CHAPTER 2
WINTER
* * * * *
"And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all." - The Masque Of The Red Death
* * * * *
Winter has come to the West, and now the desert is like a pane of glass, what little moisture in the sand frozen, and the cold sun hardening the sand to rock.
We must leave, and quickly, for a disease has come to us of terrible proportions. It spread westward from the Old World, and now the Plague has come to us. And we have no water, for it is frozen in the ground. Never has there been a winter this terrible, not in my lifetime.
Cruel winds blow from the Northern Wastes, and our infants are dying. This winter has been horribly cruel, but one good thing has become of it. Because of the lack of children, all the tribes have joined to form a large group. Now we can hunt more productively, and some aspects of life have never been better. Previous wars and feuds that tore apart the tribes are forgotten. We have come together in peace, driven by the will to survive.
The Plague has taken many of our numbers, but now we have the upper hand. Shamans have worked together to develop a cure, and gradually we are increasing in number. But the winter has yet to end.
We now share a single, large cave. Many small fires burn, keeping us warm, and meat roasts over them, sending wonderful smells to my nose. I have not eaten in days. None of us have. But times have changed, and we give many thanks to Sigmar and the Sierra Angel for the blessing of food and health. Not even the oldest amongst us can recall a time when things were better after the Second Scattering. After the feast, the Tribal Elders and I will meet to discuss our destination. We know we have to leave. This land is no longer bountiful, and we must depart, in search of new lands.
Many wish to go to the Northern Wastes, some to the south, and I wish to head further west, across the desert. No one else agrees with me. But I know that something lies in the Wastes. A power, dark, and terrible. The residue of Chaos. I do not wish to start a fight, but words are being said. I will leave on my own, if must. Salazar does not wish me to, but I will. The Northern Wastes are beckoning to me, and the dark power wishes me for itself. I dare not venture there for what may be done to me.
A decision is made. The Tribal Elders will go the way they wish, taking their tribes with them. As for me, I will head west. Across the desert. Something calls to me. I can hear it in my head. Some of the other Elders say I am mad, but Salazar continues to have faith in me. Why, I do not know.
The other tribes have left for the Northern Wastes, and Salazar has called me to his counsel. I say he should head west with me, but he fears for the tribe. I can fend for myself, and can provide for myself. But the tribe would starve. I finally tell them to head south. It is their best bet. North would take them too close to the power.
I set out, across the desert of ice. My feet feel like leaden weights, but I trudge through the snow and use what magic I can in this mana-barren land to kill my food.
The voice calls to me, a singsong voice that draws me to it. It says its land is full of the mana-tree, and the mana-fruit grows in abundance. That is what keeps me alive during the hard days of trekking, and then a tiring session of hunting. I get as much sleep as I can, but I know I cannot go on much longer. This land saps my strength but I must go on, I must reach that voice.
I must.
WINTER
* * * * *
"And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all." - The Masque Of The Red Death
* * * * *
Winter has come to the West, and now the desert is like a pane of glass, what little moisture in the sand frozen, and the cold sun hardening the sand to rock.
We must leave, and quickly, for a disease has come to us of terrible proportions. It spread westward from the Old World, and now the Plague has come to us. And we have no water, for it is frozen in the ground. Never has there been a winter this terrible, not in my lifetime.
Cruel winds blow from the Northern Wastes, and our infants are dying. This winter has been horribly cruel, but one good thing has become of it. Because of the lack of children, all the tribes have joined to form a large group. Now we can hunt more productively, and some aspects of life have never been better. Previous wars and feuds that tore apart the tribes are forgotten. We have come together in peace, driven by the will to survive.
The Plague has taken many of our numbers, but now we have the upper hand. Shamans have worked together to develop a cure, and gradually we are increasing in number. But the winter has yet to end.
We now share a single, large cave. Many small fires burn, keeping us warm, and meat roasts over them, sending wonderful smells to my nose. I have not eaten in days. None of us have. But times have changed, and we give many thanks to Sigmar and the Sierra Angel for the blessing of food and health. Not even the oldest amongst us can recall a time when things were better after the Second Scattering. After the feast, the Tribal Elders and I will meet to discuss our destination. We know we have to leave. This land is no longer bountiful, and we must depart, in search of new lands.
Many wish to go to the Northern Wastes, some to the south, and I wish to head further west, across the desert. No one else agrees with me. But I know that something lies in the Wastes. A power, dark, and terrible. The residue of Chaos. I do not wish to start a fight, but words are being said. I will leave on my own, if must. Salazar does not wish me to, but I will. The Northern Wastes are beckoning to me, and the dark power wishes me for itself. I dare not venture there for what may be done to me.
A decision is made. The Tribal Elders will go the way they wish, taking their tribes with them. As for me, I will head west. Across the desert. Something calls to me. I can hear it in my head. Some of the other Elders say I am mad, but Salazar continues to have faith in me. Why, I do not know.
The other tribes have left for the Northern Wastes, and Salazar has called me to his counsel. I say he should head west with me, but he fears for the tribe. I can fend for myself, and can provide for myself. But the tribe would starve. I finally tell them to head south. It is their best bet. North would take them too close to the power.
I set out, across the desert of ice. My feet feel like leaden weights, but I trudge through the snow and use what magic I can in this mana-barren land to kill my food.
The voice calls to me, a singsong voice that draws me to it. It says its land is full of the mana-tree, and the mana-fruit grows in abundance. That is what keeps me alive during the hard days of trekking, and then a tiring session of hunting. I get as much sleep as I can, but I know I cannot go on much longer. This land saps my strength but I must go on, I must reach that voice.
I must.