aye, but what gods demand to sacrifice the best daughters and sons of the tribe, the most worthy warriors and people? Is this a honorable death, ya says? I says, the best, the most glorious death for a warrior is on the battlefield. But this is not the time and not the right place, I says, for religious wrangles. The Castle Astorwind calls for allies and wishes to rally all under one banner against the threat, so all folks can live there lives and worship what they want further! Your People now have a choice: to face the foe and combat it, or continue avoiding it. "
Chieftain Aros’ face turns red in anger. “Were this the field of battle, we would let our blades speak for the spirits,” he shouts at Nareth. “You Milkbabes would be easy prey for my battle-prowess, and your god is no match for the power of the spirits. Battle would vindicate this.
“However, this is not the field of battle! This is our holy temple, where combat is forbidden. You came in peace, you may go in peace. Guards, please escort them out of our hallowed ground.”
Do you do or say anything else before the guards escort you?