Winds howl through the serrated peaks of the Rhatvar Mountains, the digging gale that seems to seep beneath marrow bones. The blanket of dull grey hang in the desire of more bitter, not the cold that makes these lands shiver in timbers, but something far grey in the bladder of the Vrekat Tribe.
Built around an undying flame in the heart of Vrekat's main settlement, Vrogar, silent hoods move with hush, their dark-oak shelters shaped of sentinels watching over sacred land, gnarled limbs stretch like skeletal hands, pointing the way.
The cult had persisted through for centuries, keeping secrets of their dark god, The three headed goatman... Gloakorat Khagorka alive in their sanguine rituals, his existence, long forgotten by the outside world, it was sacred to them. And it only fueled their fervor of dark magic that guided their every action. Tonight, they would gallop again, their elk, hungry for blood, hearts set on their sacrifice to the practice of their new heir.
Among the death of the previous leader, a new head shaman rose- a "girl" born out of desires for the Goatman, made out of dozens of corpse, adorned with horns of a goat, given the surname of Khagorka. A girl of 16 winters, sharp eyes that could cut through the wind of the mountains. Her name spoken in hope and fear. She was the one to lead the cult now, her consecration marks the death of a previous shaman, and the new era of Vrekat. Born for the blood of the Goatman himself. It was she who will guide the cult into the glory they sought.
As they gathered around the bonfire that would signify their leave and return, wraiths of those who would ride out with her, faces hid beneath goat fur that was spilt in sacrifice, bodies stained with blood-soaked fur. The mountain goats, bred to clad and crush, horns carved to impale and plow, eyes glowing in the dark of night like embers, mounting with ease. They sat silent, but a sense of restlessness echo through the air, an echo of the land's hunger.
The shadow of the girl stood still, icy breath still visible in the air, feeling the weight of what's going to come, she clenched at her sigil blade, bloodstaff etched with the previous shaman's skull.
"Prepare." The voice of Zoirat Khagorka held the ancient promise. Soft but glaring. "Blood will flow freely tonight, and the following nights until the glory of Khagorka, we take the sacrifice, it takes the power."
With a motion that lifts her hood for a mere breath, she turned and mounted her own goat, towering among the others, descendant of the previous Shaman's goat remains, stomping beneath the snow ready to depart. Ritual drums began their beat in unison, marking the first mission of the new Shaman.
"The night stretches ahead men, if we want the goat, we would need it to stretch further." The only voice of Authority leads the march into the night.