The Bray Games

Tags: Fantasy, Beastmen, Breeding, MFFF

The earth shook.

Rivers were drank almost dry. Fields stripped bare and trampled into the ground. Game too slow to escape, no matter how large or small, devoured down to the bones. The air was choked in dust, the foul stench of bestial musk, and low groans as they tromped along ancestral routes that other "civilized" races knew to keep well avoided.

In the place known to others as The Plains of the Bray, the three great Minotaur hordes converged. The Brass Rings, The Iron Hooves, and The Relentless Charge, coming together after another two decades of terrorizing the un-furred races. In the middle of the massive field, the eternal rivals met, and stood just beyond bow shot range. Deafening bellows carried through the air, the ground became furrowed from frantic pawing, weapons and shields thundered as they clanged together. Each horde making displays of great strength, summoning challengers from the others, if they were brave enough. Their frenzy grew and grew, the tremors of their stomping hooves being felt miles away, but as fast as it had grown, it vanished.

With nothing more than a few dismissive snorts, the hordes fell back from the center, finding their own old grounds to set up their camps. Within a couple of days, their tireless efforts had turned this overgrown swath of land into a sprawling village of tents and fires, with a grand and extravagant tent set up in the middle of it all. It was here that the Longhorns, the chiefs of the three hordes would meet and discuss politics, but just outside, in the largest tent of the entire village, was where everyone else would be.

Cheers and jeers erupted from the assembled audience as the Champions, the greatest warrior of each horde, entered. Bursting past his opponents, Korgoth of the The Relentless Charge ran around the center arena, already taking his victory lap, the faces of those in the front reflecting off the metallic coating of his horns. His thick muscular legs carried his bulk easily as he ran. His neck was thick, and his shoulders were broad, making him perfect for ramming into and through anything and everything. With a flexibility and agility rare for one of his kind, he jumped up high into the air, flipping and tumbling with ease, before landing smoothly, greeting the raucous applause with a gleeful smile.

Following behind him was Prodos of the Iron Hooves. The largest of the three, his heavy shod hooves left deep impressions on the ground as he lumbered in. Infamous for his unnatural resilience, even amongst his own horde, he moved slowly, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that nothing would be able to stop his advance. As he took the center, his eyes were downcast. From behind his leather mask, worn to spare the others the sight of his marred and mangled face, his eyes had a sense of profound sadness or shame behind them. His front, arms, and legs were almost hairless, his fur replaced by a gruesome collection of scars that most others would have succumbed to, but his back was clean and untouched. His horde mates stomped and chanted his name, telling him to look up with the pride they felt for him. Very quickly, the rest of the audience began to cheer for him, and despite really needing to, he stood a little taller.

Finally, Bamvros of the Brass Rings, emerged. Each step was accompanied by the rich jangling and sharp singing of his many many trinkets and jewels. His long ears flicked wildly, the many tiny bells jingling. Light glinted off his barbell nipple piercings. Sharp spikes protruded through his horns. His roar was powerful enough to send his massive nose ring, as thick as a man's thumb, flying upwards. When he took the center, he held out his arms and turned, showing off his great collection of bangles, necklaces, and chains draped over his wrists and neck, a display of his wealth and prowess for having them made from the armour of his enemies. The only rings he had that were silent, were those 10 made of silver fitted to rest snugly around his tail.

Standing in the center, these three faced each other, one with a cocksure grin, one with a prideful smirk, and one with an unfortunate permanent sneer. Over the next few days, they would compete in feats of strength, speed, skill, endurance, and sheer bull-headed stubbornness, to see which horde would hold the title of Greatest in the land until the next Bray Games, in addition to the side wager they had just agreed upon, that went unheard by anyone else.