Back at their tent, away from prying eyes, Hunter finally let loose. “Mind if you tell me what the hell all that was about?” Hunter demanded, fuming.
Fyodor rested his head on Fawkes's lap, his steady breathing a comforting presence. The ravens perched on the tent poles, their sleek heads tilted in silent scrutiny.
Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“I thought you wanted to have an adventure,” she said dryly. “Learn a bolder mindset. Well, here’s your adventure, Well, here's your adventure, served on a silver platter.”
Hunter stared at her, dumbfounded.
"An adventure? You call this an adventure? Have you lost your mind, Fawkes? These people barely tolerate our existence. They were throwing curses and spitting at us on the way here! And you volunteered me?"
"Calm yourself, lad,” Fawkes waved a hand dismissively.
It's a chance to learn their ways, to gain their trust. Besides, we were talking about you learning a Path, no? This is your chance.”
“Is that what Aspirant means?”
“Among other things. It's a title used to describe those who seek to pursue Ascension.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I’m not the best person to explain it to you, lad, but I’ll try anyway. Mind you, the nomenclature loses much of its meaning in translation.”
"Well, try anyway," Hunter said. "I'm all ears."
"Think of it as a ladder, Hunter. Each rung represents a rank, a level of mastery. The lowest is Iron, then Bronze, Silver, and so on." She gestured upward, as if tracing the invisible rungs with her finger. "The Aspirants are those who seek to climb this ladder, to reach the pinnacle of power and enlightenment. To reach the Goddess herself, if you may."
“Holy shitsnacks,” Hunter whistled, not sure whether to get excited or roll his eyes. “So it’s like, what, cultivation?”
"Cultivation?" Fawkes echoed, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “An agricultural metaphor? I guess it’s an apt one.”
She paused, studying his face.
"Are you familiar with such a concept? Is there anything like it in your world?"
Hunter's grin widened.
"Oh, we have plenty of stories like that back home. People training to become stronger, unlocking hidden powers, fighting evil, that sort of thing. It's a pretty popular theme." He shrugged. "But it's all just fiction, of course. Make-believe. Bad make-believe, too, more often than not."
"Make-believe, you say? Well, I assure you, it's not make-believe here, though much of the knowledge and practice has been lost to time. Ascension was an áeld practice. In fact, it was central to their culture and beliefs. But those ancient traditions have been forgotten, diluted by the passage of time. What the Brennai practice now is but a shadow of the áeld ways.”
“Áeld?” Hunter mused. “Elves?”
“Yes, but don’t call them that. It’s a term they take offense at.”
“What, are they still around?”
“In a way. Pure-blooded ones are as scarce as hen's teeth, but their thin-blooded descendants live on among the ërne. The humans. Some still strive to honor the ancient traditions, though their numbers dwindle with each passing generation.”
"I see," Hunter said, scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully. "So, what's involved in being one of these Aspirants, exactly? What have you volunteered me for?”
“Well… I’m not sure what the Brennai Aspirant training includes, but I expect it to be rudimentary. A foundation of physical prowess and spiritual fortitude. An awakening of your essence veins, perhaps. That’s what Aspirants of the Iron Rung are usually expected to train.”
“Iron Rung?”
“The lowest rung in the ladder of Ascension. Don’t think it won’t be challenging, though. I cannot promise you an easy road. But I can promise you this: if you have the will and the resilience, you will emerge from this trial stronger, wiser, and more powerful.”
Hunter thought about it. It wasn’t the kind of light-hearted adventure that he had in mind. If anything, it sounded like too much of a hassle. On the other hand…
“So, does this mean you’ll stick around, then?” he asked Fawkes.
“I guess I will have to,” Fawkes chuckled dryly, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “This Behemoth Nation elder is supposed to be overseeing your training. Hallara and I will only have supportive roles. But if he's anything like the rest of these superstitious fools, I expect he won’t be able to find his ass with both hands, much less properly train Aspirants.”
For how long?" Hunter pressed, trying not to get his hopes up.
"I don't know for certain," Fawkes replied with a shrug. "A few months, perhaps? It depends on your progress.”
A few months of training, a challenge to overcome, a new path to explore, and Fawkes by his side?
"A few months sounds good," Hunter said with a grin.
A notification popped up in Hunter’s HUD.
***
It was late in the afternoon when the first scouts rode into the village with word of the Behemoth Nation’s arrival. As Hunter understood it, it was a big enough event for all of the folken to gather and witness it. From the village elders to the youngest children, they all gathered at the sides of the main road that led into the village. Hunter and Fawkes followed, too.
The road itself was a far cry from the winding dirt paths he’d seen so far, worn down by countless generations of foot traffic and the occasional wagon. Hunter couldn't shake the feeling that there was something familiar about it, yet out of place. It was too wide, and it cut too straight a line through the landscape. What’s more, he could see the occasional glint of something dark and glassy beneath the dirt. Could that be the remains of… tarmac?
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From among the crowd across the road, a familiar figure waved. Inago. Hunter returned the wave, and the young Brennai eagerly crossed to join him.
"Hile, Hunter!" Inago called out, beaming. "Come to see the Behemoths ride in, have you?"
"Uh... hello, Inago. Yeah, we were curious about all the excitement."
“You will love it. I first saw them when I was little. I’ve always wanted to ride on one, you know?”
Hunter didn’t, but he nodded in agreement anyway.
"Maybe now that I'm an Aspirant, I'll get the chance to, one day," Inago went on. "Me, Inago of the Clan Odiji, an Aspirant... I still can't believe it. I owe honored Fawkes a great debt for this opportunity."
Fawkes, who stood just a few paces away, acted like she didn’t hear.
“So, who is the Behemoth Nation?” asked Hunter,his curiosity piqued.
Inago, eager to share his knowledge, piped up.
"They are not a nation like ours," Inago explained, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Not exactly. They're more like... wandering protectors. They ride those big, armored beasts – Behemoths, they call them, that's where the name comes from – and they keep the peace in our lands. They protect us from raiders and bandits, you know? In return, all the Brennai nations offer them tithes. Food, supplies, whatever they need. It's a sacred pact, see? They protect us, and we make sure they can keep doing so. It's an honor to host them. They don't come around often, so it's a big deal when they do."
He paused, puffing out his chest with pride.
“And now we will study the Path of the White Cloud under the most legendary of their elders! Ancestors, witness this honor!”
A distant rumble interrupted their conversation. The ground beneath their feet began to tremble, and a cloud of dust rose from the horizon. The folken grew silent, their eyes fixed on the approaching spectacle.
"Here they come," Inago whispered, his voice filled with awe.
The horizon churned with a rising tide of dust. Soon, the source of the tremors became clear. Hunter raised a hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon glare and squinted, trying to make heads or tails of the approaching shapes through the haze of dust.
“What the…?”
Four so-called behemoths lumbered out of the forest, each one a monstrous amalgam of scavenged metal and wood. Their massive wheels and tracks, some taller than a man, churned through the dirt, leaving deep furrows in their wake. Totems, chains, painted symbols, and crude armor plating adorned their flanks, giving them a menacing aura. They were not fast, but their sheer size and the thunderous grinding of their engines made the earth tremble as if in fear. Riders trotted along with them on horseback, scouting the surrounding area.
“Fawkes, are you seeing this?”
“What of it?” she said, not overly impressed.
“I didn’t know you had goddamn tanks over here!”
“They’re just big metal wagons,” Fawkes shrugged, her gaze tracing the intricate patchwork of metal and scavenged parts.“Remnants of the Old World, repurposed and rebuilt. But the craftsmanship is... crude.”
Inago, on the other hand, was almost shaking with excitement.
“See that first one?” he grabbed Hunter by the sleeve and pointed at the behemoth leading the column. “That’s Thunderhead! It’s Elder Wroth’s! And that one? That’s Bonegrinder! And that smaller one, the one painted like charcoal? That must be Elder Rook’s Blacktalon! I've heard stories about it, but never seen it in person!"
Hunter's mind reeled as he watched the behemoths rumble closer, their presence a stark contrast to the pre-industrial Brennai and the surrounding wilderness of the Weald. Elderpyre surprised him at each turn. He'd seen shamans and warriors and great beasts, and even enchanted artifacts and a godling. In a way, those felt normal. Those he expected. Giant, mechanized war machines straight out of a Mad Max movie set, though? That was new.
A handful of village elders gathered at the front of the crowd, spear-wielding Brennai guards with them. They were all dressed in their best. Vanchik was wearing the richest garb of them all, an ornate tunic streaked with beads and colorful needlework.
Fawkes tugged at Hunter’s sleeve, taking his attention off the column of riders and behemoths.
“Look,” she told him.
A figure clad in all black, a stark contrast to Hallara's bright white garb, joined the elders. It was Brother Marten, the newcomer. Brother Marten's arrival did not sit well with Vanchik; the alderman whirled around and spat something at him, though the roar of the nearing behemoths was far too loud for Hunter to make out what. Brother Marten remained cold and impassive. He replied something that made the alderman's face flush with anger. A few of the elders nodded in agreement, which in turn caused a few others to bristle with belligerence.
“You sure you still want us to get in the middle of that?” Hunter told Fawkes, almost shouting near her ear.
“Wait till all the pieces get in place,” she shouted back, her gaze fixed on the approaching behemoths. “Then ask me again.”
The behemoths came to a stop a few paces away from the crowd, their rumble finally dying down. Up close, they looked even more imposing, the smallest of them no smaller than an eighteen-wheeler. A hush fell over the folken. Children clung to their parents, eyes wide with a mix of fear and awe. The warriors of the Hawk Nation stood at attention, their spears held high in a gesture of respect. The elders waited, doing their best to look important and dignified.
A few of the horsemen and horsewomen that accompanied the behemoths dismounted. Ramps lowered from the behemoths' flanks, and figures clad in patchwork armor and furs began to emerge. Hard men and women, Hunter thought, their faces painted with woad and etched with the lines of a harsh life. The leader, a giant of a man with a thick beard, descended from Thunderhead and surveyed the scene with piercing eyes.
“That’s Elder Wroth!” Inago whispered in awe.
The man started towards Vanchik, each stride covering twice the distance that of a normal man would. He must have been over seven feet tall - taller than anyone Hunter had seen up close and personal - and built like a Stone Age dolmen. His hair and beard were a tangled mane of silver-grey, framing a face crisscrossed with scars and hardened by the elements. Slabs of muscle rippled beneath his fur-lined armor, his bare arms adorned with intricate tattoos that seemed to writhe and shift with his every movement.
“Elder Wroth,” the alderman greeted him, suddenly looking humblingly small. “Hile. May your days be many and your nights serene.”
The Behemoth Nation elder towered over Vanchik, who was no small man by any measure, dwarfing him. Was he glowering? Hunter couldn’t tell. It was difficult to read the steep granite slope the man had for a face.
Wroth’s shaggy gray beard split into a huge toothy green. He threw massive arms around the alderman, grabbing him into a bear hug, lifting him to the tips of his toes.
“Vanchik!” his voice boomed. “Why so grim, old friend? You’ve grown too serious! You remind me of your father, Ancestors bless his spirit!”
If Vanchik said something in response, Hunter didn’t hear if. The alderman’s face was buried in the elder’s broad chest.
“Elder Wroth,” said Hallara with a polite smile. “May your days be many and your nights serene. We are glad to welcome you, as always.”
“Wise woman,” Wroth nodded his head with respect, still beaming. “Ancestors bless you, it’s been far too long.”
As Wroth, Vanchik and Hallara exchanged pleasantries, more of the Behemoth Nation riders approached the small crowd of Hawk Nation elders. Greetings and wishes were exchanged, arms were clasped, heads nodded in deference. Brother Marten shook a few hands himself, but his eyes remained on Wroth, sizing him up.
“This is the one who’s going to oversee your training,” Fawkes told Hunter, her gaze also stuck on the towering elder. “His reputation precedes him. He’s some kind of warchief among the Brennai. Which, of course, doesn’t necessarily mean all that much, considering, since the only warring the Brennai have seen in generations is a few skirmishes with bandit clans from the south and the east.”
“He’s a great hero!” Inago confirmed.
“Who’s that?” Hunter asked, pointing at another one of the Behemoth Nation riders and elders that had come to greet their Hawk Nation counterparts. He was a tall, middle-aged man, sturdily built, but lacking Wroth’s almost giant-like physique. He had a crooked, weather-beaten face framed by unkempt salt-and-pepper hair. He wore the furs and leathers of his people with an unassuming dignity, but his gaze and the wide berth the others gave him told another story.
“I cannot be certain,” said Inago, “but I believe that is Elder Rook. He commands the Blacktalon. His hunters have no equal in all the Weald. Many stories and songs are sung to honor their skill.”
Elder Rook’s gaze followed the only other odd man out among the throng of elders - Brother Marten.
“He’s sharp-eyed, this one,” Fawkes said, more to herself than to Hunter and Inago. “What is he doing here?”
“Apologies, honored foreigner,” Inago shrugged. “I do not know.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” she said, frowning. “One way or another.”