Infamous Goose
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Starlit Soul 13 - Interlude: One Tribe
🕑 Added 2026-02-10 19:17:05 +0000 UTCStonehide looked out over the army assembled before him. Three years it had taken to unite the tribes. Three long years of bloodshed and violence, the kind he thrived in, and it all came down to one last fight. One last brutal battle between minotaurs. Yet not once had he ever expected it to be the Greenplains who remained standing against him.
The Redclubs had fallen in the first four months, their chief a sniveling, stunted minotaur without a lick of courage in his bones. Others had come just as quickly, many of the lesser tribes willingly pledging allegiance to Stonehide. Even lesser beings – satyrs, they called themselves, along with a few other, stranger species – had been conquered. They would make good fodder for the coming war, their lives inconsequential and unimportant. Few could stand up to the ferocity of the Bloodhorns. Only the Greenplains, weak and peaceful as they were, continued to rage against their reign.
Weak and peaceful, not so much. Stonehide allowed, shifting his weight from one hoof to the other. A chill wind blew across the plains, promising the end of summer and setting the tall golden grasses to waving. But his gaze did not see that beauty. Instead it was fixated on his enemies. They are true warriors of the Great Bull. What was left of the proud tribe after three years of a losing war had fortified a rocky hill. Wood palisades had been erected at key points, each manned by at least one a minotaur, be they young, old, male or female, it didn’t matter. Each brandished a spear or a club, their horns painted green and adorned with the colorful braids they were known for, and each and every one looked ready to die for their chief. Grim and fierce, not an ounce of give in any of them.
They would not win this battle. But their position promised that every inch marched up that hill would be an inch paid in blood. Since day one of his war to unite the tribes, they had fought against him. It was only right they would be the last to bend the knee. Stonehide shuddered with pride and glee. What glorious opponents.
But bend the knee they would. There were only a hundred of them left, maybe a bit more, and most of their warriors had been killed in previous battles. He had nearly five times that at his back, and those were the fighters alone. Quietly he glanced over his shoulder at his assembled army.
Hundreds of minotaurs stood at his beck and call. Not all of them were fighters; he needed to intimidate the Greenplains, to force those who remained to accept his rule, and so had padded the numbers with the old and weak. But all were at the ready. In the very front stood the lesser races, the half-goat Satyrs shivering in the drizzling rain, huddling against each other away from Greyhide’s warbeasts. In truth, Stonehide hated the old bull’s creations. They had once been beasts of the plains, coyotes or the large bison that roamed about, but Greyhide’s foul magic had twisted them into something else entirely.
The coyotes, now called Hounds, had grown more muscular and fierce. Bone spurs popped out of their bodies at odd angles, and fangs sprouted madly from their slavering maws. The bison were massive and covered in thick fur, thick enough a spear would not be able to pierce it, and strength to match. Their charge was one you either avoided or died from being trampled, making them an absolute terror on the battlefield. For anyone besides Stonehide and the chief of the Greenplains, that is.
“Great Chief,” Greyhide muttered, bowing his head as he approached. Stonehide snorted at him, arms crossed across his massive chest as he turned back to the assembled Greenplains. A large part of him wanted nothing more than to take only his Bloodhorns to battle. For it to be tribe on tribe, rather than the slaughter it was destined to be. The Greenplains had earned that much. But in this case, he would not get his way. None doubted his strength. The strength of his army, however, had to be assured if they were to take the Mountain from the elves.
“What do you want?” He huffed out. The battle would likely begin soon. All he had to do was give the call.
“Their chief approaches.” Greyhide said. At that, Stonehide raised an eyebrow, stroking the long beard that grew from his muzzle. True to the ancient minotaur’s word, two large bulls were closing the distance between the hill and where Stonehide stood now, flanking the slightly smaller Chief of the Greenplains. The proud bull was clad in colorful ceremonial garb, walking with head held high and chest puffed up. It was the same thing the other Chiefs wore when they surrendered to him. Some sort of misplaced show of “strength,” surrendering as an equal.
There were no equals. There was only him, and those beneath him.
Disappointment filled his heart. All that fighting, all the ferocity from them, and it came down to this? A surrender? He had expected better, more, but he supposed he could see the logic from it. Surrender, to spare their people from death.
“I will see what they want. You all stay,” he rumbled, picking up the massive club that leaned against his side. Greyhide hesitated even as he started off down the hill with large, stomping strides, the few bulls who acted as his formal “guard,” as if he needed such a thing, wisely remaining behind.
“Great Chief,” Greyhide called, but Stonehide ignored the warning in his tone, slinging his club over his shoulder as he walked toward the party of three.
They stopped ten feet away, and spent a time sizing each other up.
Stonehide knew what they saw. He towered over even the tallest of bulls by a good head, his horns long and wickedly sharp, with muscles that were the envy of the strongest minotaurs. His hair was thick and dark, hide as tough as his name, and a silent confidence that shut down even the most ambitious of bulls. None could stand against him, he knew. He had proven that time and time again through sheer relentless might.
None of the three before him shied away, despite this.
But he only had eyes for the chief.
He was neither tall nor short. Stocky or lean. Proud, nor humble. His horns, painted green and colored with ribbons of red and blue, curled as gently and quietly as his demeanor might suggest – he did not exude confidence like Stonehide, nor did he seem like a bastion of strength. But having fought against him and his tribe, he knew better than to assume weakness. And the young chief knew better than to feign weakness to him.
The chief of the Greenplains met Stonehide’s gaze unflinchingly, his guards gripping their clubs in anticipation of a fight.
“Chief Greenhorn, of the Greenplains, greets Chief Stonehide, of the Bloodhorns,” Chief Greenhorn said formally, nodding in respect. Not subserviently, but respectfully. Stonehide sneered.
“Get on with it,” he rumbled. If this was a surrender, he wanted it over with.
“You will give our Chief –“ one of the young guards threatened, stepping forward, but was silenced with a single gesture from his Chief.
“No guards? No advisors? Quite brave of you, Stonehide,” Greenhorn said, raising his voice so it boomed across the plains, reaching as many ears as he could. Stonehide frowned, suddenly wary and uncertain of his initial assumption. What was he planning?
“Brave? No. It would take more than just you three to challenge me.” Stonehide replied, raising his voice to match Greenhorn’s own. The young chief grinned then, his expression lighting up in a way that made Stonehide stiffen, heart thundering in his chest with anticipation.
“So you claim!” He roared back. “But even with an army of all the tribes, you have yet to defeat me! You have yet to conquer my people! You might be strong, but your mind is weak! You could not best me with so many at your beck and call, just as you have not met me alone, in the field of battle! I do not ask you to defeat three minotaurs! I only ask you to defeat one!”
The words echoed out over the plains, and Stonehide felt a sudden thrill of excitement run down his spine. His shoulders straightened, ears perking up as he stared into Greenhorn’s eyes, the barest hints of a smile starting to grace his muzzle.
“I challenge you to Combat of Leadership! If the Great Bull truly wishes us to march on this…’mountain,’ as you so believe, why waste our people’s lives? Let us settle it with one! In the eyes of the Great Bull, do you dare to fight me, the chief of the Greenplains?!” Greenhorn bellowed. Then, quieter, he continued. “Well, Stonehide? What say you?”
Stonehide responded by laughing. It was a loud, long, braying laugh that had his entire body shaking, filled with nothing but joy. This was it. This was what he had wanted! One last ditch effort to overturn fate, to avoid what was a foregone conclusion, and to face it without an inch of fear!
“You are a true warrior of the Great Bull, Chief Greenhorn,” Stonehide thundered, once he was finished laughing. The young bull had more than earned the title Chief. There was truly no reason for Stonehide to accept – the tribes that followed him would not be swayed in their loyalty by Greenhorn’s bold challenge. It was a play on his pride. But that, too, wasn’t the reason he would accept the challenge. “Foolish though your thoughts are, I accept!” He roared.
In truth, all he wanted was a good fight.
***
“This is unwise, Great Chief,” Greyhide whispered. Stonehide grunted in acknowledgement, rolling his shoulders as he stared across the plain at Greenhorn. Their armies had come together for this, forming a ring for the two contestants to fight in. No weapons would be used. Only the gifts the Great Bull had given them – horn and hoof and fist. “There is no reason to take this risk.”
“Silence your concerns, Greyhide. This is a fight between true Minotaurs and we will settle it as such.” Stonehide rumbled, rising to his feet. His army roared out their approval as he stepped forward, Hounds howling into the sky, rattling the very plains with the force of their shouts. Greenhorn stepped forward as well, expression firm and determined. His people did not shout for him. As one, they stomped their feet, slamming the butts of their spears or clubs into the ground in a drumlike beat; the sound set Stonehide’s blood to roaring, anticipation rolling through his veins like waves.
There was no signal to start. Stonehide charged, and the fight began.
Greenhorn didn’t dodge as Stonehide had expected. Instead the smaller bull crouched low, ducking beneath his punch, and grabbed him around the waist. With a grunt of effort he heaved, and for a brief, thrilling moment, Stonehide was airborne. His back hit the ground with a thud, a whuff of air escaping him as Greenhorn rolled atop him, punching him square in the face. Once, twice, thrice.
Stonehide roared and grabbed his fist, pushing him off of him with as much force as he could muster. Greenhide was sent flying, tumbling across the ground yet still coming to a standing position. Stonehide rose to his feet and wiped his muzzle on the back of his hand, unable to hide his smile as Greenhorn came charging in, horns lowered and ready to gore. He, like Greenhorn, did not bother to dodge.
He just caught him by the horns. The impact rattled Stonehide but he did not so much as budge an inch, wrenching the smaller bull to the side and tossing him on his back. A swift kick caught Greenhorn in the side, the minotaur grunting in pain yet still managing to retaliate, hitting Stonehide in the knee with a hard punch. He grunted, knee giving out and falling forward only for Greenhorn to rise, elbowing him in the chin.
Stonehide took the hit and punched back, hitting Greenhorn in the chest so hard he was sent rolling head-over heels. With another grunt Stonehide stood again, spitting a glob of blood to the side. Greenhorn did the same, breathing heavily yet with defiance still burning in him.
What followed was nothing short of a brawl.
It quickly became apparent that Greenhorn was outclassed in strength, speed, and size. Despite how ferociously he fought, getting in a few good hits as the two duked it out and never giving an inch, Stonehide was easily keeping up with him. Each strike against him only made him laugh and his blood run hotter, every drop of blood he shed only made his excitement grow, every time Greenhorn was knocked down, only to get back up again, his desire to fight roared out its joy.
This was what he wanted. A true rival. Outmatched Greenhorn may have been in every class against Stonehide, but he made up for that gap in raw spirit.
But all things come to an end, and with one last punch, eventually Greenhorn fell. Silence reigned from the assembled army. Stonehide stood over him, chest heaving and sweat matting his fur, blood dripping from his nostrils and muzzle. Greenhorn was in a far worse condition, eyes swollen half-shut from bruises and drooling blood. His hands were bloody, the knuckles scraped and bleeding even as his fingers dug into the dirt beneath him, some small scrap of will urging him to keep fighting, limbs trembling as he tried to will himself to stand.
Stonehide place one hoof on the bull’s chest, unable to hide the wide smile on his face.
“Finish…it…” Greenhorn groaned, defiance burning in his swollen eyes.
“No,” Stonehide said with a laugh. “I will not deny our people your bloodline!” he continued, louder, voice echoing over the silent plains.
“…what…?” Greenhorn managed to spit out. Stonehide was no longer talking to him, though, addressing his subjects, now.
“What you see laying here is a true Minotaur! An example of what you should all desire to be – strong, fierce, proud, a warrior to the core! No, I will not deny our people the blood of a true minotaur!” He roared. If they could not be like him, and none could as he was Stonehide, they should at least aspire to be like the young Chief Greenhorn. “Greenhorn, your strength of spirit will be needed in the coming war. You have proven your worth to be one of my hands, your mind as sharp and strong as your fists! Together, we will march upon the Mountain and take it in the name of the Great Bull. You will be my left hand, Greyhide my right. By the right of the Great Bull, by the right of besting you in single combat, it will be so!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Stonehide thought he saw Greyhide shift uncomfortably where he stood, but dismissed it. With a single gesture he waved the Greenplains forward, their healers rushing out to tend to their fallen chief. Ex-Chief; Stonehide was their leader now. With a triumphant roar he raised his fist to the sky, a sound echoed by all minotaurs beneath him.
“THE TRIBES ARE UNITED! FOR THE GREAT BULL!” He bellowed.
“FOR THE GREAT BULL!” They bellowed back, stomping their feet. Stonehide smiled and let the sounds of war wash over him. Soon. Soon, we march to war and victory. By the Bull, I hope the elves can give me a fight like this.
