Upon the war-torn hellscape of the primal world Vigroth, the savage clans of Zonall, Gul-Kirk, Dirkak, Tonketh, Goth, and Orkall have been locked in an unbroken eon of unresting violence. Within this catastrophic undulating struggle, the menacing presence of peace lingers over the very reason for being of the peoples of Vigroth. 

“Lord Goth, the shamen requests your presence!” A muscle-bound warrior said as he hastily swung open the throne room door. 

Within the chamber, a man sat upon a throne of piled stones. He was broad and muscular, bigger and more terrifying than any man within the clan of Goth and arguably larger than anyone that is or has ever been. His long red hair draped heavily down his face, his sun-bleached tips rested on his shoulders, and fierce blue eyes flickered from behind his fiery mane. Flanking the throne was a magnitude of a servant woman, all of them youthful and bursting with fertile beauty. They clung to his naked frame and begged to serve his every need. He seldom looked at them, for his only love was war.

“Is it Rabaa, Khal? Is it my queen…” Goth said, not moving from his place of rest.

“Aye!” The warrior nodded.

Goth arose from his seat brushing the fertile youths off of him. His muscles were large but he stepped with impeccable timing, unimaginably light on his toes for someone so girthy. 

He ventured into a low lit room connected to the chamber, there was a small crowd surrounding the furthest corner. The room was lit by small candles draped along wooden beams that hung from the wall. The air was sticky and stunk of ammonia and feces, glistening sweat rolled off the bodies of all within.

“Make way for your War chief!” Called out the warrior.

“Make way!” Repeated all those who heard the order.

Goth moved toward the center of the gathering, The warriors bowed their heads, the woman bowed at the waist, and the slaves fell to the ground for there master. Goth approached a table where Rabaa his queen was panting, beads of sweat trickling down her body. 

“Is it a boy?” He asked gruffly. The woman nodded slowly, nervously. 

The shamen approached, his long gangly arms held out a hide swaddled newborn. Goth took the child in his massive hand.

“Goth, wait!” Rabaa called out. 

 Goth turned away from her. The boy was silent and unblinking, it only stared. The boy’s eyes were not his, the boy’s nose was not his, certainly, his spirit was not of Goths either. Goth removed the covering from the child, everyone within view gasped. His anger began to bubble up within him like a swelling tide of blood. Goth quickly covered it and stomped out of the room. 

In the main chamber, the servant women were gossiping, comparing their breasts, and waiting for Goth to return. Their lord burst into the chamber, his oily hair bouncing with each step. They watched as he tore the wrapping from the child, it began to cry and scream, but goth paid it no mind. The servant women were in shock at the site of the baby.

 The child was misformed, its arms were small and crooked and its belly bulged in odd places. Goth stared at the monstrosity in his hand and grimaced in disgust. It rolled around like a bloated larva. He closed his hand around it and hurled the infant against the chamber wall with such velocity that nothing was left except a smear of red that trickled down the creases in the stone.

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Goth screamed a mighty scream so powerful it shook the pillars within the great hall. He was displeased, not because the loss of a child for half of his clan was his progeny, but because the shamen had warned Rabaa and himself that they must be faithful during her pregnancy or else the child would be misformed and ugly.

“Those who wish to bare my seed, kill the snake Rabaa, bring me her head and ill reward you with a child!” Goth proclaimed. 

The woman stared at each other for a moment in disbelief and excitement, and one after another they let out primal shrieks lashing out at each other as they scrambled to the anterior room. 

“Khal,” Goth spoke lowly. The warrior approached.

“Yes... my lord?” He stammered, hammering his chest with respect.

“Bring me the Shamen…” Goth pondered, clawing at his red beard.

“As you wish.” He turned on his heel and swiftly went to retrieve him. 

Yowls of pain could be heard from the anterior room as Khal opened the door. Goth paced between the pillars contemplating his next actions. The War-Chief walked to his throne of stones and lowered himself on its rough surface.

the group of servant women came brawling out of the room, fighting over the severed head of Rabaa. They bit and kicked, they pulled hair and gouged at eyes. They were covered in blood, some of it was there’s, some the former queens. Goth was pleased and yet racked with a gnawing of what had to be done. 

A struggle came from the room again, two warriors stormed out of the doorway dragging the shamen out by his legs, Khal following behind. 

They threw the Shamen at the feet of Goth. 

“What is the meaning of this my lord!” The shaman cried.

“Bor, You have been apart of my clan for many moons. I did not believe in your gifts… but you proved you had sight when you led us to our home, here in the wasteless hollow. But, now I am stuck at a crossroad.” Goth said sullenly. 

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked Lord Goth. If the child was deformed than it was your wife, Rabaa, who was unfaithful!” He pleaded with Goth.

“I would believe this… if I didn’t have her locked away in my chambers.” Goth said under a furrowed brow.

“Than why kill her?” Bor the Shamen rasped.

“Because she was guarded by the very man I trusted most,” Goth grunted and hoisted a skull size stone from his crumbling throne and Hurled it at Khals head, splattering it into chunks of flesh. A sharp scream and clambering came from the throne room. 

“Wha...wha...what about me my lord?” Bor sniveled, hiding his face with his hands.

“I can not tell if she was unfaithful or if you are a fraud,  in my uncertainty, all parties must pay. Gordor..” Goth spoke, looking at the guard holding Bor. 

 “cut out his tongue.” One of the guards holding the Shamen drew a thin razor knife from his sheath, reached into the struggling man’s mouth, and pulled out his tongue. Bor struggled but the blade was drawn across his flesh, and his tongue was severed it from his head. 

The shamen squirmed and writhed, Blood oozing from between his teeth. 

“Take him away…” Goth uttered with a wave. 

Goth rested his head in the palm of his hand, sighed, and then dragged his fingers through his thick hair. 

A pale woman, nude, bloody and covered in dirt stepped forward with the severed head of Rabaa.

“For you my lord…” she offered, tossing it at the base of the throne. He stared at her for what felt like a long time. 

“Do I please you my lord?” She said opening her arms and exposing her breasts

“yes…” Goth said with tight lips.

“Than will you have me..?” She said stepping closer to the throne.

“No…” He grunted.

“Than what do you desire if not me?”

And with clenched teeth he could only utter one word 

“War.”