The Legend of the first Khan
A long time ago, a vast host of Orcs was marching out of the region later to be known as Rash-Ter-Gul. Records are unsure as to what the Orcs wanted, but it is likely they wished to launch attacks on the prospering region that would later be named Shajin Empire. It is very likely that the individual nomadic tribes of Aoul would have just let the Orcs pass through the plains without many problems; however, Orcs being Orcs, they attacked every tribe they came across.
Among the first tribes to fall to the hands of the invaders was the small hunting tribe of barbroxu, in the far western outskirts of the Aoul plains where you could still see the Kargash Mountains. They were all slaughtered, women and children as well, none was spared, save for one man, the tribe leader’s adolescent son whose real name has been forgotten throughout history, but whose later one is forever remembered. He was spared since he was away on an extended caribou hunt as one of the many rites of passage into Dinturan adulthood. This last remnant of barbroxu returned as a man to nothing but charred bodies of family and friends, a pillaged camp and tracks of Orcs as evident as from a caribou stampede. Rage burnt within him and the many lessons in controlling anger and self-control as the patient hunter was swept away as if by a tide.
His great hunt had just been extended and with a much more numerable and savage game than caribou. He vowed a blood-oath of vengeance upon these Orcish invaders which had destroyed and killed his family, and that he not lay to rest until all Orcs were dead. He took the single surname of Barbroxu as his only one, as is customary by the last of a Dinturan bloodline, and embarked on his path to legend.
In the following weeks Barbroxu made his way to the southeast, across the great plain in the wake of the Orcish horde. Barbroxu had days upon days with nothing but the thought of his loved ones; his son and daughter and their cousins wrestling in the sands, hunting lizards and snakes and running from the imaginary caribou stampedes. He thought of his time with his brothers and how they would sit and drink as the sun set. He felt as if the sun was setting on him always now. Any recollection of warmth was slowly fading away from his body, with a great darkness filling its void. The only time he felt anything now was when he stumbled upon the few Orcish deserters or couriers that ended up far behind the main force. He was certain that he was feeling happiness in these encounters, at least he thought it was happiness; he could hardly remember what it was supposed to feel like.
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Eventually Barbroxu came upon other tribes that had been burnt and pillaged, much like his own; the men, women and children all dead. But every now and then he would meet survivors. He never knew what to say, in truth he never really cared for words to describe others' losses when his own was eating him up inside, and these villages were nothing to him, its people were nothing. But more often than not they followed him, some seemed to simply be without a purpose, some were scared and wanted companionship, some also wanted revenge just as Barbroxu did. He cared for none of them though and saw them all as equally pathetic; their feelings could not be as grave as his own. But they fought alongside him, and they killed a few extra Orcs. Even for that he was not grateful, as all they did was kill them, while Barbroxu tore them to pieces and ripped them asunder; believing Orcs had to repay with more than just their lives.
Eventually the Orcish groups became larger as they came nearer to the main force. Barbroxu's companions became restless, and they grew fearful. Until now they had never been outnumbered and they pleaded with Barbroxu for some type of tactics, some traps, an ambush, some sort of plan. But Barbroxu never listened, he didn't care, the sight of Orcs made his mind disappear, his legs would carry him forward with an explosion of power, he was a caribou in flight, a sand lion in combat. Inevitably Barbroxu faced off to a party of Orcs far superior to his own.
"Barbroxu, you can not… Please... Just listen... We can..."
But he was gone, already stampeding towards them. His first swing missed, and his axe buried itself in the group, he had never missed slashing an Orc! The rage exploded within him. He turned and swung in fury, while blood covered his eyes, then turned again. A sharp bite to his arm, he ignored it, then a crashing blow that made his head spin and his eyes rolls... again he responded by lashing out with his axe.
"DIE ORCISH SCUM!"
He could barely see, or hear, his nose was overwhelmed with the stench of burnt flesh and blood. Looking down he realised his arm and half his body was on fire. He ignored it, he swung his axe again furiously, but it jolted, the weight of it started pulling him downwards. Something grabbed his arm and he instinctively bit down hard on it... there was a squeal and an Orc let a grapple go. Absolute mayhem followed…
He found himself wandering the vast plains aimlessly through the break of dawn. Not sure if or why he was alive. Not sure where all the Orcs he was fighting had gone or how they had escaped him... he had not let them go, of that he was certain.
Soon he spotted his comrades. They had packed camp and were beginning their day’s journey. Someone noticed him approaching and they soon all stared at him in disbelief. As he approached them their heads all dropped. Not one of them dared look him in the eyes. Babroxu was furious, for they had run, every single one of them; he could see it on their faces.
He reached out, his bloody hand trembling with rage, his finger brushing against the neck of each tribesman he passed. None resisted, none denied him, they were paralyzed with fear.
“In payment for your cowardice you are now mine. You will do as I say, when I say, without question. By all the blood that will soak this land, I vow to lead us to victory, and through the same blood you now also bear this oath. Falter and your blood will soak this land as well!"
After this event Barbroxu noticed a change to his companions. They were more silent around the camp fire; they stared at it, their eyes gleamed, unmoving, as if trapped by the mesmerising flicker of the flames. They also questioned him less and complaints about impending battles and how they should be fought became scarce and eventually ceased. Now, when they did talk it was always about how long until, or how far away, the next battles were, or they would recollect moments from past battles. They weren’t the same anymore and Barbroxu felt they were somehow closer to understanding. In battle he could now hear them, their roars of frenzy, feel the heavy swings of their axes behind him. He lusted for more, more fury, more blood of his enemies, and more bites with his axe. It was now like whirlpool of carnage all around him. He was no longer alone in this group of warriors and he was no longer a leader. He simply went ahead, and they followed.
Barbroxu never slept for long, he was always moving forward, always moving towards the mass of green that still marched upon his land. But each night, when he did sleep, Barbroxu would stir from the same dream. Or perhaps it was a memory, he could never tell.
…A huge Orc warrior towers above him, while he sinks to his knees and drops his weapon, the late blow to his abdomen burning with pain. His eyes see only shades of the colour red from the blood cascading down his face, and while the hulking Orc prepares for one final blow; time seems to slow down to a near standstill. He can now move freely and so he looks around and sees the backs of his companions far off, scattering and running in all kinds of directions. First he always feels relief of their escape, that they all won’t succumb to his fate of doom, but then the hatred always flares up within him, and voices begin to speak inside his head;
”You have not yet completed your task, last man of Barbroxu. You swore a blood-oath of vengeance and yet the vengeance and oath is still to be carried out with more blood. We can help; make a dead man the saviour of the Tribes. Make Barbroxu into Khan of the Tribes. All you must do is accept and honour the blood-oath; always honour the blood-oath. The oath cannot be undone.
So arise Champion of Barbroxu, break free from the feeble dam of human limitations... and let the blood flow!”
Every day it seemed that new men would join Barbroxu's wake, join the ranks of what was quickly becoming an army. Barbroxu never paid much attention though, he was always busy, either marching onward or sharpening his axe. He never stopped, never spoke, only walked and killed and slept when he could. He was not ignorant though, he heard them whispering. He knew they were all there to follow him, he knew they thought of him as their saviour, their hope. But they did not see their own mistake; there was no hope to be had, for there were none inside him, no desire to save anything, no desire to lead people. He simply hated Orcs. He despised them so much so that it hurt, his chest grew tight and his mind would span, and his body would shake as if cold when he thought about it. The only cure, the only time he could bear, was when he was rending Orcs limb from limb.
During their continued campaign it came to pass that men would start to kneel before Barbroxu. They called him Great Khan, and newer recruits shouted and chanted wherever he went. One morning as he reached the peak of a small plains plateau he turned and looked around, and to his surprise he saw a great swarm of men, more than he every imagined lived on the great plains. Men from far and near tribes, and they must be just as numerable as the Orcish tide that still swept across the land before them. He knew gruesome death awaited every Orc which would come before him now. His eyebrows rose and his eyes glared as the slightest smile broke across his face. The weird dreams, they were coming true.
Then came the most fateful day, and Barbroxu stood upon the crest of a small hill near the central eastern area of the Great Plans of Aoul. Some distant mountain range he did not know the name of was just barely noticeable on the eastern horizon. The wind was blowing hard into his face, leaves and grass blowing past him and biting slightly at his skin. In the field ahead was the main Orcish horde, clambering around, grunting and squealing like little pigs. Barbroxu felt his blood boil instantly.
He leapt forward charging through the long grass. The Orcs heard his battle cry long before they could make out his running figure on the hillside; hence they were more than prepared as Barbroxu slammed into their raised shield wall. Behind him was the mass of his companions trying to follow suit. The blood-oath warriors were the closest and ran and roared with the same fury as Barbroxu himself, some waving those overweight man-sized Dinturan swords around as if they were as light as paper. To the far left and right he saw warriors from the other tribes closing in to clash with the green tide. They were all with him. His heart was pounding as though it would explode within his chest, the sweat poured from his brow and his hair flung drops of sweat in wide arcs as he spun and lunged. His arms never stopped momentum for a moment; left, right, left, down, down, up, down. His axe moved with lightning speed, hewing armour and flesh alike. It tore through arms and legs as if parting water or grass. He was a burning flash of fury, rage and hatred... glee filled him each time his axe bit into one of the green vermin. Eventually all of those emotions gave way, and there was nothing but the moment, the pumping of his muscles, his axe swinging smoothly and swiftly around his body.
Barbroxu had cut a wide swath through the entire Orc army. He turned, still in the daze-like state of his battle frenzy. The Orcs were all dead, some few were being chased down and brought to the ground by tribesmen, but most had made carpet to the ground of green bodies so thick that they were stacked on top of each other. All around men were scavenging; shifting bodies, picking up weapons and inspecting armour, everywhere except the paths that Barbroxu and his blood-oath men had carved forth. These paths were simply paved with dead bodies, a mess of limbless torsos and bodiless heads, and not an equipment piece was left whole. The smell from this macabre scene was horrible, even the vultures stayed away and plucked at bodies well away from Barbroxu's trail of madness.
But even after this great victory Barbroxu was angered, he hated that the other tribes had been so weak and lenient towards such a pathetic foe, allowing the invasion to get this far in the first place. Quarrels started to erupt between various tribes and heroes, and with no longer a common enemy to unite them, the assembled army started disbanding. With each passing of the days, more and more of the tribes and their warriors left the army to head home. Barbroxu's army was fading quickly, but his rage was not. Lost and unsure of where or what to do Barbroxu turned for home. He slowly headed back northwest as more and more of the tribesmen whittled away into the nights and days, weeks and months.
During the long journey back Barbroxu was found to mutter for himself, barely understandable babbling about Orcs and hunting, and killing and needing blood. He flew into violent rages at the smallest incidents, the slightest misunderstandings. Everything he saw and heard made him angrier, and thirstier for battle.
Soon in the dead of night he came home. Everyone had left him by now except the blood-oath men, the only ones who were even close to realising what had to be done. He looked upon his old village and felt sadness, for the first time in a long time. Other struck villages they passed on their journey home were rebuilt, some even prospered. His was the same as when he left it, burnt, empty, desolate. It was a mistake to return, this place held nothing good for him anymore.
Come morning he awoke and looked up. Above him in the far distance towered the great Kargash peaks; the place where the Orcs had come from. What lay there he didn't know, but he was drawn to it. And so that very morning he set out, and as always his blood-oath companions followed.
The mountain was steep to climb. Sweat dripped from his face and chest. Rocky pillars rose up around him as if they were great stone guardians staring down at him. The mountain at this height was desolate, no trees or animals, in fact no evidence of any life. As Barbroxu climbed a thick dark grey misted rolled off of the mountain top and enshrouded him. For some reason he hefted the axe off his back, almost expecting something fishy.
A tingling sensation on his back. He spins around. Nothing there. A whisper from next to him. He swings his axe. Nothing is there. A cry pierces the fog and he jumps to the ground, poised, ready to pounce. Slowly shadowy figures begin to emerge, they scamper around him in circles, slowly coming close then retreating again. Cackles sound, as if from a mad or senile old man. Barbroxu grips his axe tightly and advances forward. His nerves were playing on his mind like they had not in a long, long time, and his blood had already started to boil.
He walked through the mist scanning carefully, he didn't like this, not knowing, not having something to strike at. Suddenly one of the shadows was standing face to face with him. Barbroxu snapped, he swung insanely and the figure shifted almost impossibly fast. Barbroxu ducked as a huge weapon slashed wide arcs above his head. Another slash pasted beside his face as he lent away. His counter attack sent the shadow flying, and so at least he knew they could be hit, and if he could hit it he could carve it to pieces! He launched hurling attacks left and right. The all too familiar feeling of rage pressed down on him driving him forward, and then his axe hit. A roar echoed around the rocky mountain top. From behind there was a sudden sharp sting followed by an aching in his left arm. He looked down only to see blood pouring from his elbow, right where his forearm should have been attached. He spun, furiously swinging his axe widely and it bit into his new foe, another shadow. The pain fired through his entire body driving him crazy. His vision blurred and he lost all sense of time, the enemy seems to move very slowly, his axe travels just as slow as he looks around to survey the scene. His senses fade, he knows this feeling and that something feels very wrong somewhere, but he must keep swinging his axe.
Barbroxu found himself standing alone in the mist, only a deep silence surrounding him. He was breathless, his left arm missing, blood still poring from it. He had cuts all over his body and face, he felt as if water wasps of the Aoul plains had stung his entire body three times over. He dropped to his knees, exhausted, barely holding onto consciousness. What had happened; where were his enemies? Where were his friends?
The mist began to clear. It revealed what must have been almost a dozen bodies strewn across the ground. These were Barbroxu's recent victims, he could tell from the blood and the way their limbs lay so far separated from their bodies. Up here Barbroxu had faced his greatest opponents; ever since he had been reborn he had never been brought so close to death.
But around him lay the bodies of the men he conferred his blood-oath to so long ago. The shadows had been his companions in the fog, and his companions were now all dead. His blood drained away and so did too his own life, his body collapsed and his breathing became shallow and finally... darkness…
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"Don't fret dear Barbroxu. Your life was great, your death was greater, and you deeds will live on forever in this land. You were the greatest butcher this world had ever seen; you were truly our blood bringer. But what could it be which was strong enough to defeat the invincible Khan but those who were worthy to walk along side him and share all his battles; those closest to him, those sharing the same curse.
But dear Barbroxu, you were special, never supposed to fully succumb to their primal bloodlust. You were chosen to rise above them all and bring us blood for the duration of your existence. You were their leader. In this you have failed us. You succumbed too deep. Your wish for battle turned you blind. The oath is left unfulfilled.
Dear Barbroxu, you will not have peace, your soul is eternally ours. You will not fail us. In life you brought us more blood offerings than we dared imagine. In death you will bring us ever more. Blood is strength, blood is life; our life. Rejoice Barbroxu, this fate was sealed for you as soon as you swore your blood-oath. You died a long time ago.”
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Legend has it that Barbroxu marched with his chosen few into the misty mountains of Kargash, and soon the life blood of the great plain, the rivers and streams that ran from these great mountains and fed the plains, had turned red. And the skies above the mountain turned to opaque black as the crows and vultures flocked for the greatest feast that they would ever see upon the land.
None of them ever came down from that mountain ever again, to this day that fact is the only thing that is truly known for certain, that no one ever survived to tell the story of Barbroxu's end.
But the tribes of Aoul started a great festival of battle and blood to find the next great Khan to unite and lead them: "The Festival of Crowning". Chosen champions of these festivals get the honour of walking up that holy mountain path to maybe receive the blessing of Barbroxu’s spirit and be selected the next Khan. None of these champions remember what they see or what happens to them up there though, starting from when a thick fog swirls up and engulfs them. But the signs of approval from Barbroxu to his champions can not be mistaken, even if none have ever returned with the full blessing or with signs of being selected new Khan.
They will all wear a blood red mark on their necks, which tingles slightly.
Even with many ages gone the legend and tradition of Barbroxu and the Festival of Crowning remain, all still under the shadow of the holy mountain of mist, Mortean Barbroxu.
