The ill omens expressed in the previous chapter find their origin sixteen years earlier in the northern goliath tribes of the De Marco Barony. The next chapter of the RPG narrative details the birth and arrival of young Thom, a central figure of the story (played by pixelatedgeek writer Justin in the Sunday night campaigns). I decided to flashback sixteen years in order for the last two chapters of the prelude to center on the young human raised by goliaths. The next two chapters (presented in multiple parts like the previous chapter) finish the prelude and forge the beginning of the major narrative. Warchief Thomtham has much to ponder…
PRELUDE, Chapter 03: Among Giants
Warchief Thomtham gazed down at the crimson licks of the flame in front of him. He pressed his chapped and scarred hand upon his thick brow and sighed. In his other hand, Thom still clenched his great axe; he had forgotten that he was still carrying the heavy blade. He unconsciously gripped the leather handle tighter and tighter as he stared intently into the fire.
“I see nothing, Ama,” he began, “Surely this is an ill omen.”
“Not necessarily, Warchief,” returned the crackly, ancient voice of the tribe’s seer. “Concentrate on what is not there rather than on what you expect.”
Thom sniffed a scoff of disbelief and then shot a quick glance at Ama. It was an apologizing glance, indicating Thom meant no disrespect for his snort of incredulity. Rather, he was frustrated: it had been a long week for the Goliath Warchief of the Stonecrush tribe. Earlier, he had suffered a bandit’s raid in the Farghast Plains and had lost two of his top lieutenants. In the middle of the week, all the young women in his tribe suddenly fell ill with warmth sickness, a feverish plague that overheated the body to the point of convulsion. And now, this: his foragers had discovered a young human male infant in the wild, just outside his tribal border. The child had been abandoned, though not by choice: his mother was found nearby, mutilated and bearing the wounds from an owlbear. Why the owlbears had not devoured the child was beyond Thom’s comprehension and part of why he was currently seeking the guidance of his tribe’s seer, Ama.
Ama sat back in her wicker bowlseat lined with animal pelts and reed pillows. Twigs, acorns, and small rodent bones were knotted into her hair, which draped randomly down her deer fur cloak. At the moment, a smoky glaze covered her century-old blue eyes; this effect was produced by the inhalation of elfhulk weed, a fat herb that, when smoked, creates a tingling sense of euphoria and, to the seers of the Goliath tribes, the gift of foresight. Thom was still wearing his combat garb: a simple elk loincloth girded with leather and iron stud straps that ran criss-cross to his sternum, where they met an obsidian bone loop. This loop was connected to two more leather straps which ran criss-cross to his baby Bulette skull spaulders resting comfortably on his shoulders.
His great axe was still lined with human blood.
Even this very afternoon, Thom fought off marauders attempting to assassinate him in his own tribal grounds. The War of Baronic Succession had been over for nearly a year, yet mercenaries hired by the fledgling Kol family still attempted to take Warchief Thom’s life for coin. Thom tried to concentrate on the supposed images in the flames (or lack thereof, according to Ama) but could not help journeying back in his mind to the conflicts of the great war. Thom had lost so many young and able warriors, and for what? So two human families could vie for power? So one human family could claim dominance over the land? His tribe had just as much right as the human families to be here. Just because they didn’t participate in the major political scene apparently meant Thom’s people were merely soldiers, frontline fodder for the Staul family’s army. Thom remembered signing the treaties, donating any and all resources available to help the Staul family. But, at the moment for some reason, he couldn’t remember why.
Regardless, his great axe was still lined with human blood.
The past year had been a frenzied blur. Thom was not naïve enough to think life passes without its obstacles, but the past year had shaken his core confidence in humanity’s ability to maintain order. They could all adopt tribal culture, he thought. Multiple houses of power could exist, he thought. Not all had to be as the drow. Not all had to consistently target the soft spots of their enemies’ backs. It was possible. Alas, no; such is the way with the humans of the Barony. There had to be one. There had to be a victor. The throne would only accept one human family. And currently, it happened to be the De Marco family.
Thom shook the past from his mind the best he could and again attempted to concentrate on the flames.
“Look beyond the fire, Warchief,” Ama said, “Look at the shapes the fire frames.”
“I am trying, shaman. Truly,” Thom returned, “Perhaps there is just nothing there.”
While focusing, Thom heard it again. The human infant began to wail in the tent next to his. The cry was excruciating: a piercing howl that could only be satiated by rubbing pepperclear on the child’s gums.
“SEDATE THE CHILD!” Thom roared. A flurry of Goliath voices responded, and the child was once again calmed.
“I apologize again, Ama. I just cannot do this right now. How long until the elfhulk is released?”
Ama gazed upward, almost unwillingly. Her neck craned slowly so her chin pointed toward the top of the tent. She emitted a slow, harrowing moan and snapped her head back down to face the now cautious warchief. Her eyes still appeared glazed over; however they now were painted with a translucent, blood red veneer. Her voice returned, now deep and smooth.
“It soon won’t matter, warchief.”
Thom recoiled and, out of habit, drew his great axe with both hands. He bore the blade toward Ama. Thom knew little of possessions but he assumed the red eyes were a good sign.
“Who are you? What do you want? Why have you inhabited my seer’s body?”
Ama gutturally snickered and then said, “It is of no importance who I am, warchief. Just know that I will find my sword. And when I do, I’ll betray the world this time.”
Ama began to laugh convulsively. Her frail old body contorted with each dismal guffaw. Thom could hear her ribs cracking but noted nothing but desecrated glee on her face. Her mouth erupted with blood and bile as her eyes returned to their normal state. She gurgled on the blood one last time and fell over, silent and petrified. The flame extinguished, and Thom rushed to her side, cradling her sorrow-struck head. There was no life in her. Whatever had possessed her had fled as well. The infant let out another shriek. Thom stood, bewildered and afraid, his axe still lined with human blood.
It had been a long week.
–
All images are copyright of the artists.
[Bizarre Landscape by rakkin23]
[De Marco Barony map courtesy of Will Lowry]
All Dungeons & Dragons references and images are copyright of Wizards of the Coast, LLC.
Narrative material and story are copyright of Robert C. Beshere.