The night air was thick with smoke of a thousand fires. Below, the tribes danced and feasted and fucked to celebrate God’s Birth- the day Krom, Maker-Of-Men sprung from the lands.
Just as Krom had come of the earth to vanquish the Dragons so that men might rule, so too did Ulcain erd Mvirkig rise from the soil. But the earth about him was of the burial hill, where those too disgraced to be burned as tribute were put in the ground to rot. And it was neither Dragon nor Giant that would be slain this night, but traitors and whores.
Axe in hand, Ulcain, Coward-Of-The-Plains, descended the hill. At the base of the trail sat the camp of Tribe Mvirkig, and toward it he ran. It was there that he found his betrayers, lost in the celebration. It was there that he tore them and their kin, men, women, children, limb from limb. Fueled by the bodies of the slain, Clan Mvirkig’s bonfire burned higher than any other.
It was only fitting that Ulcain, Coward-Of-The-Plains, took rule over an empty clan of decievers.