"I live my life one swine at a time." ~ Colton Hayes
You hear the thunder of hooves pounding across a mud-slick field. The air itself is thick with the scent of beast and earth.
In the pen: two hundred wire-haired, sharp-tusked razorbelly hogs. Each one is massive—eight hundred pounds of grunting muscle and bristled fury. Their stomps shake the ground, a seismic rhythm of barely-contained power. These aren’t barnyard pigs. These are drift-bred, half-wild mounts, bred for one purpose only: to be ridden.
From the pen come guttural grunts and barks—warped, unearthly sounds. Nearby, children and women scatter flower petals, corn, and grain—an ancient rite, part blessing, part bait. They do this in hopes the gods will grant fruitful harvests. Their laughter rings out as they chase through the fallow fields.
Around the pen, a rough circle of men has gathered. Leather-strapped, hat-shaded, eyes like flint. Each one is here for a single reason: to survive the ride. To make it through the field without being thrown, gored, or trampled—and maybe, if fate’s feeling generous, to earn the coveted Silver Buckle.
They’ve come for the Hog Holler Rodeo.
These gristlebeasts—the razorbellies—serve a purpose unmatched. Their hoof strikes and trampling break the earth better than any plow could. The rodeo has run for four hundred years, steeped deep in ritual. Children and maidens run through the fields; the pigs are blessed by the Priestess of Ygharis, mother of creation, and the riders are blessed by the Priest of Athos, god of luck. You must have luck on your side—or be absolutely plum crazy—to take part.
Chuck by Sorianna Choate
This year’s standout riders are Chuck Barnes, Dalton Silverwing, and Harold Smithwick. They rode last year—and each was wildly successful. Now, they’re back, hungry for another Silver Buckle. But Chuck? Chuck’s after something bigger—the Gold Buckle.
It’s the size of a dinner plate, and harder to earn than any other prize.
Chuck leans on the rough wooden fence, eyes the razorbelly swine up and down. The goal: pick a beast that’s good, mean, and rides like hell. This ain’t his first rodeo—and it sure won’t be his last.
There’s a thrill he gets every year, a rush no one else in Veil can match: sitting atop a goddess-blessed beast, living on that razor’s edge between life and death.
They call him “Thrills” or “Full Throttle with a Bottle.” Last year, Chuck took off on a mean razorbelly named Demontusk—mean as hell and twice as wild. He knocked back a full bottle of Wildwood Rye, then tore out of the pen, commanding the field with a “Yip kay yey!” that echoed across the holler.
The announcer came out onto the field, he was wearing a tall hat with a wide brim his spurs clicked on the wooden platform. his oplulant duster fluttered in the wind=, crowd in the stands his arms gestured wide as took out his echohorn to address everyone.
“Gentlemen, ladies, and children!”
Fantasio Lebarr’s voice boomed across the holler. “It is I—Fantasio Lebarr! And I’m here to welcome you to the four-hundredth Hog Holler Rodeo! The bloodiest bareback sport in all the Veil!
Are we ready to see some swine riders FLY?!”
Razor Belly by Sorianna Choate
He threw his arms wide, gesturing to the crowd as the stands erupted in stomps and bell-clappers, hoots, hollers, and hat tosses. The whole place was alive, vibrating with wild anticipation.
Fantasio turned to the pen—two hundred razorbellies snorting and stamping behind thick timber gates, riders saddling up for chaos. He raised the echo horn to his lips.
“Can you feel it in the air?” he called. “That musk? That faint tang of mud? That’s two hundred razorbellies snortin’ fire and ready to buck fate itself!”
More cheers erupted as feet stomped on the risers. The air crackled with excitement as the riders began to emerge.
Children clutched little wooden figures—favorite riders and carved boars held tight in eager hands. Some had their faces painted in the colors of their chosen champions.
And among the crowd, the Mudflirt Maidens twirled in their dresses—belt-buckle chasers and glory-hunters in their own right, each hoping to catch the eye of a famed swine rider... or maybe claim a bit of legend for themselves.
"Let me announce some of the riders!" Fantasio yelled in echohorn to his lips. “Up first, we got Chuck ‘Full Throttle’ Barnes—the only man to ride Demontusk bare-handed and still walk home with a bottle o’ Wildwood and a Silver Buckle in his teeth.”
Chuck walked out in his dusky chaps and took his position, his hat tipped low as he chewed a piece of straw, he offered a wave as the crowd went wild. Chuck grinned. He felt his heart thrumming in his veins. he lived for this. The thrill and adrenaline.
“From the shale ridges of High Vale comes Dalton Silverwing, the Gilded Ghost himself. Fast hands, faster rides, and never once thrown. Folks say the gods marked his boots with lightning and luck.”
A chorus of sighs and swoons rippled through the stands as a crowd of Mudflirts leaned forward, all eyes on one man. Dalton Silverwing—all flash and charm, with a smile sharp enough to gut a boar and boots that gleamed like they'd never seen mud.
He sauntered out, coat swinging, winking as he passed a cluster of painted-cheek girls who nearly dropped their carved hog figurines.
Dalton came to stand beside Chuck at the edge of the lineup, giving him a nod that was half challenge, half brotherhood.
“Evenin’, Thrills,” he drawled, spinning a silver coin across his knuckles. “You bringin' luck this year, or just the bottle?”
"I aim to knock the piss out of you Gild." Dalton chuckled
“He’s the kind of man who drinks mudwater for breakfast and sharpens his spurs with his teeth—Harold ‘Old Iron’ Smithwick. Last year, he rode Hollerhammer clean across the field while dislocating his shoulder—and didn’t spill a drop of his chew.”
Harold arrived with quiet reverence.
This would be his final year of swine riding, and the crowd knew it. They roared for him as he took his place among the others—no flash, no fanfare, just steady steps and a nod to the arena that had shaped him.
One by one, more riders were announced—each one joining the ranks with Thrills, Gild, and Old Iron. The top twenty had gathered now, the best of the best, and Fantasio Lebarr gave each their due with a flair of theatrical grace.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, boots planted, hands loose at their sides, waiting to see which beasts they’d draw. Waiting to meet the fiercest razorbellies of the year.
The crowd turned toward the pen. The hogs were amped—snorting, barking, pacing tight circles. Their eyes glinted, muscles rippling beneath bristled hide. These beasts were ready to buck fate, and anyone fool enough to ride them.
Off to the sidelines stood Priest Santos and his circle of healers, robed in gold-trimmed mosscloth. Everyone knew some men walked off the field maimed—or didn’t walk off at all. In Hog Holler, death was always somewhere near the mud.
Swine riding wasn’t a sport. It was a gamble.
Fantasio raised his echohorn and bellowed, voice full of fire:
“This year, we’ve got some of the meanest hogs ever bred for battle—Bloodtusk, One-Eye Terror, Gristleback… and the infamous Demontusk, back to toss you straight into the gods-damned mud!”
The crowd erupted—horns blown, bells rung, feet stomped. The field trembled. The Razorbellies were ready
"The Swine Riders of Hog Holler ain’t here for show—they’re here to ride the gods-damned earth open.”
Participants
This part’s real simple.
The participants?
Razorbelly Hogs.
And Swine Riders.
That’s it. No frills. No second chances.
History
"The Swine Riders of Hog Holler ain’t here for show—they’re here to ride the gods-damned earth open."
The Hog Holler Rodeo has thundered through the Veil for over four hundred years. It all started on a humble farm owned by the Dalton family, where smaller, scrappier razorbelly hogs were first used to break up the fallow fields between seasons.
At first, it was just necessity and dirt. But it didn’t take long before folks started gathering to watch the spectacle—men trying to hold on while half-wild hogs tore up the ground.
As crowds grew, so did the ritual. Priestesses of Ygharis came to bless the soil. Scions of Athos followed, bringing luck and warding rites for the riders. What began as practical farming became something bigger—a trial of luck, muscle, and divine attention.
One thing’s never changed: razorbellies move earth—and if you’re lucky, they don’t take you with it. Though over the course four hundred years the hogs have gotten bigger, riders more reckless.
Observance
The Hog Holler is held each spring on the island of Zorus, one of the ancient Twin Islands in the Veil.
Here, the earth is rich and volcanic, the sea winds thick with salt and moss, and every spring the people of Zorus honor the old ways: the breaking of the fields, the blessing of the beasts, and the ride that wakes the land.
As the frost recedes and the wildflowers bloom in stubborn bursts across the hillsides, preparations begin. The fields—fallow through winter—must be turned anew for the coming season. And no better force to churn the land than eight hundred pounds of bristled muscle and rage.
They work for weeks in advance: mending fences, painting warding symbols in crushed ochre, and lining the fields with flower petals, corn, and seed. All so that when the Razorbellies run, the land remembers its purpose—and the gods take notice.
It is no small thing to ride in Zorus.
The people say the earth here sleeps deep and dark… and must be woken with hooves, howls, and hellfire.
That is one wild story in the beginning. Very lore rich. Nicely done.
Thank you!! I had too much fun writing this one, my players are eager to compete in one!