Location: The Ibweg Mountains
HräshHläng entered the tent of the great shaman. The tent, though not small, was still very cramped for the giant(s); they filled up almost a half of it, and even squatting on the floor barely had much clearance for their heads.
“ChráschChlaeng, what brings you to my tent?” the old shaman asked, tending a smoky ramshackle stove set in the middle of the structure.
“There's something else that happenned in the vision,” Hräsh started, “that we didn't tell you about. When we fought the undead versions of ourselves in the ice caves…”
“I cut off his head.” Hläng filled in.
Lelorghagh smirked. “You have a problem with this?” he asked, lifting a pot onto the stove.
The two looked at each other.
“Chlaeng, you wonder why you sliced off the head of your brother in the combat.You wonder if you desire to be rid of Chrásch.” The old orc laughs. “Surely this is not the first time you've dreamed of such a thing.” He stirs the contents of the pot, which seem to be a liquid belaboured by undetermined lumps. “You are the more impulsive one, Chlaeng, this is certain. You know this. That's why you worry, that one of these days you will endager your brother.” Lelorghagh points at Hräsh. “You worry about it too. You also know that your path is not one suited for your brother.” The old orc opens a small pouch of herbs, and adds some to the pot. “The mere fact that you were seperated in your vision,” the shaman began, “indicates your strong desires to lead seperate paths. Indeed, this is your destiny.”
Again Hräsh and Hläng exchange glances.
“No… no. You aren't actually going to be seperated. Let me explain. The force that drives you apart is the same one that binds you together.” The shaman stirs his mysterious pot more thoroughly. Curious vapours now raise up from its contents into the tent. “Do not fear to go down your own paths. Trust me, the two of you will always end up at the same destination. Would you like some stew?”