It was a scene of revelry in the yurt of the Head-Crusha clan.
Kumis and rare alcohols from the west flowed like water. Elvish dancers, captives taken in successful raids, bobbed and swayed among the orcs to tunes plucked on strings to the beat of boarskin drums. In one corner of the tent, two Orcs settled their friendly rivalry in an epic wrestling match while in the other corner the shamans regaled the younger warriors with the tales of glorious conquests and dangerous hunts. In the center of everything sat the cause of the celebration; the butchered and broiled corpse of a vicious manticore, a legendary beast whose fur was stained red with the blood of those too weak or feeble to slay it, and whose defeat was the source of this great victory feast. Its skull would adorn the yurts of clan leaders centuries from now, and its crimson pelt lay across the throne of the warrior who struck the final blow that slayed the vile beast, a warrior whose name inspired fear and awe as it swept through the Dustbowl like a typhoon.
"To tha great Bralga Head-Crusha, tha greatest warrior in all o' Yndyre!"
A great tumult rose up as dozens of orcs raised their cups in a toast to her. Bralga Head-Crusha, seated at the head of this great congress, lifted her own goblet, a trophy taken from a noble fop who strayed too close to her territory, and drank deeply. Running a broad thumb across her favorite battle-axe resting at her side, fine silk from the provinces of Futotta-Machi draped across her shoulders, Bralga looked over the scene with a rather pensive expression. To her clan, the great warrior looked to be quietly reveling in her glory as the mighty do, surveying her realm with a troubled brow. Perhaps she was plotting her next great battle, or perhaps considered a romantic conquest for the evening. This seemed to be a popular theory, as several men and woman stood up to boast of their prowess, hoping to earn her favor.
The truth, however, was a lot simpler. She was damned bored.
It was something that had brewed for quite some time, and the manticore fight had finally driven that ugly fact home. The elders and shamans spoke volumes of the beast's tenacity and ferocity, calling it the avatar of Ardoid himself, yet one blow from her mighty axe and the creature crumpled like a collapsed yurt. She played along of course and celebrated with her pack but she was utterly furious. Where had the challenge gone? What happened to the days when her battles soaked the ground with her own blood as well as her enemies, when she broke her weapons fighting and resorted to her fists and teeth? What good was the skull of the most vile beast in the Dustbowl when it was no less difficult to tear from its body then crushing an ant underfoot?
What was the point of being the greatest warrior of Clan Head-Crusha when there was nothing worth fighting? By the Gods, she thought to herself, give me SOMETHING worth my damned time...
"Bralga Burrrup Head-Crusha...."
Bralga turned to glare daggers at the sentry, a bottle of foreign ale clutched in his hand. She couldn't help but roll her eyes; the man was already tipsy. How many bottles had he downed by now, ten? Tch.
"What d'you want?" Bralga snarled.
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