Kar'shak, Journey's Heart

Travel across the great steppe feels endless and arduous as you follow its winding paths. For days, the wind has been your only companion, a tireless gale that churns the hip-high grass into a living ocean. The rhythmic whisper of the wind against your pack and the ceaseless sway of the stalks blur the landscape into a single, unending expanse. But as twilight descends, there is the slight smell of burning wood and a strange, primal scent on the breeze. You spot them first as distant embers—the glow of dozens of campfires against the horizon, like fallen stars on the ground. The rumors of a gathering have proven true, your path been the right one.   You push on toward the distant lights, the tension building with every eager step. The fires grow larger, and you begin to make out the dark shapes of yurts and tents clustered around their glow. Without warning, a figure emerges silently from the waving grass ahead, blocking your path. It is a powerful, hunched creature with a sloping back and a mane of bristled fur running down its neck, its jaws wide and its amber eyes steady. He stands almost a head over you, a lean, muscular warrior clad in cured hides and a necklace of polished teeth. He lifts his snout, sniffing the air as he holds a long, feather-decorated spear loosely in one hand, the bronze tip gleaming dully in the fading light. As you stop, he lowers the spear and offers you an open paw. With a gentle but firm nip to your wrist, he gives a playful, low chuffing sound.   He gestures toward the city, his teeth baring in a flash of white in the twilight. With a guttural voice that seems to hold the weight of gravel, he speaks a few words of a broken common tongue: "Kar'shak ... waits."   The warrior walks with you until the sounds of the campfires become overwhelming, leaving you at the very edge of the tents. The sounds of countless people, yapping and howling, surround you. You turn to thank him, but he has vanished as silently as he appeared. You take a deep breath and step into the light of the fires.


  As you step into the light of the first fire, a wave of sensations crashes over you. The sounds of life not quite human crash over you in a chaotic wave of sensations: excited yipping and howls are carried on the deep rhythm of faint drumbeats, the thud of mallets joining from some unseen distance. A fine haze of dust clouds your tongue, kicked up by the soft, insistent padding of countless paws. It lies thick in the air with the smoke of burning wood, the sharpness of spices, and the musky, primal scent of the Bar'kashyr .   All around you, towering yurts with their rounded forms and thick felt walls, embroidered with intricate geometric patterns, bloom from the ground like mushrooms. Trade stalls, draped with woven cloths and cured furs of every hue - ochre, deep red, earthy blue- seem to glow in the flickering light of a hundred campfires.   Stunned and overwhelmed by your surroundings, you almost don't notice as a large, towering figure approaches. She is older, with a silvered muzzle and a calm, confident presence. With a deep chuffing sound, she takes your hand and nips your wrist with a familiar, gentle firmness. "Greeting of trust," she says in a broken common tongue, her voice rough and low. "Fire... our heart. With fur and..." She pauses, leaning forward slightly, and a touch of her hot, strange breath ghosts across your face. Amber eyes hold yours as if she is searching for the right word, contemplating the ones she knows. The word finally falls from her lips, a low, heavy sound that seems to hold somehow more meaning. "Bone," she finishes. She gestures toward the center of the gathering, then gives a final, respectful chuff before turning away.
  As she turns and disappears into the crowd, the quiet intensity of her greeting is suddenly and violently broken. A young Bar'kashyr, his fur a patchy mix of brown and grey, barrels past, a wide, toothy grin splitting his face. He gives a joyful, high-pitched bark and, with a powerful, pulling motion, drags you toward a circle of drummers and dancers. He releases your arm and thumps his chest with a paw the size of a dinner plate. "Mur'rak," he says in a low rumble, the sound full of pride. He then points to the departing matriarch. "Leader," he says with a hint of awe in his voice, his single word a simple explanation of the respect the clan holds.   He gestures for you to sit near the fire, where the air is thick with the scent of roasted, sizzling meat. As he offers you a steaming piece of flesh, he notices the small satchel on your hip. He points to it, his head cocked with curiosity. "Trade?" he grunts, his one common word a question. Other gnolls glance over, their keen eyes filled with a shared curiosity. You open the satchel and offer a small bundle of spiced herbs. Mur'rak sniffs at it, his nose twitching, before his eyes land on a small tin of tea leaves. He picks it up, shaking it and listening to the rattle. "Strange," he says, and with a wave of his paw and a few of his own hand signals, he barters for it with a set of small shining nuggets of silver.   Bowls of thick, creamy fermented milk are passed around, and Mur'rak nods his head to a female gnoll as she offers you one. You take a sip and sputter as the coppery scent of blood mixes with the sharp tang of the fermented milk. Mur'rak yips with laughter but suddenly nudges you with his elbow, his expression now serious, as more laughter erupts from a nearby circle.
You follow him over and see how Bar'kashyr warriors clash in a primal struggle of wrestling and grappling. Their powerful, muscular bodies strain, dust rising with each swift move. Mur'rak claps his hands excitedly, letting out a another series of yips. He brings his right hand up like a paw, then raises his left hand with fingers curled in a claw, putting the two together with a quick, jarring motion. "Paw-Claw," he says, his voice a low grunt that clarifies that this is not just a brawl. "Test..might," he grunts. The rhythmic beat of drums begins to fill the air, vibrating in your chest, joined by the sharp, high-pitched call of hollowed horns as spirited dances erupt around the blazing bonfires.

The single night of celebration bleeds into the next, then two more. You are swept up in the deep, thrumbing rhythm of the Bar'kashyr, the frenzied energy of the first night never truly fading. You learn to read Mur'rak,'s gestures, his rough chuffs and single words of common, as he pulls you from one raucous circle to the next. The feasting continue, the scent of roasted meat and the tang of fermented milk mixing with the constant gale. Laughter and howls echo across the steppe, and the beat of the drums becomes your own.   But, as all things, even this ends. At dawn of the fourth day, you watch as the towering yurts are torn down, their felt walls rolled tightly and their frames lashed to the backs of shaggy beasts. The market stalls are dismantled, and the central fires, once roaring infernos, dwindle to a bed of glowing embers. The sound of barks and chuffs fades as the grand city retracts into small, distinct clans, each preparing for its own, long journey across the plains.   Mur'rak, gives you a final, firm clasp of the hand, a deep rumble of farewell in his chest. Soon, his clan departs, the sound of their paws on the ground fading into the distance. You stand alone in the vast, open steppe. The city is gone, but the memory of its heartbeat remains within you, a call that will draw you back to this ocean of reeds, year after year.