Cyfarfod y Brenin - Meeting of Chiefs
The small hill-town of Galtrev, which was usually quiet despite the odd scuffle, had now been packed to the brim. Men and women, all with different war paints adorning their bare skin, walked around; talking, fighting and drinking along with each other. A rare sight it was, to see the wildmen getting on with another though for this one day of the year, at the start of spring, all would talk to each other and put on fake smiles though the hatred burnt deep within their food-filled guts. As the sun settled down in the hills, in the small hut at the top of the town, discussions were still ongoing..
Sat around a table, each speaking in turn, were the Brenin's of Dunland. One from each clan, all were gathered around. First of all there was Tân Brenin, the Fire-Chief of the Dragons. Fire red hair with lines of silver that had come with age, along with the craban-feet resting by his eyes as he spoke. The scaly hide of a dragon shone in the firelight, as his wyrm-skin cloak waved about with his arm movements. An open hand in white paint adorned his scarred cheek, as he grizzled out.
"The Old-man supports us in our war! His armies will join ours.. he has promised that we will get our lands back!!"
Next to stand was a man with a larger gut than muscles, with a braided and beaded beard with long dark dirty hair pushed back. His one eye was white all through, while the other dark one glanced between the other chieftains. Lheu Brenin, the Chief of the Falcons. He spoke out, loudly and with food covering his lips.
"I agree! The Old-man has helped us countless times in recent times.. he is a strong ally!"
Shaking his wrinkled head, an elderly man struggled to push himself up. A walking skeleton it seemed, apart from the wrinkled sun-tanned skin that stuck to his bones and small amount of muscles he had left. With bog weed keeping the robes tight to him, silvery blind eyes were peering along the others while the large grey beard was gently pushed down by arthritic fingers. Gors Brenin, the Bog Chief of the Avanc Clan, with the jaws of an avanc adorning his belt. His words were feeble with age, though rich in wisdom.
"We.. cannot trust him.", a raspy breath broke the words before he continued, "He used to be friends with the forgoil.. how do we know.. that he will not turn to them again for help when he has us all where he wants us?"
Another man, Elder Riagân, the leader of the Stag-Clan, with a long brown beard that matched the deer pelts covering his shoulders. Two impressive antlers hung at his shoulders back onto his cloak . His voice was deep and rough, much like the look he was giving to the other chieftains as he grunted out.
"We also cant trust those abominations of his!! They slaughtered the Boars because they said no! I will not let them slaughter my people as well!", he cast his glare down to the Dragon Chief, before he slumped back down in his seat as another spoke up.
"I say we go with him! It is about time we took our lands back, like Freca did all that time ago!!", shouted out Praff Brenin, the Stout Chief of the Ox-Clan. He was the shortest out of the Brenin's, though he was certainly the broadest for his size with arms that could slay an ox as he so proudly boasted. Two bull horns were attached to the leather shoulder-mantle he wore, making him look even more bovine like. His blue war paint was smeared down his greasy black hair that stuck to the side of his rounded head.
Then another figure rose, the tallest out of the group however the newest to these meetings. With his thick tattooed arms on show, with a leather vest covering his chest and bear furs on his shoulders and hanging down his back. A bear mask rested on one shoulder, whilst the large man spoke. Pren Brenin he was, of the Bear-Clan, a smaller clan in Dunland that had only recently stirred up now there was a new chieftain. His war paint, red like blood in claw marks over one eye, glistened wetly in the firelight that lit the hall. His deep voice that rumbled in his broad chest spoke out, as his brown eyes glanced between al gathered.
"He is a strong ally.. though we do not know if we can trust him. The Derudh speak of the time being right to strike, and so I follow Rhi Helvarch's words. I will help him, if he helps us.". He nodded stoutly as sitting back down, to which Praff Brenin, Lheu Brenin and Tân Brenin all nodded to.
Discussions carried on, arguments and debates before finally some of the chieftain left. First out the door was the struggling Gors Brenin, followed by Elder Riagân who both had a frown on their face as they retired to the feasting hall to eat before they would leave the next morn. Remaining the hut was Pren, Praff, Tân and Lheu. More talking ensued, and soon they all agreed, as Tân Brenin spoke out.
"So it is agreed.. we use the Old-mans help to take the Ford. Ready your warriors and meet at Wulf's Cleft.. we will march soon.". Stout nods were exchanged, before all dispersed from the area to head to the mess-hall, to listen to the songs and tales of warriors. After all, tonight all still got along.. it was the next morning when rivalries returned..
