Shautha Turnskull: daughter of the Stonelands

[simo2003]

12th Hammer, 1383 - Year of the Vindicated Warrior

It began as whispered murmurings. Old One-Eye has a new champion. He will lead our clan to glory. Gruumsh will grant us victory. Garog, clan chieftain since crushing his father's head with a rock some twenty winters ago, and his clan elders had resisted at first, and denied all the claims. There were no signs. No portent to the shapes the knucklebones had fallen in. No shapes in the flames or the smoke. No holy vision granted by the splash of blood on the tongue from the ceaseless sacrifices given in Gruumsh's name, hearts torn from chests and devoured as ancient ritual demanded.

Before long, murmurings had turned to fevered roars. 'Urbuchek! Lord of all the clans!' Word had reached many ears by then, brought in by the clan scouts, the outriders and the hunters, that far way, Urbuchek had been granted powers beyond those of the other chieftains, and now those very chieftains served under his banner. In the following days, Urbuchek's own representatives had come to the clan and met with the chieftain and his closest allies. The talks had begun under a shrouded moon and the ground had been lit a lurid red by the glow of hungry campfires. With the grey light of dawn and smouldering embers, they had emerged from Garog's tent, red-eyed and triumphant. Garog and the elders had emerged too, their eyes alight with the fire of new purpose. The clan would join Urbuchek, they told the others, and he would lead them to victory.

For Shautha, little would change. The upstart girl, the loudmouth half-breed, they said, would serve the clan as the other women did, as Luthic willed it. The men laughed. 'When Urbuchek comes among us, he will take his tribute,' they jeered, 'and maybe you'll be girl no longer.' Urbuchek's men laughed as well.

For once, Shautha said nothing.

By the evening, she would be making her way south.

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[simo2003]

Height: 6' 10"
Build: Muscular
Hair: Auburn
Eyes: Green

Tall and overbearing, Shautha carries the signs of her orc heritage with fierce pride. Her limbs are long and corded with muscle. Her eyes glitter with savage fury underneath a heavy brow and a mane of fiery hair. Two tusks protrude from her lower jaw, capped with bronze, and her face, like the rest of her body, bears the scars of a lifetime of fighting. Shautha's every movement carries a brutal tension, like those of a caged beast, as though she is but moments away from explosive action. Shautha's accent betrays her origin in the wilderness of the Stonelands beyond Cormyr.

Across Shautha's shoulders is draped a long and ragged cloak the colour of blood. In battle, she wears a suit of blackened plate armour adorned with various charms and furs, many stained with the blood of past victories. Shautha's favoured weapon is a spear carved with markings in the Dethek script, which she always keeps close to hand.

[simo2003]

When Shautha first stepped into the small clearing, wherein stood a tent and the remains of a small campfire, she suspected it was deserted, or at least recently abandoned. Taking in the scene more fully, she soon saw this was not the case. The last faint wisps of smoke from the fire were carried upwards on a slight breeze, and the remains of last night’s meal – skin and bones from a rabbit – were cast to one side. Shautha’s stomach clenched and it was only then that she noticed her hunger. A spear, the shaft blackened by age, magic, or old blood, stood to one side, its tip lodged deep in a fallen log.

As Shautha took a few steps closer, the occupier of the shelter made himself known. An ancient orc gripping a long hunting knife lumbered out, shoving the furs aside with a hostile grunt. When he caught sight of the interloper, he visibly relaxed, although Shautha noted the gleam in his eye – well she knew the looks that promised violence and death. Shautha responded the way she always did to such things: she jutted her chin defiantly, displaying her tusks and glaring at the old warrior. Grudgingly, she acknowledged that he must have been a ferocious fighter in his time. His skin was patterned with scars and clung to his aging, heavy frame like old leather.

“Peace, old man!” she barked, spreading her hands to show she held no weapon.

After a few moments, the old orc relented and sheathed the knife. “I know why you came,” he ground out finally. He turned and fetched more fuel for the fire, tossing it on to the embers. Shautha nodded and sat down nearby.

“My elders spoke of you – no better reader of the bones.”

The old one snorted. “Garog still leads?”

Shautha nodded again.

He smiled nastily at that. “Do you know how he became chieftain?” he asked, staring at her. The flames were reflected in his eyes. “One push. Varkh could barely lift a blade by then. He lost his footing and broke his head on a rock.”

“Not the way it is told now,” Shautha responded guardedly.

The old orc laughed, “I expected nothing else.” He reached into a pouch at his side, retrieving a set of knucklebones, placed them on a wooden platter by the fire, and then motioned for Shautha to hold out her hand. She hissed in pain as the old orc sliced her palm with his knife. He took the bones then and shoved them into her wounded hand, forcing her to grip them with his fist closed tightly about hers. His eyes did not leave hers.

Finally, he loosened his hand and grunted at her, gesturing to the ground in front of her. She let the knucklebones drop. It seemed to her ears that the sound they made on hitting the bare earth was odd, more like far-off war drums than anything else. Only then did she notice the odd smell of the fire and her eyes watered. She remembered that auguries were often assisted with strange herbs and the inhalation of smoke.

As Shautha nursed her hand and spinning head, the old orc pored over the bones, murmuring to himself. How long this went on, Shautha could not tell. Finally, he rose to his knees and looked at her. His shoulders shook, and Shautha belatedly realised that he was laughing.

“You?” he said. “No mere girl, ha! Blood, and blood, and more blood. A river of pain, all for recognition. A mountain of bones for proof that you are worthy. A pyre of the dead for the war you bring. There is no end to this road, Turnskull. But you know, don’t you? This is our way – our answer to an ancient slight, and your answer to all the wrongs you have suffered. The bones see your past, and they are your future.”

Shautha stared at him, dumbfounded. She felt her rage building, and her hands clenched into fists.

But this only made the oldling laugh more. “Yes!” he cried, “There are no words for it! No peace for those who stole from us! There are those who would use words as weapons and they walk amongst our kin. But War and Strength are your tools, and Death is your answer. Go! Go forth and-”

The old orc gasped then, as though winded. His eyes widened in surprise and locked with hers. Then Shautha looked down at the hunting knife in her hand, its blade buried deep in his chest, and at the dark blood blossoming around the fatal wound. He struggled to take a breath, but none came. He gestured at the black spear, weakly, but his arm fell to his side as his strength left him. He sagged, dropping to his knees. He shuddered and slumped forward, his face near Shautha’s ear.

“I fall… the first of many,” he managed. “You have earned the right…” The old one gave the barest nod towards the spear and then fell backwards, his sightless eyes turned skywards.

Shautha was silent for a time, the only sound coming to her ears was that of her own breathing, ragged and raw. Then she stood and placed her hands around the shaft of the spear. A wave of euphoria washed over her as she wrenched it free.

Turning south, and away from the scene of death, Shautha set off. She did not look back.