Campfire Tales of a Snowtribe: From Ash We Came

Tales from an old Clanholder to the tribe's children

Gather round young scibs, the bite-frost fears our campfire, it’s flame a gift from the ancestors. Their bones dusted and fed to flame, their marrow a testament to our ways, the true ways of Boet-Azur-Mephal. They make our camp sacred, and grant us respite from our corner troubles. What’s that, you want to hear a tale? No, no, I already told you of the Prophesized Outwanderer who cast down the Three Living Falsehoods and obliterated they’re Blight Shadow the Dusks afore. Tonight I’ll share to you young skittering kwama our tale, the tale of the Jimuyumi Tribe, born of Veloth, and keepers of his trodden heart.

For you see, we had not always shared lands with the beared fox-bears, or the wood-caged-orcs. Surely your tent-mothers told you we come not from these frozen wastes, our people were forged strong in a land of fire and ash, grown tall and lean under the gaze of the great Red Tester. The lands we roamed, hunting guar, and nix, and netch, and strider. We lived in holy isolation, only warring and at times hawking with the Urshilaku. We hunted and wore our victories in leather and chitin overskins, covered our faces to guard against ash storms and from lies that wished to be eaten.

In the days that followed the downfall of the Three Fakers, our solitude was besieged by repeat offenders, so called pilgrims of the Tainted Shriners. They offered false honors to us, claimed to wishing to relearn the truths we had continued to burdened. But we remembered their betrayal, as they lapped at the milk fingers of the unholy usurpers. We saw through the concealed knives cloaked in their words, and our Gulakhans sang Mephala’s retribution and smote them for their insolence, removing their tongues and placed them in their lower apertures, so their ancestors would know they spoke defecation.

Until one came requesting to suckle our wise woman’s knowledge teet, but was cunning enough to bring a yurt-brother of Sul-Matuul, anointer of Neravar’s Ghost. Our Ashkhan then was Azure’s beloved Anab-Renabi. The khan received these visitors, but wished to consult the Wise woman himself before he’d allow them her yurt.

The Wise woman, Kenzazah, offered him no council of the strangers. She had been disturbed in spirit for a fortnight, and told her Ashkhan her dreams clouded her wisdom. Brave Anab-Renabi offered to eat her dreams, for the alien presence in his camp disturbed his clan, and he needed her sacred advise. Together they preformed an old rite to trade Azura’s kissed visions from one to the other. What the great khan-father saw would shape our destinies forever, and allow us to escape the destruction to come.

Hold on, hold on. What did the Ashkhan see you ask? Nay, I’ll tell you on the morow, Dusk twilight is ever inching closer, and you’ve been up late enough as is. These tales are for Dusk hours only, so off to your bedskins my little fetchers. Boet-Azur-Melphal, sleep well young ones.

Edited for spelling