Crannog, chieftain of the Trev Gallorg, a proud man, old in years but bearing still the stoic determination of his blood - for it was in the red tide of blood in which history flowed, the Trev Gallorg believed - sat in the middle of the reunion of the two broken tribes. Behind him in the tent, on either side, stood his most trusted and respected council. Talorc, his eldest son, next in line to stand in his rightful place. And Cramdogor, the second oldest and wisest of his people, well versed in the ancient customs upon which bed the Trev Gallorg stubbornly bore their adamant believes.
The light of the fire that filled the room, dancing its orange flame across his face, causing the chief to look older and more tired in years than he was, but not as he felt. The sign of the Iron Crown tainted all that he could see. It was sad, once these were his own brothers, loved by their people and stood together against a common threat. Till one day the lies of the Crown infested Aughaire itself. It found a way to seep past the ancestors and spirits of the dead, to fill the soft and weak putty between the man in front of Crannog’s ears. The man was but a mere puppet now; weaken by the promise of riches. But this man’s niece now bore the promise of release.
“May the piss of Iron now not sound so appealing, Domongart?” The chief spat out from his cracked lips. “ Now you say that you aim to turn against those that brought you the gold which you decorate yourself with. From when did our people place any value upon such a disgrace? Bah,” he snorted, affording his old eyes to peer at the glittering sparkle of waste. Yet, he came not to bicker and or to beg. The truce terms Abrazir brought earlier bore too much promise for him to ignore. “This does not matter. You tell me you want peace between our tribes. That you see your folly in following the plight of the Iron curse. Abrazir, your niece’s bannerman, tells of a chief, this Gorlakon, that seeks to take up arms against the Iron legion itself. He tells me of waters that run as free as falcons, of crops untainted, that is rich for the taking,” Crannog’s wrinkled eyes drifted towards the bannerman and nodded. “I have no qualms with him, or of this Gorlakon he speaks of”
Outside most of Crannog's men, a cautious guard which accompanied their respected chieftain, stood with hands rested upon their spears, and with eyes that watched carefully, as the wives and children of the tribe mull about their daily chores. Existence for both tribes has been hard, yet it’s the Trev Gallorg that suffered the most. The last attack upon Aughaire has left a lot of his trusted warriors out of commission and in no state to stand against another force. The Trev Gallorg were desperate to trust, yet did so unwillingly.
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Talorc bent down to whisper a council into his father’s ear, flicking an eye up at the traitors, his burning anger clear in his daggered stare. “What guarantee do we have of your pledge, Domongart?” Crannog asked, sighing heavily, exhausted as his old frame sat back and watched. All two behind Crannog stood silently, not interrupting their powerful leader.
Domongart squared his shoulders, his lips twitching under the thick beard, forcing himself not to react to the goading from Crannog. There was a time when he looked up to the man, when he was an ambitious warrior climbing his way past his mediocre heritage with brave deeds and ruthless manipulation. He put his hands behind his back, tilting his head, his long beard brushing against the gold plated chest piece. "I have no reason to go against you again, Crannog. While our disagreements lead to the splitting of the tribe, let this become the moment when we unite. Perhaps, I was wrong to put my trust in the Iron Crown but I did so only to to further our people and gain glory for the tribe. Now, Gorlakon offers a place beside his Creoth, our cousins from the south, and I am not a man to pass up an opportunity such as this."
Dolguzgar had stayed behind in Donnail, too prideful to go back to face Crannog. Or ashamed, Domongart was not sure which but his second in command was not with him for council. The Duvardain chieftain nodded gravely at Crannog's request, "You have no reason to take me at my word, Chief Crannog, and I do not fault you for it. Alas, I have no surviving children to swear their lives to you and my niece is to be wed to Gorlakon. "
He stepped forward and removed crested helm from his head, exposing the wiry grizzled locks, "This I swear, Crannog, that once the war is done and we are victorious I will give you this crown back and swear my fealty. Until then, I propose we rule side by side. I am fit for war council and you do know the traditions, we both have our strongest suits."
Domongart's dark eyes were slits as he watched Crannog, it was not much of an offer but it did at least show some humility by the Duvardain chief. A marriage between heirs would have solved it but Zorzimril was already betrothed to a man that could be more powerful than either of them. If they were victorious, there would be enough room to spread out and give each other breathing space and little would it matter that they would be united. There would be land and water for all, no more needing to squabble over every precious resource.
Three pairs of shadowed and jaded eyes watched wearily as the man towered from his seat; his gold plated armour, a clear contrast to what they could not afford. Talorc - garbed in dirty, worn, ragged furs and barbed and dried auroch skin leathers, dark brown and frayed at the seams, yet, ample protection which gave his fit and muscled body a fighting edge - admired Domongart’s ambitions. For it was that of his own; and that of his people. He was sick of the struggle, and ready for the blood to spill, for the Trev Gallorg to take its rightful place. His rightful place.
The elder beside him, Cramdogor; a lean and wiry looking man wearing the grey robe of rituals, who’s body was all but destroyed thin by age, looked into Domongart’s heart, and saw only truth utter from his hungry mouth. The Chief of the Duvardian was but only greedy. Cramdogor’s old, canyon filled face, pruned cruelly at the turn of winters, was emotionless.
The chief of the Trev Gallorg received no further council from them. The night before it was already degreed. It was time. He needed none.
Crannog’s calloused hands tightened around the armrest as he lifted himself, uncoiling his frame to stand dignified in front of his once rival, and once brother. The weight of the Gallorg tribe’s struggle pressed heavily upon his broad shoulders, yet, he stood with the decorum posture of his title. A thick and battle-hardened arm extended towards Cramdogor, “I have no need for crowns to adorn my head, Domongart, to make others see my blood’s worth,” he spoke out, meeting his equal in a challenging glare. “Yet, our plight here has come to an end, it seems. I’m glad you throw the Iron shackles away. Let our tribes reunite and stand against our foe. Let the blood of our enemies fill our blades and taint this land for new a birth. Much like the winter gives way to spring, will we once again storm and rage. Let the tribes of Trev Gallorg and the Trev Duvardian stand shoulder to shoulder,” Crannog’s graveled voice spoke out over the soft crackle of fire. “Let the tempest of our might rain upon the usurpers of our ways.”
As Crannog and his three advisers left the tent, he called out after “Domongart, I once trusted you. Don’t let me regret it this time, for our people,” his words landed as a ladened rock between the two.
Abrazir's return journey seemed to go by more swiftly, eager as he was to bring Zorzimril and Gorlakon the good news. The Gallorg and Duvardain would be united again, once more a single Trev. He left before the discussions over the minutiae was over but he cared not. The dun mare was worn down by the time he spotted the rising ruins of Ost Guruth beyond the red tainted lands of Garth Argwen. Pushing the little horse, he made it before sundown, welcomed by the Creoth guards. Dismounting before the horse was even at a stop, he ran breathlessly forward, spotting his captain.
"Zorzimril!" Abrazir called out, saluting her with his fist to his chest, "They are with us. Crannog and Domongart have made their peace. Talorc prepares the united army for our arrival."
Zorzimril gripped his shoulder, grinning at him before calling out, "We march at first light!"
