[center][img]http://txt-dynamic.cdn.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjcyLjkyMTEwMS5RMlZ5ZVhNLC4w/sad-kropotkin-laugh.regular.png[/img][/center]

[i]One Month after Origin[/i]

On the eve of the longest day of the year, an old woman stood trembling in the center of the Blackwater Tribe’s gathering place. She gazed unseeing over the mass of people gathered before her, her watery eyes milky with cataracts, her shriveled hands held out as if to gather in all who watched in respectful silence. Despite her frail, stooped appearance, the woman’s quavering voice projected well over her audience, the tone rising and falling with all the art of an experienced storyteller.

 “Today, there are four tribes of the Arakkai,” the old wise woman began, “For one bastion of our great people was lost only a moon before now. The sixth clan, as recorded by the wise women of that time, fell centuries ago, but not to any invading force.

“In that ancient time, Arianwen the Farsighted, a wise woman of this very tribe, was granted a prophecy of days to come. She stood before her clan and told of a day when one among us would be chosen by the god above all others to lead the Arakkai down from these harsh mountains, to raise this people above our enemies.

“After learning of the prophecy, which was shared by wise women in every tribe, it is said that Chieftain Meilir Serpentsbane scoffed in the face of his council. He claimed to need no Chosen leader. His people, he said, were strong enough on their own…”

Cerys, seated near the front of the crowd, let her eyes slide over to Eranor Blackwater where he sat watching the wise woman, his chin resting comfortably on one hand. The last several weeks had been ones of increasing tension as Cerys’s followers spread the tale of her rebirth among the Blackwater tribe and both she and Chief Blackwater had waited for her warriors to heal. The priestess had seen the preparations for war all through the camp, expecting Blackwater to rise up and lead his warriors to battle, to unite the clans and secure himself in the eyes of his people. Now, however, the eve of the summer solstice had finally arrived. Would the Blackwater Chief head the warning in the old wise woman’s story? Or would there be bloodshed tonight?

“…and so, Meilir Serpentsbane turned away from the wisdom of his spiritual council and lead his people in human sacrifice to prove their savagery to the Red Gods. At first these were enemies and outsiders caught within our lands, but soon Meilir’s thirst for blood ran out of easy victims and he turned instead to offerings from other clans. It was then that the first Great Convocation was held, the wise women from the five other tribes meeting to remove this heretic. Together, they conjured Tribe Serpentbane’s banishment from the Gradsfang Mountains. Today these people are the Saliszi, dark creatures enthralled by the bloody worship of their demonic weapons.”

The old woman let her hands fall to her sides, her face pensive while the crowd waited quietly for her blessing, wrapping up the evening of feasting, singing, and storytelling. Instead, however, she went on. 

“This old story is full of great warnings and truths,” she started, “no less potent because of its great age. Perhaps the most important to us now, however, is the prophecy.

“I lift my old, useless eyes to the stars and see that future coming rapidly upon us. The Chosen, once so far away, is now close at hand. I may not live to see the coming glory, but many of you will so prepare yourselves to rise with your people.”

At the beginning of this benediction, Cerys had risen to her feet to the surprised looks and murmurs of those surrounding her. She did not interrupt, of course, but instead kneeled before the old woman deferentially. When the storyteller finished, Cerys raised those frail, trembling hands to her marked face and pressed them there.

The old woman froze, shocked with some knowledge only her blind eyes could see. She dragged dry, papery fingers over the priestess’s lips, cheeks, eyes, and soon tears coated the ancient one’s craggy face. She cupped her hands around Cerys’s face and leaned down to kiss her own each cheek.

“Let joy fill your hearts, my people! The Voice of the Wanderer lives!”

All was pandemonium. Tribesmen jumped to their feet, shouting in joy, in fear, in disbelief, those close to Eranor Blackwater protesting the loudest. The Chosen of the Wanderer was a leader, and Cerys did not fault their loyalty to their Chief in the circumstances, but something would need to be done.

Chief Blackwater himself soon made it to the raised platform and wrenched the old wise woman from where she still stood with Cerys. Shouts of shock and protest rose at once from all quarters. All wise women were revered and this old mother had likely blessed these people in their cradles, had stood over their coming of age ceremonies, had performed their marriage rites.

Cerys touched her left hand to her throat, projecting her voice across the noisy gathering. [color=9e0b0f]“Eranor Blackwater!”[/color] she yelled. [color=9e0b0f]“I name you a traitor in the likes of Meilir Serpentsbane for so mistreating a member of your council, on the summer solstice no less. Such a heretic has no place as the leader of one of the greatest tribes of the Arakkai. I, Cerys Shadowborne, Voice of the Wanderer, Defender of the Arakkai, challenge you for the right to rule this tribe!”
[/color]

Where all had been clamor, silence now reined, the gathered people holding their breath in the face of this brazen challenge. Their leader only sneered.

 “I invited you and your people, shivering and broken into my home. I have fed you and clothed you and given you a place, and this is how you repay me? With false accusations of heresy? Fine, you will have your challenge and have it now before you can scurry off to more womanish plotting. I will put you down like the two-faced bitch you are.”

Eranor flung off his bear pelt, revealing the impressive dark steel armor beneath, and drew the massive sword at his waist. Cerys gestured with a single hand over her simple leather clothing and sighed as the cool sensation of writhing black armor wrapped itself around her torso and limbs, its surface shifting with the indecipherable runes of some lost language.

[color=9e0b0f]“May the Wanderer judge my actions before the Pantheon,”[/color] she called. [color=9e0b0f]“And may all the Arakkai stand by his choice in this challenge.”[/color]

With a savage roar, Eranor charged, his massive longsword held out like a joust. Cerys eyed him calmly, waiting before dodging out of the way, her right hand closing around a sword of sinuous shadow. 

Eranor whirled, quick and agile for so large a man, and brought up his sword to bring it cleaving down upon Cerys’s head. This time she did not move, but widened her stance and brought her own sword up to parry. 

It seemed to take an age for the two blades to meet, the second stretching into years. Eranor kept his bowling down with all the strength of a man born in raised in the mountains, a man who had fought off constant attacks by the Saliszi, the Dratha, the wilds of the Greyfangs themselves. He meant to slice through the sword and the priestess alike.

When the two blades finally did meet, one solid steel, the other writhing magic, the dark blade melted through Eranor’s fine steel longsword like it was nothing, an entire foot of beautifully tempered metal thunking down on the wooden platform heavily. 

The big mountain Chieftain seemed stunned, but Cerys was unfazed. Like a viper, she lunged forward and sank her flickering sword into the throat of the man before her, sending streams of black-red blood spurting into the clean mountain air.