Samula Tribe

Prince, outcast, mercenary, and now as the last of his bloodline, Vanya leads the remains of his tribe against the Empire that destroyed his family and their lands. “You cannot grow unless you put down roots” was the motto of Vanya’s great-grandmother, who convinced the Samula Tribe to give up their nomadic life over a three hundred years ago. After his wild ways caused his mother to expel him from the tribe, Vanya became a mercenary fighting for outlying Zikia Tribes and Urugal Clans who were attempting to stop the onslaught of the Uruk Dominion. Vanya returned home years later to find his mother dead and her orchards a charred tombstone to his great-grandmother’s vision. Rallying the Tribes’ survivors, he now leads them against the Hamazi Empire whose greed and arrogance resulted in the scorched Zikia land.

Roots Grow Deep
FROM THE JOURNAL OF UTSUKA, FIRST RAGKALA (THORN) OF THE GREAT WEALD'S MIGHTY FIST

My master warned us there'd be moments like this ... and in the past three months, as we'd made incognito excursions like this one, he'd been right. The outcomes were always the same, too: blessedly brief and bloodless.

But not tonight. After hours of wine and women and contented anonymity in this smoke-choked tavern, a hoarse voice rose above the din — a raucous, wily bellow belonging to an equally raucous, wily man.

“Ziroruja!” he howled, practically running to our dingy corner of the pub. “Ziro, Ziiiro, Ziroruja!”

I was out of my seat, fingers wrapped 'round the hilt of my blade, striding toward the grinning, boisterous fellow now — a scoundrel, I now understood: ragged pink scars on his face, milky-blind left eye, three gold teeth, the barbed sigil of a Marut Guild tattoo on his neck.

"Stand down, Utsuka," my master called, from his seat behind me. I paused at the order. The master never uttered the names of his Five Thorns unless it was a matter of import. But this … his leering wreck before me wasn’t important at all. Was he?

"This one's a friend from a long time ago," my master continued. "From Before, you understand. Let him pass."

The scoundrel was now practically nose-to-nose with me now. His expression was more confused than confrontational; in fact, I suspected he was just now understanding that he'd been intercepted, and would've been cradling his bloody exposed guts, had my master given the word. I sheathed my blade.

- Original written by J.C. Hutchins -

The Symbol of the Samula Tribe
The symbol of the Samula Tribe appears as a black Zikia symbol growing from a large web of tree roots in white.