The plains were home to many a savage tribe. While the centaur had the mobility and numbers behind them, the others had tenacity and equivalent if not greater ferocity. But the plains were vast. Bigger than North America, Canada and USA combined. We could travel for a whole year without meeting anyone.
It was no surprise that only several months after my birth we came into contact with another roaming tribe. Orcs.
Stealth and Centaur Herd didn't sit close together, be it in the dictionary or in real life. By the time our scouts came back with news of the orc camp, the greenskins knew the herd was coming from miles away. They were ready and eager for a fight.
Hundreds of horse butts stood between me and the orcs. For once being in the rear of the herd meant we were protected from danger. What my keen ears could pick over the din of centaurs talking and getting psyched for battle was that the orcs and centaurs were negotiating a trade. Things went sour once nobody reached an agreement and the grunts, screams, warcries, and the din of steel on steel and steel on flesh along with broken bones erupted in the plains.
The fight was on.
large bands of centaurs with spears broke from the main body of the tribe and galloped to the sides. Once they had some distance, they charged at the flanks of the orc tribe. But it wasn't the first time these greenskins fought centaurs. They had sharpened sticks stuck to the ground at an angle to break the centaur charge.
That's when my eyes went wide. The lead centaurs charging from the flanks braced themselves and activated some perk. Their synchronized chant reached my ears, hundreds of meters away.
"{Woodsplinter Charge}!"
They rushed through the sticks as if they were silk streamers fluttering in the wind. They invaded the orc camp and started to collapse the tents with mighty swings of their swords and spears. More screams joined the cacophony, both male and female, as the noncombatant orcs and their slave-concubines were caught in the brawl.
The tired and wounded centaurs backed away to the sides to let fresh cavalry charge down the orcish frontline. Blood sprayed a dozen meters up - or so it seemed to the tiny me - as more bodies crashed into one another in a frenzied attempt to extinguish the other tribe.
Finally, the flankers caught the main orc formation in a pincer attack. The orcs surrendered after two hours of battle. It seemed short but neither side was fully committed to eradicating the other. It would be too costly and ultimately would make the winner weaker against the next tribe.
The losers surrendered all the medicine, most supplies, some weapons, and scant information. They were let go, weaker from the exchange while the centaurs treated their wounded. Very few died on either side but to each centaur casualty, there were ten orcish ones. Or so the saying went. History was written by the winners, after all.
The centaurs picked through the now-abandoned orc camp and tore some choice pelts from the stitched leather canvas of the tents. We picked some utensils and tools but I felt there was much more we could use. As I tried to come up with some argument to gather the stuff, centaurs came with torches and set fire to everything, including the orc and centaur bodies.
"What a waste," I thought to myself. I couldn't talk yet or people would think I was even weirder than what they already believed. I was the only centaur with spotless silver-white fur. Dandy dewy, and downy. it was so soft and good to touch I caught myself caressing my front quarters more than once.
Since no centaur around me thought the same, I let it go. I didn't have access to my item box so I couldn't even collect the items. It all burned down and went away with the wind as a plume of smoke and soot.
The tribe marched for four days straight after the fight. While it seemed stupid to stress the wounded that much, a battle site would soon attract all kinds of scavengers and opportunists, some intelligent, some monstrous, some in-between. It wasn't wise to linger nearby or the wounded would be strained to fight again. Once we were a safe distance away from the battle site, we made camp and tended to the wounded.
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
First aid was primitive. The treatment was to slap some mixture of clay and crushed herbs on the wounds and sweat it out. The scars were treated as trophies and signs of maturity by the young warriors. The young males, especially, went around showing everyone their scars. The young and impressionable colts listened to the tales of combat with bated breath. They then were left to their own devices with sticks to mock another battle. Thus the warrior culture perpetuated itself.
It was funny to see them flex their inexistent muscles imitating the adult males. The mothers watched the colts and a few adventurous fillies beat the living crap out of each other as if it was the most normal thing. They came back to get them - a few bleeding - scratches treated with wide and proud grins.
I was too young to participate but expected to watch.
----------------------------------------
At least we remained in the camp long enough for the warriors to recover their HP. it felt slow but not everyone was a were-monster with ridiculous regenerative Perks and Skills.
The orcish loot included some bows. One of them I was sure came from a defeated Elven [Ranger] as I could recognize the Fulgen craftsmanship anywhere. I sighed. Fulgen. It's been almost two centuries but I still had a grudge with the [Season Queens]. Well, nevermind. I vowed to live lightly this time. No vengeful gods, no hideous ancient monsters, no kingly plots. I was a strange filly in a centaur herd, unrelated to any position of power, with no links to the herd chieftain.
And political power in the herd was a measure of prowess, not birthright. Centaur leadership was decided in the most stag-ish way possible. The challenger and the current leader would hold each other by the crook of their elbows and push. Whoever forced the other to move two bodies backward was the new chieftain.
In one hilarious tale, the current chieftain lifted the stupid young challenger and trotted forward, dumping the idiot on his hindquarters, fracturing his pelvis, and leaving him there, stuck in a hole on the soft loamy ground. The anecdote said he shat dirt for a week.
Since we had plenty of time in our hands, one of the older veteran warriors took upon himself to marshal the colts and fillies, giving them mock weapons they carved in an afternoon and training them. I was forced to attend on the sidelines along with those too young to join the session. This way, we would absorb some of the teachings and discipline.
"Now listen up, you broncos! We are going to the temple of Queltphion to present you to the War God and get you your first Class level. This is a fortuitous moment and an opportunity to have your rite of passage, for all of you, even those that don't get the System. In the Abode of War, you will visit the trial grounds. Those that complete it becomes adults, those that don't will need to wait until our next visit. You'll get the Blessing of War and the lucky ones among you will be granted a Perk by Queltphion.
"However, you still don't know how to handle the System. There are Classes, levels, Perks, and proficiencies you need to understand. Your basic Class will be given during the Blessing of War. I want each and all of you to do one thing the moment you hear the God's voice greeting you into the Great System! You'll ask Queltphion to make all your allocations manual. And you won't allocate a single thing. I have more than a hundred points of proficiency in {Appraise}. I WILL know if any of you allocate a single Attribute point."
He gave the youngsters some time to think as he walked around, checking their training weapons. "You need to work on your basic proficiencies first, to earn the first easy points before you squander the blessings of the System! Today will be your first training. We will stop to train every day until we reach the Abode of War. You'll train and raise your proficiencies afterward. Only after you reach thirty proficiency in your chosen weapon will you be allowed to allocate some of your proficiency points. Understood?"
"Understood, master!" The gathered foals shouted.
Boy, they were excited about the incoming event!
----------------------------------------
As we approached the Abode of War, the only building in the plains as far as I knew, the excitement seemed to spread from the foals into the rest of the herd. The older generation talked about their trials and it felt like a blooper reel of what happened. Then the others also reminisced about theirs and as we crested a hill overlooking the temple complex on the crown of the next, the centaurs were almost ready to gallop there.
The valley around the temple hosted a small rag-tag village. Or several camps put together. I could see carts, horses with horse heads, and some members of different species, including humans.
"Listen up!" The chieftain bellowed. "From here on we are on sacred ground! No matter if you see a greenskin or a human, they are not to be attacked! We will set camp on an empty spot and wait our turn to ascend to the temple!"
The centaurs nodded. We already knew that from the gossip, but a heads-up from the boss meant anyone that stirred shit would have to lick the spoon.
We walked amidst the camps. There was plenty of space between encampments, a neutral DMZ-like region to stop smartasses from trying something sneaky. After doing more than a quarter-turn on the valley around the monastery hill, we found an empty spot and settled there, with the weaker younger ones in the middle and the strong warriors taking the edges.
Because right now, the young ones that would take the trial were more important. The tribe invested the time and energy to reach the temple grounds and they needed to profit the most. Meaning they needed to leave with as many blessed warriors as possible.