"Be true to yourself, it is the only way you can survive in these harsh lands. Be true to yourself, be true to your clan, and you will be true to Cimmeria. Do not go astray, for dark paths await..." - Cimmerian Oracle

Change. Cimmerians did not like change. Whether Elkhorn or Hoath, Moragh or Gaud, Raeda or Darkwolf, Conarch or Taur. Change was a thing of the civilized, a luxury, an uncertain thing. One could never be certain - when change happened, things were in disorder. Disarray. In Adharca Cathair, change had come. A new Chieftain had taken over - and change had shocked the clan. Gone was the tall and imposing, stern, yet approachable grizzled shaman that had led them from the beginning. Instead, it was a youth of only twenty some winters, a warrior, a skirmisher, a young man.

Change had taken its toll. The skirmishers did not know how to take Cathael, once just a mere student of the skirmish line - taking command. The raiders were shocked to learn that Sluaghadh had been placed in the Pike Wall. Even the Elders were in disarray, with even the Warchief herself - Gertrued Redmane - attempting to challenge the new Chieftain. Change had struck, and it had affected the entire clan. Oscur had seemed hesitant. Dorin still wanted to look towards Ahearn for advice, for wisdom. Others went on an exodus, and some looked towards higher opportunities.

The Clan struggled. Not with numbers, for warriors continued to bolster their ranks, so that the villagers would remain safe. Not with might, for the clan continued to grow stronger. Yet something kept them at unease. The threat of battle? The desire for Stonehammer? These were the things that struck at the heart of the clan. But the biggest of all these things, was the crowning of a new Chieftain. No challenge, no contest, just a simple proclamation. And while they trusted Ahearn's judgement, they had their doubts.

And when Fearghus had made the attempted ransom on members of a larger force then they - the doubts had come true. Their new Chieftain - while ambitious, while honorable, and while strong - was not yet ready. Not yet experiencd enough. Not yet the right man for the job.

Change came again... when Fearghus surrendered his leadership, and the Clan willed the change back to the norm - back to their trusted shaman - back to their first Chieftain.

Change. Cimmerians loathed it.

*****

Deep within the Eiglophian Mountains, the war host moved deeper in, unmolested. The Cannibals were held at bay. The Hyperboreans did not attack. The Hoath walked, their weapons peaceknotted. The Warchief led them, and nobody questioned it. Yet this odd sight true stares from various thralls - some Cimmerians, some Vanir, some Aesir. All of them, slaves. All of them, under the control of the Hyperboreans, and their Ghurnahki pets.

Nocar grunted sourly as they reached their destination: the Temple of Thurga. Before them, a White Hand Witchman stood. Dressed in an ornate robe, his flesh black as night, with white brandings all over his face, his arms. Gaunt, to the bone. Old. Ancient.

"Your arrival is expected," the Witchman spoke, in a flowing Cimmerian accent. "Yet you are late."

Nocar snorted, "We were held back. Battle. Many of mine are dead."

"Dead. Pity. I assume you did battle with those of Adharca Cathair. It is expected... but tell me, does your Chieftain know of your arrangement?"

"No," Nocar replied. "We are in the proper position as we are. If the High Hoath knew of our deal, he would have my head. He would likely team with the Elkhorn... the barbarians are in self chaos from their change. Fearghus, the son of a fallen Hoathman... with him in command, they seem insecure."

The Witchman smiled grimly, "You are an imbecile, barbarian. Ahearn Pictkiller lives, and is their Chieftain again. My spies have seen this. Your High Hoath can be commended for following the strings that were pulled. Yet you cannot follow through. He was supposed to die, as per our deal. Yet your champions allowed him to live."

Nocar reached for a blade, "You... dare!"

The Witchman raised a hand. The stone door of the temple slid open, and several Ghurnahki stepped out, each holding a long spear. Two more Witchmen appeared, and flanked the sides of their leader.

"I dare," The leader of the Witchmen said. "Tholgrim is missing. His soul is distant.... still inhabiting a body, but not the Stygian. Not on Hyboria. East. Inaccessable. There IS NO EXCUSE! We made a deal, to bring the Hoath's reign to an end in exchange for your own Clan to be formed. In exchange for this, you help us get Tholgrim, and destroy Clan Elkhorn. Yet you failed. Again!"

Then came the scout. A thrall. A collar on his neck, Vanir blooded no doubt, mixed with Hyperborean. A born slave. "My lords... the Elkhorn have followed tracks... the tracks of the Hoath!"

The Witchman eyed Nocar, "Foolish move Nocar. Take him and the rest of the Warband into the Temple! We make sacrifices this day! NOW!"

The Hoath snapped into action, drawing blades. Yet more of the bloated white skinned Ghurnahki swarmed out, grabbing, taking hold of many of the Hoathmen, dragging them through the thresh-hold of the temple. Others tried to fight, and soon they found Nocar, the Warchief of the Hoath, being dragged. Yet he struggled. The leader of the Witchman growled furiously, and chanted an old incantation. And just as Nocar slew his captor, and began to step out, the door came crashing down, crushing him under its weight. Blood spurted out, skull was ground into mush, and he was dead.

The last two Hoathmen were gutted, one, left to die against the door - the other - thrown to the cannibals.

The Witchman prepared for battle, commanding his men to fight. Yet the Elkhorn, led by Ahearn Chieftain and the Elders, came storming in - a rush of Cimmerian fury. The Witchman watched in distress, as his men were slaughtered - butchered. And as they approached, he made his last stand. And when he felt his head being ripped off, his life fading, he accepted his fate.

Ahearn and the Elkhorn stood tall, with questions to be answered. Without knowing it had been Nocar under the temple... they had to find out, they had to get in. Yet the Witchman was dead, and all secrets were buried.

Yet the Elkhorn did not worry. Their change had been for the betterment of the Clan - they had other worries to focus on.

Stonehammer was next.

*****

The aftermath of a battle. Bloodshed. Death. A lone rider approaches, appraising the damage done. Taskelion's forces had just been here, had just brought a fight to the occupants.

The steed below the rider winnies, perhaps frightened by the smoke, and the flames. The rider reaches the clearest point. He sees remains, bodies... he reaches for a bag... heavy no doubt. The bag is wet, soaked even, a dark crimson splotch at the bottom. A grunt passes the rider's lips, and the bag is thrust over into the ruins. It opens, and several dozen heads roll out. Southern in origin. No doubt cut off by an axe. Some look as if a spear had been thrust through the throats - and kicked off. Others, ripped off.

A call is made.

"You failed to answer, you failed to compromise. Now, as vultures hover the dead, our horde grows. Prepare to be driven from Cimmeria you dogs, Stonehammer will be ours!"

And with that, the rider thrusts several daggers into the ground, forming a simple pattern - a Cimmerian rune, the symbol of ill omen and doom. Each dagger has the same simple engraved on the hilt - the symbol of the Elkhorn. The rider - the shaman - the Chieftain of the Clan - turned and made his way to his growing barbarian army.

Change. Cimmerian's hated it. Yet rarely, the moment would come, when change came -and it made everything better. The Hyperboreans had become a threat yet again, and yet... all was fine. Conquest was coming - Stonehammer would be theirs once more.