Sha’Raph stood on the edge of the ashen wastes when she carefully looked around. Before her the ash all so slowly made room for the earthen plains. Almost orange earth, rocks and mesas that were covered in dust, all of them were slowly greying under the ever growing ash of the wastes.
After she was sure that she was alone she set herself in the shadow of her sand wyverns wing, and took off her mask. Slowly she opened her eyes to the sunlight that was cast over the distant mountains behind her all across the grey wastes. It gave the few parts of the plains before her that still defended themself against the ash a bright colour, and made them almost yellow while its few bushes and leaves cut through the mesas with their emerald shine.
She could see animals awake in them, and the further she looked the more colour and life got awoken by the sun, away from the ashes. Thornvultures came from their caves at the top of the mesas and started to lurk for prey while down at the ground rabbits, mice and other critters started their day. Far in the distance she saw the river. It had always been the border for the greenskins of the south, while her clan's own expanding border was the grey of the ash. Across the river she saw two figures. One holding a spear ready to pierce an unlucky fish, while the other seemed to stare back at her.
She could not see them properly, and they would probably only see her gigantic wyvern. Neither her face or her skin were revealed to them, and even if it would have been, they would still be wise enough to not cross the river when a wyvern stalked the plains beyond.
As one figure caught a fish the other nudged them and then pointed at her. They talked, maybe they did see her? But she doubted, still she sat her mask back on and made two short whistling sounds. Her wyvern answered with a loud roar that echoed over the earthen plains. Immediately the two figures ducked down and tried to hide in the reeds. Sha’Raph could not help but smile under her mask before she climbed her wyvern again and was ready to ride back into the grey winds of death and ash.
The night before she met her clan again. Men and women of the wastes, all having their face partly hidden, though no one with a complete mask like her. Most of them had hoods that only had room for their mouth and tusks. Even the eyes were hidden for most, as the cloth was thin enough that they could look through it, while still carrying its protection.
They had small rings of silver or even gold pierced through their tusks and teeth, so they would shine in the campfire while the stories of the dead were told. She always loved to hear them, even more so when Master Kru’Gan told the grand stories of the oldest times. Of warriors that crossed the sea to find lands unconquered by orc but touched by the most strangest of creatures. Some of them small and weak, with skin like pigs but hair like orcs. Others even smaller but stronger, who lived in mountains not unlike the frostsong. They had towers to watch the stars and entire fields of herbs and crobs. All lined up just to be gathered. The strange lands had no name, neither had the pigskinned creatures, but she always dreamed to one day travel there. One day she would take a boat from the many shores of the Bladelands and travel west, into the unknown.
But those were the dreams of a child and with age came reality. Master Kru’Gan had taught her enough of the dead that she became one of the very few riders from the waste, only to slowly be the last and with that their watcher. It was strange to try and see for the needs of both her clan and the riders, but even stranger when she started to smile for both. She loved the brotherhood she had learned among the riders, even though she only ever had a few rides to the south and all with the man who would become her Khan. Aru’Gal. They got close during their time in the south, so she thought, but even then he never saw her face, or anything else. Still, unlike her, he knew how to talk well.
“If you want to sail, why not sail?” he asked her at a campfire that warmed the great egg when they were deep inside the bristling pines. At first she didn’t know how to respond but tried to be as plain and simple as she could. “It would be death to travel alone.” He laughed and she realised how he could have understood it. Yet her mask hid enough for him to think she was simple plain and brief in her words “I would come with you, Sha’Raph.” He said and gazed into the flame “But there are things I have to do first..”. Even back then she saw something in his eyes when he watched the flames. A mixture of melancholy and devotion. Something she would still take years to understand. “I will remind you when you are done.” she said with an audible smile beneath her mask that made him chuckle. They always flew together when Bruna was not available, usually when he went home to see for his daughter, and Sha’Raph was glad for every moment they got from that. Even the fights they had down there, some against the Orcs of the pines, others against those of the sky. Those that tried to mimic the beasts of the sky, by crafting suits of wings and feathers that made them fall the greatest distances without any harm. Some of the riders laughed at them, but everyone who ever actually encountered them saw the danger they held. For they were sneaky, and their lands full enough of high mesas and deep cliffs, so they would try and land on a wyverns back, to stab both it and its rider.
Once she was almost caught by two of them, if it had not been for Aru’Gal, who had jumped over to her to kick them of the great beast again. Another time, she did the same for him as she saw three of them jumping down on him. She pierced through the cliff until her beast simply ate them in mid air. It was after that day that Aru’Gal asked its name. “Dustfang, but we usually do not speak its name” she said, happy that she could speak it again. “Why not? He is our battlebrother is he not?” even back then Aru’Gals voice carried the boldness of a leader. She nodded before she answered “He is, and once he dies his name will be remembered. But because our beasts live so much longer than us it is a tradition…to make sure the rider is remembered first, and not the beast.” Aru’Gal shook his head “Some traditions will be the end of us.” He said and nodded at Dustfang “Thank you both then. Sha’Raph of the wastes and Dustfang of the skies!” He raised his mug which gave her a hidden smile under her mask. Yet she could not drink while he was around, neither her mask nor her future would allow such.
Still he always tried to make her smile, or so she thought, and for that those were good times, but she knew they were over when he became Khan. Sometimes she would still hope that those days could return. That one day after it was all over, they could fly together again and maybe even she could lose her mask. Maybe he would understand, maybe he would still see her, but after this day her hope was lost. Even more so after the story Master Kru’Gan had to tell her.
He waited for her, close to the cave the clan currently called its home. It was a big one, hidden deep enough under the ash to be save from its dust. At one point Ashants would have lived here, but they were beaten out by the clan. That was how they always survived the ashen wastes. As nomads that conquered the deep caves. Sometimes from ashants, few times from even deeper beings, but always with the whole clan side by side.
His usual dark smile crossed his face when he felt the ashen winds as she and Dustfang arrived. After she jumped down and made her bow he spoke “Did you eat?”. She simply shook her head as if he could see and not getting an answer was enough for him to respond “You should. A dagger, no matter how short it may be, needs to cut even steel for it to be the deadliest weapon.” “Yes master, Kru’Gan” she answered obediently but muffled by her mask “I shall once I leave for the north again.” He nodded “Mhh..”. Only the ashen winds gave sound for a moment before he nodded his head towards the entrance. “Come then, and let my boy hunt for his own for a while.” She nodded too and made another different whistling sound, a melody of three that was answered by Dustfangs roar before he jumped into the sky again. It always felt strange to her when she had to let him go. He was a great friend, one she knew almost all her life and one that had accompanied her just as long, and aside from Master Kru’Gan the only one that did not care for what was beneath her mask. “Don’t worry, Sha’Raph” Kru’Gan said unusually softly “nothing out here can harm him.” She smiled to his words. “Nothing but us..hehehe..” he continued and walked into the cave. It was lit by dragonstones that were rammed into the hard sand walls. They gave a warm light, almost like a torch, and gave colour to the ash. After but a short walk they reached a bigger hall, where the clan followed its daily shores. Still all hidden under their dark hoods and only their ashen mouth and tusks seen beneath it. What little was seen however they always made their own with paint, scars and piercings. Some had their mouth and everything around it painted, others also carried the clans piercings through tusk’s or lips and almost all carried scars. Some made in battle others in vaine. They carried the big bodies of the ashants around and piled them up near the elders who then removed them from their chitin. Some were placed on a pile for new armour, others were useless and thrown away. All while their meat was gathered into a big pot, as big as two orcs, held together by piled up and hardened sand. Three orcs stood on the sand with big metal spoons and stirred it while they sang in the ancient tongue, deep from their throat. “Was it a good battle?” she asked as they walked a small circling path at the wall down. “We only lost one” Kru’Gan answered plainly. That was indeed a good battle. Usually the ants took more, sometimes literally and there was no greater horror. They carried their prey deep into their nests where their queen would slowly melt them to then feed to her kingdom. It was every clan member's duty to kill their brothers or sisters if there was no way to save them. Although by now the clans of the wastes knew enough to threaten the ants so much that they could only think about defence and not taking their prey.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Sha’Raph missed the days when she could fight side by side with them. It was then they all took off their hoods, for then their eyes were trained for the dark. Still she was the only one that always had to wear her mask. Even when it was still too big, so she had to carry another, it was always her duty to be seen as nothing but the dark face of the ashen clans. From the moment she saw the deserts first dawn, to the day when traditions would fade and it was so much sooner than she could have dreamed for. Be it in dreams or nightmares.
Kru’Gan led her to a cave that was lit by not only actual torches, but runes that were carved into the wall. They reflected the torch's light as if they were water and told grim and old tales. Between the runes on three sides of the perfectly round cave were pictures. One of a grand beast with mighty wings that spew fire into the sky. On the opposite side, the silhouette of a giant with antlers and trees that could not reach further but his knees. And finally behind master Kru’Gan a strange mixture of them both. A man with wings and antlers who breathed fire into the sky. Around him bones were drawn as if they would circle him until one finally entered his breathing mouth. Sha’Raph wasn’t sure why, but that picture made her uncomfortable.
Kru’Gan sat himself down in front of the final picture, but his blindfold facing her instead of the wall. After he did she did settle down as well. “We were in this nest before then?” she asked as silence, runes and pictures became too much. He shook his head “No, my dagger. Students of mine did this over the night.” He made a bright smile “Only the best for our watcher..hehehe..” She hated the thought that it was made only so she could listen to a story. “Oh do not worry” he said as if he could see her thoughts “They have to learn the runes and how to paint, so all the better if it actually carries a purpose.”
She simply nodded and looked at the dragon painting, for it was the easiest one to look at. “It scares you, doesn’t it?” he asked in a dark tone. She nodded as if he could see. “Something seems vile about it..” she said and dared to look past him at the wall again. He smiled, “Mhh..you would have been a great shaman.” Words that made her both happy and melancholic at the same time. He even smiled with honesty at her “But we are not here for kind words, my all so precious dagger..aren’t we?”
She smiled and sat herself straight to listen to him. Just like she always had whenever he was about to give her a lecture.
He started by taking a deep smiling breath while she couldn’t help but be happy. Whenever he lectured her with a story it was one of the few times when they both were just simply master and student again. She hoped this day would be the same, but this story should be different.
“You remember the tale, how our clan began to wander the wastes?” he asked while his smile slowly vanished. “Of course master. You told it often. It was the first Khan wh~” she answered proudly but he waved his hand “Good good…I know you wouldn’t forget.” Something in his face made her uncomfortable even more so as he spoke further “But what about the tale of how our wastes were born?..” “You said it was a battle” he shook his head “So I did..” He clearly struggled to find the words, despite it being a tale the shamans should tell often. Yet they almost never did and only ever as a warning to other shamans, or elders. And only whenever their connection to the elements would reach a height that could make them a danger.
After another deep breath he started.
“In a time of fire, when our father below Karn’Arak fought the last of its kind, two sorcerers came from the far west. A man and a woman. They were not orcs and they carried nothing but their robes. No armies, no weapons, just their robes and eager eyes that watched the battle before them. The sky was torn by the fight and the first orcs were burn into the war of the two. The orcs had neither time nor eyes for the sorcerers as their war was never ending, and grand enough that it shaped the land itself. But even that, even a fight between two of the mightiest beasts, ended. And after fire had beaten ice the sorcerers split. The woman went to the north to learn from the elders that had become the first shamans, during the war they had watched. The man went to the south to learn from those that were beaten but adapted and should soon be known as the first of the druids. The woman in the north learned about our connection to land and ancestors. But to her it was merely to the elements and to the forces of dead. She could not hear their voices, for she only saw the power in both.
The man in the south learned about the spirits and nature, but to him it was merely about the souls and change. He could not see the beauty of life and nature, for he could only imagine the horrors of change.
Once they met again, after they had deceived the clans and learned from them in their young but now ancient ways they thought of their own twisted path to use what we thought. Instead of caring and guarding the land and the elements they tried to force them, to evoke them from nothing instead of seeking the land's mighty aid. Instead of seeking the ancestors' wisdom they dared to defy the dead, to use them as necrotic tortured souls that cried out for aid but were forced to eternal silence when they were used as nothing but ghastly slaves. To make sure they would gather all the dead, the sorceress rammed her claws into our once beautiful desert and our always mighty clans. Claws to lure the dead to her so she could enslave them all, even without battling them herself.
The man from the south saw his love's mighty ways of terror and thought he had learned less, he thought he could not twist the mind and souls of the living as easily as the woman could the dead. But once he understood what she had learned he created the most twisted of what they would call magic. He combined the enslavement of the dead and the change of nature, to craft a creature of his own. A new being borne from death that had no mind, no purpose, nothing in its existence but pain. The woman was fascinated, for she knew if they could improve the way those creations of flesh and bone were acting, if they could make it so they would at least battle on their own, then they could build an army and return to their tribes in the far west as rulers. They could be the first to ever wear a crown and rule as sorcerer kings, regarded like gods. After all, the age of dragons was over, so the thrones of the world were empty.
And so they experimented. Their horrors would soon be known to the young clans but yet they hid themselves on an island west of our lands. They evoked the storms and fog around it to remain hidden and protected on their own grand Isle that they would make the centre of their empire. And there they created what they deemed the perfect army.
But the man was still not pleased. Even with an unstoppable army they would still die to mere age, and maybe soon for it had taken decades to perfect their craft. So he started to seek ways to craft on his own. To empower himself with the spirits of the dead and to change his form into more than he was. A horror of more than flesh but now with mind. An eternal being that lives through the ages to learn and watch and with enough time truly become something that would rival a true dragon. The woman was horrified and sent parts of her army to cast away her old love. It turned into a battle that casted the entire island in flesh and darkness until it was all washed away by fire. For our great father below Karn’Arak had heard of the horrors done to his people and flew over the now open sea to end it all. They tried to fight back, and for a moment even side by side again, yet their greed ended their love even when danger lurked in the sky. For they finally realised the perfect form was not just a pile of flesh, but the same as it had been since the dawn of the land. Dragons. Yet there was only one and so it should remain for only one could ever use its corps as their own. Be it as their slave, or even more vile.
The island then was burned and our great father wounded. Yet the sorceress remained. She stayed on that Island to craft a wall of living flesh so that the fury of the east, our fury, would never take vengeance on her or her tribes in the far west. For she knew quite well, that their actions had given birth to pure hatred against their kind.
The man however, came back to our lands to continue and perfect his craft. He went to the south and was lost in the darkness between the trees. Torn and cut and gulled, he became nothing but a whisper among the leaves.
Now the man is nothing but a forgotten shadow in the south while the sorceress’s claws still remain cold and gripping into the desert's flesh and the dead still follow its unending betraying tune.
It is on us to defend them, and to make good of the evil that remained among our clans. It is us who shall not only listen but protect the ancestors until the day we all walk among them.”
Silence. Kru’Gan seemed exhausted by the tale, as if it had taken years of him, while Sha’Raph just listened in horror. She looked past him at the wall again. The strange drawing of a winged man with antlers. Now she understood the bones and why they went to his mouth. For some reason it took strength of her to speak again “I…so the scroll is a remnant of them?” “Tell me Sha’Raph” he answered in a dark tone “what Island lies to the east?” Even though it was an easy question she took a moment to answer “Krognar..the ogres Lands..”
“And where did the exile find the scroll?..”