Hello everyone. A few years ago, I was an active member of this forum, contributed my lot to the various role plays and wrote fan fiction. While life had taken me away from the gaming society (though sometimes I will still fire up Skyrim and walk that frozen paradise) I feel my writing roots had started right here, on this very forum. For that purpose, I thought I should share my latest original work with you. It is a novella-length story, which I plan to publish as Book One together with a larger story.


The fan fiction that I wrote and posted on this forum developed into a large setting in which I based a significant number of my original stories. Then I decided to look at the early history of this world. This is where the current story takes place.


Opinions are most welcome, conversations even more so. I'm here to entertain and possibly to provide advice on writing, storytelling or worldbuilding.


In the early years, the Alvor built no cities, lived in scarcity, with limited food supply and were burdened by a retrictive religious system. They were limited to a hunter-gatherer way of life, hesitant to try something else. This is the story of Niomir, a hunter who came at odds with his own tribe..

Against the Tribe (Niomir's story)

Chapter 1: False Judgement

The deer’s head snapped up, ears twitching, the meal forgotten. Its head turned, seeking source of the peculiar noise. A nearby shrub rustled in a suspicious manner.

The spear came from a different direction, the very one the deer just turned away from.

The missile pierced the animal through the chest and brought it down before it could make another step.

A nearby thicket stirred and Niomir emerged from it. His face was sprayed with mud and sweat. Long hair was tied behind his back. He made straight for the writhing deer. Before he reached it, the shivers had abated and it lay still. He knelt beside the fallen animal and placed his throwing hand flat on the deer’s briast.

Niomir raised a solemn face to the sky. “I thank you, spirits of the Earth and Sky, for this bounty.” He lowered his face and gazed in the deer’s eye. “I thank you, brother, for granting me your flesh that I may eat of it. I will drink the sunlight in your name so that you may join with our Sky-kin.”

He touched the copper bead, dangling on the slender braid at his ear, while he turned his face skyward again. The trees whispered their sage song. The sun’s rays caressed his face. Birds began to chime. Niomir felt that the deer’s spirit has successfully fled. What lay before him in the dirt was no longer a spirit brother. It was but meat and they were free to eat of it.

By now, Nimmian had dislodged himself from the shrub and approached.

“Good distraction,” said Niomir without looking up. He wrenched the spear free and pulled a pair of leather straps from his belt.

“It’s nice to be good for something,” Nimmian said. He carried a thick pole.

Niomir shook his head. “I had the better position this time.” He used one leather strap to bind the deer’s front legs. “Next time we will switch.”

“You are a better thrower than I,” Nimmian said. “No point pretending otherwise.”

“Concealment is more important than throwing,” Niomir said. The deer’s hind legs were tied together now as well. “Tracking too. You are good at that.”

“I will never be as good as you,” Nimmian said. He handed the pole to Niomir. “None of us will.”

Niomir took the pole and shook his head. “Sometimes I forget we share a bloodline. You fail before you even try.” He slid the pole between both pairs of tied hooves. Together, they lifted the carcass and carried it away, its head dangling with each step.

Despite the load, their step was quickened. Sweat poured over their naked backs. It was close to noon in the middle of summer. With the deer’s spirit no longer guarding the flesh, the carcass would fall victim to vermin and corruption quickly. If they wanted to share it with the others, they would have to make haste.

As they labored with the carcass, a thought began to gnaw on Niomir’s mind

Once, Nimmian had been able to keep up with Niomir. But then Niomir had begun to surpass him at every turn. It wasn’t long before Niomir could outthrow, outswim and outrun him. Nimmian could not hide his frustration but he refused to talk openly about it.

There was another reason for tension. The day of the Winnow was approaching. Nimmian had been having nightmares about being singled out as the weakest member of the tribe and proclaimed with the dreaded acronym – a Runt.

They crossed a shallow but swift stream, tumbling from the highlands. They raised the carcass high over their heads and proceeded to cross. The frigid water numbed their feet, forcing them to stop and wait until circulation returned. As they continued, the deer seemed to have grown heavy as a stone. Niomir’s mind, however, had grown heavier.

He knew that Nimmian had been falling behind in every race for a good long while. Not only could he not keep with Niomir himself, he could not keep up with most others of the tribe. Those few that were slower got picked off and had already been proclaimed as Runts, their hunting rights denied, their movement restricted to the lowlands. Nimmian had been watching his Runt status slowly creep up on him.

I should do something, Niomir thought. The deer’s head dangled between them with each stride. But what could I do? If he’s Runted, he’s beyond my aid. Once declared, there is no chance of undoing it.

The encampment was perched off a bluff overlooking the valley a thousand feet below. Eight crude tents built of hides surrounded a hastily dug fire pit. It wasn’t a permanent dwelling place. The tribesmen were constantly on the move across their local hunting grounds.

A group of them had scattered this morning in search of game. They had all pretended it was for sport but no one could deny that larger beasts had grown scarcer with each season. Niomir made a quick count as they approached: six. He and Niomir were the last to arrive. From the look of things, they were the only ones who brought in a kill.

With a groan, Niomir unloaded the carcass and stretched his back. A couple of tribesmen came forward and congratulated him on the successful kill. Niomir didn’t mind sharing the meat with the others. The remaining four remained as they were. Niomir was used to the cold stares they threw his way.

The tribesmen of Winter Boar tribe were scattered into a myriad of smaller hunting groups. Each group had an unofficial leader, one that others would look up to, one whose word was more influential than that of others. The leader of this particular group was Setimika, a large man with a permanent scowl. Though Niomir never officially challenged him for the title, Setimika nevertheless saw him as a potential rival. The fact that Niomir could outhunt him only served to augment the friction between the two of them.

“Thought you went boar hunting,” Setimika muttered in his direction. Niomir seemed not to hear it. He took a meticulously sharpened flint knife and proceeded to skin the deer.

There were stories of Alvor once being so strong and swift they were able to go after boars. These days, one would have to be utterly foolish or desperate to go up against a boar. The danger was simply too great. The hunter would only chose to risk a boar hunt if he was vain and loved approval of others more than his own life. Proud hunters were said to have tried their luck going after a boar… and were never seen again.

Accuse me all you like, Niomir thought as he skinned and cleaned the kill. It is nothing but your own envy, reflected back at you.

A successful kill was a reason to rejoice. The deer would feed them for a week, two if they were cautious, enough to give them time to rest and prepare for the Winnow.

As soon as the meat was distributed, the camp descended into silence. The men huddled in small groups, each hoarding his worries, occasionally glancing Niomir’s way as if he were the topic of their hushed conversation. Niomir felt the distance between him and them grow larger. It seemed he was the only one not concerned about the results of the Winnow.

As custom dictated, Niomir got the heart of the kill. He planned to share the prize with Nimmian but his brother took the most meager portion and turned away from him. It felt like a slap in the face but Niomir chose to ignore it.

Chewing slowly, savouring every bite, Niomir gazed into the valley below. The lowlands were draqed in swaths of grass. Within two moons, they would be turning from green to gold.

The verdant plain was speckled with brown areas. Tendrils of smoke rose from them. Niomir’s nose instinctively wrinkled. Those were the permanent Runt settlements. He could only make out five from his vantage though he knew there were eight of them.

He could not imagine being forbidden to range and hunt as he pleased and to be restricted to those foul places, labouring in the dirt. After all this time, he could not understand why the elders have decreed this be done in the first place, just that it was the will of the spirits they were listening to.

Why would the spirits condemn men to this pathetic form of existence?

He caught pieces of other people’s hushed conversations.

“I suppose I would consider it,” Setimika said, trying to sound bold. “If I were Runted, I wouldn’t last trundling down there. I would risk it.”

“And you think Flat Face would let you leave?”

Niomir knew what they were talking about. Until quite recently, trade with the neighbouring tribes was still open. Though tribesmen continually suspected one another of poaching, they exchanged what little they could dispense with. With trade came rumours. A particular bit of gossip caught on and refused to die down.

It was said that all over the western ranges, Runts have been disappearing overnight. They were supposedly fleeing to the vast swamps further in the westlands. None ever returned. Some tribesmen believed that Runts turned mad and gave their flesh to the bogs while demons that dwelt there devoured their spirits.

But there were also those who whispered of a whole tribe of runaway Runts, forming hidden from sight. They were even supposed to have a leader, a man by the name of Isurion. No one knew which tribe he’d come from, just that he ranged across territorial boundaries with no concern of the ire of native tribesmen, not to mention the wrath of the spirits for his impudence. All this danger and blasphemy just to deprive the tribes of their Runts. To Niomir, it made no sense.

The elders across the tribes had unanimously dismissed the existence of such a man as idle talk, which was precisely why the rumour gathered merit. Judging from the hushed conversation Niomir overheard, the rumour was still very much alive.

Life in the swamps would be nothing but hardship. If we have difficulty finding food here, what could they possibly eat there? Slugs? He nearly gagged with the thought.

It was this very rumour that had caused Flat Face, the elder of Niomir’s tribe, to suspend all trade with other tribes indefinitely. He believed these rumors were nothing but a way of attacking their tribe’s way of life by planting treasonous ideas in the mind of the Runts. An idea that abandoning the tribe was a viable option and not a horrid sacrilege upon the will of the spirits.

Niomir could well remember the words Flat Face would drill in the heads of each of the new Runts. “The Runt serves the tribe. Abandoning the tribe is a crime great and heinous in the sight of the spirits. Such a man would be put down by them, his flesh devoured by beasts, his spirit scattered in the wind.”

All the men were tired from hunting and went to sleep as soon as the sun touched the faraway peaks. Each slept beneath a canopy of crude hide, his cloak under his head. With his belly full of meat and weary from the hunt, Niomir should’ve slept soundly through the night. Close by, Nimmian tossed and turned which kept him awake and caused him to think.

Nimmian dreaded the idea of becoming a Runt. He’d managed to avoid it so far but now he’d run out of time. The only choice left to him was to flee for the swamps to the west. The trouble was even if he did, Nimmian wouldn’t be able to get there by himself. As clumsy as he was, he would be tracked and found before he left Winter Boar tribe’s territory. If the horrid fate Flat Face had promised wasn’t enough, everyone knew the threats some of the more aggressive tribesmen murmured for the Runts to hear when Flat Face wasn’t around. No, should Nimmian dare to dry to escape, he would most certainly fail.

Unless he had help.

Niomir sat up and climbed from beneath his canopy. The moon was up by now, casting the silver light upon the Woodland. He walked all the way to the edge of the bluff. The night wind greeted him there. Crickets sang in the swaying grass around him.

What would happen if Niomir led Nimmian to the swamps where the runaway Runts were said to be gathering? Would Niomir himself return here? Would Setimika and the other tribesmen even let him return? If both Niomir and Nimmian disappeared at the same time, they would know Niomir helped his brother escape. Flat Face would not like the idea of a tribesman helping a Runt make away.

If he helped Nimmian escape, Niomir himself would certainly be punished upon return. They might even declare him a Runt for it and make sure he would not be able to flee.

If I do this, I would have to stay in the swamps as well. Could I do that? Give up my life and stay with the Runts even though I was not Runted?

Niomir gazed up at the moon, his mind unable to flow anymore. It was not an easy decision to make.

******

Niomir was going down a slight slope, leaving the favourable heights behind him. He didn’t need to take this route. He was already ahead of most of the men. The only thing that was important was to finish the Race. But it would feel wrong not to take this advantage since it posed no trouble to him.

After all, that’s what the Winnow was all about. It was not designed to separate the strong from the weak but the gifted from the unfortunate. That’s why the path was designed this way. A man could prove his endurance by going around the long way or prove his courage, wit and balance to risk the dangerous path.

His lungs heaved in a regular rhythm. Sweat poured from him in torrents but there was no need to reach for the water gourd that was slapping against his thigh just yet. The ache in his muscles was a delicious melody. His eyes scanned continuously for treacherous roots. Branches swiped at him. He dodged them gracefully without braking his stride.

One more treeline slipped past him and there was the chasm, right in front of him. A single felled tree led across it, its lower branches cut clean to present a likely path. The successor sapling grew next to it.

[Whenever Alvor deliberately fell a tree, they will plant a successor sapling in the same spot. The sapling is a direct clone of the felled tree so in essence it is the same tree. Alvor never cut down the entire tree – their tools are not good enough. They will dig it out, usually if the tree is already damaged.]

Most of the Winter Boar tribesmen relied on speed and endurance and took the long way around. Niomir trusted his superior balance to take him across a shorter, more dangerous path.

This is too easy, Niomir thought as he danced across the tree. The water rustled beneath him but it was not enough to make him hesitate. A few more steps and he was across and on solid ground. While most others were tromping around the gorge, adding at least 10 leagues to the their path, he had but one more league to go.

He was about to spring into motion when a thought made him hesitate. Nimmian would no doubt take the same route. It was his only chance to come up ahead, even if it meant risking the rickety path across the chasm. But unlike Niomir, Nimmian’s balance was far from perfect.

Niomir turned to face the chasm he’d crossed so effortlessly. Someone was approaching but there were too many trees in between to see who it was yet.

Maybe it’s Nimmian.

A part of him wanted to turn and race for the finish line. The other part of him knew that he could not move on without making certain if it was indeed his brother or not who approached.

And if it’s not him? I’m allowing someone to get ahead of me.

A moment later Niomir ducked into the shrubbery close by and concealed his presence.

There are others who are still between me and the last place. I can afford to wait for a bit.

Finally, the tribesman appeared among the trees. It’s not Nimmian. Niomir’s muscles coiled to spring out of the shrub before the tribesman reached solid ground and make for the finish. A thought stopped him.

He would see me. In this one’s eyes, what reason would I have for concealing myself and then fleeing as he appeared? If this man reports my behavior to Flat Face, I might be suspected of foul play.

The thought was enough for Niomir to lay still while the tribesman jumped off the tree and gasped his way past.

Silence once more enveloped him. I should head out. I will not achieve anything by sitting here. Nimmian’s fate is in his own hands.

And yet the plan to take Nimmian to the Runt tribe returned to his thoughts. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but the only thing that could be done.

And what will Flat Face do when I come back? He will ask me where have I gone and why I disappeared on the same day as Nimmian. I could hide Nimmian somewhere and then move him out once the tribesmen had stopped hunting him. Won’t work either. As soon as he vanishes, I shall be suspect. They will keep an eye on me to make sure I’m not hiding him anywhere.

The more he tried to think it through, the more it was obvious that if he tried to help his brother, he would suffer for it.

I’m over-thinking this. There are still others to come. He might yet be in front of someone and not be Runted after all.

Another tribesman came stumbling into the clearing. This one nearly lost his balance twice as he inched along the tree but managed to catch himself both times. Niomir watched him from his vantage and nearly ripped his nerves into shreds. Why did he even choose this path if he does not possess the balance to cross it? But the answer was obvious. Because this is his only chance.

After that, more tribesmen came stumbling out of the woods and crabbed across the felled tree. Each time another ran past him, Niomir cringed inside at the thought of allowing someone to get ahead of him. They came so close one to another that he couldn’t break out unseen.

What if Nimmian chose to go around the long way with the bulk of the tribesmen? No, that wouldn’t make sense. He couldn’t possibly keep up with all the fastest runners of the tribe. What I need to do is be gone from here or I will end up being the tribesman stupid enough to give up his hunting rights willingly.

As soon as the last tribesman crossed the chasm and vanished from sight, Niomir sprung to his feet and yanked the branches of the shrub aside. That was when another tribesman appeared on the opposite side of the chasm. Niomir froze midstep. Nimmian. He could’ve easily seen him if he were paying attention to what was in front of him. Yet his head was turned halfway back, glancing behind him. Before his looked ahead again, Niomir quickly retreated back into the brush, making sure the branches of the shrub did not make too much of a sound.

Another tribesman came gasping out of the treeline, trying hard to keep up with Nimmian’s pace. Niomir saw that this one had a distinct limp on his right leg. He could see the man’s grim face and the veins of his neck were apparent. He looked to be in pain. He was probably ahead of his competition until his misfortune.

If I wait until both are gone ahead, I can still overcome the limper and avoid being declared a Runt this way. What will I tell Nimmian when he asks why I’m behind him?

Nimmian reached the felled tree without allowing the limper to close in on him. He mounted the fallen trunk and began to proceed timidly across the chasm. The limper reached the tree a few moments later. He had difficulties maintaining balance with his damaged leg but grim determination propelled him on.

Nimmian kept glancing back at his competitor which made his progress riskier. It’s not his balance that’s suffering. He’s grown clumsy from fear alone.

It seemed to take an eternity for Nimmian to cross the chasm. At last, with solid ground just barely beneath him, he jumped off the trunk… and his foot slipped just over the edge of the chasm. He yelled out and grabbed for the successor sapling just in time. Wide-eyed, Niomir dashed out of cover but he stopped himself before he revealed himself completely. The limper was still there, crawling across the tree on all fours. If he should see him…

Niomir nearly tore himself in two as his brother dangled by his fingers across the lip of the chasm. The sapling was not tough enough to last for much longer. The tiny tree’s roots were being ripped out by every moment.

At last, the limper was across. He threw himself off the tree awkwardly with his good leg, rolled on the ground and slowly got up. For a moment, he turned towards Nimmian as if contemplating to help him. He turned away and limped out of sight.

Niomir ripped through the brush that concealed him and dashed for Nimmian. He threw himself on the ground belly first, used his right arm to grab on the root of the felled trunk and reached down for Nimmian’s exhausted fingers with his left.

“What are you doing here?” Nimmian rasped.

“Shut up and grab on!”

Nimmian grasped his hand and both pulled. Pain shot through Niomir’s shoulders. His gut nearly tore in two but he managed to lift Nimmian up. As soon as Nimmian’s shoulders were over the lip of the chasm, he could grab on the roots as well and lighten the load.

Finally, both collapsed on the bank of the chasm, struggling for air.

“Are we the last ones?” Niomir asked, his air wheezing.

“Yes,” Nimmian said, defeat plain in his voice. He turned to Niomir. “Why did you come back for me?”

“Because we are brothers and we will always be brothers, declaration of spirits be damned.”

“That man wasn’t going very fast. We still have a chance to overcome him if we…”

Niomir cut him off. “If you are not Runted now, you will be in a few seasons when Flat Face decides the tribe needs more Runts. No. We shall walk across the finish line together. We shall both be turned to Runts, wait out the winter and in the spring we shall leave this place behind and join the tribe of Runts.”

Nimmian got up to his feet, leaned on his knees and breathed heavily. “You mean Isurion’s mongrels?”

“Better that than to give up my hunting spear, don’t you think?” Niomir chuckled. He reached up. Nimmian took his hand and grabbed it firmly. Niomir put his weight on one foot and made to rise. He expected that Nimmian’s hand would pull him up. Instead, it shoved him down and back. Caught off guard, Niomir lost his balance and stumbled backwards. The chasm yawned behind him. He lost footing and fell, legs first. In the last moment, he grabbed that same sapling that Nimmian nearly tore out moments before.

Niomir’s legs dangled in open air, unable to grab purchase on anything. He tried to grab on the felled tree’s root but it was out of his reach. Each time he lunged to grab the root, the sapling shuddered in his hand.

Niomir looked up at Nimmian, his face a mask of shock. Nimmian looked down on him. There were tears in his eyes but he made no move to help him up.

“I don’t want to be a Runt, brother,” Nimmian said. “But you seem to be looking forward to it.”

And Nimmian turned his back on him and ran for the finish line. He disappeared in the treeline before Niomir could blink.

The sound of ripping, a jerk in his clenched fist and suddenly he was weightless. The felled tree flew upward. His vision was swallowed by the twilight of the chasm.

******

Each step meant another jolt of pain. Scratches and lacerations crisscrossed his flesh but he was astonished he could still walk. The water broke most of his fall but it was also water that pulled him across the surface of sharp rocks that cut him until his whole body felt like one huge wound.

The water had carried him wildly off course, which meant more distance he had to walk across when he finally managed to pull himself out of the current. By the time the finish line was in sight, the sun had set and he walked through murky blackness of the forest.

The fire pits were lit. Men sat around them. Wind brought the scent of roasted meat. His stomach roiled violently – the last meal he’d eaten was at dawn. He forced himself not to care about it and turned his mind blank, nothing but a queer form of pride pushing him on. The finish line had to be reached no matter what.

He didn’t see who spotted him first. Men turned his way, stood up, walked to him. Soon they stood shoulder to shoulder like a wall. How many times did Niomir stand inside that wall, looking on as the loser of the race faced his judgement? He’d stopped counting long ago. At that point, the man who was to be Runted was not a tribesman in his eyes anymore. The outcome of the race caused the transformation. The elder’s declaration was just a formality.

This was the look Niomir now saw in their eyes. That blank, neutral stare he used to wear to shield his soul from feeling the desperation of the man he faced. It was not anger in their eyes, or revulsion. He simply didn’t have a place among them anymore. It was as if his flesh had perished and he’d become a formless spirit.

One of them stepped forward. Niomir expected the frigid glare of Flat Face, the elder of the tribe, but it was Flat Face’s aide who approached him.

Why isn’t Flat Face here? This is his ceremony, he’d always performed it himself.

Whatever the cause, the absence of the elder brought Niomir’s mind back to life. He could never contradict Flat Face directly, but now…

“Just a moment,” Niomir said with a firm voice that caught Flat Face’s aide off guard. “I reject your judgement. I only failed the Winnow because I was attacked.”

The aide froze. This is not how it was supposed to go. “Sabotaging a fellow tribesman is a severe offense,” he said. “Who did this?”

Niomir turned his eye to the wall of men. They did not move but there was confusion on their faces. His eye found Setimika whose smirk spoke for itself. He of all people would relish Niomir’s fall.

Nimmian’s face wasn’t among them but no doubt he was still close. “My brother did this,” Niomir said loudly.

A wave of murmurs swept across the tribesmen. They turned, looking for Nimmian among themselves.

“Can you prove this?” the aide asked.

Niomir turned to the tribesmen. “You all saw me going ahead of you. You know I was faster than you.”

No one spoke for him. Not that Niomir expected it. None of them would deny the fact either, not even Setimika. It would be a lie and no one was reckless enough to commit to a cause he had no stake in.

“If you were ahead of us,” Setimika spoke up, “how come you ended up behind us?”

Niomir could not allow himself to show hesitation. “I hid and waited for my brother.”

“For what purpose?” the aide asked.

Despite his best efforts, Niomir’s resolve faltered for a moment. “I… I couldn’t go on without knowing if he’d made it across the chasm. I waited in case he needed my help.”

“So you hid and let other get ahead of you,” said the aide. “Once you’ve helped him across, what would you have done?”

Niomir refused to hesitate. “I would walk across the line with him at my shoulder.”

The silence was deafening. It seemed to last for hours before the aide spoke again. “You would willingly choose the life of a Runt? Why?”

The wall of men stirred. Slowly, Nimmian emerged through them. His face was weighed with shame but it was curiosity that brought him to the front.

Why did I want to turn myself into a Runt with him? Niomir turned to the aide. “He is the offspring of my mother. We are family.”

The aide’s face twitched. “If you truly share the bond you claim you do, how would he be capable of betraying you as you claim?”

Niomir found himself dangling on the edge of the chasm once again, looking up at Nimmian. Anger erupted inside him. His gaze wandered to where Nimmian stood among the others. Nimmian’s face was a blank mask and he refused to look at him. Sweat poured down his face.

Why would he do this? The anger that bloomed in his heart made him want to accuse Nimmian of being the most profound villain but even as he thought of doing it, he knew it wasn’t true. His brother was a man whose actions were dictated by fear. Where did that fear come from?

“Because some people are driven to desperate measures by desperate circumstances.” He could not believe what was coming out of his mouth. “It is wrong to make men of a tribe compete against each other in such hideous circumstances.” The men stared at him. They knew what was coming and could not believe one of them would speak openly of this.

“This is not a contest. It is a crime.”

The aide finally understood what was happening. He bristled and faced the tribesmen.

“The Runts are a condition required from us by the spirits. We are of the Forest and live by the spirits’ decree.” He was clearly reciting from lore, trying to get on top of the situation. “In their wisdom, the spirits had decreed that only a third part of the tribe is to carry weapons and hunt. The rest are required to perform other tasks, important to our survival.” He turned back to Niomir, confident. “There is no shame in becoming a Runt.”

Niomir refused to back down. “Then why did my brother rather betray me than become one?” He looked at the men. “My brother is not the villain here. He’s a victim, just like every one of us here. Just like everyone who has already been proclaimed a Runt and forced into submission.”

More silence. They could hear the distant squeak of an owl.

“This isn’t going to end,” Niomir told them, standing boldly before them. “More and more of us will be Runted and fewer of us will be allowed to hunt. Our numbers do not change. It will not be long before all of us are rutting in the dirt and ranging the Forest is nothing but a distant memory.”

With each word he uttered, Niomir felt his anger dissolve. The men that listened fell more raptly under his spell. It seemed the entire tribe was there, listening to him, ready to discard the wretched Runt status.

That was when the men parted in haste. In the empty space between them, a single gaunt figure appeared and stepped forward. A cowl covered his head, casting the face into shadow. A staff in his hand ended in a large bulge. Niomir felt his resolve shatter like a fallen icicle.

Flat Face.

“Your words betray your anger for the spirits,” said the elder of Winter Boar tribe with his notorious monotone voice. “You believed yourself above their judgment. Now the spirits have shown you your error. In your arrogance, you will attempt anything to turn our decision. But it is not our decision. It is the decision of the spirits. They’ve seen through your pride and deemed you unworthy to carry a spear.”

With tremendous effort, Niomir turned and addressed the elder of his tribe directly. “If the spirits want me Runted, why do they not strike me down for speaking falsehood?”

Flat Face extended a long thin finger and pointed it at Niomir’s chest. “But they have struck you down. You are cut and bleeding as you speak. They have made you fall for hearing the arrogance of your mind. They could have easily taken your life for such blasphemous thoughts. The only reason you still live is that you might atone for your impurity and serve the tribe. If they’d killed you now, they would only grant you your wish. No, your place is determined.”

Niomir looked to the men for silent supplication. The spell he cast over them was already broken by Flat Face’s icy resolve. They were once more a solid front of blank faces, unyielding and alien. Nimmian stood among them, his face betraying not a single shred of remorse.

As in a dream, Niomir watched Flat Face approach him. The elder raised the bulge of his totem staff in front of Niomir’s face. By this, he blocked Niomir’s view of the rest of the men. Nothing seemed to exist but the dour face of the totem spirit that was carved on it.

“You will join the others of your class, Runt.”