Great Conclave - II

JP with White_Caribou and Winteroak

Koshnem walked among the gathered clansmen towards the plateau the Conclave had elected to gather upon. Shalia Nix at his side, just one step behind, as a most trusted warrior would.

He walked across the massed clansmen to hoots and shouts of jubilation and support, mainly from his own warriors and tributary clansmen.

Of course he could hear the jeers and curses of his enemies too. And those voices were the ones that burned the fire in his blood. The ones that he would take great pleasure in silencing through his actions and achievements. Very few things in life held such pleasure to Koshnem than to prove the doubters wrong and silence his critics.

The Conclave when called upon would always meet in the open, under the stars, around a huge fire, exposed to the elements. Under the gaze of Noraura. Seven of the eight major clans had come. The Okel had refused to come down from their mountain fastness, but tales claimed they had not attended the last two gatherings.

A man from the crowd that lined his and Shalia's passage steps forward, and gawks at the woman walking behind the Aghul's leader. Many others jeer. The man smiled stupidly and leans towards Shalia as phlegm builds in his throat.

Before he has a chance to spit, the huge scarred arm of the war leader snakes out from under his cloak and grabs the man by the throat. Gob bubbles on his lips as his spit dribbles down his serrated mouth. He grabs at the iron-like arm feebly as the pressure mounts on his throat.

Koshnem brings the man around to face him and looks at the panic in his eyes. He headbutts the spitter, driving him to the ground, all the while holding onto his throat.

"WITNESS." He screams over the assembled voices. Grabbing the man by the hair he digs his stone fingers into his throat before pulling them away bringing with it his larynx and windpipe. Blood splatters on the snow. The man falls, grabbing his ruined throat. "Feed him to the dogs..." He orders.

As Shalia walked, she scanned over the faces visible in dim torchlight. She was met with loud disapproval along with the supportive hollering of her own clan. Expected, but the intensity of it all was still alarming. Sudden vigor washed over her body when she saw the man in her peripheral step forward, stopping in her tracks when Koshnem intervened.

Looking over her shoulder at the out of line man, she flinched upon seeing his throat ripped out so effortlessly. Though she had seen much violence at the hands of her chieftain, some of the acts caught her softer side by surprise. ~Well deserved~, she mused while staring down at his form twitching with the last flickers of life.

There it was again, that image she had become so familiar with. Bloodied snow. Her eyes squinted as they followed the body being dragged away by two Aghul who spat on his corpse. The eagerness of the Aghul leader to shed blood for her almost felt like a sacrificial allegiance, a means to repay death unto one another. The butterflies fluttering in her stomach at the notion were quite pleasant.

The duo continued their way through to the plateau.
“The dogs will have their dinner still warm, but I fear feeding them such a fool will spoil their prowess,” she said softly to Koshnem, for once trying to use a hint of humor. She couldn't pin down his response as the volume of the crowd around them increased.

Finally, they entered the circular opening where the leaders and their company stood dressed in furs and crude armor of bones, leather, or whatever was looted from the dead. Koshnem moved confidently into the middle toward the fire with Shalia on his tail.
This group had a similar response to the last. Some of the men standing as advisors sent wads of spit at the ground while others shouted angrily. One voice stood out as it yelled to berate Koshnem.

“Yorembara rao orem caduour ter ealdais da kutskom saell?!” An older bald chieftain said with a guttural laugh, standing behind the flames of the great fire. Four of the leaders followed suit and both the witch and the War Chieftain took account of who. From the large scarred marking that covered his forehead in a diamond pattern, she now connected that both he and the spitting man were of the Gunib. She was remembering it all well.

You piss on our tradition by bringing a foreign whore?

Shalia had fought the onslaught of embarrassment and frustration at being demeaned, but she knew Koshnem loved making a spectacle of his rivals. She stepped out in front of her leader gracefully and looked to him for approval he promptly gave. She stared intently through the lapping flames at the old man. Seeing the great fire now only made her more determined where it usually made her afraid.

“I hear the Gunib like to be pissed on,” she chided the old chieftain and many of the clansmen scoffed at the biting nature of her words, the standing in front of her own chieftain. Clanswomen were always submissive.

This was the first time she heard Koshnem chuckle at something she said, as Shalia was a woman of few words then. She let herself chuckle, too, to further make them feel like a joke. This coupled reaction visibly rattled the Gunib trio.