Twelve and Twelve

Twelve and twelve sit about a great fire in advancing night, their meeting one surrounded by the watching tribes.

“The time is now,” Noyan Thoksikh roars, slapping a bowl of milk ferment against his thigh. “Noyan Tokhta issued the summons! He must take his title, lead us in war!”

Noyan Tokhta only chuckles, taking a long drink of tripartite swallows from his own bowl. This meeting was settled. He and his cousins have considered, he knows. Checked, he knows. And concluded how best to navigate the seething sea that awaits, to what must be done without what could be done.

A quorum would bring all tribes as one in a horde to squander all life west of the Sarave. Noyan Tokhta seeks not this. But how could one who loves peace speak of battle and war?

So it is his fellow Noyan, Keidou of Ogdei Encampment, who speaks in his place, while he drinks in solidarity as arranged.

And the words are strong. Charismatic. Honourable.

But the words of his cousin surprise him. Noyan Tokhta’s head snaps to one side, watching his cousin with uncertainty. What his cousin Keidou says is… different, slightly. A term here. A phrase there. In sum this was not entirely what they discussed.

He cannot take back the words. A delicate balance, among so many competing tribes. He has always kept constraint.

So his voice echoes forth in parallel to called battle, called blood, called war, of bringing death to the outlanders.

“We protect what is ours,” Noyan Tokhta proclaims. “That is what we fight for! Take the west? What is west? Mountains of the monstrous. Hills of those not hale as we are. There is nothing of value to us there. We will demonstrate the might that the outlanders know not. We will make clear where we roam-”

“AND if they do not yield, they will die until it is done!” Keidou’s voice rises to a roar. “My cousin speaks well! He loves peace. Are we not a peaceful people? But we know that the west brings no peace to us, that these northern outlanders bring no peace to us. He made them friends, and they spit on it! He offers them seven entire months and they dissemble, they deceive, they lie! Instead they only insult! This we must answer in protection, of ourselves and our honour!”

“And there is time yet for their western allies to yield,” says Noyan Tokhta, dragging convocation back toward once-clear paths. “Some understand us, support us. Some are our true Friends. It was I who delivered ultimatum, I who made insult that they would give attention. But my word of seven months will not be ignored! Those who do will sully my honour and see my blade!”

“And are they likely to yield?” The voice comes from Noyan Khutan, her fair features furrowed in question and her crimson hair a firebrand. She is wise for her years, and more than cunning. And utterly unmatched with a blade taught in her family line by those known only as the ancient Pyramid. A thousand horses and her very bloodline are promised to he who defeats this sword maiden in battle.

None have.

“If they do not, I have warned them the Yekes Ghoum will ride with us,” says Noyan Tokhta. “We know that it will be so, for the shamans have already marked and made their ritual. The greater the blood, the stronger they be, and the greater their manifest.”

“And if they do not yield even to the Yekes Ghoum?” Noyan Keidou’s gaze is just the right mix of expression. But still just slightly the wrong words. Perhaps he is milk-flushed. He has ever loved it more than he should. “Cousin,” he continues, “of course we must know of the worst of events! Let me be the one to defend your honour. We will ride with Chaghut’s banner, not for ourselves but for you!”

Noyan Tokhta’s smile remains. A smile, or a grimace. Who could say?

“If they do not yield in direct we ride out,” he begrudges at last. “We return forever to days of the hard and the harsh, the days we once left behind generations ago. We are hostile once more. And the title will be claimed sooner, must be claimed nearer than later. If they yield, we may yet relent. This I swore, and this is my word. But if we surrender what is ours now, then they will take more. So we must ride out.”

Only one of the gathered Noyan says nothing. His figure is vast, his body purest towering muscle and his long moustaches true groomed. But his fellows give him wide berth, and in his empty eyes waits the death and slow torture of the stone-sitters and their children. All of them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: A meeting upon Meropis and determination of a path forward. While less than half of the full martial might lurking in Daoric depths, against Aerek Ancyrion’s refusal to accept their ancestral claim the assembled tribes of the great plains prepared to make a demonstration and return to the chaotic years near Seleucar’s fall.

Penned by My hand on the 19th of Scarlatan, in the year 993 AF.