Dull eyes stared down upon him since birth.
All of his kin bore a gaze that was broken, one without ambition, or desire. It was he who was gifted, he who was destined to lead his people into greatness. For he, Gesimund, was born with a fire in his eyes, and it was his calling to kindle the flames within the hearts of his tribesmen. Such was his duty, such was his calling.
That was why he stood before a great hearth, clothed in long flowing linen, cloth, and furs, whilst his neck and wrists were nigh suffocated by ceremonial jewelry. Gathered around the hearth were over a dozen men, all in garb with a similar air of ceremony to them. It had been no small task to gather the figureheads of the fractured tribes of the Ardalings - the descendants of Ardal - but it had been done, though it had taken the time of multiple generations of mortals passing, they had come to agree on one issue:
Their liberty.
"We, the leaders of our people, have come to decide our fate. We, the sons and daughters of Ardal, pave our own path... or so it is said." Spoke Gesimund, his hands foldedd within the sleeves of his robes.
"So it is said." The words were repeated by all men gathered around the hearth, many dipping their heads to the chant.
"Not since the times of Ardal, Father of the Plains, and his companions have our people bled not for the Kael's and Emperors in Rathgar or the Lowlands, but our own kin. It has seen us driven into the fringes of our home, our people few, whilst the Clans above us grew as they were hares." Gesimund's words flowed, the next one somehow quicker than the last.
"I say no more. No more can our warriors shed blood for banners not of our own. No more can we be at the whim of the Emperor and those that allow him his reign. I, Gesimund, who you have made Speaker of our Tribes, say we send word to Rathgar. Inform them... no more shall they have our tribes under their heel. We will decide our fate, not them... Do any clansmen oppose me?"
There was silence.