[War Tattoo]

An unusual combination of energies have produced a tattoo of power.

The tattoo can be invoked to increase one’s Body, but will consume the user’s blood essence.

“Good job, Ralph. You should get some rest. If… the assault tomorrow is unsuccessful, hopefully there’s enough soot left to tattoo at least some of the other villagers.”

Ralph nodded solemnly.

“I am sorry I could not be of more use. I-”

Cain cut him off with a sharp shake of his head.

“You have done more than enough, Ralph. And you’ll be the one protecting the Tribe while we are gone. We are all depending on you.”

Ralph dropped his gaze, but Cain smiled at him gently, chuckling. Sometimes, it felt like he was the oldest man in the camp. Maybe it was his shaman class, or perhaps it was the reason he had gotten the shaman class in the first class.

Harundal smiled at the sight of his Warbringer, eyes still filled with wonder. These humans, he thought, made each other stronger. Each spar with his Warbringer brought something new to Harundal, and though he had not yet challenged anybody to an honorable duel to the death and won, he felt that he had been growing stronger the entire time. It was the least he could do to subject himself to the mad experiments of the dark-skinned and tattooed man next to him.

He was happy to serve his Warbringer.

------

Night fell upon the village, and its villagers sat huddled around a couple of campfires as they always did, enjoying each other’s company as each of their faces were illuminated by the dancing flames.

Some of the Hunters had families they had arrived with, but some of the younger ones had begun relationships anew in the Tribe.

Life and love always finds a way. Cain smiled at the way a young Hunter cut his Crafter lover an extra piece of meat.

But Cain could see the worry and fear in the faces of many of the villagers tonight as well.

Though dinners were usually attended by most of the Tribe for convenience and company, making for loud and hearty laughs and conversation, tonight an unspoken tension hung thick in the air as the villagers silently ate their meal.

Cain finished his meal and watched as the villagers slurped the last of their stew and finished off their fish skewers.

“Do you remember in the first months after the rifts opened?," Cain said.

"We were all starving out on the streets as our houses and sky-scrapers fell apart around us.

"I survived off of exclusively Twinkies for weeks.”

The villagers chuckled at that, a now distant memory.

“And now, we once again have a roof over our heads and warm, delicious food in our bellies. It has made us strong. All of us, strong.”

Cain looked around, meeting the gazes of Hunters and Crafters, those with classes and simply awakened alike.

“And we will grow stronger still. Until no one can threaten the sanctity of our lives anymore.”

Gazes took on a steely gaze of determination all around the campfire.

“I don’t think I was anyone special before the rifts opened. I still don’t.

"All that happened was that I made the decision earlier than others. A decision to stand and fight. Fight these monsters who see us as nothing more than livestock.”

Cain hissed out the last word, a flicker of anger visible in his usually calm and gentle eyes. The villagers stirred angrily as well. Ralph hugged his daughter closer to himself, and Noel nodded, steel in her eyes.

“You have all done all you can, not just in the past week and a half for the battle, but ever since the rift has opened. And that’s what we’ll do tomorrow, and then the day after that, and the day after that.”

Harundal snorted steam through his nose, and Wutang screeched a battle cry that rang throughout the night air, prompting the men and women of the Tribe to join in as well.

It was a primal call. A call of defiance. A call of battles and wars to come.

When silence fell again in the village, Cain’s soft voice was heard by all.

“We’ll leave tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

He smiled.

“Get some rest for the rest of the night.”

—---------------------

Interlude

“Since the dawn of time itself, when the first tribes began roaming the deserts of Durth, our history has been one clad in the glory of War. No more will we fight for others. Today, we fight to reclaim OUR War.”

Address before The Fall of Okoro - Duruk Warbringer.

It had been twenty years since the orcish tribes had begun their rebellion. War-slaves of Jaka for nearly a century, what they lacked in talented officers they made up for with the savage rage and might of every single warrior. 

Eight years, since Duruk had left my company to join the rebellion, and the orcs had suffered no more for the lack of talented leaders.

Duruk looked a bit older for the wear when I greeted him in his war tent. He was approaching forty summers, I knew, but it must have been the shamanic spells the orcs had begun to reclaim as their heritage that were keeping him young and looking only ‘slightly older for wear’. The Gods only knew the depth of the fervor with which the Tribes worshipedworshipped their war-hero. Their Warbringer. Despite the advantages of my own bloodline, I could not stop a pang of jealousy at the sight.

Dressed in a simple black garb and wearing his iron silver hair slicked back in a ponytail, Duruk still rose to greet me when I entered the tent. His tusks, yellow with age, jutted out of his mouth and sported only a simple band of obsidian that displayed his rank as Warbringer.

“Jak’tur. It has been a long time.” he said.

“A great many years, Duruk.” I said, grasping his arm in the soldier’s salute.

“Sit.” He said, gesturing to the rugs.

Before we could exchange more pleasantries, Duruk began speaking again, though I hid my distaste. I had forgotten how much the brute disdained basic etiquette. 

“Four years since I last fought alongside you and the Desert Drakes. In remembrance of our camaraderie, I have hesitated to push the last offense on the Capital. Despite my title of Warbringer, I have no taste for senseless slaughter.” He paused, yellow eyes meeting mine.

“Okoro will soon fall against us, and with it, the last stronghold of the Empire. I offer you this last chance to surrender and prevent the unnecessary deaths of thousands.”

I gazed around the tent. Tapestries depicting the many battles he’d fought since we’d parted paths adorned the walls. Duruk escaping slavery. Duruk sparring Torok, the chieftain of the Tribe of Grey Wolves whom he had defeated in single combat. Duruk raising the banner of the Twelve Tribes in the sand swamps of Skursh, the first blow the orcs had landed on the Empire. Duruk making an alliance with the jackal men, children of The God of Death and Carrion.

The last one had truly begun turning the tide against the Empire, and its strongholds had begun falling one by one to the terror of citizens and nobles alike.

“I hear that you’re a Warlord now. The greatest amongst the Chieftains in times of war. I might not be a Warlord, but I have led men to victories and their deaths for longer than a cycle of the Red Moon. You should know that there are few things that Lords and Chieftains, be they men or orcs, will not do to keep their power.”

I took a deep breath and called upon the djinn’s blood flowing in my veins. It had been weakening with age, but the amulet gifted me by the Emperor himself pulsed as a red-orange light began to shine under my skin. I pushed more fire than I ever had dared muster before into my hands and arms and lunged for Duruk’s throat. His guards had taken all of my blades, but I was never truly unarmed, not with the magic of djinns at my beck and call.

Not even the thick gray hide of the orcs could protect them from djinn-fire, and the fire in my palms immediately began burning away the skin of Duruk’s throat.

Duruk never flinched, didn’t even move to stop me as he continued to stare into my eyes. 

My smile faltered. How did-

“How far you have fallen, Jak’tur, to play games of shadows and assassins. I had hoped it would not be so, and that we might once again ride together into battle.”

To my growing dread, I saw his flesh was knitting itself back under my burning hands, the thick chords of muscle twisting like constrictors. Duruk’s own hands closed around my neck as two guards burst into the tent. Duruk barked out a guttural command, stopping them in their tracks.

Yellow eyes glistening, Duruk Warbringer looked into mine. .

“If only you’d known the things I have seen and done in these last four years, perhaps you would have chosen the correct side in this war, Jak’tur. Now you die.”

Seemingly unaware of the scorching heat that licked at my own face, he tightened his grips. I felt my bones creak under his monstrous strength. 

Terrified, I flailed around in Duruk’s unyielding grip. I could not fail now, the Emperor, he-

There was a loud crack, and I thought no longer.

——————————————————————————————————————————

Duruk watched the life drain out of Jak’tur’s eyes with less sadness than he had expected. He had come too far in his battle and war to feel remorse for the deaths he caused, even those of his friends.

Morrow’s blessing had allowed him to grow in strength and vitality with every foe he slew. And though Jak’tur was far from the most powerful of djinn-born, Duruk felt his essence flowing into his body and strengthening him. It wasn’t much, compared to some of the other creatures he had defeated in the desert, but he would need every last bit of it for the coming battle.

“May you rest in the afterlife, old friend. I doubt that I will be seeing you.” He said, and gestured for the guards to carry the body away.

“Tell the council we convene in an hour.” He added, and the guards nodded.

It would take time for the Chieftains of the Tribes and Alphas of the Great Pack to gather, and so Duruk left the tent to wander the encampment.

Duruk walked amongst his soldiers who were gathered around the campfire, boiling their rations. He stopped to talk to squadron and platoon leaders and take in their complaints. It was more to calm his mind than actually solve problems. It had been years since the rebellion began, and the army worked together seamlessly like a finely greased machine.

“That was stupid, Warbringer. You endanger our entire campaign with your soft sentimentalities.” A silky voice caught him unaware, something that rarely happened to him nowadays.

Duruk sighed. There was exactly one soul in this encampment who would address him in such a way, and could sneak up on him.

“I was in no danger, Niles. And even now, I am stronger than I was yesterday. A fair trade, in my eyes and Morrow.”

“Djinn-born are danger incarnate, you fool. If he had been just a little younger-”

“If I cower from a single Djinn-born, how do you propose we face the Emperor? We would be lucky if I did not fall on my face and start whimpering. Other djinn-born are but a candle compared to the raging flame of Child of the Sun himself.”

Niles, the Alpha of Alphas, he who had built the largest Pack since the days of the First Pack, cackled his strange laugh.

“You are mad, Warbringer. Which is why I am here fighting with you instead of still cowering and skulking around in the mountain ranges of Skoth. Duruk the Warbringer! Let us sing praises of your great deeds. Of your bulging muscles and ivory tusks! On the way madness burns in your eyes in the midst of battle!”

‘Who-ever had thought it would be a good idea to teach the jackal men the Common Tongue should be flayed alive and hung’, thought Duruk, and not for the first time.

“Silence, you hideous excuse of a jackal. Or I will make the army march to the final battle singing once more the song of how Duruk defeated Niles, who thought himself cleverer than the Warbringer himself.” Duruk said, feigning seriousness.

Niles shook his head, chuckling.

“Let us be on our way, then. The council awaits you.” He said.

Duruk looked to the distance at the tall sand-stone walls of Okoro, the jewel of the desert and royal capital of the Jaka Empire. Tomorrow, they would fall.

“It is War that awaits us, Niles. War for freedom at last.”