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Starlit Soul 7 - Interlude: The Bloodhorns
🕑 Added 2026-01-13 20:01:07 +0000 UTCChief Stonehide of the Bloodhorn Tribe was a massive creature, far larger than all the other minotaurs gathered before him. His shaggy torso was broad and covered in battle scars, arms as thick as tree trunks with great bulging muscles, and curling horns twice as thick as the largest of his tribesmen. Even sitting, hunched over and slowly chewing on a raw deer leg, biting through flesh and fur and bone alike, he managed to loom over all others. His beady black eyes roved over the meal hall, his tribesmen making merry and feasting on the fruits of their hunt. A roaring fire sat in the center of the long, rectangular yurt tent, bones occasionally tossed into the flames as hunters gave tribute of their successful kills to the Great Bull before sitting back on the furs they used as seats.
Stonehide watched in stoic silence, fingering his necklace of bones. Only he did not celebrate. Near the entrance, where the hide-covered walls of the tent broke open to reveal the rain-soaked plains, two young bulls crashed their horns together in a meaningless scuffle of dominance. He snorted, nostrils flaring as he took another bite out of his deer leg. There was only one dominant minotaur in this tribe, and his name was Stonehide. All other hierarchies were meaningless.
“Great Chief,” the old shaman, Greyhide, whispered from his place beside Stonehide. He looked over at the ancient shaman, who had been old when he had been a young calf. His hide was as grey as his name, his horns whittled down to little more than nubs and teeth so rotten all he could eat was soup from a wooden bowl. Said soup was held in one withered old palm, a spoon half-held to his muzzle and dripping liquid onto the ratty buffalo-hide cloak draped over his scrawny, ancient form. His sunken eyes gazed unseeing at the ceiling.
“What do you see, Greyhide?” Stonehide asked, setting aside his deer haunch and wiping the blood on his muzzle on the back of one massive hand.
“It is time. The Great Bull has spoken. We unite the tribes, conquer the lesser peoples, and march upon the Mountain,” he intoned, green light shimmering in the back of his eyes. Stonehide stroked his long, shaggy beard, decorated with bone beads, in thought.
“Are you certain?” he asked. The old shaman nodded and set his bowl of soup aside, grabbing the gnarled wooden staff beside him. A ribcage had been fixated at the top of the ritual staff, inside of which sat the skull of Stonehide’s greatest, and freshest, kill; an elf, the mountain spirits the Great Bull hated so. Its eye sockets stared at Stonehide blankly, and now served as a focus for Greyhide’s magics.
Stonehide was fine with this. He would have more trophies.
“Yes.” Greyhide said, feebly pulling himself into a standing position.
“HERD OF THE BLOODHORNS!” Spittle flew from Stonehide’s maw as he roared, chunks of bone and viscera flying forth. All sound immediately ceased in the meal hall, save for the clatter of food being dropped and one of the young bulls tossing the other to the floor before turning to greet their chief. He stood, hooves pressing into the bear-skin rug at his feet as he rose to his full nine feet of height, horns scraping the ceiling. “THE TIME HAS COME!”
A murmur ran through the minotaurs as they shifted in their seats.
“The time has come,” he repeated, softer, though his deep, rumbling voice still echoed through the long hall. “To unite the tribes. The Great Bull has spoken! The plains must be united – all must fall beneath one tribe for us to once again reach the halls of endless feasts! It matters not who stands in our way, for we will be victorious!” His tribe cheered at the declaration, fists pounding on their legs and waving chunks of meat in the air. “Will you bow to the weak Greenplains?”
“No!” they denied.
“Will you grovel at the feet of the useless Redclubs?”
“NO!”
“No!” Stonehide agreed, nodding. His tribesmen cheered and cheered, roaring their approval. He let them. Even past when he would usually stop them, unable to bear their relentless enthusiasm, he let them drum their hooves on the ground and rattle the flimsy walls of the large tent. Until, one by one, they fell silent, noticing that he was not joining in on the cheering. One by one, all looked to him. Greyhide shifted uncomfortably beside him.
When he did finally speak again, it was softly. More subdued. Almost somber. “No. No, we will not. There can only be one tribe remaining, and the others will fight horn and hoof to be the victors. To be the Great Bull’s champions. But it will be us. It will be the Bloodhorns.” He spoke with utter conviction, meeting the eyes of the assembled minotaurs. “I will not lie to you. This will be a long and arduous fight, for none will wish to be brought to heel, and even a cornered mouse will bite. But we will see it done – for the Bloodhorns. For the Great Bull!”
“For the Bloodhorns! For the Great Bull!” The chant was softer this time but firmer, a fire behind it that spoke of each bull’s conviction to succeed, to see their names remembered around victory pyres for generations to come.
“Go, make merry tonight! Feast and be joyful! For tomorrow, we march to war!” Stonehide bellowed, rattling the walls with the force of his shout even as he strode to leave the yurt. With a single twitch of his hand he motioned for Greyhide to follow, marching past his fellows, looming over them by a good head, even as they stood to part for him, cheering the whole way, and pushing through the hide flaps covering the entrance.
It was a still night, despite the drizzle that coated everything in a wet sheen. Clouds hung in the sky, obscuring the stars and moon, a chill wind blowing through the plains. The Bloodhorn Tribe’s yurt tents lay scattered before him. Different than the long meal-hall tent he had just been in, their personal tents were round and made of a dozen furs all stitched together. Women and children could be seen occasionally moving about in the darkness, the women shorter and with smaller horns but no less fierce for it. Greyhide emerged behind him, using his bone staff to help keep him upright.
“Is everything alright, oh Great Chief?” he asked subserviently. It was an act to fool the lesser minded, Stonehide knew, but he let the old man have his fun. He still served, after all.
“Walk with me, shaman.” He rumbled, stepping forward into the night, hooves squelching in the wet ground. Greyhide hobbled after him, Stonehide slowing to let the old bull keep pace as they wove between yurts. It wasn’t until they left the encircling tents that he spoke again. “What does the future hold, old one?”
“I see great victories,” Greyhide began, but a snort from Stonehide cut him off.
“Do not insult me. You, yourself told me that seeing the future is good for telling the weather or seeing the movements of the buffalo herds, but not for the other’s actions. Our goal is not just to unite the tribes. It is to march upon the Mountain you spoke of.” Stonehide accused. Greyhide was silent for a moment, head bowed.
“You surely are a wise chieftain. Yes. The Great Bull demands we take the mountain, so he can descend onto the world and bring us all back to his paradise, before we landed in this…place,” he said softly.
“Stay your mind. Tell me what you see,” Stonehide demanded again, heading off the rambling of the past he could sense was coming in Greyhide’s monologue. The old bull seemed to shake himself, frowning and tugging at the wispy grey beard on his chin.
“The future is full of bloodshed. Soon, The Flame will leave this mortal realm – only then can we march on the Mountain. Beware the one of red, for he is their strongest warrior.” Greyhide said, gaze drifting. Stonehide nodded, accepting his warnings but not putting too much stock into them.
The unwise followed a seer’s words to the letter. That was what had led his father to ruin. He was not his father. And yet…
“If I were truly wise, I would have killed you long ago. You and your foul magics,” Stonehide said with a snort.
“Chief?” Greyhide said, taking a few tottering steps back, fear in his voice. Stonehide hid his grin, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long for the old bull.
“Do not worry, old one, you are far too useful and I find your scheming amusing. Now leave me. I must think.” He said at last, turning away from the shaman to look out over the dark plains. Greyhide bowed and hobbled away all-too quickly, though that only dimly registered in his mind.
A great challenge lay before him. The greatest of hunts. Somewhere out there were the other minotaur tribes, few as they were. They would need to be conquered first, then they could think of the Mountain. A sneer crossed his muzzle as he stepped forward, sucking in a deep breath and roaring out his challenge to the plains. It echoed long and far into the empty night, a promise to conquer this silent world.
Just as his ancestors had conquered the plains of their homeland, unreachable as they now were, he, too, would conquer.
His name was Stonehide, Chieftain of the Bloodhorn Tribe. And he was marching to war.
***
Alaric watched in disgust as the plains people, these…minotaurs, fought each other. Five of the dark-furred bull-men, the ones with the tips of their long horns painted red, had ambushed a hunting party from another tribe as if they were hunting common beasts. A well-thrown spear had pierced through the leg of one of the three lighter-furred minotaurs, distracting the others long enough for the five hunters to burst from behind a jutting boulder to charge with spear and club.
What he was witnessing now was violence the sort of which he had never seen before. The red-horned minotaurs laid into the others with merciless aggression, bashing with club, goring with horn, stabbing with spear. The light-furred ones did not relent, either. Once they understood what was happening they fought back just as hard, screaming in rage and fighting with reckless abandon, heedless of their own safety. As he watched one of the minotaurs was disemboweled, its pained scream echoing across the plains even as it continued to stab with its spear. A sharp blow to the head ended its life, though its killer was still injured.
Bile rose in the back of Alaric’s throat. What kind of creatures could kill their own kind like that? Not for food, but for, what, killing for killing’s sake? What foul god created these…beasts?
Where did they come from? He, of all people, would have noticed if these beings had been present in the plains for any time at all. True, it had been near-on half a century since he’d been this far into the northern plains, but…that was no excuse.
Just as quickly as the fight started it was over. Only four of the red-horned ones remained standing. One of their number had fallen in the intense battle. With a grunt one of its comrades broke a horn off of its head before they just…left, leaving the dead to rot in the summer sun. Alaric’s scowl deepened. Despite their violence, the question still begged; where had they come from? Even if he hadn’t been this far into the northern plains for nearly half a century, he, or someone else, would have noticed them. They couldn’t have come from nowhere, right?
Perhaps it’s best if we didn’t notice them. He reasoned, swallowing his apprehension and emerging from his hiding place on top of a hill, lying in the tall, golden grasses that grew throughout the entirety of the plains, to approach the fallen dead. Most of the bodies had been savaged; horns broken, bones shattered, blood staining their thick hides. There was obviously some intelligence there despite their savagery, their spears were crude but effective, sharp stones had been hammered into their thick wooden clubs, loincloths hung from their waists, and necklaces had been tied around their necks. But he had to question their sanity.
They were massive, too, he noticed. Seven to eight feet of solid muscle, capable of shattering bone with a single strike of their head-sized fists, with sharp horns made for goring. Alaric knelt beside one, waving his hand over its dead body, its mouth open and teeth stained with blood.
“May your spirit find peace in the plains of the beyond,” he whispered, shaking his head. Senseless violence and death was not a good first impression to make. And if this was how they treated their own kind, how would they treat an elf?
With a grunt he backed away from the corpses, flies already starting to buzz about and crows circling overhead. He didn’t want to be here if anyone else came to investigate. Turning on his heel, Alaric took off at a lope across the plains, following the attackers as they returned to wherever they’d come from. He’d watch these people for just a bit longer, and when he had his assessment, return to the Mountain. Though someone will need to return here to keep an eye on these beasts. Make sure no elven lives get caught up in whatever savagery they are committing. He thought, gritting his teeth at the idea.
I just hope the Salamanders don’t turn out to be the same. Be careful, Lysander.
***
The old Wisdom uncurled herself from beneath her bat-leather blankets, waking to the soft breathing coming from her apprentices. The young salamanders were visible as little more than bulges beneath their black leather coverings in the blue light of the glowstone that hung from the ceiling. She blinked and yawned, but did not even try to go back to sleep. Her bones ached for movement, so she rose from her bedding and wandered forward, poking her head through the thin flaps of the tent to look at the village before her.
Only a few torches were lit among the huts built on the wide ledge, mostly from the guards standing watch at the tunnels leading to the lower levels. The biggest tunnel sat at the far end of the cavern, a wide, gaping thing that opened to a steep pit in the earth. Most of the guards gathered around there, where dangerous beasts were most likely to come crawling up, looking for an easy meal.
More recently a short stone wall had been built at the tunnel entrance, as a safety measure of sorts, a deterrent to keep that which dwelled deeper from coming up too far. Young salamanders had a lot of reckless ideas, but even she could admit that was a good one. She turned her attention away from them, and toward her favorite feature, ever since she was a hatchling.
Water dripped from great stalactites above to pool in the center of their little village, blue light radiating from the bottom of the pond. Ripples sent the light to dancing, and the Wisdom found herself enthralled by it for a brief moment, as she always did.
“Is everything alright, madam?” a young salamander asked, appearing around the corner of her hut. His obsidian-tipped spear was clutched in both claws, large yellow eyes watching her with concern. She recognized him as one of the foolish young ones who so often went to explore the upper world. Immediately her mood soured.
“Yes, yes,” she said, waving him off. “These old scales are just restless.”
“I see,” he said, nodding and shifting from foot to foot as he too stared out over the sleeping village. She observed him for a while, and sighed.
“What is on your mind, young one?” she asked. He looked startled that she asked him, large eyes blinking at her before he flushed, his stripes sparking in shame, and thrashed his tail.
“I wouldn’t want to bother you, but…I’ve been thinking about those forest spirits you mentioned. The star children,” he said, slowly. She frowned and plucked at her stone necklace, resisting a shudder. A young one, thinking? That’s never a good sign. “How would one approach them, or get their attention?”
The Wisdom froze at the question, her tail resting upon the cool stone ground. Sshe could not help it, no matter how she tried, her mind drifted back to that night not too long ago, when it had arrived. She had never seen it, but she could feel it. The being burned bright like the sun, warming the cave with its mere presence. She could feel its attention on her people, a passing curiosity before it moved on, thankfully before it had caused too much of a commotion. Even now the beings of the deep were restless from the lingering effects of that being’s light, dark things best left alone stirring in the deep.
She feared catching that thing’s attention once again, especially because she had a sinking suspicion it was of the same sort as the star child the spirits had told her about before, those few turnings of the day ago.
But she feared the young of her tribe’s curiosity in investigating the dark things of the deep even more than she feared the above world. Curiosity was a killer. With a start she realized she had been silent for too long, the young one staring at her in concern. She coughed and shook her head.
“I am not sure it was a spirit at all, though they did call the being ‘friend.’ A true spirit does not leave such physical markings, as you described,” she explained slowly, frowning. “But if you are dead set on seeking it out, I suggest stalking it like you might a bat. Find out what attracts it. Find out what it finds interesting. But do not actually hunt it. Not until you understand what it is,” she warned. The young salamander bobbed his head.
“That is what I thought.” He agreed. “I simply wanted another opinion. Thank you for your time, Wisdom. I will leave you in peace now,” and with that he scurried off, claws clicking against stone. She sighed heavily and wandered forward to the pool, dipping her head to sip from its waters. A droplet landed upon her head from above, and she twisted so she could see the ceiling as best as she could, in the darkness.
Not too long ago even this cavern had been untamed, and her people lived in fear of bats dropping from above. Now they had spears, and roofs over their heads, and this cavern made safe. It made the children reckless. Oh, great Ancestor. How I wish you would give me your guidance once again. She prayed, standing straight with a groan. Predictably, there was no echoing answer as there had been once before, in the days when her grandmother was young. These were not the same caves in which her people had been born, where the ancestral spirit’s voice could echo long and loud. She sighed and ambled back to her hut, tiredness sweeping over her once again, dragging her spine into a steep curl and setting her head to hanging.
Interesting times were ahead of her people, she feared. And she would not be here long to help them through it.
***
Stonehide: Chief of the Bloodhorn Tribe. Big, muscley, mean, and, worst of all, smart.
Greyhide: Seer of the Bloodhorn Tribe. Genuinely scared of Stonehide.
Alaric: Elder of the elves. Great hunter. Disgusted. Rightfully concerned.
Wisdom: An old salamander. Too old for this.
