A Tribal Affair

Deep under the surface world, in a cool, dark set of tunnels, a primitive beat was resounding off of every wall, much to the dismay of old man Lod Krol. The barbaric beating of the archaic drums made it hard to keep his meditation, and he found his mind wandering like the sounds that were all but impossible to ignore.

He breathed in deep and exhaled slowly. So tired. The kind of utter exhaustion that could only come from a lifetime of fighting just to survive. One that held no cure in sleep. Not that he had had that luxury lately.

Lod scratched at his neck, fingering the strangely hot flesh that never seemed to cool. If he had a mirror he would have been able to see the mark which branded him slave to the demon lord of imprisonment, but even now, eyes blindfolded and his body soaking in a pool of still warm blood, it’s image showed brightly in his mind. It had only been on him a few weeks, but it felt as if the brand had been there all his fifty years.

That mark doomed him and his new friends if they could not find some way to… Do something about it. It was why he came back to this wretched system of underground passages and how he ended up in his current predicament. As always seeking a way to continue living. A feat he didn’t truly believe he deserved.

The drums continued to hammer their monotonous encouragement as he took another breath and folded his rough pale hands in prayer. “Dear gods above. Grant my shield arm the strength to endure this trial, and my mind the wisdom to see victory. Above all else, protect this lot of whelps. I am a human at the end of my lifespan, but this lot… For most of them it’s their first adventure.”

The truth of that statement sent his heart to racing and he worked to get his breath under control once more. As tired as he was, it was not yet time to give in, not when their lives were on the line.

Their party had gotten lost a few days ago and ended up ambushed by a pack of strange primitive savages. They were chained and carried off to their leader who in a stroke of luck, happened to speak the common tongue. He told them that today was a sacred holiday for their kind, and that they were in need of a warrior to sacrifice.

Belthor a young gnome trained in the arcane arts was as quick on his feet as he always was. He asked if a dual with the tribe’s mightiest warrior might do better to appease their god. To everyone’s surprise the high priest agreed, and then the question hung on the air. Which of them would fight. Well Lod was hardly going to let any of these young ones chance their death, so he volunteered.

That was how he found himself meditating in a tub of blood with unknown origins, preparing himself for a dual with a warrior whose people’s name he couldn’t pronounce.

“Hey Krul. Are you hungry?”

Slowly he reached up to lift the blindfold past his long white hair on one side. His eye took a long moment to soak in the dark blurry images of the once familiar forms standing before him. Now that his meditation ended he could hear the drums sounding louder than ever and he not so silently cursed them for wreaking havoc on his old ears.

As his sight became clear he saw the elf, Malorie, was offering out a roasted chuck of meat on a strange looking bone plate. He reached out to take it with his left hand, but stopped when he saw the blood drip from it. Noticing, she pulled an arrow from her quiver and stuck it into the meat, handing out the newly crafted kabob which Lod took gratefully.

Malorie was always prim and proper in her silver and plum armor which somehow always seemed clean, despite weeks of treading through mud, grime and blood. Her ivory skin and blonde hair were always equally cared for, and her pearly smile could melt the coldest heart. She was the very picture of beauty, grace and agility.

Next to her was the gnome Belthor. He was prone to snarks and his roughspun clothing was so caked with dirt it was hard to tell whatever color it had started as. Upon his shoulder sat the huge bird Volt, his familiar. The bird was about as big as him with feathers that were black as coal except for their tips. A few inches from the ends the plumage shifted to a bluish silver which was shared by beak and claws. It’s eyes starred at Lod, through him, with a light blue that cracked with gold in chaotic lines.

Lastly their was Sorya. He was tall, with chiseled muscular features and a pale purple skin with deep set plum eyes that held an eerie translucent glow. He claimed to have come from an ancient group of people who reincarnate with all their memories intact, which if it was true, sounded kind of horrible to Lod. Everything about the man from his looks, to mannerisms and even speech left you feeling strange, but the kind of strange you get used to, or at least tell yourself you do.

As Lod finished the last of the meat, which was tasty enough to keep him from asking what kind it was, Malorie held out a hand for the arrow back. She was down to her last five and her practice of always recovering her arrows had gotten a lot of mileage in this place. He handed it over and rose himself from the stone bloodbath.

Malorie turned away at the sight of his naked flesh, but shame was something for young men. Belthor muttered something in the magic tongue which produced an orb he then used in a few somatic movements. In no time he conjured up a warm wind that dried a good portion of the blood which dripped from Lod’s body. Belthor snarked as he tucked the orb back in his little side satchel. “I suppose you want me to clean you up to?”

Lod shook his head as Malorie handed him his small clothes, keeping her eyes on the ceiling. “No. I don’t want to disrespect their culture by accident. We’re walking a fine enough line as it is. Did any of you get a look at their champion?”

Belthor nodded. “Yeah. He’s big. Didn’t see any armor, but he had a huge sword or mace or axe or something with him. Looked like he was praying to it.

Lod Krul sighed. “Great.”

Sorya slowly turned his head fixing his pupiless white orbs on Lod Krul. The piercing look sent a shiver down his spine, which he didn’t pretend away. “Does this scare you? Did you really plan to live forever human?”

“I did once, but now I just want to die knowing I did my best.”

Malorie didn’t like that response. Humor usually flew over her head. “You have to do better than your best. You may be willing to die, but I’m not.”

“Is that so?” Said Lod, beginning to dawn his armor to hide his smile. “Would you all help me with this?”

Once armored up to the teeth in his myriad of leather and scale pieces, he picked up his two small spiked shields and felt a small boost of confidence. Whatever this primal force threw at him, his advantage would be armor, cunning and experience. They had gotten him this far at least.

“Alright, time for buffs.” Said Belthor as grabbed his orb once more. “Everyone give him everything you got.”

Malorie put her hand on her hip, making a clicking sound with her tongue. “Isn’t that cheating?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” Said Belthor without any hesitation in his spell crafting.

Malorie’s face grew tight, but she produced a few components and contributed some magic of her own. All except Sorya who stood there, quietly watching, hands folded in a silent prayer.

Afterword the four made their way to the largest cavern section where an arena was made from a bunch of primitive bodies. Belthor plucked a feather from his thunder hawk and tucked it inside Lod’s armor, but that worried Lod a great deal. He knew what it meant. “Isn’t that going to be a bit obvious Belthor?”

Belthor shrugged. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. IF we come to it. You remember how to whistle right?”

Lod nodded. Next it was Sorya’s time for a surprise. He placed his hands upon Lod Krul’s back and a shot of adrenaline sent his heart to racing. It felt as if his youth returned, but he knew the consequences well. “Will you ask first next time? I’m old as it is.”

Sorya smiled, a calculated reflex. “I asked the gods, I care not for your wishes.”

Lod laughed. He turned toward Malorie and flashed a smile. “How about a kiss from a pretty elf?”

Malorie averted her gaze. “If I see one, I’ll be sure to..”

The drums drowned out the rest of her snark, but Lod’s imagination could fill in the blanks. He turned and strode for the center of the cavern, ready to face whatever was thrown at him.

Waiting for him in the middle of a large, crudely carved stone arena was the Tarquin Shaman, sitting on a palanquin of leather and fur. Tarquin was the name of their race… Maybe. At least the noise they made when referring to themselves sounded like ‘Tar-quin.’

The shaman’s skin had an appearance like dark brown boiled leather which had been stretched tight over his bulky skeleton. He wore a simple soft leather loincloth as all of their race did, and wielded a large staff, cobbled together from stone and crystal. Tarquins stood on two legs with feet twice as large as a human, but were much more hunched like a monkey. This shamin shared a height with Lod, but most of the others were a foot, maybe two larger.

The shaman rose as Lod approached, using only his lengthy arms on his staff to lift himself up. He then maneuvered it to drag himself to Lod, reaching out with muddy fingers once he stood before him. With that same hand he began to draw some form of marking upon Lod’s brow, yelling out in his native tongue as he worked, which sent all the others into a cacophony of reactions. Some beat their chests, while others whooped and hollered or even stomped.

As the room finally began to calm, a small section of the Tarquins parted to make way for a hulking figure, dragging a huge slab of stone as long as he was tall. At that moment Lod Krul’s heart sank into his stomach, beating as loud, as hard, and as fast as the ever blasting drums that echoed from everywhere.

This Tarquin stood near eight feet tall with a chest as broad as a barrel. The huge slab he dragged was some joke form of monsterous sword, jagged, serrated and dangerous. Scars were etched into almost every six inches of this monster, and when he roared he revealed only about five teeth. He walked up to Lod with a powerful stride, only stopping a few feet away, showering him with his foul breath as the shaman spoke again.

Fear was something the old were supposed to have conquered. He’d fought bigger, tougher and more dangerous foes, but never alone. Always with his friends and allies.

Lod took a deep breath. He was not alone. His friends had given him every edge, he just had to carry the bulk of the load. He exhaled and then let out his own battle shout, slamming his two shields together and raising them both ready to fight.

It happened in an instant. The drums stopped their pounding, the shaman stopped his speech and the two combatants flew at each other instinctively. The Tarquin readied his weapon for a strike as Lod charged forward, fear melting off of him. Even the heathy part of fear that says, we made a mistake.

The huge great sword came down on one of Lods shields, shattering it instantly and biting past it to land against his chest. He went sprawling, skidding across the ground, turning over and over until his momentum caught up with him. Pain hit him as hard as the blow, and instantly he knew he’d cracked a few of his ribs. His body was now useless, the contest clearly over.

The Tarquin roared something that was half laugh, half boast. It looked around at the hall with a cruel smile plastered upon its lips before slowly stomping toward the crippled Lod.

He tried to get to his feet but the pain was too much. He rolled onto his back and looked up into the cavern above, spotting something he had forgotten about. He smiled, then frowned. He hated this, but it was the only option left to him. His second chance. He whistled and in the same instant, he was struck by lightning.

He felt every nerve light up, and then go numb. His body got back to its feet, but he felt distant. Like a watcher inside a prison of flesh. He charged, shield poised for offense, while the Tarquin stupidly searched the cave for the source of the lightning bolt which no longer existed. Stuck in the past, instead of the present.

With everything Lod had left he jumped, slamming the side of the shield against the Tarquins jaw and sending them both crashing to the ground. In his haste and energized state, Lod was as quick as he was in youth, and he wasted no time after the fall returning to blows. He slammed the shield again and again into the Tarquin’s face, fully aware the first one was probably enough to stun him. He pounded until his arm locked up and the head before him caved in in a way you don’t come back from.

The room went silent, all except for the heavy breathing of Lod Krul and the slow dragged footsteps of the shaman. Once he reached the two of them he bent over the Tarquin Warrior with a strange dagger, and in one swift motion opened a hole in his chest. With the skill of experience, the Shaman twisted the dagger inside, eventually pulling out a heart, as big as a horses.

He raised it high and said a few words as Lod’s body began to give back to the pain and he was forced to sit down. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he re opened them he found himself starring at the heart which was being offered to him. He knew what to do, he hated it, but he knew.

He grasped it with his right hand and held it up, he shouted his name and then took a huge bite out of it. It was gross, tough, but he forced himself to swallow. All the Tarquins broke into celebration. It seems they would cheer for any victor, not just their own. Lod wondered if they cared about the birds interference, or thought it was some kind of godly intervention. Either way, it was clear that only he was concerned about it.

Then like a plague the drums returned. They pounded and echoed and reverberated through his very bones. His achey, shattered bones.

He laid back, the last of his abilities focused on finishing the heart. As he did, the Tarquins began chanting their very name. “Tarquin, Tarquin, Tarquin!”

It gave his mind pause. Was Tarquin the name of their race? Or their word for warrior. His vision began to grow dark as it blurred. His pain too much to bare. He could feel himself lifted, the armor being taken off of him and familiar voices somewhere nearby, but his last thoughts were fixated.

‘Maybe Tarquin is their word for warrior and race? Yeah. Maybe it’s both. Maybe I am a Tarquin. If I reincarnate like Sorya, I’ll have to remember to come back a Tarquin.’