[i][b][center]Mirak of the Benya Kurhah[/center][/b][/i]

Mirak il’Kurhah Zhaan held his chin in the cup of his right hand, the rough hairs of his beard scraping against the thick, leather-like hide of his palm. His old eyes stared blankly, the bronze of his irises gleaming in the flickering light. All about the enclosed space of his war tent were familiar faces; each was one of his honored and trusted khayhar warriors and had earned that gift through blood and sweat paid to the earth a million times over. Most were veterans of numerous skirmishes and battles, having followed the belligerent Zhaan on his quest to oppose those who would threaten the Benya Kurhah and all Arrak people. 

Years ago, Mirak had led a contingent of Kurhah warrior-retainers and tribesmen into battle against the giant Thwump. The Dovregubbe had earned the ire of the clan and had been appropriately punished for it. This act had seen Mirak steal the name of the Dovregubbe and a consumption of the troll’s power by the ovoo spirits of the Kurhah back in Angetennar. Despite losses to the troll, through Mirak’s clever ploy the monster had been defeated; this had not gone unnoticed. For the better part of a decade the chieftain wiled away his mid-forties in continued battle against the enemies of the Arrak. His reputation for skill at arms was said to be brought upon him by a thousand spirits of fallen Arrak warriors driving him forward. 

This dread and honored reputation came with a price Mirak had not been keen to pay, but so too with rewards he had never expected. The Benya Kurhah had quickly risen to prominence among the Arrak Clans; there was no one better to ask for assistance in conflicts, be it against devilish trolls, cruel city-dwellers, or all manner of other monsters besides. Though at first Mirak had simply ignored these requests where he could, the pressure from his retainers had grown; a fire had been lit in their souls and Mirak could not manage to snuff it out. The Kurhah had become rich on gifts and supplication that their Chieftain did not feel they had earned, the aging Zhaan wishing only to return to a normal life upon the plains or in the deep forests of his home. Alas, it was not to be.

And so the Kurhah grew and changed. Warriors of all stripes, often second sons, who wished rather than splitting their father’s herds instead sought honor fighting for a higher cause. Though these initial fighters were rebuked and made a vague mob that followed the Kurhah where they went, it was quickly realized that the Arrak rules of hospitality could not be denied forever. Soon they were living amongst the camp, hunting and herding to assist the clan, and offering their services in those few battles Mirak could not deny. One by one the warriors had offered their souls to the Kurhah ovoo, marrying daughters and merging what herds they had to become one with the clan. These firebrands brought with them the desire for honorable combat that had fueled their departure from their home-tribes and the Benya Kurhah felt every new candlelight add up to a raging fire soon enough. With the blaze no longer within his control, Mirak relented; the Benya Kurhah was never his to command and he was forever her humble servant.

A decade later and now Mirak dwelled on the past, pinning more than anything for the simplicity of that old life. His retainer host had grown beyond one hundred khayhar, a number unheard of in the past. In addition, a throng of numerous tribal warriors had joined him, increasing his fighting capacity to well over a thousand. By day they lived as tribesmen, glad to have joined the ranks of the vaunted Benya of Mirak the Belligerent, when battle called they answered. Though not as disciplined or veteran as khayhar, they did their part well enough and followed orders to the letter and that was all Mirak could ask for.

“My Zhaan, what is your answer?”

Mirak’s eyes opened wide as he realized he was daydreaming. A curse of old age, he had kept telling himself, though he knew it was something far more insidious. His khayhar sat cross legged in his tent, packed to the breaking point with their number. They never seemed to mind it, of course; more than happy to be close to their brothers, they would say. Mirak would’ve appreciated having more room in his tent, personally.

“Hmmm. It is not a simple question, Nazih.”

The old veteran nodded understandingly. He was of the old days, when the band numbered no more than ten at its greatest strength. Nazih had been at Mirak’s heels since they were children, a devoted friend like no other and one Mirak planned to die next to. He hoped whatever part of them was returned to Angetennar would be placed beside one another on the ovoo; though he knew that would not mean they were closer in the afterlife, he thought it a fitting memorial to their bond. 

Many of the others, of course, were not so wisely tempered.

“My Zhaan, forgive my tongue, but how can it be so?” The interruption came from a younger khayhar, one of those fiery youths that had sought out the old Chieftain years ago, “They have offered combat, and so surely we must answer?”

There was a general agreement among the warband as younger, less tested khayhar seemed to approve of the mindset. Those older warriors, now becoming fewer and far between in his ranks, remained quiet; they knew better to speak for their Zhaan and backed his opinions to the letter. Trust was a hard thing earned and Mirak had it heaped upon him in droves and so it was no place of theirs to question him.

“There is nothing to forgive, Anheh. You speak freely in this tent, as all khayhar do. We are brothers here and brothers do not hesitate to share their thoughts.” As always, Mirak’s measured response seemed to generate admiration. Mirak inwardly sighed as he saw the youngest of the crowd looking on with beaming eyes, the entire fanfare of the war tent and their revered Zhaan enkindling that oh so frustrating flame in their hearts. The Zhaan regretted that power he held over these men.

“The question is difficult, my brothers, for this is an enemy I know. It is not an enemy we wish to fight.”

Though there were no jeers it was clear from the dread silence that many of the numbered khayhar felt slighted; were they not skilled enough as their master’s old warriors, to be doubted in combat against this old foe? Though they did not say it, Mirak could see it plainly. It was no different than an older brother telling his siblings he had no interest in quarreling with a neighboring tribe. That statement alone humbled them and galled them in equal measure. 

“But, why, my Zhaan?”

“They are iskurhil, Rurek,” muttered Mirak, eyes glazing over with memory, “They are demons of the cruel spirits’ making.”

That pervasive silence sat on the shoulders of the band heavily; those who knew what the iskurhil were understood fully why their Zhaan was reluctant to do battle with them. The iskurhil were said to have been poured onto the earth by one of the particular cruel spirits worshipped by the men-behind-walls, a blight that consumed everything in its path. Traders close to the Arrak whispered of twisted bodies, warped from men stolen by that evil idol. 

“If we stand against them, we must do so prepared and armed with the knowledge of their evil. They will not behave as men do, nor will they be as trolls in the day. To fight them, we will be drawn into a battle against numberless swarms.”

“Then do we deny the request? Does the Benya Jaahed fight alone?”

Silence descended on the room once more, and all eyes turned to the Zhaan. Mirak looked inward, as if staring at himself, another pair of eyes added to the many gazing into his soul. Would he drag his people into another conflict, against a foe far more inhuman than even the trolls? For several long moments that felt like hours Mirak thought, the flickering of the fire in his eyes reflected off his bronze irises. At last, he stood, stepping towards the flame while pulling free a fetish from his vestments. With the string torn Mirak tossed it into the flame, severing the Kurhah’s bond to this moment of peace and welcoming into their hearth the spirit of war. A sense of power emanated from the flame, filling the hearts of the men around it as the blaze in their eyes were stoked by their master.

“No Arrak is ever alone.”
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[hider=Summary]
Within the war tent of Mirak il’Kurhah Zhaan, the collected khayhar warriors of the Benya Kurhah are in the process pf deciding between action or inaction in a new conflict involving the Arrak. The Benya Kurhah had grown in the last decade, becoming the preeminent warrior-host among the Arrak clans due to Mirak’s prestige. After some deliberation, it is decided the Benya Kurhah will join the Benya Jaahed in battle against the so-called iskurhil, an inhuman enemy to the north harassing Arrak herds.
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[hider=MP Summary]
Start 5MP/5DP

>5MP (Spent towards Battle)- Consecrate Holy Order, Khayhar an-il’Arrak: The Khayhar an-il’Arrak, or the Protectors of All Arrak, are a pseudo-order of warriors originating from the Benya Kurhah. Empowered by the spirits of their ancestors still acting through the lifeblood, the Khayhar of this host are supernaturally empowered with wisdom and courage. 
Titles (7 Points): 
Battle-Guile (2 Points) - Warriors of the Khayhar an-il’Arrak are blessed by their ancestor’s with the wisdom of a dozen generations. As such, Khayhar value independent thinking, freedom of action, and wisdom in combat above all. This manifests itself in independent action in combat, be it at the tactical or strategic level. Khayhar are known to commit to actions on their own, breaking from more draconic organizational units in favor of successful actions. Among their leaders, this is seen in an uncanny ability to see through the fog of war and determine successful routes or movements. 
Ancestral Courage (2 Points) - Though they may well not be the finest warriors in the world by might of arms, none can deny the courage of the Khayhar. The Ancestral spirits of war and conflict rage in the hearts of Arrak warriors, particularly those donning the panoply of their families. For some other peoples this courage would become heedless, suicidal determination; to the Khayhar, this becomes a much broader courage. Though Khayhar bands might detach from combat, it is almost never from fear; to the Arrak land means nothing and falling back to punish the enemy for ground taken is far more courageous than dying on worthless hills. There is a steady unwillingness to falter in the face of adversity, a determination to never truly surrender, and a desire to see every conflict end in defeat for the enemy or a pyrrhic victory bitter in their mouths. 
Born in the Saddle (2 Point) - Like all Arrak, the Khayhar warriors are born in the saddle. It is often said they’re more comfortable upon the backs of their stags than their own two feet, and for many that would not be a lie. Unsurprisingly, Khayhar are unmatched as light cavalry and control their mounts with a skill verging on the paranormal. 
Rides on their Stomachs (1 Point) - Khayhar are, first and foremost, nomads at their core. Perhaps better than any force beyond the monstrous enemies of mankind, Khayhar bands survive with ease in the wilds. As such, khayhar need no supply train to feed themselves nor do they rely on heavy logistic burdens to survive.

End 0MP/5DP
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