With heavy steps, he marched trough the village. Cradled in the high mountains of the Oxidd Ridge, it was safe frm the fierce winds and the iron dust blowing over the Sierra of metallic mountains. Ramy was a young warrior of the Blade Tribe, and today was his rite of ascension to adulthood. He breathed in, the tang of iron filling his large lungs with air only a Mirran could describe as homely. The dark metal of his hands was shimmering, polished to perfection, and his reddish skin was marked and painted with all kinds of blessings by his mother. Today, he would receive the right to craft his own blade, supervised by his father. The true sign of a warrior. Or, if he failed, he would been given the choice between the spear of the Home-Warden or the walking staff of the Cliff-Courier. It was either a life in contested glory or in use for the Tribes. The Vulshok didn't have much compassion for waste.
He stepped into the roomy longhut of the Elder, and the noises inside subsided, as all eyes were set on him. Ramy had trained for this, and burnmarks on his arms told the tales of the fire that had tested him before. The scars of a Gnathosaur's swipe, the tiny imperfection on his steeled shoulders where the dissolving fluids of a Ferrovore had begun to break his metal down, the grim resolve in his eyes - all of that was testament of his will to prepare. He fell to a knee and spoke the words, as he was taught.
«I came from the fire, I am born of the mountains, and for fire and mountains I will fight. I will face your challenges and emerge as a true warrior or will find my way back into the tribe, proving my worth otherwise.»
Murmuring, muttering and more rustling answered the phrase. All of the men in the hut had spoken the words before, and whilst not all of them had prevailed, they all knew the importance of the moment in the young Vulshok's life. Finally, silence claimed the hut again, with only the cracking noise of the Eternal forge whispering in the background, as if it was to say that it was listening. The Elder, Brahok, stood up from his rock throne and raised his right hand, motioning Ramy closer, towards the center of the assembly.
«You come to us as the son of Harrik, the swordsmith, and Veyla, the Cliff-Courier. We see your blood, and we know your name, young Ramy. We see your face and we see your marks. You are young. What makes you sure you are to reach out for the blade, and be the edge that cuts what is our enemy?»
Again, words he was prepared for. Yet, now that they were spoken, he saw their true weight. Like lead, they rested now on his shoulders, and made it harder to reply. The challenges began before they were officially announced, this just being the first. But Ramy knew, there was no time for doubts or second guesses. A warrior does not have time for those things, either. He had to decide, engage, overcome and return to the warm stoves of his home - or the fiery grave that awaited all those dying in defence of the Tribe.
«I have bested the Gnathosaur, without calling upon the Earth. I have formed the red iron with my hands and defeated my pain. I have wrestled the Metal-Eater without losing my gifts. I am strong, and I know the way of the blade. Father taught me well. I am ready to face what the Council demands. I am Vulshok, I am fire.»
Some of the assembled nodded. Others watched him, seeking for signs of diminishing resolve. There was always hope and concern when a young man attempted to reach the next step, as the community was so focused on getting the most out of everyone. Every child was tested and given a task, and every five year cycles, they could approach the Council and attempt to change their lot. If they proved worthy, they were given a new task. If not, a different one. Life progressed in cycles of constant challenges, and even the older had to pass their tests if they wanted to advance. No one was treated differently or got easier ways, everyone was the same before the eyes of the Council.
With a backhand swing of his left arm, the blade came in sideways, connecting with the metal skull of his attacker. A crushing sound, as the darksteel sword severed mere galvanized iron and ate it's way through the Rotter's head, was his song of battle. The background to that was the screams of the Mirrans, the cries of agony, and the ever-clicking noise of the invaders, as pointy legs traversed the ground of the Hammer's Pass. He was bleeding from his arm, and the longer the wound sat their, the more his arm felt numb. The taint of the invaders was eating away at his flesh, weakening him as he pressed on. If they would lose the pass, they would leave the village below wide open to the Phyrexians. They could not faulter. Goblins had warned them about the oncoming attack - truely, times ahd changed. There was no more time for the petty grudges over metal veins or holy places that split the inhabitants of the 'Ridge apart before. Now, there was a common enemy and a common cause.
Next to him, Keyshk slammed his massive hammer down on the torso of a struggling wurm, after on of those Aurioks that fought with them threw it off her back. As the broad head of the weapon was brought onto the insectoid body, the sickening stench of gas emitted, leaving the carcass of the alien assailant. Even in death the rotters were an offense, causing harm and denying victory. Rage and bitterness took a strong hold of his pumping heart, but he knew, he had to press on. The numbers of the attackers were dwindling down, but so were theirs. This pass would be a grave for dozens - a number so strange for a Vulshok to use when referring to his folk. There weren't many of them. Seeing so many die was more than terrifying. His resolve stemmed from the importance of his task, so he endured the fight. He grabbed a chunk of rock next to his foot, and bent the elements to his will, forming a spear of molten metal out of it. Geomancy, the sorcerer's gift he could manifest, was exhausting, but this was not the time to keep reserves. With a roar of anger, he flung the impromptu weapon towards the approaching beast, and caught it mid-air. Penetrated by the dart, it crashed into the ground, rolling over. It came to rest just a step before him, and with a feat of wrath-fueled strength, he used it as a ramp. Ramy ran over the body, and leaped towards the next monstrosity, plunging his blade into the shoulder of the creature. As it shifted to meet his pounce, he realized that it was a Myr - perverted, twisted by this stinking oil. His claws were dripping of the substance.
The blade struck true, devastating the robotic Myr. The shoulder-girders breaking, shattering the chest and crushing through its left leg, it sttod for a second, as in defiance of the mighty blow, before it toppled over. Ramy had seen these before - deadly attackers when they came in, but weak to a stalwart surprise attack. Behind him, Keyshk groaned - turning around, Ramy saw his swordmates fate. Pierced by a dozen darts, oozing with posion, the proud Vulshok stumbled, fell to his knees and spat out ichor and blood. He struggled to get up again, and managed to, just in time to smash his hammer one more time against the torso of another beast of corruption. Then, he keeled over, after his last breath passed through his bloodied lips. Ramy blinked a tear away. He did not even have the time to mourn his lost friend. «Not even that, scum! You don't even allow me to say farewell! You are nothing but -» His sword, wielded with both hands, decapitated a foul strider to his left. - «- an insult to this place! You are rotting, stinking -» And then, in his rage, he neglected his defense. Pierced by a claw, his right arm just stopped obeying his will. he almost lost his blade, but was quick enough to shift the weight of the heft to the left hand, swinging it at an upright angle towards his attacker, instinctively. «Perish! Melt! Be gone!» The mechanical beast made two more steps towards him, and then, crashed on the ground.
They fought on, and at the end of the day, a meere twenty of them, all battered and bruised, some limping, came back to the village. The pass, they held. But only this day - they would not have the men to do it again.
This is the first time i enter and read the stories in this section and i really like the story.
<3
2. The Retreat
Ramy looked at the fabric that covered his wounds, while the smith finished forming the plates. The wound had been itching ever since the adrenalin had dropped. They had fought back wave after wave, but the cost was way too high to sustain any further resistance. He knew they had to leave. But leaving Ember's Cradle behind seemed so ... unacceptable. His tribe had been living here for ever, and so many memories, rituals and traditions were attached to it. The firewalk, the trial of Westcliff, his own ascension to adulthood - giving all this up felt like a harder blow than all the deaths these invaders had tallied up. But it was inevitable. They had to, if they wanted to prevail. "Your armor plating is cooled down enough. Find your inner fire, I will attach them now, Ramy." It was time to wear the mark of the true veteran: metal plates where the flesh had been destroyed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Long after his screams stopped resonating from the mountains, Ramy still felt like his right arm was numb. With metal bars driven deep into the metal that lived under his skin, it felt stiff and alien to him. But, he was a warrior, and he knew that these icons of preserverance were common for his kin. It meant to be able to fight one more day - and if his fight meant one more day in safety for his tribe, he gladly paid the painful toll to achieve these means. "We have to leave. We have to join up with the other tribes and see what the Auriok and Leonin came to decide. They are not as steeled as we are, but our numbers are falling rapidly. It is time to retreat." The words of Chief Ilan were very clear, and his facial expression did not conceal the disgust he felt when he said 'retreat'. But it was true - if they did not reconcile their relationship with the other entities of Mirrodin, this war would only have them all fall, one after the other.
The next day, they had their belongings loaded upon the broad backs of their massive steeds, and headed north. The Oxidda Ridge had been designated as the place to gather survivors, and the Hammer tribe had given birth to a leader in the troubled times. The Hammer tribe, out of all tribes - didn't they make just the simplest items? Ramy always deemed them to be inferior - both to the wisdom of the Anvil Tribe and the martial prowess of his folks, but, apparently, in these times, his people had to take what they could get - even if it was just an able geomancer of the Hammer Tribe. His contempt was deeply routed in tradition, yet he couldn't bring himself to fight it. It was only his rational mind that accepted this mixing with the other tribes as a neccessity for survival of the greater whole. But, still ... during the march, he wondered how his Elders would behave - normally, the Hammer people were simply met with mild bemusement or belittled, especially outside of a trading environment. He just couldn't see any Elder, not even Ilan, kneel to a Hammer Vulshok. But maybe that wouldn't be necessary - after all, they were Blade Tribe, and even an up-coming Geomancer from the Hammer Tribe would do best to respect them.
These times were troublesome. The natural order was disturbed and Ramy didn't like it. The fact alone that they were reaching out to the leonin was very, very untraditional. And his folks felt quite strongly about tradition.
With heavy steps, he marched trough the village. Cradled in the high mountains of the Oxidd Ridge, it was safe frm the fierce winds and the iron dust blowing over the Sierra of metallic mountains. Ramy was a young warrior of the Blade Tribe, and today was his rite of ascension to adulthood. He breathed in, the tang of iron filling his large lungs with air only a Mirran could describe as homely. The dark metal of his hands was shimmering, polished to perfection, and his reddish skin was marked and painted with all kinds of blessings by his mother. Today, he would receive the right to craft his own blade, supervised by his father. The true sign of a warrior. Or, if he failed, he would been given the choice between the spear of the Home-Warden or the walking staff of the Cliff-Courier. It was either a life in contested glory or in use for the Tribes. The Vulshok didn't have much compassion for waste.
He stepped into the roomy longhut of the Elder, and the noises inside subsided, as all eyes were set on him. Ramy had trained for this, and burnmarks on his arms told the tales of the fire that had tested him before. The scars of a Gnathosaur's swipe, the tiny imperfection on his steeled shoulders where the dissolving fluids of a Ferrovore had begun to break his metal down, the grim resolve in his eyes - all of that was testament of his will to prepare. He fell to a knee and spoke the words, as he was taught.
«I came from the fire, I am born of the mountains, and for fire and mountains I will fight. I will face your challenges and emerge as a true warrior or will find my way back into the tribe, proving my worth otherwise.»
Murmuring, muttering and more rustling answered the phrase. All of the men in the hut had spoken the words before, and whilst not all of them had prevailed, they all knew the importance of the moment in the young Vulshok's life. Finally, silence claimed the hut again, with only the cracking noise of the Eternal forge whispering in the background, as if it was to say that it was listening. The Elder, Brahok, stood up from his rock throne and raised his right hand, motioning Ramy closer, towards the center of the assembly.
«You come to us as the son of Harrik, the swordsmith, and Veyla, the Cliff-Courier. We see your blood, and we know your name, young Ramy. We see your face and we see your marks. You are young. What makes you sure you are to reach out for the blade, and be the edge that cuts what is our enemy?»
Again, words he was prepared for. Yet, now that they were spoken, he saw their true weight. Like lead, they rested now on his shoulders, and made it harder to reply. The challenges began before they were officially announced, this just being the first. But Ramy knew, there was no time for doubts or second guesses. A warrior does not have time for those things, either. He had to decide, engage, overcome and return to the warm stoves of his home - or the fiery grave that awaited all those dying in defence of the Tribe.
«I have bested the Gnathosaur, without calling upon the Earth. I have formed the red iron with my hands and defeated my pain. I have wrestled the Metal-Eater without losing my gifts. I am strong, and I know the way of the blade. Father taught me well. I am ready to face what the Council demands. I am Vulshok, I am fire.»
Some of the assembled nodded. Others watched him, seeking for signs of diminishing resolve. There was always hope and concern when a young man attempted to reach the next step, as the community was so focused on getting the most out of everyone. Every child was tested and given a task, and every five year cycles, they could approach the Council and attempt to change their lot. If they proved worthy, they were given a new task. If not, a different one. Life progressed in cycles of constant challenges, and even the older had to pass their tests if they wanted to advance. No one was treated differently or got easier ways, everyone was the same before the eyes of the Council.
Ramy was given his assignment. Seven years ago.
Working on: BRG Next Level Jund - Read this thread on why it's so awesome.
Prowlin' with the Pack, rawr! | DMing a Freeform Pulp Campaign - [Stranded in the Rift]
Check these out: [Haiku Contest] - #4 Bonehoard | <3 Clan [Soundtrack] | Story: Rising Sword
With a backhand swing of his left arm, the blade came in sideways, connecting with the metal skull of his attacker. A crushing sound, as the darksteel sword severed mere galvanized iron and ate it's way through the Rotter's head, was his song of battle. The background to that was the screams of the Mirrans, the cries of agony, and the ever-clicking noise of the invaders, as pointy legs traversed the ground of the Hammer's Pass. He was bleeding from his arm, and the longer the wound sat their, the more his arm felt numb. The taint of the invaders was eating away at his flesh, weakening him as he pressed on. If they would lose the pass, they would leave the village below wide open to the Phyrexians. They could not faulter. Goblins had warned them about the oncoming attack - truely, times ahd changed. There was no more time for the petty grudges over metal veins or holy places that split the inhabitants of the 'Ridge apart before. Now, there was a common enemy and a common cause.
Next to him, Keyshk slammed his massive hammer down on the torso of a struggling wurm, after on of those Aurioks that fought with them threw it off her back. As the broad head of the weapon was brought onto the insectoid body, the sickening stench of gas emitted, leaving the carcass of the alien assailant. Even in death the rotters were an offense, causing harm and denying victory. Rage and bitterness took a strong hold of his pumping heart, but he knew, he had to press on. The numbers of the attackers were dwindling down, but so were theirs. This pass would be a grave for dozens - a number so strange for a Vulshok to use when referring to his folk. There weren't many of them. Seeing so many die was more than terrifying. His resolve stemmed from the importance of his task, so he endured the fight. He grabbed a chunk of rock next to his foot, and bent the elements to his will, forming a spear of molten metal out of it. Geomancy, the sorcerer's gift he could manifest, was exhausting, but this was not the time to keep reserves. With a roar of anger, he flung the impromptu weapon towards the approaching beast, and caught it mid-air. Penetrated by the dart, it crashed into the ground, rolling over. It came to rest just a step before him, and with a feat of wrath-fueled strength, he used it as a ramp. Ramy ran over the body, and leaped towards the next monstrosity, plunging his blade into the shoulder of the creature. As it shifted to meet his pounce, he realized that it was a Myr - perverted, twisted by this stinking oil. His claws were dripping of the substance.
The blade struck true, devastating the robotic Myr. The shoulder-girders breaking, shattering the chest and crushing through its left leg, it sttod for a second, as in defiance of the mighty blow, before it toppled over. Ramy had seen these before - deadly attackers when they came in, but weak to a stalwart surprise attack. Behind him, Keyshk groaned - turning around, Ramy saw his swordmates fate. Pierced by a dozen darts, oozing with posion, the proud Vulshok stumbled, fell to his knees and spat out ichor and blood. He struggled to get up again, and managed to, just in time to smash his hammer one more time against the torso of another beast of corruption. Then, he keeled over, after his last breath passed through his bloodied lips. Ramy blinked a tear away. He did not even have the time to mourn his lost friend. «Not even that, scum! You don't even allow me to say farewell! You are nothing but -» His sword, wielded with both hands, decapitated a foul strider to his left. - «- an insult to this place! You are rotting, stinking -» And then, in his rage, he neglected his defense. Pierced by a claw, his right arm just stopped obeying his will. he almost lost his blade, but was quick enough to shift the weight of the heft to the left hand, swinging it at an upright angle towards his attacker, instinctively. «Perish! Melt! Be gone!» The mechanical beast made two more steps towards him, and then, crashed on the ground.
They fought on, and at the end of the day, a meere twenty of them, all battered and bruised, some limping, came back to the village. The pass, they held. But only this day - they would not have the men to do it again.
Working on: BRG Next Level Jund - Read this thread on why it's so awesome.
Prowlin' with the Pack, rawr! | DMing a Freeform Pulp Campaign - [Stranded in the Rift]
Check these out: [Haiku Contest] - #4 Bonehoard | <3 Clan [Soundtrack] | Story: Rising Sword
Working on: BRG Next Level Jund - Read this thread on why it's so awesome.
Prowlin' with the Pack, rawr! | DMing a Freeform Pulp Campaign - [Stranded in the Rift]
Check these out: [Haiku Contest] - #4 Bonehoard | <3 Clan [Soundtrack] | Story: Rising Sword
2. The Retreat
Ramy looked at the fabric that covered his wounds, while the smith finished forming the plates. The wound had been itching ever since the adrenalin had dropped. They had fought back wave after wave, but the cost was way too high to sustain any further resistance. He knew they had to leave. But leaving Ember's Cradle behind seemed so ... unacceptable. His tribe had been living here for ever, and so many memories, rituals and traditions were attached to it. The firewalk, the trial of Westcliff, his own ascension to adulthood - giving all this up felt like a harder blow than all the deaths these invaders had tallied up. But it was inevitable. They had to, if they wanted to prevail. "Your armor plating is cooled down enough. Find your inner fire, I will attach them now, Ramy." It was time to wear the mark of the true veteran: metal plates where the flesh had been destroyed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Long after his screams stopped resonating from the mountains, Ramy still felt like his right arm was numb. With metal bars driven deep into the metal that lived under his skin, it felt stiff and alien to him. But, he was a warrior, and he knew that these icons of preserverance were common for his kin. It meant to be able to fight one more day - and if his fight meant one more day in safety for his tribe, he gladly paid the painful toll to achieve these means. "We have to leave. We have to join up with the other tribes and see what the Auriok and Leonin came to decide. They are not as steeled as we are, but our numbers are falling rapidly. It is time to retreat." The words of Chief Ilan were very clear, and his facial expression did not conceal the disgust he felt when he said 'retreat'. But it was true - if they did not reconcile their relationship with the other entities of Mirrodin, this war would only have them all fall, one after the other.
The next day, they had their belongings loaded upon the broad backs of their massive steeds, and headed north. The Oxidda Ridge had been designated as the place to gather survivors, and the Hammer tribe had given birth to a leader in the troubled times. The Hammer tribe, out of all tribes - didn't they make just the simplest items? Ramy always deemed them to be inferior - both to the wisdom of the Anvil Tribe and the martial prowess of his folks, but, apparently, in these times, his people had to take what they could get - even if it was just an able geomancer of the Hammer Tribe. His contempt was deeply routed in tradition, yet he couldn't bring himself to fight it. It was only his rational mind that accepted this mixing with the other tribes as a neccessity for survival of the greater whole. But, still ... during the march, he wondered how his Elders would behave - normally, the Hammer people were simply met with mild bemusement or belittled, especially outside of a trading environment. He just couldn't see any Elder, not even Ilan, kneel to a Hammer Vulshok. But maybe that wouldn't be necessary - after all, they were Blade Tribe, and even an up-coming Geomancer from the Hammer Tribe would do best to respect them.
These times were troublesome. The natural order was disturbed and Ramy didn't like it. The fact alone that they were reaching out to the leonin was very, very untraditional. And his folks felt quite strongly about tradition.
Working on: BRG Next Level Jund - Read this thread on why it's so awesome.
Prowlin' with the Pack, rawr! | DMing a Freeform Pulp Campaign - [Stranded in the Rift]
Check these out: [Haiku Contest] - #4 Bonehoard | <3 Clan [Soundtrack] | Story: Rising Sword