Chanting. Glory-hungry cries from warriors, warlords, mutants, chiefs, outcasts, beasts. “Gorz! Gorz!” clashes with “Thrak! Thrak!” As two hulking brutes emerge from the lines of chanting warriors. “I’ll eat you!” Yells Thrak. Gorz can’t speak, so he throws a spear at Thrak. Then he throws himself at Thrak.
A flurry of blows, parried and dodged are exchanged, blade-tips touch the skin, slice it open in short, quick cuts, muscles deform, no longer connected, blood gushes, scars are earned. The two fighters disengage to look their foes over. This time, Thrak takes a dart from his belt and throws it, not at Gorz’s chest or head, but at his foot. Gorz lowers his piercing gaze from his foe, jerking his leg aside, but it’s too late. His foe already lunged forwards, the short blade of his sword jutting out ahead. The two warriors slam into eachother, Thrak desperately twisting and trying to jerk his blade free of his foe, while Gorz claws and flails at his killer. A blow to the side of the head. A cut at the ribs. Rending claws drawing blood from the back. A final bite, caught by the arm, rather than the neck.
Then, the thrashing dies down. And Thrak arises, bloody. Jerking his blade from the corpse, he chops down at it. Four blows later, he jerks the head free of the body, raising it up.
“Glory to the dark gods!”
A moment later, thousands of throats in dozens of languages echo the shout, including the small clique of warlords standing atop a boulder and observing the festival.
“Ostrosk this year?” One man asks.
A chorus of aye’s, yes’ and yeah’s follows, with a single female voice amongst them.
“Great things shall happen.” The female voice continues. “And you lot shall bring it forth.”