FREE USE in Primitive World-Chapter 290: Arrival of Zharun Tribe
As the noise got closer, he realized that the rhythmic, grinding rumble wasn’t the chaotic, frantic stampede of a beast tide. Despite the chaos, it was measured. It was an organized, heavy march that vibrated through the petrified wood of the Feline Spire and transferred directly into the marrow of Sol’s newly hardened bones.
He stood up from the smooth floorboards of the balcony. His muscles felt like coiled steel wire, packing an immense, latent kinetic force, thanks to the breath of dawn he was practicing.
He walked to the carved railing, shifting his focus away from the southern canopy and aiming it directly toward the massive North Gate of the settlement.
He narrowed his silver-crimson eyes, pushing a fraction of his newly refined, hyper-dense purple essence into his optic nerves to engage his enhanced vision.
Even from this extreme height, his Sovereign’s Gaze picked up the metaphysical disturbance with crystal clarity. It was glaringly obvious, looking exactly like a thick, foul blot of toxic ink spreading rapidly across a clean sheet of paper.
A large group of riders was approaching the walls. They didn’t possess the warm, vibrant golden-blue auras of the Veynar warriors that Sol had grown accustomed to seeing. Their essence was entirely different. Theirs was a jagged, rotting gray... the sickly, suffocating color of old, desecrated graves and cold ash. It felt fundamentally wrong, a total corruption of the natural, wild energy of the Great Orrath.
"The Zharun bastards," Sol muttered, his voice a low, dangerous rasp.
He rested his hands on the balcony railing and watched as the massive, petrified obsidian-timber gates groaned open to receive their new "allies."
These weren’t the mud-smeared, primitive savages he had encountered in the Western Ravine. The Zharun warriors rode in a strict, highly militaristic formation. They sat upon the broad backs of Grave-Hounds.
The mounts were monstrous, six-legged wolves that appeared entirely devoid of skin. Their thick, corded red muscles were exposed directly to the humid morning air, pulsating with a sickly rhythm. Thick, black shadow-smoke continuously dripped from their maws and joints, hitting the packed dirt of the Veynar courtyard and immediately killing any stray blades of grass it touched. The beasts were panting and growling with an unnatural synchronicity.
At the absolute center of the grim procession rolled a massive carriage. It wasn’t built from wood or hammered metal. It was constructed entirely from interconnected, petrified rib-cages, the pale bone gleaming dully in the morning light. It was pulled by a towering beast that looked exactly like a skeletal rhino, its massive eye sockets burning with a pale, cold green
As the Zharun reached the city square, the vibrant, energetic atmosphere of the Veynar tribe instantly curdled. The morning air turned thick and sour. The seasoned Vanguard warriors manning the walls gripped their spears tightly, their knuckles turning white, their own beast phantoms shifting uneasily in their cores at the sheer stench of rot entering their home.
Sol’s gaze snapped from the carriage to a sudden flurry of frantic movement near the base of the Great Heartwood.
Elder Thorne... the vulture-faced prick whose political faction Sol had single-handedly crushed the day before... was practically sprinting toward the gate. He was flanked by his remaining lackeys and several other nervous, opportunistic elders. They were desperately looking for a new pillar of power now that they had been humiliated in front of the Warchief, and they clearly saw the Zharun as their ticket back to authority.
As Thorne reached the arriving procession, he skidded to a halt in the dirt. The elder bowed so low he looked like he was trying to physically sniff the dirt off the leading Grave-Hound’s paws.
"Welcome, Prince Gorr of the Zharun!" Thorne’s booming voice carried upward, completely devoid of his usual arrogance, replaced entirely by a sickening, desperate sycophancy. "The Veynar are deeply honored by your presence!"
Honored? My ass, Sol thought, his crimson eyes narrowing to slits as he watched the pathetic display from the balcony. The man is practically offering his own neck to the blade. Thorne was playing a highly dangerous political game.
By acting as the welcoming committee and groveling before the Zharun Prince, he was attempting to position himself as the primary liaison between the two tribes, effectively undercutting Warchief Veylara’s authority before the negotiations even began. It was the move of a desperate, cowardly man willing to sell out his own people for a shred of status.
The heavy, bone-wrought door of the carriage groaned open.
A man stepped out into the morning light. He was exceptionally tall, towering over Thorne and the other Veynar elders. His skin was the horrific, bloated color of a drowned corpse, entirely bloodless and stretched tight over his sharp cheekbones. He wore thick, clacking armor made entirely of something that seemed like overlapping human jawbones, bound together by dark, dried leather cords that still carried the faint scent of rot.
Prince Gorr didn’t even bother looking down at the groveling Elder Thorne. He stepped past him, looking around the towering expanse of the Great Heartwood tree and the surrounding Veynar architecture with a sneer of absolute, nauseating contempt.
But his eyes were the worst part. Sol zoomed his vision in, his stomach tightening slightly. Gorr’s eyes weren’t solid. They looked like they were filled to the brim with rotting, thick, iridescent black oil that shifted and swirled with every slight movement of his head. It was the physical manifestation of an incredibly high-tier, highly toxic core.
Sol analyzed the Prince’s aura. The gray, rotting ash color was so incredibly dense around Gorr that it actively distorted the air, creating a localized pressure field that forced the nearby Veynar elders to subconsciously step back. He was strong. Very strong. Likely sitting at the absolute peak of Layer 3, or perhaps even half a step into Layer 4.
Ignoring the welcoming committee entirely, Prince Gorr stepped forward. His heavy, bone-plated boots crunched against the paving stones as he walked directly past Thorne, stopping in front of a group of ordinary Veynar tribesmen who had gathered to watch the arrival.
His oily gaze slowly panned across the terrified faces of the crowd, evaluating them not as allies, but as livestock. His eyes eventually landed on a familiar face.
