NOVEL SIMPLE Chapter 040: The Gathering
The anticipation in the air is palpable; the only audible sounds are the steps of Baba Yaga and the clatter of her staff on the ground. I want to ask more questions, but keep quiet with everyone else; I imagine the elderly Witch must be pretty grumpy and despotic… but it’s also clear to me that she commands such an absolute authority out of respect, rather than fear. And to be fair – her being ‘the Eldest Witch’ means she must have been a fixture for everyone here since their childhood.
She finally reaches the place where Yuras stands. He grins widely and spreads his arms, as if to hug her; the Chieftain begins to speak… but to my shock, the old woman smacks him on the head with her staff! What’s more – he starts cowering in pain, clutching his head! “W-why?” The herculean Krolsun whines, puzzled, as someone bursts into a hearty laughter.
“For vanishing without a trace” the voice of the old Tribekin is hoarse and rasping, her tone authoritative and peremptory; I cannot think of a better fit for someone called ‘the Eldest Witch’. “We’ve already wasted our limited resources to locate you and sent your daughter after you” she leans in to look him straight into the eyes. “It was your decision to forbid spending the night outside the camp unannounced, boy. Do what you yourself say, or forgo being our Chieftain” he tries to protest, but she silences him by putting a finger on his lips. “And do not start the Council yet; there are still ones who are to arrive not here, and ones who are to leave still here. And be swift” she accentuates her words by hitting the ground with her staff – and as if a spell is broken, murmurs break out in the crowd; then a commotion, when some Beastkin start leaving. I notice they are mostly children.
“Shit” curses Olka and runs towards the Elders; I look towards her target, a heavily pregnant Bovine Softkin breastfeeding two Risithi children. Their familiar smell makes me remember the first conversation I’ve had with the trio.
“Is that Elder… Mora? That Turontha Olka is running towards” I inquire my friends.
“Elder Mara” Pola corrects me quickly and absent-mindedly, immediately turning back to address her grumpy son. “You’ve heard Baba; be a good boy and go to your friends – I promise we will play together a lot later, okay?” Realising that my Moonberry has a more pressing issue to resolve – and that I’m unable to help her, having zero experience handling children – I turn towards the crowd, finally being able to look at it closely. Even if briefly.
The first thing that I notice is a confirmation of my earlier observation: Softkin seem to be the most common form of Beastkin in the tribe. And their attire really hammers home that I’m in a more primal times – nearly all their clothes are made from leather or furs and their jewellery from bones; that, paired with their animalistic apparel, really makes them look like a savage horde. Only at the first glance, though; the more I look, the more sophisticated details I notice and more at ease – and dare I say: at home – I feel. There is a sense of style and fashion to their look I really dig.
Interestingly, I only see 3 Taurkin – which is less than the number of gathered Humans. What’s even more unexpected is how many members of other species are gathered here – and that quite a lot of them are outsiders, judging by their smells.
I look at the smaller group first. Despite seeing them for the first time, I immediately recognise them – they must be Vodyakin. To my shock, they are all naked – sans the clearly magical device that creates a bubble of water around their neck most of them wear – and it allows me to clearly observe and notice similarities and differences between them. The biggest one certainly being that some of them can breath air, while others require magical assistance. The other striking thing is that some of them are covered in scales, while others have smooth skin covered in slime – but there is also a single person who has both. They also have two types of build – humanoid and tauric – but I have a feeling it’s just the tip of the iceberg. On the other hand, they don’t have a big diversity in pigmentation, blue, white and green being dominant colours, usually pretty subdued; but the biggest shock is that all of them have genital slits – even those I can identify as males. Other than that, it seems that tattoos are extremely important to their culture, as everyone in the group is covered in them. It gives them a strange air of uniformity, despite their vast physical differences.
The larger group is different. It is a patchwork of various species, including Beastkin, but the most common – if still minority – are tall humanoids with prominent tusks and green, copper, or brown skin; it takes me a while to recognise them as Orcs. What surprises me the most about them is that they look – for the lack of a better word – civilised. Most – if not all – media I’ve consumed in my previous life presented them as warlike barbarians, wearing skins and bones of their fallen enemies; the ones I look at now, would fit on the streets of a Medieval town. Most of them wear practical – if motley – clothes made of linen, cotton or flax, often mixed, sometimes with leather; the many patches, pouches and belts give each of them a unique – if messy – look. On their feet are Roman-like, sturdy sandals. Finally, their jewellery – as sparse as it is – is made mostly of bronze and silver. It is well made and tastefully accentuates their features, giving them quite the picturesque appearance. Most other species in that group adopted similar attires – albeit with modifications, such as Softkin forgoing the footwear. All in all, it makes them seem more like a collection of individuals than a coherent group.
The leader of this group appears to be of a completely different species from the rest – one that gives me as much pause as in case of Baba Yaga. He’s got so many bizarre features, I have no idea where to look at: his cobalt blue skin, his luminous horns made of violet crystal with his similarly coloured but slightly lighter hair draped around them elaborately, or his four arms gesturing wildly. There’s also something uncanny about his facial features to me – his mouth seems too wide and lips too thin, his eyes way too large, his nose way too small… and he doesn’t have brows – but to be fair, he might’ve just shaved them.
“Ummm… Darling” I call out to Nugund; he seems pleased by it. “I hope it isn’t rude, but… what species do they belong to?” I ask, pointing at Baba Yaga the mysterious man, who is laughing right now – and I realise it was his laughter I heard when Yuras was struck. The Volkhlun smiles.
“I’m not surprised you are puzzled by it” he comments with a chuckle of his own. “Both of them are Faekin; she is a Wylderkin and he is a Troll. And all descendants of Nadola are unique in shape, so no two Wylderkin will ever look the same – even if they are twins, or a mother and child.”
“And who is he? And who are those people who are with him? Are there more Wylderkin in the Nine Sisters Tribe? What…hmph!?” I spill so many questions Nugund covers my mouth with his hand. However, he’s still in a good mood – even better than earlier!
“Allow me to answer, will you?” He asks rhetorically and I blush in embarrassment. “I’ve heard his name is Azrag and he is the leader of this Taborites – traders who travel the world in groups. They take in everyone who wants to join them – even if only for a short time. Some say they were originally clans of Orcs, stranded on Orezemj after one of the Crusades, but I’m not sure it’s true” he shrugs. “you can ask them yourself. As for the last question…”
“It’s true! …mostly” my other lover interrupts him; it seems her son left, so she can now talk with us – and she seems very eager to do so. “Their legends talk about a group of Barekin slaves, liberated after the First Human Crusade” so Humans picked after Dwarves, eh? It’s a bit disappointing. I keep my feelings to myself, letting Pola continue. “Distrusted by Tamarans and unwilling to return to their motherland, they started travelling from place to place in carts they called ‘tabor’ – hence the name – trading. In time, they started taking pride in their lifestyle and accepting others into their ranks; that allowed them to spread widely – even into the distant Aslammisr!” Her last remark sparks an idea in my mind.
“Was Rad’s father a Taborite?” She smiles and shakes her head.
“No, not everyone who travels with them is one of them” she explains. “Many join in just to move to a specific place. The life of a Taborite can be harsh, I’ve heard” Nugund nods and she mulls over it for a short moment. “But! You’ve got other questions, haven’t you?” She exclaims with a grin. “Feel free to…”
My lover is unable to finish as a new commotion – along with fervent, excited whispers – breaks out. I try to listen to what everyone is saying, but gather only that someone is coming; and soon enough, the crowd parts and three figures emerge: the first one is definitely a member of the Nine Sisters Tribe who stood guard; I’m certain it’s the other two – a tall man and an even taller woman, wearing grey robes with hoods covering their faces and carrying what looks like curved swords on their belts – that Baba Yaga was talking about. Especially when the Lisitha gasps and Olka – who has just returned – comments.
“Zoryan warrior-monks!? Just… how? And his smell…” she sounds astonished and shocked – and she is not the only one. Yuras seems to be even more shocked than she is. And I think I’ve got a hunch why… and then the Krolsun shakes off his confusion when the two are about to reach him – and he confirms what everyone suspected.
“Brother Yuzas…” he whispers and the monks pull their hoods away, revealing two Smoothkin – an old Rabbitman and a young Bearwoman. His facial features are strikingly similar to the Chieftain, albeit his eyes look sharper and more focused; there’s also a familiar to me zeal in them. Other than that, his head is also clean-shaved and covered in scars and tattoos. He’s also slightly shorter and less muscular. Overall, he looks like an older and more serious version of Yuras.
The woman on the other hand looks to be more hot-headed and passionate – but by no means any less severe. She has strong features and short, brown hair – sans the single, thin braid on the side. She also has this zealous look in her yellow eyes, one that I know all too well – the look of a narrow-minded, strong-headed religious fanatic. It immediately makes me more guarded towards them.
“It’s been a long time since somebody called me by this name… For over 40 years I’ve been known as Pan Leto” he says with a slight reprimand in his tone! “But that’s unimportant now; me and my apprentice – Filka of Gardyka – came here to fulfil our divinely ordained duty. And help you” there’s a slight scorn to his tone I cannot understand – but which makes me like him less and less with every word he says. Especially since Yuras seems to be hurt by it.
“What are they talking about?” Whispers Olka suddenly. “I don’t speak Tamaran, so I don’t get much” she complains and I – for the first time – realise they’ve been using different language than Kolokolan; I don’t want them to be left behind, so I start translating.
“This man – Pan Leto” only now do I notice his name literally means ‘Master Summer’ in Tamaran. “…is Yuras’ brother; he and his apprentice are on some religious quest and are rude to chieftain” everyone who hears me looks differently at the newcomers – there’s now a growing bit of hostility in their gazes; and it spreads, along with angry murmurs, since I’m not the only one who has been translating. “They are quite pushy… and the Troll – Azrag was his name, right? So he rebukes the monk and reminds him of his code, or something; it seems to work” I continue as the tall woman gets angry and tries to lash out at the Faekin, but gets stopped by her mentor. “Anyway, they are here to help us slay the dragon even if that means helping… did he just call Yuras an unfaithful son?!” I’m getting pissed off at those two freaks. “Do we really need those clowns?”
“Well, Zoryan warrior-monks are rumoured to be the best monster slayers in the entire world, so their assistance would be invaluable” Nugund answers. “But… what is a ‘klaun?” He tilts his head in confusion; I need a moment to get that I used English without thinking.
“Oh! It means” I pause, realising I used English because there is no direct equivalent in Kolokolan… or I just don’t know it somehow. “Well… it’s an insult” I capitulate and just convey my intention. “It means” I want to continue, but my explanation is cut short by Baba Yaga.
“Silence!” Her voice – definitely magically amplified – reaches everyone who gathered here; the murmurs stop nigh immediately. Then she addresses the two zealots. “And you, boy, remember to pay more respect to your code; and do not badmouth the Chieftain of our Tribe in front of me” she seems furious – and the younger monk cowers in fear. “If you disrespect him, you disrespect all of us. And I will not tolerate it. Undestand?!” She hits the ground with her staff and leaks some of her oppressive Aura – even I get hit with a slight fear, despite the hostility not being directed at me. But to his credit – Master Summer stands his ground. He nods stiffly, puts on his hood and stands to the side, then beckons his student to do the same.
Finally, when everyone is on their places, the Eldest Witch smiles, satisfied and there’s an unexpected warmth to it! But it is short-lived, sadly, as she makes a more serious face. Then she strikes the ground five times with her staff, and says solemnly “The Ground Council can now begin!”
