Chapter Two

                        

            The warriors slowly approached the village entrance and they could already hear the cheering for their return. Waving vibrations bouncing from off the stone like galloping deer within a mountain path. Blazing torches, flickering like dancing imps in a torturing rhythmic pattern, seared through Mousorrow’s soul. The untouchable pain seared through him like a red hot sword piercing through a mound of fresh mountain snow. How would his people understand? Would they forgive him for allowing their chieftain’s demise? Self designed nightmares began etching themselves into his mind. How could he have let this happen?
            The welcome started out as a glorious one but quickly turned to confusion when the tribe noticed the looks of sorrow on the warrior’s faces. The warriors gathered together in the center of the village and propped their weapons awaiting Mousorrow to deliver the terrible news. He looked upon his people with great grief that seemed to grow heavily deep within his chest. At first when he opened his mouth to speak nothing seemed to want to come out. With some concentration he found the will to speak.
            “Chief Abmoor is dead!” he spoke. As he spoke those wretched words, the painful gasps of his people penetrated his heart like a swarm of poisoned daggers. As he tried to continue speaking everything around him seemed to slow down. His heart began pounding in his ears with every painful whoosh. He pushed himself and choked the last of it out of him. “He was slain by a powerful Orc shaman! He will walk the lands of our ancestors with honor and pride in his death! His memory will carry on as a chieftain of triumph!” he announced to the tribe. He went to turn his back to them when they quickly started to respond.
            “WHERE IS HIS BODY?” yelled a couple of the tribe’s elders. He faced them once again and responded.
            “Chief Abmoor’s death came from an ancient dagger that released a sickness into his body causing it to decay instantly. We had to burn his body where it lay or face being infected with the disease ourselves” he replied.
            “The chief deserves a chieftain’s burial” yelled one of the tribe’s women.

            “This is precisely what he will receive! His body was lost with the disease but his soul and spirit will be buried with a ceremony” he replied.
            “You intend to have a burial without his body? This is against tradition Mousorrow and you of all people should know this!” hollered one of the town’s elders.
            “Then what would you have me do? Do you wish that I pray to Kathala to resurrect our chieftain from the ash so that we may follow tradition? WHAT’S DONE IS DONE! I will not hear another word of it!” he yelled in anger. His thunderous words silenced many minus the fools who refused to halt their talking.
            “For this madness we will have your…” shortly spoke one of the elders just as Armon lifted him into the air with an axe to his throat.
            “You will have nothing from my brother before I have your head” stated Armon as he held the elder high within the air. The elder gasped in fear as Armon placed him once again upon the ground. Armon looked upon his people and yelled “DO NOT BE QUICK TO FORGET THIS IS MOUSORROW! THE SON OF MAKHAR AND THE GREATEST WARRIOR OF THE OROGGA! YOU OWE HIM ALONE YOUR SUPPORT AND UNDERSTANDING!” Mousorrow rested his hand on his brother’s shoulder and then turned to walk away with confidence nobody else would be questioning him this evening. The reoccurring thought of his dead father was almost too much for him to bear following the chieftain’s death. The tribe dispersed with tears falling from their eyes like rain pouring onto a valley of death. Mousorrow was walking towards the Hall of the Elders when Semria caught up to him and wrapped her arms around him. He held her close and caught the tears that fell from her most beautiful face.
            “I can’t believe he’s really dead. It just doesn’t feel right” she cried.
            “I was there when he died my love. Believe me if you can’t believe anyone else…he is dead” replied Mousorrow.
            “I know he is I just don’t want to accept it. I feel like if I don’t accept it…how could it be true?” the denial seemed to pour out of Semria like molten lava.
            “There is nothing more certain then death…whether or not we wish to accept it” replied Mousorrow. He held Semria for what seemed like forever until she got tired enough to return to her house. He walked her home and made his way back towards the Hall of the Elders. The Hall of the Elders was a large wooden structure where the elders congregated to discuss issues concerning the tribe. He approached the great hall and standing outside of it was Hurall, the eldest of the elders. He was one of the oldest surviving Therions known to their kind. His hair was black with streaks of gray within it and the hair itself reached down to his knees. His skin wasn’t aged like a human’s would be at his age but instead it was painted with scars from battles before. He had pictures and designs inked into his flesh decorating it for all his achievements. Mousorrow walked up beside him and sighed deeply as the agonizing pain of his leader’s death seemed to bury itself within his soul.
            “What happened isn’t your fault my son. The others know that as well; they just needed someone to vent their anger on” explained Hurall. Hurall had a very caring disposition about him; much like a father would for an abandoned son.
            “I’m not their leader. So why is it my responsibility that everything runs smoothly so that no danger comes to those that they love? Why is it me who has to deliver the death of a chief and receive the repercussions for it?” angrily questioned Mousorrow.
            “You may not be their leader Mousorrow but they see you as one. Whether you wanted the leadership or not is not above the importance of the well being of our people. You have been bestowed this responsibility because the people know you can lead them onto a glorious life and with this responsibility will come great pain and great frustration” replied Hurall. A slight smirk seemed to form on his face as he sympathized with Mousorrow’s situation.
            “I’m not so sure I can handle such a position Hurall” whimpered Mousorrow.
            “You have to Mousorrow…if not for yourself do it for our people” responded Hurall.
            “Our people would do better off without me leading them. I couldn’t even keep Chief Abmoor alive” sighed Mousorrow.
            “Like I said before, it’s not your fault the chief died and as far as what our people need as leadership…why don’t you let them decide that on their own” smiled Hurall. Hurall patted Mousorrow on the shoulder and turned to return into the Hall of the Elders.
            “What about the ceremony for Abmoor? He still deserves a ritual in his honor” asked Mousorrow.
            “That is what the elders are discussing as we speak. The ceremony will probably take place tomorrow evening while the moon is still bright” replied Hurall. He said nothing else to Mousorrow as he walked into the hall. Thoughts of his long lost father returned to him as he sat on that evening. He soon found himself lost within past events.
            The seasons had already begun to change into the slowly dieing yet vibrantly life filled fall. The colors were fading from their earthy green into beautifully glowing reds with excitingly abrupt oranges. The air was thick with the oncoming scent of snow from the mountain sides and salty rain from the ocean afar. He could remember his father teaching him how to kneel down into the earth as they approached their potential dinner. His heart raced in excitement knowing his father would soon allow him to unleash his self pronounced wrath upon the unexpected buck before him. As he awaited his father’s command he studied his adversary. He envied the buck’s muscular figure. When hunting a buck the hunt becomes more then simply a sport. The technique, the style, everything has to be perfect and precise. One faltering move could quickly and very easily mean a most certain death. His sharp and lethal arrangement of horns is only a small portion of what a killer should fear. His razor sharp teeth and bone crushing hooves could easily demolish any potential enemy. He could remember his father, deadlocked in his gaze, slowed his breath down to nearly nothing to avoid giving away his position. Mousorrow knew the moment was soon. How could his father continue to make him rest in this agonizing pit of eagerness? The buck twitched and reared his head towards their hiding place. His father held out his hand symbolizing to not move in. The buck twisted off and began darting into the woods. Mousorrow sighed in disbelief and began playing with a small stick beside him.
            “Do not fret my son…your time will come again” assured his father.
            “I know father…I’m just tired of waiting for it to come” whined Mousorrow. His father rested his hand on Mousorrow’s head and directed his face towards him.
            “Sometimes waiting can prove to be our most powerful weapon” said his father with his tone of penetrating guidance.
            The memory changed to a few years later back at the village. Blood rushing excitement was poisoning the air around him. A selected group of the strongest and bravest of the Therion males had been summoned together by the Four Moons. A great war for the humans was at hand and the Four Moons were offering out their help. Makhar, Armon’s and his’ father, was one of the selected warriors. Massive swords and mighty battle axes gleamed all around them as the warriors were preparing for battle. Confusion boiled within his head as his mother moaned her sorrow. His father comforted her with reassurances that everything would be ok and he’d return swiftly. Mousorrow looked down towards the ground and saw a lonesome broad sword awaiting its master. The silver sharp edges twinkled under the morning sun like moonlight on a lake’s face. The thick leather, tightly wrapped around the metal handle, smelled of old blood and sweat. He wanted this weapon for his own. It beckoned him to claim it. It begged to be plunged into the chest of the man taking his father; draining the blood that asked for his father’s soul. He reached for the sword, desiring its blood thirsty essence, ready to defend his mother’s sanity. His father’s hand stopped his reach and pulled him away from the weapon. His other hand lifted Mousorrow’s head to face him. His bold strong face gleamed of comfort and worry.
            “This battle is not for you my son. You mustn’t trouble your soul with these matters. Your mother needs you to be here for her” stated Makhar.
            “What if you don’t return father…we aren’t strong enough to continue without you” cried Mousorrow.
            “Never let anyone convince you that you’re not strong enough!” said his father.  “You are capable of great things my son and you must always remember that!”
            He took in a deep breath and raised himself back to his feet. He walked back to his house where he once again found his mother sleeping on the floor in her room. The fresh cloths he had put on her before the feast was now drenched with sweat. He found her some more fresh cloths and replaced the wet ones. He leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek and continued onto his own room. Within his room he had laid some hay on the floor with a long brown cloth over it as his bed. He turned around and fell onto his hay made bed. Deep down he knew he had to be strong. He knew he would have to accept the position of tribe leader if they presented it to him. He thought strongly to himself that he mustn’t fail again as he slowly drifted off into a deep sleep.
            The morning sun peeked above the mountain tops like a rose rising for its first breath of spring. Mousorrow remained lying in bed staring off into the empty space of his mind. He could see the images of the Orcs while he was replaying the previous evening within his head. He could see his mighty chief falling to the Dagger of Despair and the chief’s body slowly decaying as if he had watched the entire scenario himself. He quickly shook it off and lifted himself from his bed. He found some of his deer skin clothing and placed it upon his body. The comfort of the deer skin warmed his flesh at the touch of it. He then quickly wrapped a leather strap carrying a sheath for his sword around his waist. He swiftly swung his sword around like he was practicing a technique and just as swiftly placed it in his sheath.

            As he left his house he could easily notice the deepening look of sorrow on his fellow tribesmen’s faces. The whispers around him seemed like screaming to his ears with his hearing of a bat’s magnitude. Everyone was talking about the funeral that was about to take place later that evening. The overwhelming conversations were about to take hold of him when he was relieved by Semria. Semria embraced him with a loving hold that seemed to melt his heart upon her touch.
            “Don’t let it all get to you my love” whispered Semria into his ear.
            “I have to be strong Semria…our people need an example of strength” explained Mousorrow.
            “I’m not as worried about our people as I am you my love” worryingly replied Semria.
            “I will be fine in due time. Now come, we must help prepare for the ceremony for Chief Abmoor” he said.
            “I’m already helping by watching some of the youth for the parents that are helping with the preparations” said Semria.
            “Very well…off I go then” smiled Mousorrow. He kissed Semria on her forehead and turned into a walk towards the ceremonial grounds of the Orogga. He quickly passed through the busy parts of the village without being interrupted by his fellow tribesmen. He swiftly approached the ceremonial burial grounds which brought a small amount of comfort to his heart. As saddening as death was, nothing seemed more beautiful then the ceremonial burial grounds for the Orogga. This spot of exquisite beauty was in a part of the forest that had flooded thousands of years ago, leaving only the water and the trees visible. The tree limbs hung down towards the water and off of the branches grew forever blooming white flowers that occasionally would fall off and float upon the water. Butterflies found this area to be home during the day and lightning bugs during the night. It was as if a goddess of demanding beauty and relaxation found this place to be her resting grounds. As he approached the line between land and water he noticed Abmoor’s burial casket had already been carved. The Orogga used some of the finest wood within the forest for burial caskets and with ever burial they would carve into the caskets magnificent designs depicting the dead one’s life and their journey into future worlds. As he began running his fingers over the pictures depicting Abmoor’s great life he could smell the scent of some Guymoor being burned. Guymoor was a very rare and expensive weed that grew within the forest and was commonly smoked to help ease one’s mind. Puzzled and confused he followed the scent and found what he knew to be the craftsmen of Abmoor’s casket resting between two trees while smoking on their pipes. One of the men, which he knew to be Hocknon, was slightly taller then the other even though both men were rather short compared to the rest of the tribe and had a rather large abundance of black hair with a grayish brown tint on the ends of every hair. The other man, which he knew to be Tringo, was the smallest, leanest and the only person with fire red hair amongst the entire tribe. Tringo and Hocknon had been adopted into the tribe and most of the tribe had just recently discovered that they weren’t even wolf Therions. Most of the tribe just simply assumed that all Therions turned into wolves but it turned out to their surprise that the Therion race included almost any animal species they could think of. Tringo came from a line of fox Therions and Hocknon came from a line of raccoon Therions, which of course completely explained their urges for stealing and their untouchable skill at it. The two young looking men looked up at him with smiles on their faces and not a care in the world.
            “Well hello their Mousorrow!” happily welcomed one of the craftsmen. “Would you care to have a puff with us?” laughingly asked the craftsmen.
            “No Hocknon I do believe I should remain clear headed for tonight’s ceremony” replied Mousorrow.
            “Suit yourself MouMou; I couldn’t ever stand these god forsaken ceremonies myself. If you change your mind we have plenty to spare” said Hocknon.
            “Yeah, we found old man Foltymeir’s stash hidden within his den” laughed the other craftsmen.
            “Tringo and Hocknon, still the village thieves like when we were pups. You know the Elders would have a piece of your hide if you were ever to be caught” laughed Mousorrow.

            “Yes well we haven’t ever been caught now have we?” snickered Hocknon. As Mousorrow began to smile and shake his head in disbelief he began to sense the approach of the village.
            “You two better put that away if you wish to never be caught; the village approaches as we speak” warned Mousorrow as he rose to his feet and walked towards the clearing.
            Mousorrow could see his people approaching him with already lit torches as the day’s light began to fade. Mousorrow could already see the Elders dressed up in their ritualistic cloaks and the tribe’s women carrying baskets of the flowers that grew on the trees surrounding the burial ground. He remembered from burials before that the flowers would be placed on top of the casket as it was sent floating into the water. Some of the tribe’s people were already chanting songs in memory of their great chief. The songs, which were written to depict his life and his achievements in his honor, seemed to uplift Mousorrow into comfort like a pair of wings carrying a bird into the sky. As the casket was rested onto the ground, one of the elder shamans began chanting and sprinkling ritualistic herbs over the casket. Chief Abmoor’s casket was then gently guided into the water and the entire tribe bowed as the shamans chanted out to their dead leader. A chilling silence befell the tribe as everyone bowed in prayer for their chief. The silence seemed to press on for forever until somebody finally felt content enough to return to life.      
            Mousorrow arose quickly to his feet and began walking back towards the village when Armon just as quickly ran up from behind him.
            “Are you ok brother?” caringly asked Armon.
            “Yes I’ll be fine…I just have a lot on my mind” replied Mousorrow.
            “You shouldn’t let such things get to you. Maybe the festivities tonight will lighten your mood” smiled Armon.
            “Yes perhaps they will” sighed Mousorrow. Without any delay the rest of the tribe began to rush the village in an energized chaotic burst. A bonfire suitable for a king was quickly built and the flames began to rip through the darkening dusk sky. The tribe began to dance around the fire while yelling and howling into the horizon. Their bodies began twisting and swirling amongst each other and their feet pounded the ground like the thundering drums of war. After hours of relentless dancing in celebration for their lost leader the crowd slowly began to disperse into much smaller crowds. Food was gathered for the celebration along with gallons of ale which the tribe spent little time consuming. Mousorrow found that he was laughing hysterically with his brother as they reminisced previous events involving getting into trouble with their now dead chief. Amongst the laughter and the drunken happiness of the tribe, Mousorrow noticed Semria dancing amongst the fire. Her body seemed to move amongst the exotic flames like a goddess. Every flicker of light and heat at her very command, it was almost as if she was the fire. He watched in complete amazement for awhile until something struck his attention.
            “THEY ARE COMING FOR US!” psychotically yelled Lolathie from just outside the gathering. “THEY WILL CONSUME US ALL AND HE WILL ABSORB THE DESTRUCTION THAT FALLS UPON US! HE WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING! NOBODY WILL SURVIVE HIS UNHOLY WRATH!” she yelled again. Mousorrow and Armon quickly jumped to their feet and ran to their mother’s side. Mousorrow reaching her first grabbed hold of her and began to walk her away from the gathering. Armon quickly caught up to the two and questioned the situation.
            “What in the heavens could she possibly be ranting on about now?” asked Armon.
            “She’s just dreaming again Armon it’ll be ok I’ve got her” caringly replied Mousorrow.
            “I’m not dreaming my boy! He is coming and you must stop him!” worryingly shouted his mother.
            “Mother nobody is coming! It was all just a dream! Now I am taking you back to bed before you scare everyone else within the village!” angrily spoke Mousorrow. Lolathie began to cry as he walked her back to her home. After reassuring himself that his mother was ok Armon broke off away from the two and returned to the celebration. As Mousorrow laid his mother down to rest he began to shiver while the wretched feeling of being watched crept up his spine. He spun around while drawing his sword and quickly examined the room for any potential intruders. Even though his senses screamed otherwise, he couldn’t find anything. He withdrew his guard and kissed his mother who had already fallen back asleep. He swiftly turned and walked out of his her home finding Semria standing just outside her door.
            “How is she?” quietly asked Semria with a look of worry on her face.
            “She’ll be fine, she was just having another one of her dreams” explained Mousorrow.
            “Are you sure her dreams don’t have any form of meaning?” asked Semria.
            “Well no, I can’t be completely sure but I have yet to find any form of meaning in her nightmares” replied Mousorrow. “Maybe if she could explain in more depth what these dreams mean they would make more sense but all I ever get out of her is…HE’S COMING FOR US ALL! What kind of meaning can I get out of that?”
            “Maybe there is someone within the tribe that she fears and her nightmares is her way of trying to tell you that” replied Semria.
            “She should know that I would defend her against anything at any cost” growled Mousorrow. Semria lovingly embraced him within her arms and whispered into his ear.
            “I’m sure she does my love. Which is exactly why I’m so in love with you; and why the tribe desires you for our next leader” said Semria. He kissed her forehead and stepped out of the embrace while still holding her shoulders.
            “Do you think I can lead the tribe into better times?” he asked her.
            “I believe you were born for greatness. I believe that one day a great evil will darken your days but you will fight and overcome it like the great man you are. Although it doesn’t really matter much how I feel about it; the village is gathering to discuss new leadership tomorrow” explained Semria.
            “So whether I can lead the tribe or not the choice is being made tomorrow?” asked Mousorrow.
            “That’s how I take it my love” laughed Semria. She took his hand as they walked back to the celebration. Just beyond the two lovers, hidden deep within the shadows, stood a stunned Armon. The fury began to boil within his blood as the thought of his brother taking his rightful position began scorching through his mind. Armon began thinking to himself (how could his only beloved brother do something like this to him after all that he’s done for him?) The question began even penetrating his morals. He knew deep within his heart that he had to now prove himself to his brother and take what is rightfully his.
            As Mousorrow and Semria approached the rest of the clan, Mousorrow could hear occasional whispers about his mother as he passed. The whispers only lasted shortly as the Orogga continued to dance and sing amongst one another. Mousorrow and Semria joined in on the dancing and quickly lost themselves in a relieving cloud of happiness. Armon approached Mousorrow and asked for a brief moment to speak to him. The two brothers walked away from the celebration to avoid any listening ears. Mousorrow noticed agitation painted upon his brother’s youthful face as he guided him further away from the tribe.
            "I've heard talk about you becoming the clan's new chief “sneered Armon.
            "Yes I have heard word of that as well" replied Mousorrow.
            "Well you aren't seriously considering it are you? What about you becoming the leader of the Four Moon's?" worryingly asked Armon.
            "That offer hasn't been presented to me Armon and our tribe is of more importance to me then the Four Moon's would ever be" said Mousorrow.
            "But I was supposed to become the next chieftain of the tribe. Other then you I'm the best amongst the males of our tribe and you were supposed to be going elsewhere leaving me the position as heir to the Orogga's leader." replied Armon with a new volume of irritation to his voice.
            "Well I do apologize brother but the time has come sooner then expected for a leader capable of leading our people into the new age." said Mousorrow.
            "I'M A CAPABLE LEADER!" angrily screamed Armon. Mousorrow stepped back slightly worried of his brother's intentions.
            "Armon you and I both know you aren't ready to lead a tribe yet. Maybe one day when you've grown a little more..." said Mousorrow when suddenly he was interrupted by his brother's clenched fist crashing into the side of his face followed by a powerful kick into his chest sending him barreling into the ground.
            "IF I AM SO INCAPABLE OF LEADING THEN PICK YOURSELF OFF THE GROUND AND ALLOW ME TO PROVE MY WORTHINESS!" challenged Armon. Mousorrow slowly picked himself off the ground slightly stunned that his brother had just planted him into the forest floor. He quickly braced himself preparing for another attack from his now infuriated brother.
            "I am not interested in fighting with you Armon. It will not prove your worthiness to me nor will it prove anything to the tribe" argued Mousorrow. Armon in a rush of rage bolted towards his brother in an attempt to ram him. Mousorrow already being properly prepared was able to smoothly dodge his brother's attack and retaliate by sending him rushing directly into a tree. In another rush of confusion Armon spun around and attempted to attack his brother again but only found his feet swept out from under him and laid out on his back while staring up into the night sky. Armon took a second to shake off what had just happened to him and then quickly drew a dagger from its sheath.
            "THE TRIBE IS MINE!" Armon wailing his demonic war cry as he lunged the dagger for his brother's chest. Mousorrow without even thinking twice about it knocked the dagger out of Armon's hand and replanted him onto the ground with a swift palm to his chest.
            "What insane madness has brought you to the point of attempting to kill your own family?" asked a worried Mousorrow. Armon took a little longer picking himself back up off the ground. He swept his hand across his forehead to find an opened wound beginning to heal after being thrown into the tree.
            "No matter now brother! I know when I'm not needed around!" angrily scowled Armon. In a flash Armon leapt into the forest and disappeared into the night. Mousorrow felt a tug on his arm holding him back as he attempted to retrieve his brother. Before him stood none other then Hurall. With his powerful hand gripping his arm Mousorrow was unable to take chase after his infuriated brother. .
            "I must go after him...in this rage there is no telling what he'll do" said Mousorrow.
            "Let him go son. He'll return when he's ready" calmly said Hurall. It took Mousorrow a second or two before he came to the conclusion he couldn’t break Hurall’s grip. 
            "I just don't understand why he's so infuriated about all of this" replied Mousorrow.
            "Being a chief to the tribe is a great honor Mousorrow. Your brother simply thought that one day he would become the chief and now that he realizes that idea is nothing more then a lost dream he has become very angry. " explained Hurall. He let loose of Mousorrow's arm and turned to walk away. "Come now...you need your rest for tomorrow."
            The two Therions walked back to where the celebration had been taking place. Most of the tribe had already dispersed to their homes for rest. It had grown so quiet that Mousorrow could almost dance to the sound of the cackling fire. While Hurall continued walking towards the Hall of the Elders, Mousorrow returned to his own home. He found his mother sleeping and the fight with his brother was still playing through his mind. Resting his eyes and resting his mind, he quickly fell into a deep sleep.
            A new spring morning came quickly and Mousorrow woke to the smell of a fresh rain falling onto the ground. He took in a deep breath of the cleansing smell and sighed as it seemed to rid his spirits of his troubles. He lifted himself out of his bed and began stretching his muscles while the images of his brother attempting to kill him began running through his mind again. He searched his room for his own personal stash of Guymoor which he found near his bed and quickly began to gently crumble some of it into a small wooden pipe. He then placed a small piece of burning wood into the pipe and began to inhale the fragrance. The mind melting smoke seemed to seep into his soul and melt away any worries that he had. He wanted to be worry free for the tribal gathering today and his brother surely wasn't helping at all. He slowly closed his eyes and began to feel his body gently float through the air or so that is the illusion the herb bestowed upon his body. He could hear his mother begin to stir but he couldn't seem to find the care to go check on her. Lolathie walked into his room to find him sprawled out on his bed.
            "So I hear the village gathering is today" whispered his mother. Mousorrow quickly woke himself out of his altered state of mind and was completely in awe that his mother was talking without bringing up the end of all life itself.
            "Yes mother it is. How are you feeling?" he asked still in complete astonishment.
            "I'm feeling ok my son. I wanted you to know that no matter what happens I have faith that you'll do the right thing" smiled his mother. He arose and embraced her within his arms. He found more comfort in his mother's arms then he could ever imagine finding in any herb. His mother turned and walked back to her resting place and quickly fell back into a deep sleep. He gathered his weapons and left his house out into the gently pouring rain.
            Mousorrow saw some of his fellow Orogga quickly running towards the Hall of the Elders where the gathering would take place. The great wooden structure had burning torches placed right outside the massive wooden doors indicating a meeting was at hand. As he approached the thick wooden doors, he could remember as a child playing in front of this massive wooden dwelling. He could see the younger him play fighting with his younger brother who was now enraged with him. His memory quickly dissipated when he was bombarded by the roaring sound of the Orogga tribe discussing leadership within one very vibrant room. The room was designed much like a half sphere with a circular wooden table in the center where the elders sat. Many rows of long benches were built climbing upward around the center so that the tribe could adequately discuss options amongst one another and the elders. It isn’t in tradition but in almost every meeting the tribe would divide themselves up by families when choosing who to sit with. Mousorrow quickly found his seat next to Tringo and Hocknon, the two brothers of endless possessions that weren’t theirs.
            “Dear boy where is that cunning brother of yours?” questioned Tringo. “I do say if he is late to yet another meeting the elders might have him lashed.”
            “Oh leave little MouMou alone oh mighty knight of ignorance. Don’t you remember his brother and him are in the middle of a quarrel at the moment?” teased Hocknon.
            “Oh yes now I remember” replied a now slightly frightened Tringo as he watched for Mousorrow’s response. Mousorrow replied with no comment but yet utter silence as he awaited the meeting to begin. Hurall entered the room and took a brief look around the room, surveying his fellow tribesmen. The old Therion being satisfied that most of the tribe was accounted for made three swift bangs on the wooden floor with his staff. The entire room was thrown into a dead silence within seconds of Hurall’s staff announcing its presence.
            “All of our souls have been dampened by the sudden death of our great leader Abmoor but I’m afraid the time has come that we move on and find ourselves a new leader” slowly spoke Hurall with a surprisingly amplified voice. “With the picking of a new leader comes great responsibility not only with our own needs and desires but also with that of the tribe itself.” The entire tribe stared intently with every word that came from their respected elder’s voice. “I beckon you to come together and search your souls not as an individual but as a tribe so that we may find the answer most beneficial to our well being as a whole” finished Hurall. The tribe immediately began in a uproar, conversing with each other about their ideas and arguments. Mousorrow began watching his tribesmen argue back and forth like he had done many times before. He’d normally tune into specific conversations but the entire room appeared to have something to say on this issue. Tringo and Hocknon were completely disinterested by the commotion but rather more tuned in on what appeared to be a purse of some value. Mousorrow slapped Tringo’s chest and gave him a disapproving shake of his head. Hocknon in retaliation of this stood quickly and raised his arm.
            “I NOMINATE MOUSORROW FOR TRIBE CHIEF!” bellowed Hocknon. The entire tribe, most of all Mousorrow, stopped their chaos and turned their attention to the young Therion. Hocknon nodded his own approval of his actions while smirking widely and brushing his hand through his brownish black hair. Hurall, not being taking aback by this nomination, began examining the expressions around him. A few of the elders began mumbling to each other around the table and another nomination came from the audience.
            “I support that nomination!” proudly spoke Grocknik. Grocknik wasn’t an elder but nevertheless was highly respected amongst the tribe for his negotiation and political talents. Almost instantaneously the rest of the tribe began nodding their heads in agreement and one by one began standing in approval for Mousorrow’s nomination. Mousorrow could feel a warm sensation rising in his chest even while noticing one of the elders arising in obvious disapproval.
            “ARE THERE NO MORE NOMINATIONS? WILL YOU HONESTLY DECIDE THIS QUICKLY ON WHO LEADS US?” argued one of the elders who strongly loathed Mousorrow and Armon. The disapproving elder returned to his seat when he was completely ignored by the tribe. The tribe was once again in complete uproar but this time it was in approval for Mousorrow. His name was being cheered by different sections of the room and applause was endless around him. Mousorrow arose from his seat and nodded to his tribe. Hurall raised both his hands and his staff into the air and the room became silent.
            “Then it is settled…Mousorrow from this day forth…shall lead us through our path to come!” blissfully announced the eldest of elders. The pandemonium began again followed by everyone wanting to shake their new chieftain’s hand. Mousorrow consented to them and was quickly overwhelmed by his tribe. The same disapproving elder from before arose again with a slight smirk on his face.
            “AND WHO WILL BE THE BRIDE OF OUR NEW FEARLESS LEADER? IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN TRADITION THAT OUR CHIEFTAIN BE WED!” smiled the elder. Once again the entire tribe turned their attention from the elder back to Mousorrow in question.
            “I choose Semria daughter of Grocknik as my bride!” spoke Mousorrow with absolute certainty. Grocknik arose once again and nodded his approval followed by his daughter rushing to her soon to be husband. The two lovers embraced each other in a loving hold and the tribe cheered for them. The room began to disperse while Mousorrow and Semria still held each other close. Semria stretched up to Mousorrow’s ear and began whispering to him.
            “I told you it would happen my love…the tribe was anonymous” she gently spoke.
            “I just hope I’m capable of being what they are imagining in their minds” warily spoke Mousorrow. The two held each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

Reviews

[Chistie]

Another great chapter!! Good Job! I'm a little worried about Armon, i hope he can except his brothers new responsibility!!