Birth of the Tempest [Defense]

[Selibas]

A wind was gathering in Sacae. A wind that the plains would not have seen since long ago in the days of Hanon. The wind blew in answer to a foul presence in Sacae, creeping in from all sides. The invasion of the nation by Etruria, a continuation of the Salvation Point conflict. In their attempt at conquest in the name of their god, the Inquisition was like a wave of fire, destroying all that it could burn, leaving only death and destruction in their wake. In the name of a god that preached mercy, it seemed as if these followers had none.

The wind blew the blades of grass on the plains of Sacae. Forcing individual blades of grass of all different sizes and strengths to lean against each other. So it was wherever the wind touched, and so it was some thirty miles east of Bulgar, one of the few locations in Sacae all tribes and clans would know of. For that reason, it was a good place for all of the blades of Sacae to lean against each other.

In the days since the clans meet had been called by the chief of a small southern tribe, some twenty tribes had come. Not a single clan had done as much as send a delegate. Of all of the tribes which had gathered, not a single one had more than a hundred warriors. Many from the west looked downtrodden, warriors spotting wounds that were clearly from something other than hunting accidents or skirmishes with another tribe. The would be the orange plague. The foul presence, that called the wind to action. Not to mention the attack on the city of heroes, which had further demonstrated what little defense the plains had against exterior forces as a collection of separate blades of grass.

The wind blew a young chief's hair, green like the grass he sat cross-legged on. The little girl behind him let out a whine as the wind blew the hair she held in her fingers out of her hand. She was a girl formerly of the Aurumiaf tribe, which was now under the chief whose hair she was braiding. Next to the chief was one of her friends, formerly of the Sumis, who had set a small table on the ground. He was trying to compete with the young man in a bout of arm wrestling. If the two had been born twenty years before, they might have killed each other, but instead, they were now both in the tribe of the young man they now played with.

The adults in both of their former tribes had seen trouble in getting along at first, but they had slowly become one. The problem that they had, was what would they call themselves? Before the clans meet, they had made their decision. Messengers had ridden to all tribes large and small, identifying themselves as Sacaen, not Sumis or Aurumiaf. Here at the clans meet, they played the part of mediator, keeping tribes that had hated each other for generations from starting any fights. They were doing a good job, only one young man was dead.

"All done," the little girl behind the chief said in a high pitched voice. A few moments after her statement, the little boy miraculously managed to pin the chiefs arm. The little boy started to jump around, howling at the air and pumping his arms. The chief stood, and tussled the boys hair. He was broad, and the way he stood suggested he'd never be fast enough for the style of swordplay his parents were probably teaching him. Maybe the chief should teach him his style. The boy and girl ran off, hopefully to play with other children, and not cause trouble. Before the young chief could take a step, a voice reached him from nowhere.

"Selibas." The young wolf turned, and behind him stood his cousin Dale. The taller man said, "Where are you going? You shouldn't go anywhere alone right now." A smile split Selibas' face, I'm just going to do another head count, if you want, you can come along." The two Sacaens began a walk at a slow pace, neither armed, but both prepared for anything. Though Selibas did not dislike having Dales company, he was not the companion he'd have chosen for this walk. That companion however, was gone.

Selibas looked as the two walked, at the sea of gers. They were clustered together in their individual tribes, marked by their tents being made differently, or with materials specific to the regions the tribe roamed. There were still so few of them. None of the larger clans had contacted them, but it was still two days before the chiefs and khans were meant to speak, hopefully, they would come. Selibas had rode ahead of some of the men he'd brought from Bern, perhaps the clans were simply taking just as long as they were. He knew that some would be held up in the west fighting off the invasion, best to respect them and not harass them, or hold them in contempt for not arriving. The little wolf let a wind out through his nostrils, "There is a tide."

[Duma]

It took several days but Duma had managed to find the tribe of Saceans that he had been looking for. This particular group of nomads called themselves the Qazvin. It was a group of about 40 individuals, whom made a living traveling up and down the coast line of Sacae. These folk made a small living along the ocean border and occasionally traveled out west to trade goods. Duma had met these nomads several years ago during his travels. He had spent six months in the company of their tribe learning a variety of things such as fishing, tapestry, sword fighting, and some seafaring. After a brief reunion with the clan matriarch, Duma had been invited to travel with them. The entirety of the clan marched out towards the meeting grounds. About twenty of them were able bodied warriors. A veritable mix of men and women whom were raised by the sea and capable in swords, bows, and axes.

Once they had arrived, Duma began helping them to unpack. He aided them in setting up the tents and getting settled down. Duma looked out and around at the small sea of tents. He recognized the designs on some of them. A handful of the tribes he had traveled and trained with along his journey across the plains. Hmm.. wonder if they would recognize me out of the crowd. He noticed a few banners were missing. Specifically some of those whom had lived out towards the western half of Sacae. Of the ones he could see he noticed that many of them were scarred, wounded, and fewer in number.

Duma counted them as the lucky ones, the ones that had survived Eturia's wrath. The ones that had knowledge of tactics the Etruria army and numbers. A small frown appeared on his lips, he hated that Eturia was on the move. He hated the fact that he now had to keep his Eturian upbringing a secret lest he be cast out of the group or worse be branded a spy. He took a glance at his clothes. Thank the gods I at least look Sacean. The tribe matriarch knew of his origins and trusted him. Duma had fought and bled along side them for months. He learned their language, lifestyle, and sparked his life long love of the plains.

[Yaen]

For many years now, Yaen had tried to stay out of grand affairs. He was not a hero, nor a leader of men. He was only a Sacaen vagabond, moving at the whims of the Four Winds. But now, they carried dark whispers, tales of horrors and cruelty that muted out their beautiful songs. Where once they guided him by whim, now they were urging him onward. And where the Winds beckoned, Yaen followed. He had no desire to be a hero, or a legend. No desire to reshape the world. But the Winds were calling, and his people were crying out in pain and despair. He could not ignore them. Even if he tried, he would not be able to turn a deaf ear. This was not about him. It was not about what he wanted. His people and his Gods were beset by a force of evil, and to turn his back on them would strip him of his right to call himself a son of Sacae.

Actually returning, however, was more difficult. It had been almost ten years now. Ten years since he had ran away. He had not seen nor heard of his kin since that day. Would they even recognize him now, so many years later? Could they believe that the clumsy, stuttering boy they knew became the man he was now? Would they even be here? Were they even still alive? All of these thoughts, and many more, filled him with dread, but the worst of them all clung to him like cold water to cloth. Would his mother ever forgive him for what he did?

That thought bore into him like a knife through his heart. Each step towards the cluster of gers, marked in the fashion of the Amasi, felt heavy. But he could not ignore this any longer. She was his mother. Whether she would be angry or relieved, whether she could forgive him or not, she deserved to know he was here. He would not show her such disrespect as to hide from her like a hunted rabbit. He had made his choice to run, and had chosen ever since not to return. He would face the consequences for his actions.

It did not take him long to find the ger. The relics of his ancestors adorned the entrance. Strings of beads and charms, crafted by the mothers of his mothers. The bones of great prey and the tokens of fallen enemies, collected by the fathers of his fathers. He passed through the threshold without a word. This was still his home, though the moments to come may change that. As the flap fell behind him, Yaen paused to see the two familiar faces inside. A man, sitting cross legged, drinking from a small cup, and a woman, currently at work at her weave. They were older now, and it had been so long, but he had never forgotten their faces.

The pair did not take long to notice him. Two sets of eyes were suddenly upon him, filled with confusion and vague remembrance. Could they not recall his face? He did not fault them if they did not. While they had stayed the same, he had changed greatly with the passage of time. Yaen bowed his head in deference to the pair as they stood, holding his arms out to them, his palms presented. The man stood to approach, but the woman quickly overtook him. She did not respond to the customary greeting, rather, she placed her hands on his cheeks, cupping his face. "Show me your face." she gently ordered. Slowly, he lifted his head and lowered his arms, his skin shuddering as she used her thumbs to pull strands of hair to the side. The woman stared at him, before pulling his head down to hers, resting her forehead against his. "A-mar bain noo, minii khüü?"

Yaen closed his eyes, gently pressing the weight of his head against hers. "A-mar bain aa, Eje." he responded in kind. When she released him, he turned to look at the man, then back to her. "Achi. Eje." He dropped to his knees, resting his head against the floor of the ger. "I have disrespected you both. I ran, without even saying goodbye, and only now have I returned to you. I have caused you pain, and I have shamed you, Akh, and our ancestors. I have no right to ask your forgiveness."

He heard the soft thud of footsteps, and felt a strong, familiar hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him up to stare into the eyes of his uncle. Such familiar eyes. The eyes of the man who had raised his sister's son, left fatherless at a young age. "It has been nine years." he stated. Yaen could only muster the smallest of nods, feelings of shame welling up inside him. "And every day, for nine years, we have prayed to Umay that she would bring you home." That strong hand pulled him to the older man's chest, and Yaen was wrapped in a tight embrace."And finally, Umay has answered our prayers. My sister's son has finally returned to us."

Yaen pressed his face against his uncles shoulder, returning the strong embrace. "Yes, Achi. Umay has heard your prayers, and she has brought them to Tengri, who lead me home." he agreed. "It has been a long time coming, and I should have returned sooner. But I am home, Achi. And I have never forgotten you, or Eje. I have never forgotten who I am, or where I am from. I am still Yaen of the Amasi tribe, son of Arn."

His uncle released him from his embrace, but held him by his arms to look at him. Yaen watched as his uncle's eyes moved across his face, to his arms, to the pair of blades resting at his hip. "You have changed, my sister's son. Your journeys have made you strong. I wish I could have seen you finally become a man, but perhaps it was Tengri's will that you left us to find your own way. You honor your ancestors, my sister's son, and I am proud to see you return to us, not as a boy, but as a warrior of the Amasi."

All of Yaen's fears were lifted. In their place, he found something warm. Something content. "Yes, Achi. And I am honored to fight alongside you in Akh's stead. I am honored to stand for our kin and for our home." he agreed. Their home. Yes. The plains had always been a home to him, but this was his true home. Here, with. And he was ready to fight and die to defend it.

A-mar bain noo, minii khüü? How are you, my son?
A-mar bain aa, Eje. I am well, Mother.
Achi Uncle
Akh Father
Umay Mother Earth
Tengri Father Sky

[Selibas]

Selibas was able to reognize a few of the tribes scattered around the gathering. Others, he had Dale identify for him. There was the Cathecassa, the Amasi, the Erlis, the Napier, the Madiga, the Buda'at, the Oronar, the Arulad, the Kiyat, and the Qazvin, just to name a few. There was, to put it kindly, limited interaction between tribes. In a more truthful observation, the interaction of the tribes was limited to staring at each other from their fires, and the occasional exchange of a few words, as two plainspeaople passed each other, heading to get water or see their horses. Selibas was fully aware of the eyes that burned into him as he walked through the tribes. If they knew who he was, they doubtless did not know what to make of him. If they did not know, they thought he was some young punk from the Sumis tribe, and wanted to make sure he didn't try anything. It was funny, nearly all tribes assembled were around the same size, meaning it stood to reason that each tribe fielded more than a few warriors that could give Selibas a good fight. Had circumstances been different, Selibas would have loved to suggest some kind of tournament, but this was not a meeting meant for such practices.

The little chief and his cousin made their way through the sea of gers, and eventually were near the homes of the Qazvin. From between the tents, a swarm of children came, laughing. Selibas smiled as he realized by looking at their clothes that they were from different clans. The split around Dale and the Little Wolf like water on rocks, rushing past them, and crowding around one long haired man who appeared to have come with the Qazvin. Selibas laughed at the children's playful attack, and when they had moved on, said to the long haired swordsman, "A brave man you must be, to stare down a chargin' horde such as that."

[Duma]

As Duma finally helped with the assembly of the Ger, he wiped his brow with his free hand. The Ger of the Qazvin was made of wood and animal hide. But decorated with swirls of turquoise painted on as a representation of their home along side the ocean waves. The opening into the communal home was lined with a string curtain of beads, shells, and dried sea stars. The women of the tribe wore jewelry made of sea shells that made a rattling noise as they went. The men wore necklaces lined with shark teeth which were to give an estimate to their ranking and age among the tribe.

Duma wiped his hands clean with a rag and got up. He was off to go and get a drink of water when heard the sound of children. The swordsman turned around and saw a small crowd of children rushing out towards him. He recognized all of them. He got on his knees and braced himself for the impact of the tiny little bodies that were about to tackle him in a hug. He laughed and hugged each individual child as they slowly started to crawl up on his shoulders. He addressed and acknowledged each child in name and language. He even used hand signals for a small child of a northern tribe who was mute. It was here among the children of the tribes, where he could show off one of his hidden talent for languages. He knew what they wanted, the kids wanted stories. Stories of his travels and of the adventures he had.

"Tell us the story about the Bael!" One child shouted in plain speak. This little boy named Kris was a mixed child born from Sacean father and Bern woman. The children all looked up at him and then all wanted the same story. Even those children whom were from tribes on different ends of Sacae knew what the word Bael was. Even the child who could not speak made a motion with his hands and arms to as if to say giant spider.

"Or the one about the moonlight duel!"

"Oooh Ooh how bout the one where you took on the knighted devil!?"

"How about the duel in the fiery village?"

"Duma! Duma! Is that a new sword?" The boy named Kris asked. To which the swordsman nodded.

"What monster did you get that off of? Tell me!"

As the children began to gossip fancy titles for the stories they had heard of him. He noticed the children started to bond. Though them little language gaps and barriers between tribes were starting to be broken. This was the crucial step in the right direction towards unification. He looked up at the two strangers who had approached him who commented on his bravery for staring down the horde of kids. Duma got up and gave them a bit of a smile, as he gently watched as they interacted.

"Braver still are the mothers who must deal with them on a daily basis." He responded to them in kind before returning his attention back to the kids, who were now tugging at his clothes eager to hear a tale or two. By now a few of the older siblings, or tribe's folk of some of the younger ones had emerged to try and calm the kids.

"Now, children, it wouldn't be right of me to deprive the stories to the others. I will tell it around the campfire tonight." He spoke with sternness in his voice so that the point would be driven across all languages. There was a collective groan of disapproval from the children. A child's universal language.

"Come now. You all can guide me around the camp. I must pay, respects to your parents and chieftains. Who's Ger is currently closest?" He asked in plain speak. Then cycled through the same sentence in the other languages. A little fuchsia headed girl lifted up her hand. Duma nodded then turned back over to face the ger of the Qazvin, the matriarch waved her hand to tell Duma to go with them.

"Anri. Okay lead the way." The swordsman excused himself from the presence of the two men and followed the fuchsia haired child.

[Tamaya]

They came not with fanfare and trumpet, nor with beating drum and celebration. No, instead they came with weary but focused tread and determined but heavy hearts. The Cathecassa, worn by the Battle of the City of Heroes, now returned, answering the summons and marching in to meet, the swords and bows gently tapping against their skins as they fell into a rough clump at the edge of the already-massed and comfortable other tribes.

A woman, young yet, but with eyes that glowed with the pride of many victories and the wisdom of many defeats, walked forward and entered the masses. She needed to find someone.

Each ger flowed by like a raindrop as she walked, head high and eyes always moving, watching, taking note... Soon, the envoy saw the one she sought and moved to stand beside him, inclining her head respectfully and then addressing him with the full force of her eyes and the normal gentleness of her tongue.

"Greetings. I am Tamaya of the Cathecassa, and I speak as the voice of our people. We wish to understand, we who have lost our sons and daughters to the forces of Hargus. We wish to understand, we who are weary. We wish to understand, we whose swords are sharp and arrows keen. We will fight to defend our land and to protect our brethren, no matter what tribe, but we must be cautious always to see the whole image before we judge the art. We wish to understand, Little Wolf... Help us to understand, so that we may trust you with hand and heart."

On her back, Mphezi-Manja crackled, power briefly arcing over the bow and scattering bluish sparks down over her shoulders and onto the grass. Obviously pleased, her weapon continued to hum as she waited, facing Selibas.

[Selibas]

One of the little girls who followed the swordsman as he left to greet their parents turned to Selibas and opened her mouth. She was not of the Sumis, but Selibas had spoken with her parents yesterday on one of his brief walks, and she seemed to recognize him as a tribal chief. Selibas lifted his index finger to his lips as he parted them, and shook his head. The girl seemed to understand, and turned to follow all of her friends as they followed the swordsman. Selibas laughed, finding it humorous that this man was setting out to honor the leaders and parents gathered here, and there Selibas stood right behind him. After a moment, Dale understood why and laughed with his shorter cousin.

His laugh was cut short by a solemn shock of blonde hair. The woman approached the green haired chief, and Selibas allowed the joy to leave his face. The woman gave a speech as impassioned and hallow as her face, and for a moment, the little wolf was at a loss for words. He winced for a moment at that description. That was something people knew him as, surely, but before it had been given to him as a calling card by his enemies, it had been the nickname given to him by a now gone friend. It would take some getting used to, to hear the echo of one of his first friend's any time an ally called to him or an enemy cursed him.

"I am Selibas, the Little Wolf of the Sumis tribe, and I am the one who called you here. The plains of Sacae are in agony over the blood spilled by Hargus, and the deaths of countless Sacaens. You ask what is the bigger picture? Then I will try to help you understand. The picture is like a record, detailing the history of Sacae, a tapestry almost. One might think the tapestry would be rolls of green, but there is far more red. Each string of red that covers what could be a beautiful picture is dyed with the blood of a dead Kutolah, or Djute, or Sumis, Oronar, Arulad, Kiyat, or Cathecassa. Sacae from the outside, if you've never been is not a land of pride. It is a stomping ground for the other people of Elibe. When an evil rises, their vision turns first to Sacae. Why is that? Because, it is far easier for an army to conquer the Lorca, or the Qazvin, the Amasi, the Temulan, or the Cathecassa, than it is for the same army to conquer the armies and people of Lycia or Ilia. You say your people are willing to defend outside of the names of their tribe? Good. That's the tapestry we must weave, and keep the majority of the red near the beginning, when we brush aside these invaders.

[Deleted]

The Solune tribe, known for their "purist" mentality and disfain for all others had finally swallowed their pride. Upon the fields they called home they were ready to aid in the defense of it. In large part necessity and equal measures the efforts of the chief's adopted son Luca. Many viewed the members that came as risky allies but few would refuse them now.

The winds blew Luca's multicolored hair about and he breathed deeply in meditation. His lance lay before him, the shaft and tip wrapped in cloth. He was angry yet calm. This plague as they called him caused great damages to their homeland on two occasions now. He will do the same in turn 100 fold if given the chance. But he was only one man, so many others would fall by him before he was done. A smirk crossed his face and he opened his eyes.

Like it or not, he was the acting representative of his tribe, a greatly resented fact. He looked about at the people, many were weary of battle already yet here they stood. Some, not even Sacaeans. He avoided emotions but his body showed his anger and eagerness as well. He would make the rounds to speak with the others but first he should speak with this Selibas first.

Kicking up his lance he caught it and approached the green haired chieftain. He nodded to the blond haired woman with a slight bow. Chivalry was still a part of him. "I wish we could have all met under better pretenses, and I am no born Sacaean but the Solune tribe and I will stand by you till the end, and I will defeat no less than one thousand enemies, by my honor. I am Luca."

He surveyed the grasses of the plains. "May this land run red only once more." A statement of hope for the lands but for Luca it was also a desire to push into Etruria as well.

[Duma]

Duma set out to visit each of the children's families and chieftains. He was careful to give them the highest of respect with his speech and his mannerisms. With each chieftain he visited the swarm of kids who traveled with him grew less. Each child eventually returned to his or her family. They would be eager to hear Duma's tales of adventure at tonight's fire, if it was permitted. It was through the various chieftains that he learned of an identity of the main chieftain. The man who had called all of these tribes to order. A Sumis man whom was called Selibas, or better known as the "Little wolf". After he finished his rounds with the last of the tribe chieftains he made his way back towards the Qazvin. As he walked through the colorful display of tents and Ger's he waved to a handful of other warriors he recognized. Those he had done mercenary jobs with, those who had left their tribes, only to see them return in order to help defend their homeland. Some were welcomed back into their clan's. Some choose to avoid their families all together.

He gave his report on the status of the other clans and of people he had met. He gave the matriarch the name of the main chieftain and it seemed that a meeting with all chiefs was to happen soon. He'd escort the matriarch Kas to the meeting if need be. But it seemed that responsibility will fall to her second son. Since, her first born son was no longer with them. With nothing else to do until the approved time he opted to help the tribe with their preparation for their meals.

[Yaen]

Being home again felt foreign, after so long, but at the same time comforting. Yaen took great pleasure in sitting with his uncle, sipping kumis as his mother worked at her loom, humming an old song. It was good to be back. He did not regret leaving the Amasi; He had needed to find his own path of the sword. But he had truly missed this, and was grateful that he could experience it once more. The peace was, however, short lived. The flap of the Ger opened, and Yaen turned his head to see an older swordsman standing outside.

"Hayaka, it is time."

Yaen's uncle nodded and set down his cup, raising to his feet. "The Khan is making his formal introduction." He informed his nephew. "As a member of the Kheshig, I must accompany him." Yaen merely nodded in understanding, to Hayaka's impatience. "Are you going to sit there drinking mare's milk, or are you going to gird your sword? Do not dishonor your ancestors by standing with your Khan unarmed."

Yaen looked up, somewhat taken back, but stood as his uncle commanded, slipping his scabbards into his sash. "But Achi," he protested, "I am not a member of Khan Yahari's Kheshig."

"No, you are not. But you have yet to see the Khan to inform him of your return, and I will not allow you to shame your mother by insulting him. Besides, I assume that in your travels you have actually learned something about foreign customs. The Khan may require your insight more than your blade." The older man stared down at him, and Yaen knew that he didn't have a choice. He did not feel forced, however. To accompany the Khan was a great honor, doubly so for one who was not of the Kheshig.

He followed Hayaka out of the Ger and through the tribe's camp to meet the rest of the Kheshig and the Khan at it's edge. "Khan Yahari," Hayaka greeted with a deep bow, which Yaen imitated. "This is Yaen, my sister's son and son of your warrior, Arn. He has returned to the Amasi after many years of travel, and his knowledge of the foreign ways of our enemies may be of use to you. I humbly request that his sword be permitted in your company."

The Khan silently approached, and as his footsteps fell close, the pair stood. Yaen looked upon the Khan, the first he had seen of him in almost a decade. Khan Yahari was older than the vagabond remembered. His hair had turned grey, and his face was wrinkled from the years and the sun. But he still carried himself with an air of authority and respect, and his black eyes shone with all the vigor of a man half his age. His hair was tied into a topknot, and still much of it fell around his shoulders. His beard was a well groomed goatee, and he sported a long mustache that fell around his chin. His robes were of a fine green silk, trimmed with golden accents, and his sword rested on his left hip. Yaen knew that the Khan must be in his sixties now, but even still, he was as fine a warrior as the Amasi could boast of.

In respect, the vagabond lowered his head and presented his arms, palms up. The Khan rested his arms upon Yaen's and pressed his face against his dark hair, before taking a step back to look at him. "I know you, Yaen, son of Arn." he stated, his voice firm and even. "You were a feeble and clumsy boy, and possessed none of your father's skill. You ran from home like a thief in the night, and left your family to grieve. You took with you a sword, despite having not earned the right to own one within our tribe. You have shamed your ancestors, and you have shamed the Amasi."

"Khan Yahari, I-"

Hayaka attempted to speak, but the Khan raised a hand, and he fell silent, bowing his head in respect. "Well? What have you to say in your defence, son of Arn? Despite what you have done, you are still Amasi. I will hear your words before I pass my judgement."

Yaen looked into the eyes of the Khan, refusing to avert his own gaze. He would not show fear. "Khan Yahari, every word you speak is true. I have shamed my ancestors and my tribe by running. I have dishonored the spirit of the sword and betrayed the trust of my kin by stealing a blade. Had I approached my elders and announced my intent honestly, I would have spared them of this pain and disgrace, but I did not. My crimes are old, but they stand all the same. I set out on this path to find my own way, my own path of the sword. I have broken bread with foreign men, and I have pitted steel against foes of great honor and great treachery. I have gained wisdom on my path, and I have freely given of that wisdom to those I met along the way. The Amasi teach that there are many paths, many roads to learn the way of the sword, and I have found my own. If I must be punished for my deeds, Khan Yahari, then so be it."

The vagabond Sacaen knelt down on both knees, drawing his left Wo Dao by the scabbard, presenting the hilt to the Khan, his head bent low. "I offer you my sword, my Khan. It was given to me by a man whom I see as a teacher and friend. Let it serve you as you see fit. At your side, or upon my neck. Against the foe or at your hand, I will not die a coward."

Khan Yahari stroked his goatee in contemplation before speaking. "That you acknowledge your crimes and accept judgement pleases me, son of Arn. I will grant you my forgiveness. By my word, you are still Amasi." He finally decided. "But whether or not you have the right to call yourself one of my swords is to be deterimined." The Khan drew the Wo Dao from it's scabbard, and looked the blade over. "This sword has seen many battles, son of Arn. Each scratch upon the steel is a testament to that. But the edge is sharp, the scent of the oil remains upon it, and the hilt is freshly wrapped. You have shown the proper respect to the spirit of this weapon." The Khan turned his gaze to Hayaka, who rose his head to meet the Khan's eyes. "Hayaka, you were present on the day of the boy's birth, and you taught him our ways in his father's stead. Will you speak for him?"

The Kheshig nodded. "Khan Yahari, when I last saw my nephew, he was slow of speech, frail of body, and weak of heart. He feared the sword, shied away from his kinsmen, and hid himself among the basket weavers and the story keepers. My nephew has not returned to me unchanged. His words carry wisdom and weight, his body is strong, and as you yourself have witnessed, his heart is unwavering. I will speak for the boy."

Again, the Khan stroked his beard as he contemplated, before nodding. "Very well, Hayaka. I hear your words, and find no fault in them." He then looked to his Kheshig. "Should any man here wish to refute this man's words, speak now." He looked at each of the four men in turn, and none rose his voice. The Khan nodded, and sheathed the wo dao into Yaen's scabbard. "Son of Arn. By our customs, you are but a child. To hold a sword is not your right, but a privelege, one that is mine to deny you as I see fit. You have knelt before me, ready to receive judgement for your crimes.. I have seen your blade, and have not found your dedication lacking. A man of the Amasi, of my Kheshig, has spoken on your behalf, and none here have spoken against you. I have made my decision. Though you have wronged your tribe, you have kept our ways. Though you were alone, you have followed the path you chose, and you have learned to honor the spirit of your sword. By the will of the Spirits, and by my decree, you are a man of the Amasi. You have the right to own a sword, and to raise that sword in defense of your kin. Furthermore, you have my permission to accompany me on this day. Gird your sword, Yaen of the Amasi. We leave now."

Yaen rose from the ground, and bowed once more to the Khan before he returned his sword to its proper place. "I am honored by your trust, Khan Yahari. My sword is yours to command." The Khan merely nodded, as as he turned, Yaen fell in among the five Kheshig present. He felt an assuring hand on his shoulder, and looked to his uncle to share a smile of pride and relief.

The Khan and his entourage soon found the small gathering of tribal leaders and representatives that was forming, and as they approached, Hayaka stepped forward. "Brothers and sisters of the plains, fellow children of Hannon. Khan Yahari of the Amasi greets you." he stated. "He wishes you strength and fortune in the coming days, and expresses his sorrow for those who have been lost. He brings over one hundred swords with him, and swears them all to your cause. The Amasi stand ready to defend the home of our ancestors. We are honored to fight and die alongside you, our brave kin. May Mother Earth protect us, and may Father Sky bring ruin to the invaders who would destroy our people."

[Chelsea Dagger]

Chelsea had finally found the place that Kenshin had told her about. She still found it hard it believe that this all was happening, but it clearly was. She had never seen so many Sacaens in one place. Then again, she wasn't sure if anyone had. She couldn't remember ever hearing about such a gathering. Making her way through the crowd, Chelsea was trying to find her father. It was tricky, however, because she didn't actually know if he was here or not. She assumed he would be with everything going on, but she didn't have the time to stop by home on the way here to check. When she had arrived, she had stayed on Spirit in hopes that being up on her would allow her to see better. And while that had worked, it also drew some attention to her which she didn't care for. Instead, she had chosen to walk and lead Spirit behind her.

It took her quite some time, but eventually she did spot a familiar man in the distance. Unable to hold back a smile, she made her way to him in as straight a line as she could. When she got closer, she tapped him on the shoulder. "Who let you come here, old man?" Her father turned around with a big grin on his face.

"The same one that I assume let a runty little girl like you come." They shared a laugh before he pulled her into a tight hug. "I didn't know if I should expect to see you here or not."

Chelsea put on a mock serious face. "Well you know, Dad, it's kind of a big deal. I couldn't leave you to have all the fun. Besides..." She looked and leaned closer. "I met Kenshin himself on the road and he was the one who told me about everything. Can't exactly turn down a request from the Crimson Demon, can you?" She gave a satisfied smirk as she watched her father's eyes widen. "Jealous?" The two shared another laugh before Chelsea gave a little sigh. It really did feel like the old days. She half expected Mom and Nathan to appear in the crowd, thought she knew it was impossible. Looking around, she noticed a number of people from their tribe. "Where's Barton? I assume he has to be here, right?"

Her father gave a dry laugh. "Oh yeah. He's off meeting and greeting with some of the other chiefs." She winced slightly. Barton was a nice guy and a great chief, but man could he be awkward around people he didn't know well. Chelsea was glad she didn't have to watch that. It would be painful. Instead, her father lead her a small ways towards the rest of their tribe, where she began to catch up with people she hadn't seen in quite some time. In a strange way, she knew that she was home.

[Tamaya]

"I am Selibas, the Little Wolf of the Sumis tribe, and I am the one who called you here... Each string of red that covers what could be a beautiful picture is dyed with the blood of a dead Kutolah, or Djute, or Sumis, Oronar, Arulad, Kiyat, or Cathecassa... That's the tapestry we must weave, and keep the majority of the red near the beginning, when we brush aside these invaders."

It was eloquently spoken and clear as crystal. The determination that shone in the eyes of the Little Wolf was admirable, and his resolve true. She would be glad to draw Mphezi for this man, he who wanted so passionately to defend their birthright.

"Selibas of the Sumis... You have my respect and that of the Cathecassa. In the name of our Chieftain Nomucassa, I pledge our full might to your cause and stand ready to do whatever is needed to drive back this threat."

Tamaya drew Mphezi-Manja, the bow crackling and arcing with electricity as she raised it and ceremonially presented it to Selibas.

"Our bows are yours, Selibas... We shall fight as you command. If you should need the Cathecassa for anything, please direct your requests to me, as our Chieftain is older and wishes to be alone to think."

Tamaya bowed, preparing to depart. She would mingle with the other warriors and try to form bonds with other tribes. It was necessary for them to be united in mind and heart if they were to succeed in repelling the invaders.

[Altani]

Along the rolling fields of mantis green grass, a mass of voices echoed into the distance. Hundreds of them, if not just over a thousand strong, sang with fire seldom seen in numbers so large. A tongue known dominantly only to that of the Temulun; they who marched to the beat only heard from drums of war and with a resolve unyielding as it was powerful. Some rode, steads of browns and greys dotting the mass that moved so steadily. The greater majority however marched on foot, walking aside family and friend alike. Though they sang this song of honor, and glory, they felt the unyielding thrill to face these growing foes with almost equal reserve.

Kote!
Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an
Sacae a'den mhi, Vode an.
Bal kote, darasuum kote,
Jorso'ran kando a tome.
Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad, Vode an.
Kandosii sa ka'rta, Vode an.
Sacae a'den mhi, Vode an.
Bal...

----------------------------------

Glory!
One indomitable heart, Brothers all.
We, the wrath of Sacae, Brothers all.
And glory, eternal glory,
We shall bear its weight together.
Forged like the saber in the fires of death, Brothers all.
One indomitable heart, Brothers all.
We, the wrath of Sacae, Brothers all.
And...

The Temulun were warriors from birth. Trained at the youngest age possible in the sufferings and struggle of conflict. Their's was a rough upbringing, filled with physical trails and labor that elders oversaw. Trained to treat the smallest of tasks as an opportunity to improve in some form. Faster than yesterday. Stronger than yesterday. Better than yesterday. As such, in the rare occasion where the tribe fought together towards a common enemy beyond these ritualistic trials, they shared in the camaraderie of highest levels.

As the mass of Sacaen bodies moved through the rolling hills, their song of war echoed into the distance. Etruria would not hear them from the eastern half of Sacae, but if they did, they knew what came for their lives. At their head, adorned in obsidian shaded armor worn by her family in previous generations, strode Altani Ghoa. In place of her wounded father, Chief Dodai Ghoa, she led her people to this gathering of tribes. Among the chorus of varying pitched voices, she sang with equal fire. The woman's twin spears snugly tethered to her back, pinning the slightly tattered tipped cape which trailed after her. Admist the soothing winds that swept the landscape, her emerald bangs and long hair brushed to the left. As an armored hand lifted to tuck the disobedient bangs behind her, she looked to her side to gaze at the two who led this tribe with her on such a day. Her cousins. Both trained in the art of the blade for their entire lives; one however having opted to pick up the art of archery in addition while the other focused purely on swordsmanship in a fashion that paralleled her mastery with the twin spears she carried into battle.

Both sang their tribes war song, and so, The Temulun marched on.


Motir ca'tra nau tracinya.
Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a.
Aruetyc runi cet slarycina solus cet o'r.
Motir ca'tra nau tracinya.
Gra'tua cuun hett su dralshy'a.
Aruetyc cet slarycina runi trattok'o.
Sa kyr'am nau tracyn kad, Vode an!

-------------------------------------------------

Those who stand before us light the night sky in flame.
Our vengeance burns brighter still.
Every last traitorous soul shall kneel.
Those who stand before us light the night sky in flame.
Our vengeance burns brighter still.
Every last traitorous soul shall fall.
Forged like the blade in the fires of death, Brothers all!


Over the few days they had been moving, this song had been sung many times. Every time a single voice began to sing it, the tribe picked up like a fire spreading through the very fields they marched. Every time someone expressed any form of weariness, grief, or troubled mind this song was sung until they felt their strength destroy that which plagued their mind and hearts and body. The nights they camped, through out the hundreds of campfires this song was sung. It had been many years, and far further back than most living remembered, that the Temulun marched together as one.

It was well into the day when they saw sight of the other Sacaen tribes, all gathered together. It was also the first time most, if not all of them had witnessed such. It was not unusual towards their own nature that the Temulun established camp upon a hill, and the small grassy valley side behind it; away from the other tribes. Given their size and the nature of the tribe it was almost expected. No sooner had the tents been pitched, horses unburdened of baggage, and fires going, that the ringing blades of eager warriors blowing off pent up steam and energy over the march began to sound out. Sparring was perhaps the greatest and most popular form of entertainment within the tribe. Altani did not commence to sparing with her cousins, as she had been so eager to. There was business to attend first.

Turning to her cousins, Altani rolled her shoulders a bit. Part of her felt comfortable in the armor. Light-weight metal in broken plated segments that allowed for full mobility, and even gave her a sensation akin to that of what she imagined great commanders felt when walking along assembled troops; a glorious feeling it yielded. However part of her disliked the burden that came with putting it on, strapping it up and connecting the segments. She ignored it however, resting one hand at her hip and the other behind her head to coil armored fingers around the twin spears on her back. "Tsikador laam munit goyust"

(Prepare for a long road)

The quiet nods followed by either showed a deeper understanding between the three. Altani turned from the tribe behind her and began to make her way down towards the assembly of other tribes. In the back of her head, she recited the basic Sacaen language. It was different from the tongue they used in the company of their own tribe members, so she had to refresh herself briefly. She strode down the hill, looking ahead to try and acknowledge where it was she'd be going, or find a hint of where to go.

[Selibas]

Selibas was at once bombarded with chieftains and representatives following the blonde woman's example. Selibas knew not who he should a address first by way of tribal traditions, each clan would probably hold itself as the most important. Instead, Selibas decided that a first come first serve system of discussion would work best. He turned to Tamaya again, and said, "The arrows of Sacae are available to any bow you bring." Selibas dipped his head in response to the woman's bow.

Selibas then turned his attention to a man who looked to be an outsider. However he claimed to be the speaker of the Solune, which the little wolf would wait to see at the actual meet. The man pledged himself to the cause, and made a massive boast. "Well, if you kill that many, that's less the rest of us have to." Selibas' lips curled in the slightest bit of a smile.

Then there was the chief of the Amasi, who Selibas decided to bow to instead of simply nodding. Dale took a step forward and began to say some type of introduction for his cousin, but Selibas put his hand up. "I, Selibas, Khan of the Sumis greet you, I am he that sent envoy's to the clans. All assembled here stand in the defense of our home, and Hanon's children. The swords of the Amasi will not be put to waste in striking against the Etrurians. Selibas had a few men left to speak with, but suddenly his attention was drawn to a mass of Sacaens approaching. Selibas sighed, "Oh, good, the Temulun are here.

---------

Selibas woke with a start early on the morning of the true clansmeet. The numbers had swelled yesterday, but he still did not know if it would be enough. The khan picked himself up from the central beam of his ger, and exited the tent. the sun had yet to complete its ascent to what could be called day, but Selibas could make out the shapes around him. In just a few brief hours, he would have to convince these people to come together. Or they could all be taken one at a time.

[Duma]

Duma slowly roused himself from the warmth of his sleeping roll. He was accustomed to waking up at such early hours of the day. And so were most of the Qazvin, if they were back at the coast, this would be the time were most of tribe would be awake. The men would prepare the fishing boats while most of the women and children would scour the coast line for muscles, crabs, and clams. He went through his morning routine of taking care of his necessities and going over his supplies. He made his way out towards the training areas and drew his blade. The stories he shared with the children and several adults over the nightly fire had given him some minor popularity.

The children of the various tribes seemed to enjoy his new story about his escort mission of a priest and his two siblings. They especially enjoyed the part that the swordsman's allies of the tale were an orange giant from Ilia, a smooth talking mercenary, and a dragon-hero-horse. Even though Duma was certain that he had told the story in a perfectly normal way. And described that his allies were normal human begins and not the glamorized creatures of children's imaginations. He continued his morning training in relative solitude until sunrise. A man from a tribe he did not know approached him and asked for a duel.

"I accept. A simple sparring duel. No strings attached and non-lethal."

The stranger nodded and Duma immediately turned his blade around so as not to cause fatal injuries. Soon both swordsman were locked into a sparring match.