The death of a packleader (part 1) -- Majikal

[Nyr]

Background:

Toriv Zhurka - Howls-at-the-Dead

the screaming, skull-faced war mask

Toriv Zhurka is the proper name of this mask, and the bearer of Toriv Zhurka is also known as Toriv Zhurka (though many shorten the title to Howls).  Stories teach that in the year one thousand, two hundred and thirty five, a great warpack came upon a demon far to the east of the northern grasslands.  This demon was so horrible to look upon that only those that turned away survived the initial moment of death and remained to fight it.  Of the seventy elves that found the demon, only five survived the fray.  Carrying the body back to camp left a permanent black road stained on the ground for the next fifty five years, a stain left by the blood of the demon they carried.  The skull used for Toriv Zhurka is that demon's skull.  Though it appears to be an off-color tone of alabaster, any suggestion that this mask is anything but an actual demon's skull is met with swift and extreme force, with more than one curious youngster having fallen to the elf known as Toriv Zhurka.

Toriv Zhurka is handed down from elf to elf every five years, passed among those who are known as the deadliest of the Red Fangs.  It is not uncommon for Toriv Zhurka to also be the Xal-Krit, and some believe the titles go hand in hand. 

It is believed that the visage of Toriv Zhurka is so horrifying that it will steal the very ferocity from an opponent's blade or arrow before it strikes.

Kzar-Ktahk - Bearer of the First Face  

a rancid, rune-carved war mask

Ktakh is the name of this mask.  It has been with the tribe since Dune Shriek fell.  As her dying wish, her face was removed, and formed into the first patch and layer of this mask.  Since then, through the generations, the best leaders of the Red Fangs have given tribute over to it in the form of flesh, with the most renowned Habi Tah'kotuk stitching the remains into the work.  Flesh is only removed from the mask during combat, or from rot.  The bearer of Ktahk (First Face) is known as a pack leader to be feared, respected, and is never challenged to a true Di'Mak.  They can initiate the challenge, and it will be a standard Di'Mak, with both parties backing off.  However, if the Kzar-Ktahk is challenged, they will give the challenger one chance to retract, with no loss of face.  If both parties step into the ring, the Kzar-Ktahk is under no restrictions, and may kill the challenger with impunity and without consequence.  Challenging Kzar-Ktahk to Di'Mak is the equivalent of saying they are not worthy to be the Bearer of the First Face.  This is tantamount to treason, unless the challenger can back it up in skill and guile.

It is believed that the ancestor's wisdom is held within the mask.

From the perspective of Two Moons, the packleader and Toriv Zhurka of the tribe.

**the tribe has been awaiting this meeting for weeks, those most revered among the Red Fang have some things to say but it would seem a dark cloud hangs over the tribe, threatening to tear them to pieces. This takes place a mere week before the tribe was left in ruins. In the end of his days, Two Moons was corrupted by his desire to become something more, much like his predecessor Lash. He suffered from insomnia , insanity, and claimed occasional possession which he attributed to the spirit of the Toriv Zhurka. His need for power had grown and the word defiler could now be added to his list of titles.**




Distractedly, you look at the aged, scar-torn elf.
Hunched into a near intolerable bend, this old crone obviously is a
seasoned veteran of harsh battles.  A light puff of ashen grey hair barely
covers her yellowish skull while the dark mottled scars, coupling with deep
wrinkles, lend a rather macabre aura to her overall appearance.  A series of
elaborate scars have been etched into her sagging flesh, a slight tinge of
white had been added to the violent weave of patterns to cause them to stand
out from her sun darkened skin. 
The aged, scar-torn elf is in excellent condition.

The aged, scar-torn elf is using:
<worn on head>           a simple black helm
<face>                   a blood-red ritualistic scar
<worn around neck>       a crimson-stained chitin gorget
<slung across back>      a double-edged bone scimitar
<worn on torso>          a scarlet-dyed hide tunic
<right shoulder>         a pitch-black ritualistic scar
<left shoulder>          a burning bonfire done in bright ink
<worn around wrist>      a crimson-stained, chitin bracer
<worn around wrist>      a hooked, black-scaled bracer
<worn on hands>          a pair of crimson-stained, chitin gloves
<primary hand>           a large wooden spoon
<secondary hand>         an agafari scimitar
<worn as belt>           a leather swordbelt
<hung from belt>         a blood-red bone longsword
<worn around body>       a hooded, red sandcloth windcloak
<waist>                  a series of deeply inked claw marks
<worn on legs>           a crimson-stained hide skirt
<right ankle>            an inking of a pack of howling, hunting jakhals
<left ankle>             an branded group of sprawled, mangled bodies
<worn on feet>           a pair of carmine colored hide boots

She is carrying:
nothing obvious



< 142/142 | 138/138 | 206/224 |75|late afternoon|standing>
The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask tucks the arrows into his quiver.

The husky, weather-worn elf sews the leather into leggings.

There's a few hoots and hollers as elves begin to gather at the centre of the camp, the aged, scar-torn elf stretching and hammering her hands together in powerful claps to attract attention.

The husky, weather-worn elf looks up from his work.

Littering the area with splinters and shards, a scarred elven male chips into a long length of bone.


The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask takes a stance near the forefront of the gathering, arms crossed over a narrow chest as he regards the aged, scar-torn elf.

As the crowd thickens, one or two scraps break up, but are quickly put down by heavy blows from masked, trophie-festooned figures.

>look me
Stretched tall and lanky, this elf appears almost sickly thin with long
limbs that seem to have exhausted every possible drop of waterfat they could
have possessed.  Sandy-brown hair stands mostly erect in a mohawk that seems
to only further emphasize his wasted build.  Two mismatched eyes within
sunken sockets peer out at the world with only half their view, the right
eye shining a healthy crimson as the left appears to have suffered a burn -
a mist of small scars around the socket while the eye itself is the coloring
of spoiled milk.  An angular nose, cheekbones, chin and brow ridge are
visibly accentuated by the gauntness of his tightly-wrapped and moisture
starved skin, lending a near-skeletal appearance to his features. 
-
A fistful of dull, black gems, tied to proud tassles, dangle decoratively from
the granite grip of his longbow. Their number too many to count with just fingers
alone.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask is in excellent condition.

<worn on head>           a dusty elegant, black-plumed red turban
<worn on face>           a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask
<worn around neck>       a dusty black-scaled leather gorget
<worn about throat>      a dusty simple, red-wood talisman
<slung across back>      a dusty granite-gripped, ornate pymlithe longbow
<worn across back>       an arrow-emblazoned, garnet-tasseled quiver
<worn on torso>          a bloodied black-scaled leather longvest
<worn on right shoulder> a dusty red-slashed, tembo-sewn patch
<worn on left shoulder>  a dusty mangy, black-furred rat
<worn on arms>           a pair of black-scaled leather sleeves
<worn around wrist>      a black-stained, hard-edged bracer
<worn around wrist>      a black-scaled leather vambrace
<worn on hands>          a dusty pair of sunback leather archery gloves
<worn on forearms>       a dusty gizhat leather dart wallet
<worn as belt>           a skull-studded black leather swordbelt
<hung from belt>         a gortok-headed granite war mace
<hung from belt>         a gortok-headed granite war mace
<worn around body>       a dusty cowled, black-rosetted fur cloak
<worn about waist>       an elongated, gaj-decorated codpiece
<worn on legs>           a pair of black-scaled leather leggings
<worn on right ankle>    a dusty fanged climbing spike
<worn on left ankle>     a dusty fanged climbing spike
<worn on feet>           a dusty pair of soft, mottled fur boots

A foreign presence contacts your mind.

The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask gaze flickers over towards the aged, scar-torn elf.

Curiously from his spot on the ground, the husky, weather-worn elf looks up at the aged, scar-torn elf.

The pony-tailed elf sends you a telepathic message:
     "Ya, could always do a challenge like those have done for kzar-ktahk."

You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.


Your new ldesc is:
The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask stands within an elven crowd

Baring her fangs and slapping her hands together, the aged, scar-torn elf shouts, in allundean:
     "Alrigh' shut the FUCK UP."

The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask slowly rises to his feet.

The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask stands up.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask crosses his arms, staring blankly at the aged, scar-torn elf from behind his mask.

A young, scar-faced elf begins to speak, silenced abruptly by a backhand from the male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask.

Grabbing a stick from the fire and hurling it at a nearby ghet, the aged, scar-torn elf shouts, in allundean:
     "I said SHUT THE FUCK UP."

The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask looks at the aged, scar-torn elf.

The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask watches in amusement almost.

The husky, weather-worn elf remains silent, shifting a bundle of leathers under his arm.

There's a ripple of awed silence from the edge of the crowd, and elves start to move aside, backing away in surprise.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask pushes forward through the crowd, shoving a too-slow scarred-up elf out of the way.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask looks at the short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask looks at you.

The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask looks at the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask.

The aged, scar-torn elf subtly defers to the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask, posture losing some of her previous hackles.

The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask looks up at the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask.

His gaze settling, you look at the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask.
Supple muscle, rugged ritual scarring, and splotches of ink make up the
mass of this elven male.  The glyphs and ornamentation do not stop; one can
only see where new scars fade into older rips along the skin.  His eyes are
blue and keen as a raptor's, providing a stark contrast to his lumpy,
sun-darkened skin. 
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask is in excellent condition.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask is using:
<worn on face>           a rancid, rune-carved war mask
<worn around neck>       a crimson-stained chitin gorget
<worn about throat>      a necklace of yellowed fangs
<slung across back>      an ebony, quirri-carved recurve longbow
<worn on torso>          a crimson-stained, scabrous leather jerkin
<right shoulder>         a pitch-black ritualistic scar
<left shoulder>          an eerie inking of a soaring buzzard
<worn around wrist>      a hooked, black-scaled bracer
<worn around wrist>      a crimson-stained, chitin bracer
<worn on hands>          a pair of crimson-stained, chitin gloves
<primary hand>           a feathered, stone-headed warclub
<secondary hand>         a short, fang-tipped spear
<worn on legs>           a pair of stiff, red and tan striped leggings
<worn on feet>           a pair of carmine colored hide boots

He is carrying:
nothing obvious

The short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask looks at the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask, keeping a pace distance from the campfire.

Gripping his short, fang-tipped spear, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask hefts it up, then stabs it into the earth with a short throw, blunt end quivering in the air.

Stabbing it into the ground, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask drops his short, fang-tipped spear.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask's eyes never leave the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask takes a few slow steps towards you, his pace measured.

Littering the area with splinters and shards, a scarred elven male chips into a long length of bone.

The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask glances around idly.

The husky, weather-worn elf watches the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask curiously.

As he cradles his feathered, stone-headed warclub in one hand, the business end in his other hand, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask says to you, in allundean:
     "So.  You."

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask's arms remains crossed over his narrow chest, his veiled gaze on the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask's face.

The throng of scarred elves murmur in strained anticipation, all eyes on the area around the firepit.

With a vague nod of acknowledgement, you say to the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask, in allundean:
     "Kzar-Ktahk."

After a lengthy pause, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask says to you, in allundean:
     "Toriv Zhurka.  You bear your title well."

The faintest smile in his voice, you say to the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask, in allundean:
     "As do yaself."

Pointing his feathered, stone-headed warclub at you, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask says to you, in allundean:
     "And I challenge you to a di'mak."

The husky, weather-worn elf gasps quietly, reaching to stroke his chin.

With a grunt and nod, almost to himself, the short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask says, in allundean:
     "Either can back down then."

**if one is challenged to the di'mak, a fight of real weapons, the stronger elf gives an unspoken agreement that the lesser elf (two moons in this case), reserves the right to stop it before death. If a lesser elf challenges one of his betters though....**

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask shifts a look towards the short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask, let it linger there a moment.

Thrusting a magickal weapon into the air, the male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask shouts, in allundean:

     "Toriv Zhurka!"




You feel your pride swell, corrupted somehow.




**our beloved hero, afraid to show weakness and eager to make a name for himself as a true leader of the Red Fang.. does something unexpected and unheard of amongst the Red Fang. The Kzar-Ktahk, title given to those being the most vicious of all Fangs.**

An edge in his tone, you say to the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask, in allundean:
     "I challenge.. YOU. Kzar-Ktahk."

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask glances idly over to the male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask, then back to you.


Reversing his grip on it and stabbing it into the sand, you drop your dusty bone-tipped spear.
Shown to the room as:
A dusty bone-tipped spear is here stabbed into the sand.

Several elves gasp, others hoot and stamp their feet, but all quickly quieten.

You feel a rush of energy, adrenaline building.

You think:
     "Give me strength Toriv.."

The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask nods in the air briefly and reaches up to scratches one of his owls's chest.


A soft affirming grunt rises from the short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask's chest.

< 142/142 | 138/138 | 206/224 |75|dusk|standing>Within the Circle of Tents [Leave]
A dusty bone-tipped spear is here stabbed into the sand.
A short, fang-tipped spear sprouts forth from the ground.
A thick section of chalky grey silt-horror shell lies here.
A skull-carved wooden chest sits here.
An anakore skull is here propped up on a gnarled spear.
An expansive, ruddy-camouflaged canvas pavilion looms here.
A squat, diamond-patterned jakhal-hide tent is here.
A small, desert-camouflaged tent is pitched here.
A maroon striped, raptor-hide tent is sprawled out here.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask is standing here.
The husky, weather-worn elf is sitting here.
The short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask is standing here.
The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask is standing here.
The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask is standing here.
The bruised, rawboned elven female sits by the fire, breastfeeding an infant.
The aged, scar-torn elf is standing here in the clearing.

With a tilt of his head to the side, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask says to you, in allundean:
     "Then so it is..."

His eyes giving the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask a long once-over, weighing, you look at the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask.
Supple muscle, rugged ritual scarring, and splotches of ink make up the
mass of this elven male.  The glyphs and ornamentation do not stop; one can
only see where new scars fade into older rips along the skin.  His eyes are
blue and keen as a raptor's, providing a stark contrast to his lumpy,
sun-darkened skin. 
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask is in excellent condition.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask is using:
<worn on face>           a rancid, rune-carved war mask
<worn around neck>       a crimson-stained chitin gorget
<worn about throat>      a necklace of yellowed fangs
<slung across back>      an ebony, quirri-carved recurve longbow
<worn on torso>          a crimson-stained, scabrous leather jerkin
<right shoulder>         a pitch-black ritualistic scar
<left shoulder>          an eerie inking of a soaring buzzard
<worn around wrist>      a hooked, black-scaled bracer
<worn around wrist>      a crimson-stained, chitin bracer
<worn on hands>          a pair of crimson-stained, chitin gloves
<primary hand>           a feathered, stone-headed warclub
<worn on legs>           a pair of stiff, red and tan striped leggings
<worn on feet>           a pair of carmine colored hide boots

He is carrying:
nothing obvious

You draw a gortok-headed granite war mace.
You draw a gortok-headed granite war mace.

[Nyr]

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask takes his feathered, stone-headed warclub in both hands as the central clearing clears even further than its previous state.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask brandishes his feathered, stone-headed warclub in both hands.

Scrambling out of the way, the husky, weather-worn elf stands up.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask teases the maces from the bone hoops of his belt, stepping into the widening circle of elves.

< 142/142 | 138/138 | 206/224 |75|late at night|standing>
Stretched tall and lanky, this elf appears almost sickly thin with long
limbs that seem to have exhausted every possible drop of waterfat they could
have possessed.  Sandy-brown hair stands mostly erect in a mohawk that seems
to only further emphasize his wasted build.  Two mismatched eyes within
sunken sockets peer out at the world with only half their view, the right
eye shining a healthy crimson as the left appears to have suffered a burn -
a mist of small scars around the socket while the eye itself is the coloring
of spoiled milk.  An angular nose, cheekbones, chin and brow ridge are
visibly accentuated by the gauntness of his tightly-wrapped and moisture
starved skin, lending a near-skeletal appearance to his features. 
-
A fistful of dull, black gems, tied to proud tassles, dangle decoratively from the granite grip of his longbow. Their number too many to count with just fingers alone.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask is in excellent condition.

<worn on head>           a dusty elegant, black-plumed red turban
<worn on face>           a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask
<worn around neck>       a dusty black-scaled leather gorget
<worn about throat>      a dusty simple, red-wood talisman
<slung across back>      a dusty granite-gripped, ornate pymlithe longbow
<worn across back>       an arrow-emblazoned, garnet-tasseled quiver
<worn on torso>          a bloodied black-scaled leather longvest
<worn on right shoulder> a dusty red-slashed, tembo-sewn patch
<worn on left shoulder>  a dusty mangy, black-furred rat
<worn on arms>           a pair of black-scaled leather sleeves
<worn around wrist>      a black-stained, hard-edged bracer
<worn around wrist>      a black-scaled leather vambrace
<worn on hands>          a dusty pair of sunback leather archery gloves
<primary hand>           a gortok-headed granite war mace
<secondary hand>         a gortok-headed granite war mace
<worn on forearms>       a dusty gizhat leather dart wallet
<worn as belt>           a skull-studded black leather swordbelt
<worn around body>       a dusty cowled, black-rosetted fur cloak
<worn about waist>       an elongated, gaj-decorated codpiece
<worn on legs>           a pair of black-scaled leather leggings
<worn on right ankle>    a dusty fanged climbing spike
<worn on left ankle>     a dusty fanged climbing spike
<worn on feet>           a dusty pair of soft, mottled fur boots

< 142/142 | 138/138 | 206/224 |75|late at night|standing>
A foreign presence contacts your mind.

The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask eyes a squat, diamond-patterned jakhal-hide tent briefly then glances back from the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask to you.

The thin, orange-eyed elven woman sends you a telepathic message:
     "Beat the shit outta him!"

You sense a foreign presence withdraw from your mind.

Eyes like vultures, the male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask begins a slow circling of the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask with your gortok-headed granite war mace beginning a lazy twirl in one hand.

The short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask steps closer to the short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask.

The murmuring from the crowd rises, elves working to force themselves to the front to get a better view, yanking hair and gnashing teeth.

With a roar that seems only amplified by the appearance and nature of his mask, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask strides forward, legs forcing him forward to bring his feathered, stone-headed warclub up--

The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask backhands a few elves near himself so he remains near the front.

You deftly parry the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask's attack.

You deftly parry the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask's attack.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask meets the assault with a fierce snarl!

You deftly parry the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask's attack.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons you very hard on your body.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your bludgeon.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your bludgeon.
A hooked, black-scaled bracer slices across your face as the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask backhands you.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask solidly bludgeons your foot.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask stumbles under the weight of a swing, his side buckling.

The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask looks at you.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask lightly bludgeons your body.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask solidly bludgeons your body.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your bludgeon.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your bludgeon.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons your body.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask parries your attack.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your bludgeon.
You drop a gortok-headed granite war mace, which settles to the sand. Shown to the room as:
A long handled, gortok-featured war mace is here.

< 94/142 | 51/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
You take hold of your gortok-headed granite war mace with both hands.

< 94/142 | 51/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
The husky, weather-worn elf winces as the battle ensues.

< 94/142 | 51/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
The crowds explode into a chorus of bloodthirsty baying and hollers, elves stamping their feet and shaking their fists.

< 94/142 | 53/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
The short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask leans forward, smacking a ghet away when he tries to get closer.

< 94/142 | 53/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons you very hard on your body.

< 81/142 | 26/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons your body.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your bludgeon.
A hooked, black-scaled bracer slices across your face as the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask backhands you.

< 72/142 | 8/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
You stop attacking the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask!


< 72/142 | 8/138 | 224/224 |100|late at night|fighting: the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask>
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons your body.
Your vision goes black.

< 64/142 | 0/138 | 224/224 |100|unknown|sleeping>
The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask staggers a moment and goes down hard, his face scraping into the sand.

Someone's jaw drops.

Someone grunts a moment as you falls over.

Someone lets out a snarl and rushes to your side, crouching.

A low but audible snarl can be heard slipping off someone's lips.

Someone peers down at the form of you.

Someone pushes your rat away from a bloodied spot on your arm, where it begins to lick the crimson droplets, and wads her scrap of cloth up to apply pressure.

Several snarling Baka lope forward to retrain someone, dragging her back.

Blood wells against the mottled fur of the male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask cloak, leaving it a dark grey-black.

Someone just watches on, his scarred face a stoic mask.

Someone toys with his small bone vial.

Someone kicks out at the bakas.

Someone steps over you momentarily, his feathered, stone-headed warclub on his shoulder.

Someone shakes his head at someone.

The camp holds its collective breath.

You feel yourself slipping away, dreams of blood and gnashing teeth, broken bones.

Laughter fills your mind, and a demonic skull flits across your vision, an aspect of your face being added to it before it fades.

Your eyes snap open.

< 103/142 | 31/138 | 224/224 |100|before dawn|sitting>
Within the Circle of Tents [Leave]
A couple of gortok-headed granite war maces are here.
A large red bag rests here.
An used dusty large round shield lies here.
A dusty bone-tipped spear is here stabbed into the sand.
A short, fang-tipped spear sprouts forth from the ground.
A thick section of chalky grey silt-horror shell lies here.
A skull-carved wooden chest sits here.
An anakore skull is here propped up on a gnarled spear.
An expansive, ruddy-camouflaged canvas pavilion looms here.
A squat, diamond-patterned jakhal-hide tent is here.
A small, desert-camouflaged tent is pitched here.
A maroon striped, raptor-hide tent is sprawled out here.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask is standing here.
The husky, weather-worn elf watches from the side here.
The short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask is standing here.
The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask is standing here.
The short male wearing a bloodied horned carru mask is standing here.

Groggily, the male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask pulls his face from the sand.

The short female wearing a runic, fire-scorched mask puts her scrap of cloth into her large, black leather backpack.

Arms shaking with the effort, the male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask brings himself up to hands and knees.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask goes to grab for a weapon, his mace, finding it at a distance and the effort feeble, he quits.

A whispering wells at the back of your mind, maddening against the agonising pain in your temples.

Reluctantly, the male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask brings himself up to his knees, form hunched and beaten as he rests his hands on his thighs.

The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask's head offers a subtle shake as his gaze plays over you.

Gaze drifting up to the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask, his words just loud enough for those closest to the center to hear, you say, in allundean:
     "Live on Blood. Show ya teeth."

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask silently watches you, the head of his feathered, stone-headed warclub resting on his shoulder.

The husky, weather-worn elf watches your defeated hunch with a mutter, glancing back over to the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask.

The male wearing a dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask lifts a hand, tugging at the leather straps of the mask to free them up. The methodical way of going about it seeming a practiced routine.

You stop using your dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask.

You think:
     "I've worn it for so long.. how long since I've actually slept, two years?"

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask says to you, in allundean:
     "You are a menace to the tribe, Toriv.  You have killed our enemies, but you have made a new one, and that is not something we can tolerate."

Tossing it to the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask's feet, you drop your dusty screaming, skull-faced war mask.
Shown to the room as:
A dusty fierce war mask carved into the shape of a screaming skull is here.

You feel a heavy weight fall from your shoulders, freedom.

With a practically sneering war cry, the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask exclaims to you, in allundean:
     "You are Toriv no more!"

You feel thankful for what comes next, eager for death.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask solidly bludgeons your arm.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your hit.
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask swiftly dodges your hit.

You stop attacking the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask!

The harsh, razor-thin elf goes down under an onslaught of swings.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask lightly bludgeons your leg.
A quick shot from the male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask's a hooked, black-scaled bracer slices your face.

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons your body, wounding you.

< 104/142 | 98/138 | 224/224 |100|before dawn|sitting>
The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons your body, wounding you.

< 88/142 | 64/138 | 224/224 |100|before dawn|sitting>
The male wearing a bloodied red-streaked bone mask shouts, in allundean:
     "No!"

The male wearing a rancid, rune-carved war mask bludgeons your leg, doing frightening damage.
                                _______                                ___
                              /\\_____//~-_                        _-~\\__
                             (~)       ~-_ ~-_                  _-~ _-~   
                            (~)           ~-_ ~-_            _-~ /-~     
Welcome to Armageddon!     (~)              `~-_ ~_======_--~~ __~       
                          (~)               _~_\__\____/__/_--\ ~`-_   

[Nyr]

For historical context, this would have been about here:

c.1607 (Year 67 Age 21)
Over the period of a year, the Red Fangs clash with the Sun Runners. Vicious war begins between the two elven tribes. After bloody battles ranging from the steppes of the Tablelands to the sands of the Red Desert, the Red Fangs have been destroyed.

I was animating the Kzar-Ktakh.  We plotted out several potential outcomes based on how PCs reacted at the event.

[Desertman]

Awesome read.

[wizturbo]

This was really cool.

[HavokBlue]

Two Moons is the reason I still play this game.

[Majikal]

Two Moons is the reason I still play this game.

<3

[Lizzie]

Definitely a rough nite, that night. Great log, thanks Majikal! RIP Red Fangs

[Aruven]

Sweet read.