"You ask too much of your body, Ralgar. All must be healed before you may fight again at full strength unless you intend on visiting our Maiden early" the harsh growls of Haltunga left the throat of one of the healers, talking to Ralgar as he sat down in the chair, his body still sore but far better than it had been in the past many moons. The Mortalborn gave no verbal response, looking over with unamused eyes as he watched the healer mix herbs and other various plants into a concoction, filling a glass vial with it, preparing it for Ralgar to drink - as he had the past ten trials. Supposedly it would heal his muscles and body, though Ralgar was unsure.
One hand clenched into a fist as he thought of his body being so broken, Ralgar looked up to the healer inside the tent, sat upon a small stool. The tent smelled of wildlife and animal furs, decorated lightly and set up to fit at least four injured tribesmen - though some battles left far more than that. Outside, the cold of Ashan begun, though it was far more forgiving than Cylus had been. Even if the man had stayed mounted on his horse he would have done little the past thirty trials.
"What word of the other tribes? How did they fare in the cold?" he asked in a low, guttural tone. Despite the wars that could break out between tribesmen, small battles happening all through Scaltoth, there was a level of respect between all three. They thrived with the help of one another. "All of them did well, food supplies held strong and the cold killed off but a few. Mur'thi have, in fact, offered miracles to all the other tribes in case any are wounded or hurt. Perhaps we ca-".
As the healer began the offer, Ralgar let out a sharp hiss from his mouth. "I do not take charity from self-proclaimed miracle workers, my body can heal itself. Their mystic arts will only taint my soul in death. I take my gifts from the Maiden and her people" he said sharply, unwilling to swallow his pride and go to another tribe begging for help. He was Bro'ky'na, the tribe of Death, the biggest and most powerful of them all. Their warriors were famed among the tribes and he was one of them. To go to another tribe for help was to show weakness, something he would not allow himself to do. What his brothers in arms did was up to them, but that was his choice, now and always.
Once the brew was made it was handed over, Ralgar taking it and drinking it with one quick swig, not wanting to linger on the taste of cut grass and cow shit for any longer than he had to. WIncing a little at the taste, Ralgar handed the glass vial back over and stood up, feeling the sore pain through each muscle. It was subtle, now, not the sharp and unbearable pain it had been at first. But his strength would come back slowly. If it meant he had to learn it all from the beginning, learn to fight again as he had before, then so be it. It was a sacrifice he would make in exchange for his strength.
Nodding once to the healer, Ralgar stood and made his way out of the tent, hand holding his shoulder as he did subtle but helpful stretches to relieve his pain, rolling his shoulder back slowly. As he stepped out into the Scaltoth camp he nodded to a few warriors, those he had fought alongside in many battles. Each gave him a warm, almost pitiful look back as they saw his injuries. His prime had been far better than this, his muscle work fading and his weapon skill likely gone. They knew it, he knew it. It was a harsh reality, but life in Scaltoth was hard. He would adapt.
As he walked slowly through the tribal village he looked around at the mass of people, the Bro'ky'na growing at a rate none of them could have anticipated. Their armies grew stronger, the healers bulking up and the mass of hunters making life easier for them all. Scaltoth was a dangerous place to live and endure, having those around that were skilled in arts Ralgar was not would always be a welcome sight. Hunters kept the food coming in, which kept him strong, which made him better when fights would break out. So long as the newcomers pulled their weight Ralgar had few negatives to say about them, bar a select few. Conflict was always bound to happen in a tribe like this, especially a growing one.
So long as none of them thought his weakness now would let them walk over him, they would live to fight a real battle.
"Ralgar" a voice called out, the Mortalborn glancing over to see a friend he had fought alongside. Hardveer. The two met and hugged, one arm going around the other and patting each other on the back, albeit more gently than usual. "Glad to see you on your feet again, brother. How long do they say it will last?" the man asked in Haltunga, a Lotharro himself. Ralgar chuckled a little and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "They say I should heal by Cycle's end. Which means, if I can help it, I heal by the mid of Ashan. No injury has bested me yet, this one will not either."
With a smile back, Hardveer gestured over to a cart of supplies. "Seeing as you're not meeting the Maiden just yet then, perhaps you can help. I can catch you up on what has happened" he offered, Ralgar nodding and making his way over to the cart and looking inside at the variety of meats, pelts, and other things brought in from today's hunt. Carefully, he placed heavy pelts over his shoulder, carrying them one or two at a time rather than bringing himself to carry the weight he usually would. His body strained a little at the weight, pushing through it as best he could to show as little weakness as possible, but his strength could hardly reach the point he wished it to.
"I was told the tribes fared well through the cold" he started, looking as Hardveer ferried meats from the cart to a cooking hut nearby. His friend nodded, though his face showed there was more to the story than that, a small grimace spreading under the mop of brown hair, his features rough and scarred from battles fought. Ralgar's eyes followed the man as he paused beside the cooking tent. "Is that all he told you?" he asked, Ralgar nodding as he placed the skins down and looked with a questioning gaze.
Checking nobody was eavesdropping, Hardveer met his friend's eyes. "Jungle beasts, of all kind, have been thriving. Some attacks are becoming worse. We may be the largest tribe, but some of the newer brothers and sisters are...untrained. I'm all for meeting the Maiden in Death, but dying with no fight is no Death at all. It disgraces our name" he said with spite in his tone, almost angry that the newbloods were allowed to go out and hunt to begin with if they had never dealt with beasts of Scaltoth before. Ralgar nodded and glanced back over his shoulder, watching as a few people walked through the village back behind him.
"Newbloods keep us growing, brother. But blood wasted is shameful. We can only do so much, but we shall train them ourselves if we have to. That is what it means to be Bro'ky'na" he spoke, nodding to his friend and placing a hand on his shoulder. Both smiled at one another, Ralgar helping carry a few more goods as they talked normally again, deciding the topic was best dropped for the time being. Each bit of weight Ralgar lifted was that much harder to carry than the one before, but it was expected. He hadn't expected his strength to come back just yet. Not until he had healed.
Once the goods were moved, however, he turned to Hardveer. "Keep well, Hardveer. Soon enough I will be ready to come and fight again. Perhaps we can pay a visit to the Death Canyons again" he offered, placing a hand over his chest, bowing his head lightly before uttering the phrase warriors and elders used to say farewell. "Honor in life" he said, Hardveer copying his actions. "Pride in death" the man returned, the two lifting their hands and saying farewell with one more hug, Ralgar now walking back to his home to heal.
Once he arrived he glanced over to his club, knowing his current body would be unable to lift it without the use of his abilities. Soon. Soon enough he would fight again. But not today. Not until he was ready.
~~Haltunga~~ Common~~
