For many years, since the Age of Darkness, the nomadic Piloti have traveled the arid plains to the West of Soleh, answering to no authority but their own. Hunting the gazelles, buffalo and lion of the plains, they are the best horsemen in Patria, born and raised in the saddle. They are also fiercely independent, refusing any attempt to “civilize” them by any outside forces.
Sankari was not an exceptional person. He was just barely a man when the Yellow Priests came to his tribe’s winter home. Nobody stood and fought, preferring instead to listen to what the strange newcomers from the land of sunrise had to say. They taught of medicine, of the marking of shapes upon paper for the storing of thoughts, of a strange grey metal that pierced the hides of buffalo like a bronze through water. More than anything else, they taught of the Father in the Sun. Many of the Elders did not like this talk of a Sun-god watching them, but they did see that more of their newborns lived, and so they remained silent. The next winter, Sankari’s people found a large house, big enough to fit his whole tribe, near their winter home, which the Yellow Priests called Fort. Many men lived there, all warriors of the Father in the Sun. This winter, though, the Yellow Priests were not as kind. They told the tribe that they were all to be blessed and become servants of the Sky-Father, so that he would would watch over them and guide them in the hunt. The tribe was put in a line, with warriors all around them. The Yellow Priests walked down the line, daubing ash on the foreheads of his people and saying words in a strange tongue.
As they reached him, he stepped back, refusing to be marked. The one who had learned their tongue smiled, asking what was the matter. Sankari refused to respond, and at the direction of the smiling priest, two warriors in hard, shining shirts led him to a wooden block and forced him to his knees. The priest kneeled before him again, and made his options clear. Accept the benediction, or lose a hand. Without a word, Sankari stretched his arm across the block. One of the warrior’s swords slashed down, and his hand fell free. Without making a sound, he laid his other arm across the block. With the slightest of hesitation, the sword came down again. pulling free of the warrior restraining him, he laid his head across the block. The priest did not have him killed, however. He was sent back to his tribe, as a symbol of what became of those who resisted them, and the Yellow Priests returned to Fort. The two warriors who led him back to his tribe’s village never made it home, though none but Sankari touched them.
Half-dead from shock and loss of blood and carrying two swords, Sankari’s wounds were bound, and he told his story. As he filled his people’s hearts with fire and rage, they left behind the hospitality they once felt for the Yellow Priests. As the people were preparing to assault the fort, a lone hunter returned from the wilderness. He told of a long column of troops, numbering in the thousands, marching towards the fort, three days march away.
As Sankari’s people prepared to fight, Sankari himself ventured into the fierce blizzards of the high plains on foot. The nearest winter camp was four days ride away during the summer, and almost impossible to reach on foot during a blizzard. Nevertheless, when the hundred warriors of Sankari’s tribe reached the point from which they were going to attack, Sankari was there, with the warriors of two dozen tribes. Mounted upon a horse as white as the snow on which it stood, and with the swords of the two warriors strapped to the stumps of his arms, he organized his troops to attack the column, now only an hour away.
Yet despite his miraculous success in bringing together the many tribes of the Piloti, there were those who questioned his right to lead, never having completed the Four Tasks of a war chief. Rather than argue, Sankari took a companion and rode over the next rise. Moments later, he returned, an unconscious scout of the Yellow Priests across his saddlebow, the man’s horse following behind and the man’s sword thrust through Sankari’s belt. Having seen him complete the Four Tasks in just moments, no others questioned his leadership
When the troops arrived, thousands upon thousands strong, they were caught by surprise by the hordes of screaming warriors, with bows, hunting lances and tomahawks charging down from the hills. The troops reacted with drilled grace, forming into armored blocks, the back ranks throwing short, heavy spears and the forward ranks layering their shields and stabbing with short, wide swords, but they could not match the ferocity and fire of the charging horsemen.
Once the battle was well underway, however, a bugle sounded and a troop of knights in shining plate, brandishing swords and lances rode towards the flank of the Piloti. Sankari quickly selected his bravest warriors and charged, meeting the force of knights head-on. At some point in the battle, the unarmored warrior cut down the Priest-Lord who commanded the force, cast down their sun banner and slew more than a dozen of the most elite cavalry in the world. During this fight, his body was pierced by many spears and swords, but still he fought on. Eventually, at great cost to the Piloti warriors, the troops of the Yellow Priests were forced into a retreat.
This gave them no respite, however, as the arrows of the hunters pursued them back across the plains. Of the five thousand that marched into the land of the Piloti, only three hundred returned. Ever since, the Yellow Priests have not tried to forcefully assimilate the Piloti tribes. In those tribes who have considered cooperation with Soleh, Sankari’s example of herosim is often held up by the opposition.
After the troops retreated, and the hunters started their pursuit, Sankari gathered his people and told them of his plans for the future. The Piloti were to remain true to their history unto their death, and to never allow the Yellow Priests back onto their land. He gave his solemn promise to return when he was needed, and rode off across the plains, blood from his countless wounds leaving a trail of red dots in the snow. He has not been seen in the four hundred years since, but his message has not been forgotten. It is said that some people, out hunting in the winter, sometimes see a trail of red drops in the snow leading towards a half-seen mounted figure riding off to the horizon.
Despite his bravery, however, there are those who consider their pride and independence a small price to pay for the benefits of cooperation with the Yellow Priests. Some even send their sons and daughters to fight for them in exchange for even greater support.
Re: A complete N00bz first try at world-building...
Guess who's good at avatars? Thormag. That's who.
Reply With Quote