Brakthar lied.
It was bad. Very, very bad.
Out of the four banners of the Howling leaders in Shatterpeak Range of Dustspire district, the Stronghide banner is the worst. In fact, they should not be considered at all if not for the fact that Galthor was the ChainLord who hosted the Howling in the first place.
The revolutionary group is divided into two: the outskirts and the inner side. The inner side is the mountain-like structure itself and where all the important people stay, while the outskirts are for everyone else.
Both the outskirts and the inner are then divided into four, for the four banners.
But Galthor was terribly disappointed with what he saw when Brakthar led him to the Stronghide territory. First, they didn’t have territory on the outskirts since they had no followers to fill it out, and even in the inner side they weren’t making use of half of their space.
When Galthor walked through the streets of the Stronghide territory, his mood sank deeper and deeper, and his face became carved as if from stone.
Their streets... his streets were filled with rotted wooden houses, most of them having lost their roofs. The barbarians he saw gave him dull, lifeless looks.
They looked as if they were just on the verge of starving.
And the worst thing of all...
"Why? Why is it that only children and old barbarians are here? Where are the warriors? My warriors?" Galthor’s plan was to start building his own set of worshippers right there and then in the Revolutionary base through the barbarians that were left behind.
But it turned out that they were feeble old people and children.
It wasn’t just about worshipping... Galthor needed warriors, maybe them above all else, to defend and protect his Divine self. Besides, in the Divine world, only warriors conquer and fight for the will and Dominion of their gods.
Brakthar looked at him with barely hidden disdain. "You might not know this, my lord, but most of the warriors followed the Chief back, and those that remained... well, they must have joined the other banners."
Galthor’s eyes gleamed.
So they must still be around? That was good news.
"Traitors? They dare leave their Chief? The one they swore to follow? I will have to deal with them as their new chief."
Brakthar gritted his teeth. "The chief freed everyone. And, as you know, our traditions. Every new chief must prove themselves to be accepted."
Galthor frowned.
Now that Brakthar mentioned it, he could remember it like a half-forgotten memory. But now he had a new goal.
Make all those who had joined other banners come back so that he could have his own worshippers and warriors. Then build the place up and finally see what the Howling deal was about.
So he turned calm eyes to Brakthar. "Lead me to the one that’s still representing Father here."
Brakthar’s face twisted slightly. He stopped walking and his eyes turned to the unconscious Thrainor still in Galthor’s hand. Then he sighed. "Listen. You must know—must know—that our tribe doesn’t... well, we don’t like you, especially after the last betrayal.
"I think that it’s better that you leave. Disappear."
Galthor looked at him. "Why?"
"Because if you don’t, then I don’t know what will happen next. It’s not like the Stronghide are going to follow you as the next chief anyway."
Galthor silently cursed the body he was inhabiting.
Why can’t he get a normal one? A dragon or even a demon king! Even a slime would be appreciated!
But outwardly his eyes did not betray his thoughts. He looked at Brakthar, a hint of steel showing through. "Why won’t they follow me as the next chief?"
This time Brakthar gritted his teeth and a low light of fury burned in his eyes. "Why you ask? Well, I will tell you, son of the strong! Because you are useless! A weakling! You have never picked up your sword and hunted for the tribe!
"You have never fought to defend us. Can you even pick up a sword? Can you even use essence?"
"You saw me use a sword," Galthor pointed out.
Brakthar took a deep breath, his nose flaring. "It doesn’t matter what you do now. There’s no Stronghide anymore. The chief is dead. Others are probably bound in chains and sent to other territories."
Galthor remained silent for a long time.
It seemed rebuilding his reputation wouldn’t be as easy as he wanted. He looked around. He saw eyes without light and stomachs without food. Buildings that lacked shelter.
One step at a time. One step at a time.
"I am going to be the chief, and I will take Shatterpeak Range back." His words were low, but they came out like unbending steel.
Brakthar opened his mouth and then closed it, a frown on his face. He had never seen Galthor behave like this before, speak with conviction. In fact, he had never seen him do a lot of things before... like pick up a sword and kill a master essence user.
So he hesitated.
Galthor used that hesitation. "Brakthar, you’ve been serving me for a long time. You know... I am useless, but things have changed now. Serve me temporarily once again, and if I’m not worth it then you can gut me yourself.
’....you can try at least...’
"Why are you so sure?"
Galthor smiled. "Because I am... am the avatar of the god. Our god."
Brakthar looked at him dubiously. "The barbarian god is dead."
"Well, he’s back. And I am going to start spreading his will from right here. What do you say, Brakthar? I will be the chief—serve me to see for yourself."
Brakthar looked at him and sighed. "I don’t know what happened, but what you did... to Thrainor. I will give you a month. If you can indeed become the chief and transform things, then you will have my undivided loyalty once again.
"And about the god, Galthor Stronghide, it’s been wrong to give dying people hope. It’s even crueler than death. Hope without its wings is the worst thing that can be given to anyone."