The group makes the week long trek back to the Neanderthal
camp. The stumble across some undead, but they lack the magical connection that
seem to have powered the earlier bands of reanimated dead.
An uneventful trek brings the group back to the refugee
town. Ogg leads the way to the center of the village – the survivors clamor to
see the saviors of their tribe. Melvi and Poma begin telling stories of their
adventure and the crowd begins to tremble with excitement. “Are we really
free?” “Have they ended the siege?” “I can’t wait to bed the heroes!” (The last
from a chorus of old men.)
Pushing their way to the dais, the group moves past the
mounted trophies of wendigo and ahklut hides, and the blue-ish skins of several
giants, their empty eye sockets staring blankly through the crowd. The old man
sits upon his chair, several warriors surround him, conferring with a tall
dreadlocked Neanderthal with a matted beard. The meeting stops when all eyes
turn to the returning group. The bearded Neanderthal moves away from the dias
and the old chief summons the group forward.
“What have you to say? Is the deed done?”
Ogg steps forward and kneels “Yes, boss! We have found the
creature responsible and have a way for our mystics to find its mates and end
this menace.” Ogg produces the skull of the creature and presents it to the old
chief. With arthritic speed, the old man rises and takes the skull from Ogg’s
upturned hands.
“That is good news Ogghul'tnsp'o! You have done well! What of
the warriors that followed you?”
“They have all perished in the battle, chief. Only the
stalwart that have entered the circle have survived the battle.”
“Impressive.” He turns to the crows crushing the circle
reserved for leadership. “BEHOLD MY PEOPLE! Look upon that which would kill us!
Look upon that which will eat our children!” Look upon that which will take our
souls and force us to slay our beloved!
“It is dead! It shall die again! It and its ilk shall never
live again so long as the Blooded Moon draw breath! We shall hunt them to the
end of the stars and drink the blood of their children!”
The crowd goes absolutely insane. Mothers foam at the mouth,
old men hit each other with their staves, children scream in murderous delight.
“Now, hero! Now, Ogg! Now, war chief! Rise! Challenge me and
claim your right!”
The old man drops the insect-like carapace to the dirt
raises his head and screams. Within half a heartbeat, his voice drops and the
scream becomes a roar. Its tenor vibrates among the primal neurons of the
party’s brains and in the bowels of their stomachs. The roar continues longer
than anyone thinks the man has lungs for.
And they fear.
Almost imperceptibly the man begins to grow, then within the
span of a thought the wizened old chieftain triples in size. His arms extend to
the length of a man, his torso rockets up like a shoot of grass, and thick,
mottled, white fur erupts out of his body. His face elongates and the skin
pulls back exposing bone and muscle. In its place stares the runed skull of a
great bear; cords of sinew connecting the skull to the bare, muscled flesh of
its thick neck. The roar ends and silence prevails. The man turned beast
reaches a long, taloned arm into the air and retrieves a great, hideous sword
from the Aether.
“Challenge me and claim your right!”
Ogg has visibly paled. His furs are wet with his fear and
the yellow of it pools around him.
“WHOA!” shouts Melvi, ”lay off our boy!”
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