To Be Vrissk
Posted on January 31st, 2013 by Ian Blackthorne

The Chieftain stood at the center of his ruined village, looking down the gentle slope to the river that had once provided his people with fish and fresh water. His back was to the ridge that shielded the ring of huts from the prevailing wind that he could no longer feel. Over the past few weeks, he had slowly gained awareness of some of the others of his tribe, who all seemed to have suffered a similar fate to his own. Not that it particularly mattered much beyond passing the time; they could not touch each other or interact with their surroundings. Even talking seemed difficult through the haze of whatever had befallen them, but it was at least possible.

Word had reached him that Stho’Ka had met a stranger called Reth, who claimed to be from another tribe far away. The storyteller did have knowledge of encounters with other Vrissk in their oral history, but it had been many years. The old Chieftain did remember such a visit from his youth, at least, so Reth’s claim was not impossible, but certainly suspicious. Stho’Ka was known for her cunning and not easily fooled, so if Reth had convinced her, that was in his favor. Reth’s claim of magical strangers who were willing to help them still seemed utterly ridiculous.

How could anyone help the Vrissk now? The Chieftain was reasonably sure that they were all already dead and this was The Gray Waste, an afterlife promised to those who angered the Old Ones. The stories told that they would slowly fade into oblivion, condemned to an eternity of nothingness. There was clearly no hope, but he’d been told that the strangers had great power. But the power to bring back the dead in defiance of the Old Ones? It was certainly impossible.

The Chieftain looked down at his feathered spear, still laying where it had fallen upon his death, now an indeterminable time ago. His instincts were still to fight with all that he had left in him, but how, and against what enemy? If his tribe could show strength even in this dire time, perhaps they could regain the favor of the Old Ones and be returned to life before meeting oblivion. It seemed so futile to him. How can anyone fight without use of their weapons, claws, teeth, or tail?

A vague awareness of another Vrissk approaching ended his reverie, and the Chieftain looked up to see Stho’Ka running up the hill, with another in tow, surely this Reth. He would insist to see these magical strangers for himself, and then ask them to show that they were as powerful as they claimed. He would not, however, sacrifice his pride and beg for help. After all, he was still Vrissk, dead or otherwise, and the values of his people were all he had left. Better to be a dead Vrissk than to be a living, simpering weakling.

He raised a clawed hand in greeting to Stho’Ka. If these strangers were as powerful as they claimed, and did not wish to subjugate the Vrissk in exchange for their help, then he would let them try. After all, how could things get any worse?