Droaam: Graywall and Long Shadows

A DMs Interlude: Makoa

The caravan has managed to settle into some level of rest. Dull light from the coals of fire provide plenty of illumination for those with the right kind of slight. Sentries have little trouble keeping alert, their blood still riled up by the unexpected combat from the previous hour. Makoa sits though at neither rest nor watch, at least of any standard sort.

His attention focuses on swirling midnight shadows. Not of the woods around him, but within a crystal shard. The raw purple color somehow blends the brown grit from the road and clotted red blood flecks remaining on Makoa’s hands. It is hard to thoroughly clean while out in the wilds. Besides, something seems right about allowing the colors to meld. Blood, earth, and dragonshard; elemental components of life in Khorvaire. It makes the stone more real, easier to focus on. His thoughts are more real, more focused as well.

Makoa rarely recalls everything that comes to him while focused on the stone, almost like one may forget inspired thoughts that come just before sleep. In the moment though, it is easy just to let himself embrace instincts and intuition. His eyes might appear clouded, but in a primal way his mind is clearer than it can be at any other moment.

Right now it is focused on the wet cracking sound of skulls collapsing. The satisfaction of a enemy slain, of the weaker falling prey to the stronger. When Makoa had charged the orc earlier, there had been a tamed voice inside him calmly stating how the guard should simply be subdued. That domesticated part turned Makoa’s grip, bringing the flat side of the great axe to meet the enemy’s flesh. Like a beast spitting out the teeth from its jaw before biting down. Unnatural. A deeper part of Makoa had snarled at such a gesture, had wanted to axe to right itself. The open rage had had not gotten what it wanted there, but perhaps it had been able to claim triumph as a more subtle predator within its host.

That internal part could not feast on the flesh of prey, but now it could gnaw on the memory of the kill for every last scrap of nourishment. The sensations of blood splattering, final breaths and heartbeats ending even as the breast’s own vitality became stronger. That was food it could live on.

It had wanted the death of others. The second fell quickly after the first, but the last was spared. That one had shown its throat and backed away. But it should have died. Staring at the shard, Makoa felt the threat the last orc might pose. Its close pack mates were dead, half by Makoa. It might seek retribution. There were other, baser reason for its blood. It had been, at least in name, under Makoa’s herd as they traveled through the wilderness but not shown true deference to its alpha. And its actions might bring danger to the herd, or they may make Makoa’s clan seem weak. It might diminish the house. It should die.

Then there was the music maker. He too had brought danger by his actions. In a way, he had struck against the pack as well. Striking at those under Makoa dominance. Makoa had a right, the right of the stronger, to kill those in the pack who did not submit. The music maker had no such right. The music maker had acted out of order, and in doing so had challenged Makoa. It was unsubmited and a threat, and should feed the beast.

Then there was the spell maker, with his too civilized mind. His weakness and insistence on not recognizing the authority of those stronger than him was at the start of all this. He would make fine prey as well.

Then if the others fail to fall into line, then they too could be ravaged. No wasted effort would be made to bring them in line. They would either be followers or be dragged down to their death.

Other primal parts of Makoa swirled deeper in the reflection of the purple shard. So soon after being fed, this though was the strongest. The other facets flow as mostly unnoticed currents for now beneath that fierce tide. Just as Makoa attention is only faintly concerned with how the shard itself circles in a slightly oblong manner, the motion in time with his heart and the throb of his pulse as it travels beneath his skin. A pulse unusually warm and strong within the skin below his dragonmark as it faces the east.



I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.