[centre][h1]To Become a Warchief[/h1] [h2]Part 1: A Dark Bargain[/h2][/centre] [hr] The compounded assault had worked splendidly. The blood swarm, incapable of recovering from the bull’s devastating attack, disappeared overnight. The Egriothspawn, the latest curse to plague the Striped Lands, while not destroyed, were preoccupied facing the onslaught of the beasts of burden. For the first time in years, the snouters of the Vootlands, the most fertile land on Galbar’s surface, could work the soil in peace. And what a soil it was! With the help of the fertilising power of the Stain, the tower of faeces planted on the heart of the Vootlands by the great bull, many snouters swore they could almost see the plants grow by the hour. It was a good year, too–the Lick showed no signs of flood so far, and the sneer of Itzal cut deep, but not deep enough to cause drought. Shovel-like snouts buried into the soil and plowed, powerful hands twisted up weeds, and mighty backs carried sacks of manure, grain and seeds. The Pate Tribe expanded rapidly, but so did everybody else, and it did not take long before the Pates were once again at war with their neighbours, each looking to ravage the other, but never managing to move beyond the stalemate. With the bull gone and Draznokh growing in popularity, Grand Agricultist Krang Half-Head grew wary of the many enemies he had made over the past few years. Draznokh was a character these enemies could rely on, gather around–and thus there was no bigger threat to Krang than him. Killing him at home was too risky, but he could have someone else do it. And so it was that Draznokh and his cousin Zlot were sent away with a war party on a suicide mission–raid the main camp of the Snopan tribe. “You had to do it,” Zlot snarled. Draznokh said nothing. “You just [i]had[/i] to put yourself out there and DRAG ME DOWN WITH YOU!” The two were walking in the far back of the party of nine. They were in the middle of the forest, deeper forests on their left and open fields on their right. The village of the Snopans could not be far away. The leader turned around and charged over. He did not stop until he was snout-to-snout with the young Zlot, teeth foaming and eyes nearly rolling back. “STOP SHOUTING!” he shouted. “Do you [i]want[/i] them to know we are coming?!” “We’re dead already, what’s it matter?!” Zlot roared back and pushed the leader away. The two hesnouters squealed their war cries and hunched over with bloodthirsty intent, but Draznokh stepped in between. “CALM DOWN! Calm down. Calm… Alright? Calm.” He eyed the two of them. “Now it’s still daylight. If you want to battle, do it in the evening. I confess, I’ve never met a Snopan, so I don’t know if they are as vicious as us Pates, but if they’re even half as bad–we need to save our strength. Alright?” The leader, an older hesnouther named Herapa, furrowed his brow and nodded. “Draznokh is right. We’ll need all of our strength for the raid.” He leaned over to Draznokh and whispered, “Put a leash on your dog, you stain.” Draznokh nodded slowly and cast a sideways glance at Zlot. The boy had heard him and was positively fuming. Later that evening, Draznokh and Zlot sat up against the same tree facing opposite directions, some distance away from the rest. Neither of them spoke, but Zlot had ripped out all the grass from the ground in front of him and was now trying to pull up one of the tree’s roots. Draznokh cast a glance over and sighed, “You’d be treated less like a Wildheart if you’d stop acting like one.” Zlot spun around and hammered a fist into the bark. “I would have bit that [i]swine’s[/i] jugular out if you had just let me.” “That’s exactly my point. Calm yourself, cousin! At this rate, the Killer’s going to hear you and turn that heart of yours into a maelstrom.” Draznokh picked a straw from the ground and started gnawing on its end. There came no response, and after a minute or so, Draznokh leaned over. “You hear me?” Still no response, and in the darkness, Draznokh couldn’t see clearly. “Zlot?” There came a squeal from the main camp and Draznokh felt the world freeze. Then he stood up and sprinted over. In the camp, he found the six other hesnouters that made up the war party all standing outside Herapa’s tent. “What’s going on?! What’s happening?!” “Zlot claimed the Killer’s Rite. We’re about to have a show,” one of them chuckled. “The Killer’s Rite?! Before a battle?! Have all of you lost your minds?!” Draznokh quickly realised he was outmatched, however, because all of them turned to him with glaring sneers. “Careful with the heresy, [i]Voot[/i]. The Killer’s Rite is a sacred right. A fight to the death–no weapons, no interruptions. The winner is Misri’s favoured.” Draznokh ran his fingers through his mane in frustration and staggered back. Meanwhile, the two hesnouters in the tent ripped the drape apart and took their steps back. One of the spectators, who had been given the duty of judge, shouted, “The Rite of Killing, now invoked, Shall bind the souls of these provoked! Now slay the other, slay with glee, Spill blood for Killer Mis-e-ri! Warriors, declare your vows!” Herapa threw his head back and roared, “MISRI! ENTER MY SOUL! INFUSE ME WITH POWER AND STRENGTH TO SLAY THIS UNFIT UPSTART!” Zlot cast his arms to the sky: “MISRI, KILLER OF KILLERS, MURDERER OF MURDERERS! I AM YOUR VESSEL! I AM YOUR KNIFE! GUIDE MY HANDS, GUIDE MY TUSKS! GIVE ME POWER TO END HIS LIFE!” Almost as soon as the two had finished their vows did the brawl begin, the two fighting in a most brutal display in the name of their horrid goddess. Blows were given, tusks pierced skin, blood began to flow. It was not until Zlot’s own tusk pierced into the arm and blood ran down the length of his tusk that any interest seemed to be given to them by their dark god. As the taste of iron filled his mouth and the warm lifeblood of their mortal form touch his lips, a great surge of hunger overtook Zlot. Insatiable and wrathful, this hunger consumed every corner of his mind. A screeching whisper of a woman filled his mind, “Drink!” He knew who it was, bloodlust incarnate spoke to him and made him her chosen in this battle. So he did as he was commanded, with a strength unknown to them did Zlot pierce his enemy and drink deep of the red ichor that made martial form. The screeching grew louder, his mind was not his own, “Drink! Murder! Kill!” The hesnouter relented to his instincts and continued to carve with his tusks. Herapa tried to resist, but the pain and loss of function in his arm deprived him of the only barrier between himself and the monster in front of him. In a flash, Zlot snagged his tusk out of his arm and pierced the fat belly of his opponent, guts and blood gushing out over the bedrolls. Draznokh could not believe his eyes–they had just been chatting calmly a moment ago. What, what happened? Around him, the rest of the warband cheered. “SHE HAS HEARD HIM! WITNESS, A CHAMPION OF THE KILLER!” The warriors sang their praises to the profane lady, kneeling down and painting themselves in her honour with the blood of their former leader. Herapa fell backwards prone and tried with the last of his strength to push Zlot off, but it was of no use. Zlot buried himself into his stomach like a mole through the dirt, drinking blood and bile like his life depended on it. Herapa’s eyes rolled back and his soul left his body, but the bloodlust of Zlot did not end. The mutilation had just begun. As Zlot pulled his head back, blood and gore dripping from snout, the corpse of Herapa contorted before being dragged into the air by an unknown force. A stream of blood fell from the great wound, much more than any of hesnouters could have in their body. It was a river, a torrent of ichor that continued to stain the dirt. In the reflection of the pooled blood could be seen a towering form, seemingly looking down upon them. All that was heard was the loud and terrible screech - a warcry, a proclamation! “Zlot,” their cruel god started, dragging the name of her new champion out. Her voice offered no respite as it had announced itself to the warband, a thousand tormented screams followed her voice as it began to roar once more, “Kill in my name, all who would seek peace. Drink of their blood and grow strong! Become a massacre incarnate!” Zlot’s answer was incoherent, more resembling a squeal than any affirmation. The wildheart, bulbous with blood-pumping muscles and cartilage plates under his skin, rose slowly and lifted his hands in prayer. He licked the blood of his slain foe out of his fur as he turned to his companions. Draznokh saw the fear begin to contort the faces of the other snouters and he quickly pushed them aside and dramatically pointed away from the camp. “That way, Zlot!” he shouted, “the Snopan! They have fodder for the killing machine! Go!” Zlot, or what was left of him in his blood stupor, followed the finger with slow eyes. Then, with another squeal, he cast himself down on all fours and charged into the forest. After a moment, the tranquil quiet of the night resumed. All the snouters except Draznokh turned to one another and took each other’s hands. “Brothers,” one of them said, “what we witnessed today was a sacred ascension. A true boarzerker walks among us, the first in years. Hallowed be the name of Zlot, the Killer’s Champion.” “Hallowed be his name,” chimed the others. Draznokh meanwhile stood off to the side, biting his thumbnail. Oh, cousin… What have you gotten yourself into… Suddenly, however… Perhaps this did not need become a suicide mission after all? With the Snopans gone, was that not one more step towards the reunification of the Vootlands? Draznokh felt a smirk coming on. Perhaps it was. [hr] Kilometres away, the camp of the Snopan tribe slept in a daze. Only a few guards were posted for the evening, and that would be a fatal mistake. It began with the first one; he fell quicker than his buddy could notice. Then fell the other. Their squeals could hardly be squeezed out of their lungs before they were poked full of too many holes to speak anymore. Then the first tent was emptied, then the next. A shesnouter squealed–she had lived to see the wildheart, for he had chosen to spare her for a darker purpose. Others awakened and went to check out the noise, but none were prepared for the menace they were about to meet. A furious hesnouter can be a formidable opponent to anyone, but a true boarzerker, this mythical being of endless rage and thirst for meat and blood–nothing could prepare you for that. [centre][img]https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/573170061133742109/1197580240961163354/images.png?ex=65bbc883&is=65a95383&hm=ce663e2299487cf7bca462395dc9209340134eca4ced0b6c47e9b85336f9ffa8&[/img][/centre] The next morning, Zlot came back to the camp with a rope in his hands. With it, he pulled a train of shesnouters and snoutlets, new slaves for the Pates to do the work even snouters considered themselves above. The war party fell to their knees in worship, and even Draznokh could hardly believe his eyes. “Cousin! You survived!” he yelled ecstatically. “And with a hoal too and hardly a scratch! Why, you’ll make me a religious pig!” Zlot, now almost twice his height and definitely twice his width, offered his older cousin a cruel smirk. “What was that you said? An acre for every Voot?” He yanked at the rope and incited a yelp from some of the shesnouters. He stared at them with a freakish hunger. “We better have a lot of acres, then.” Draznokh could see it. An ally like Zlot would be invaluable in the years to come. Home–the Vootlands, restored as one land, mightiest of the snouter tribes. Once a dream, now a chance. Soon to be reality. [hider=SumSum, baby] After the blood swarm is gone, the snouters of the Striped Lands once again return to fighting each other. Krang is scared that Draznokh will become too popular for him to control, so he sends him and his cousin Zlot on a suicide mission. There, Zlot gets into a fight with the war party leader Herapa. Draznokh convinces them to not fight because it's noon, but when he tries to talk to Zlot later, the young ignores him and challenges Herapa to a duel to the death, the Killer's Rite, a holy ritual of Misri. Draznokh tries to interrupt, but the rest of the war party threaten him for heresy. Meanwhile, Zlot and Herapa go to town on each other, and as soon as Zlot tastes blood, he enters into a blood frenzy blessed by Misri. He absolutely rips Herapa apart and becomes a boarzerker, a blessed champion of Misri. After he's done, he goes to town on the village that was supposed to get them killed and kills the hesnouters and enslaves the shesnouter and snoutlets. Draznokh sees his potential as a killing machine and considers how this can help him reunite the Vootlands. [/hider] [hider=MP Expenditure] 32 Starting -1 for making the Zlot, the Boarzerker -1 for Creating a holy site of Harappa’s floating corpse, with a steady flow of blood from his wound. -1 For cursing his entire line with Blood-Hunger, turning them into savages who must drink blood to gain strength and live. If they do not, they go mad and eventually wither away and die. (Potency increased due to Domain of Blood) -1 to curse those who drink from the holy site to also suffer the Blood-Hunger. See above. 28 MP Remaining. [/hider]