It's been some months of exile..Though the town of Bree has been...oddly peaceful. Well, not peaceful, but enough for me to actually start something. Made a sort of name for myself, having put forth coin in the purchase of carts. The carts I lent to merchants, who gave me some of their profits. Dyes oddly seemed to pour in the most of my wealth..Quite enjoy the clink of coins, really. A little guilty for stealing some of it, and threatening the lives of some of the merchants, but, the coin in my purse has more use then just gathering dust in theirs. I've made friends, and have been visiting Rhudaur in secret..Coming into contact with the priesthood..My exile, and the slaughter of my tribe did not sit well with my folk..Almost as if the chieftains have broken a sort of unwritten law. Spilling the blood of kinsmen..Heh.
Coin, promise of position, and well..For old time sake, Temair has had a 'dream of prophecy'..That Rhudaur will return to crumbled stones and dust, if the curse isn't cleansed by blood. This 'curse' were the chieftains responsible for the slaughter of Tribe Munso. The folk all together already were grumbling at the loss of several hundred warriors, for one lousy move in politics. And so I returned.
The first few men I recognized..They were amongst those that fought against the Munso. It seems as though the Creoth believe me dead...And so these men fell upon their knees for forgiveness. Past the Red Pass, more, and more men fell in behind me, men who stood against me and Munso months past. Men who follow a man believed to have risen from the grave. Four Chieftains, arguing and pleading with Temair, no doubt about her 'prophecy'. Temair merely stepped backward, shaking her head slowly. Several hundred men were crowding the dias as they have a few months back, though silent. Ivar watched down at us from the battlements, the Gloom-waters were still. One of the cheiftains, a greybeard, died from shock, his heart stopping at the sight of a man brought back from the dead. Banging axe upon shield, Gorlakon stepped up to greet them, the way they greeted him a night many months ago.
The Creoth watched as Gorlakon met his rivals with axe and shield, a blur, for the most part. Determined to taste vengeance, determined to kill. Burying the head of his axe in one belly, he left it there to twirl out of the way of the club of the next, instead of Gorlakon, a sickening crunch came as the blow landed on his fellows face. Now it was just Gorlakon and the last cheiftain. Unsheathing his seax, Gorlakon rushed forward, smashing the mans nose with the lip of his shield, and then maneuvered to trip him. Gorlakon wasted no time, sending his shield crashing down against his exposed throat, letting him slowly choke..
What happened next was hazy, however, as none can recall what happened to the bodies, or when Ivar himself appeared before them. Gorlakon knelt before him, and Ivar declared him 'Ivar's Chosen, Warlord of Garth Agarwen, Cheif of the Creoth'. Roars of approval, a mighty feast, and a call to arms to the remaining lesser tribes of Rhudaur..
Rhudaur was gearing for war, under the old banners.
