Conquest of the Horde

Prologue - Arane Susurrus

His long stride would take the large troll close to the hut, blood covering the armor, his own and the prey’s. Said pray would be slung off his shoulder and onto a hook hanging on a chain outside the hut. Stabbing in a few places rich in arteries, the zhevra corpse would be allowed to bleed out. Shoulder pads would be casually tossed away and axe hung against the side of the small dwelling. After collecting some of the striped creature’s blood into a small wooden bowl, and refreshing the tribal markings on his face with this fresh content, Thrazin stepped into the hut.

Kneeling upon the dry hay, Thra'zin would stretch his shoulders once more, discarded armor behind him as he closed his eyes. After several long inhales, his mutters would soon surface, filling the decrepit empty hut's silence like a hum. A priest had long ago tried to teach him traditional ways of addressing the Loa, but without the need for an answer, he opted for a simple state that he perceived as trance-like in which he would loosen his soul in simple words. Hesitation would fade into the certainty of destiny. The rules of others would fade into trust Loa-granted instinct.

"Blessed be ya, Shadra, motha' ta owa' destiny, guardian of owa' deaths and tortchura' of tha souls of da' unworthe'. Muh humble essence bow to ya, and ask that ya done grant me tha hona' of allowin' ma words a' worship ta reach de otha' Loa, before the true time that they could, upon the death ya grant. Ya be the order-maker, tha fate builda' and keeper a true balance. Naw the wordy balance ay the stone-builder races and naw the childish order of tha dirt-lovin' races, but tha true balance of instinct, thought, life an' death, destruct'chan' and making.

Ah find maself without purpose, muh perfect mate allowed inta tha freedom of her perfection, slashin her way ta vengance along-side her spirit-chosen bretheren. So please, Mother of Venom, be watchin' ova' Siame as well too, Shadra lov'. Bless da Darkspea' - so dat with da Echoes, we done re-grow to a true tribe, respected and independant a' owa green brothaz with softenin' faith. Silk Dancer, bless tha youngins who follow da Loa. Forgive tha youngins who forget tha Loa. Forgive da tribesmons who go ta' untrue faiths, and weave so that they be used ta ya glory. Heart Weaver , give glorious deaths ta tha greatest ay slashers, and spare no thread for those that dishona' ya balance.

May Legba and Lukou deliver us swiftly ta the place where ya may sow us back up. May Hir’eek and Hethiss keep out huts at night and keep us from backstabs. May the Prey’s Doom and Ogoun grant us the slash-arm we need for victory and may Shango and Sam’di leave the dead ta’ rest on thundery nights. May tha chidren a’ tha Loa no be allowed ta be jus’ wild life or annexes ta’ „civilisationz”. May tha Childern of tha Loa fer eva’ be fo tha Loa’s glory. I slash in ya name, draw blood in ya name and bleed in ya name, Spida’ Motha’."

Opening his eyes and getting up with a sigh, he would stretch his shoulders yet again, ready to head out and prepare the fire needed to burn his food. A step away from where he knelt was all he took before the indistinguishable whisper of destiny hissed ephemereally inside of him, but from without, for ever changing things.

„Alright, Thra’Zin Darkspear. It is time.”