The Heavenly Host

Not that there were that many wargs. They did not even have enough for every warrior in the tribe. Certainly not one for Tal Gor to ride regularly. Only on migrations did he get to ride. On those long journeys, his leg had proven to slow him and thus the tribe down. In the old days, he would probably have been left to die or given the coup; but in this day and age, the tribe needed every semi-able hand they could get.

Tal Gor eventually made it back to his tent with his water bucket. He hung it on its small tripod and sat down on his pillow to massage his aching leg. He peered into the empty copper bowl he had been using for scrying. He had not been getting much in the way of results. Today he had worked with chemical components to effect a Viewing; five attempts and nothing. He really was not much of a shaman. He sighed as he rubbed his leg to ease the pain. He would never even be as good sober as Horrgus was drunk.

Tal Gor liked to think all this was not just him. His entire tribe was not what it used to be. He snorted, remembering two years ago on the western plains when the tribe had passed by one of the abandoned fortresses raised by Ferundy thousands of year ago to defend the land from the Orc Hordes. Horrgus had told them that the Ferunds had built multiple lines of defense, fortresses behind fortresses to hold back the tribes. Today the Ferunds only garrisoned the inner fortresses, and barely those. The tribes had not been able to mount a credible force in hundreds of years, and even that last one had been nothing compared to the great days thousands of years ago.

He shook his head and bent over to rummage through the loose pile of mementos that he held on to for no good reason. He grabbed the one that had captured his imagination the most when he first found it buried deep in one of Horrgus’s trunks. It was a roundish stone with two protrusions on the sides near the top, like horns, or so Tal Gor imagined. The worn and barely recognizable face of some orc-like creature was carved on the front of the stone. Horrgus had laughed and said that it was the scrying stone of a long-dead god. The thought of such a god had resonated with him. It seemed to perfectly symbolize the fortunes of his tribe, and his own dreams. He had pestered Horrgus for details of the god, but the shaman had put him off time and again. Only slowly over the years had he learned the tales that Horrgus knew regarding the dead god. Only slowly had he been able to connect the long-dead god to myths told by storytellers.

The tales had been fantastic; at every feast or gathering of the tribes he would ply other shamans and history tellers, as well as storytellers, with questions about the long-dead god. Eventually, he became a sort of resident expert. No one particularly cared about the long-dead god anymore. Even though all remembered his name, and the warriors and history tellers told stories of him now and then, they all considered the god and any related tales fictitious. This was why it took Tal Gor nearly a year to put together the myth of the storytellers with the talisman of the long-dead god. Once he had started to know more, he had enjoyed pretending that he was the last shaman dedicated to the long-dead god.

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^{DOF +6}

^{Evening (Murgatroy Time) 16-03-440}

Tal Gor returned to his tent, ready for bed. Tonight had been his night to help with cleanup and he had spent the pot-scrubbing ordeal listening to his brothers and their friends discussing their last hunting trip and their bravery. He wished so much that he could go hunting again, but he was too much of a burden on the others. It was an old complaint of his; he should get over it. Most nights when he did not have to be out by the main fires, he would return to his tent to study or practice.

He really should work more on his scrying, but he was tired and really did not feel like making another useless attempt. His agitation was enough, though, that he would probably have trouble sleeping if he went to bed immediately. He frowned and then smiled on seeing his dead god’s talisman.

He quickly filled his copper bowl from the water bag. He lit two candles on small wooden stands on each side of the bowl. He then sprinkled scrying herbs in the water. He was the priest of the Lord of the Underworld, the mighty demon lord Orcus! He needed to summon his deity to advise him on a matter of great import.

He grabbed his dagger and pulled it from his sheath. He cut the palm of his left hand and, laying the dagger aside as blood lightly filled his palm from the cut, he picked up the talisman and placed it facedown in his palm to feed the god’s mouth his blood.