Odonine war camps

Timestamp: Foothills of Eastern Fang

The clans knew that this was a year that would long live in their songs and oral traditions. War, in truth, was here. No one could deny it further. Yet the clans had not been unified in generations, the ancient blood feuds and rivalries ever chipped away from within. Koshnem threaded where only chieftains of legend had before him. To raise the Odonine as a standard. To knit the clans together, most feuds forgotten.

Across the foothills of Fang war parties waited the coming battle in makeshift camps. Close to a thousand strong, their braids of oil-soaked hair, above bleached death grimaces. Voices rose and fell in a wavering, droning chanting. The Sons of Noraura, battle born all, bloodletters, raiders of the peaks, getting ready for war. To destroy their ancient foes. Everywhere one looked, young warriors contested with short bladed knives, occasionally the odd splatter of blood stained the grasses of the Plains.

The clans of the Odonine had gathered. Tents and yurts of the Aghul, Gidati, Avar and Nogai clans, as well as many others, stretched under the colossal shadow of Fang.
One thousand Odonine warriors had heeded Koshnems' call to battle. They came to answer his challenge. Born with fists of stone, wielding mighty Tremor, the Obsidian Warhammer, undefeated in duel, even when facing seasoned warriors. Dark hearted and without mercy, the War Chieftain was huge, bestial, covered in scars and woad tattoos, the pelt of a giant black cave bear, draped around his broad shoulders.

Voices ululated to greet the dawn as was their ways, and suddenly the camps were alive with brisk, sturdy figures. The banging of weapons and armour followed, followed by the barking of dogs and snarl of snow leopards. And as if drawing an invisible breath, warriors began converging towards it. The battlefield and the Odonine's promised destiny...