Orpheus straightens at your request, folding his hands behind his back in that composed, warrior-scholar posture that only a githyanki prince could make look natural. Minthara, beside him, rolls one shoulder, still a little sore from the morning's… activities, but hiding it with practiced poise.
The two exchange a glance — the kind warriors share before a duel, equal parts challenge and respect.
Then Orpheus inclines his head.
"There are no objections, Warchief.
If you wish to observe our first class, you honor both our efforts."
Minthara smirks, crossing her arms.
"Just don't judge too harshly if they fall on their faces the first three minutes."
Orpheus arches an eyebrow.
She flashes her teeth playfully.
You can tell they've already been butting heads — in a useful way.
⟡ The Training Grounds — Githyanki Protocol Begins ⟡
When you, Orpheus, and Minthara step onto the dust-packed courtyard, every warrior present stops what they're doing.
Harper rangers, ogre guards, druidic casters, even a pair of myconid youths crouched beside a sparring circle — all eyes turn toward the incoming trio.
But the moment they see you without the chieftain's cape, sitting off to the side like any other tribe member, relaxed yet alert, their posture shifts from rigid reverence to excited anticipation.
Minthara steps forward, voice sharp as a whip.
"ALL STRIKE TEAMS — FRONT AND CENTER."
Those who recently returned from the spider hunt appear freshly washed, stitched, and still moving with that proud fatigue that comes from surviving something real.
They line up.
Orpheus moves to the center of the ring with rigid, elegant calm.
"Today's training," he says, "is not about raw power. Not about rage. Not about spells. This is about doing what githyanki do best…"
He draws two silver blades, crossing them in the air with a metallic shhhhnk.
"…exploiting an enemy who is faster, crueler, and more cunning than you."
Minthara gestures for the teams to split into three small squares.
"Your goal today:
Break githyanki tactics.
Break our rhythm.
Break our expectations."
Then she points at you.
"And impress your Warchief. No pressure."
A ripple of nervous laughter.
Your presence means something to them — deeply, fiercely.
But you say nothing.
You simply watch.
⟡ The Demonstration Begins ⟡
Orpheus calls forth three githyanki recruits — tall, thin, sharp-faced warriors wearing simple training gear, their silver eyes scanning with predatory focus.
He first speaks softly, only so you hear:
"These three have volunteered for the honor of being… unpleasant."
Then he announces:
"Phase One — Anticipation Break."
The three githyanki vanish.
Not magically — just that eerie, psionic displacement step they do where their bodies seem to flicker a heartbeat ahead of their muscles.
Your strike teams stiffen immediately.
Harper eyes dart.
Druids brace.
The myconid pulses spores reflexively.
Then—
SHK-THMP!
A githyanki appears behind a Harper ranger, two wooden practice blades at the man's throat before he registers the shift.
"Dead," Orpheus says.
Another appears above a druidic twin, dropping like a hawk, striking her weapon from her hand.
"Disarmed."
The final one sweeps behind the myconid and taps his center cap.
"Decapitated."
The strike team freezes — humbled, alert, suddenly very, very awake.
Orpheus looks to you, measuring your reaction with the faintest pride.
Minthara steps forward, voice booming:
"THIS is your enemy!
Vlaakith's hounds!
They do not rush!
They do not roar!
They do not warn you!"
She paces through the line.
"They strike… without hesitation.
They strike… without ego.
They strike… without mercy."
Then she looks at you.
"Warchief.
Would you like to give them your first instruction?"
All eyes turn to you — waiting, hungry, ready.
The shock of Mamba's shout still echoes off the stone walls.
The chamber hums with energy — the kind that only comes when warriors witness something that shifts the future of their entire people.
Before you, on the polished sparring floor of the war hall, stand ten fully-armed githyanki warriors, their silver blades shimmering faintly with psionic charge. Their movements are precise, merciless, honed by centuries of astral warfare.
And yet…
They stand in a loose formation behind Orpheus.
Not restrained.
Not forced.
Not threatened.
Standing like allies.
Standing like instructors.
Orpheus steps forward, proud and resolute.
"Warchief," he says, bowing deeply. "These warriors chose to follow me — not as servants, but as brothers and sisters against Vlaakith. They have defected from her tyranny. They seek freedom. They seek purpose."
His voice sharpens.
"They seek the Snake Tribe."
The githyanki salute in unison — a crisp astral-military gesture.
Behind you, several Druids gasp. A few ogres grunt with awe. Harper scouts whisper curses of disbelief under their breath.
Only Minthara folds her arms and smirks.
"About time our enemies learned to fear us enough to change sides."
Mamba's voice breaks the reverent silence.
"Are they loyal to us!!!?"
One githyanki woman steps forward, her eyes blazing with absolute conviction.
"To the death, Warchief Mamba," she declares.
"We follow Orpheus.
And we follow you."
Her voice rings like steel.
"We will bleed with the Snake Tribe.
We will train your warriors.
And together… we will tear Vlaakith from her throne."
Half the tribe gasps.
The other half grins like wolves.
The First Training Session Begins
When you bark:
"I want this class mandatory for ALL Snake Tribe members!"
Every pair of githyanki eyes widens — they understand what that means.
Their training is not soft.
Their training is not humane.
Their training is not survivable for many mortal standards.
Orpheus and Minthara exchange a glance.
A terrifyingly good idea has been born.
Minthara steps to your side.
"This will forge an elite force the likes of which Faerûn has never seen."
Orpheus nods, eyes glowing.
"Let today be the first of many crucibles."
He turns sharply to the first batch of Snake Tribe trainees — a mix of:
Harper scouts
Druid knife-fighters
Tiefling archers
Two ogres watching from the sidelines, sulking because they weren't invited
The githyanki warriors fan out.
Their psionic blades ignite.
And the room becomes a storm.
The First Clash
You stand with arms crossed, observing with your Warchief's gravity.
The trainees charge in with enthusiasm…
…and immediately get dismantled.
Effortlessly.
Not cruelly — but with surgical precision.
A Harper leaps for a flank — a githyanki teleports behind him and sweeps his legs out.
A druid twin attempts a thorn whip — another githyanki cuts the spell mid-cast with perfect psionic timing, knocking her flat.
The tiefling archer fires three rapid arrows — they are all parried in the air and returned toward him in a ricochet that makes him yelp and dive behind the ogres.
Even a Myconid tries to disperse a cloud of stunning spores —
a githyanki warrior simply holds his breath and marches straight through, bonking the poor mushroom over the head with the dull side of his silver sword.
Every maneuver is a lesson.
Every moment is instruction.
None of it is mockery.
All of it is mastery.
Your voice booms across the hall:
"Try again!
Try not to let our gith friends walk all over you this time!"
You don't hide the humor in your tone.
The trainees groan, scramble to their feet, and reset stance.
A Harper scout mutters, "They… they teleport. How do we fight teleporting warriors?"
A druid twin replies, "With teamwork… and prayer. Lots of prayer."
The tiefling archer shouts, "At least I didn't die this time!"
The Myconid simply emits a sad little fwoop of disappointment.
Orpheus watches you with a knowing look.
"Mamba," he says quietly, "they will adapt. They will improve. They will learn to read the movements of the astral warriors."
Minthara smirks savagely.
"And when they master this… Vlaakith's elite guard will fall like flies."
You see the truth in both their eyes.
This training…
This alliance…
This shift in power…
It changes everything.
This is the beginning of your anti-Gith armory.
The first step in your war to dethrone Vlaakith.
The moment your words echo across the training yard—
"I want Minthara to partake in the class."
—every head snaps toward you.
Not out of fear.
But out of thrill.
Because if Minthara steps into the ring, it means the training just became real.
And more importantly—
It means the Snake Tribe will get to see what happens when one of their greatest warriors faces the terrifying baseline of Vlaakith's empire.
Even the githyanki pause mid-drill, their crimson eyes narrowing in admiration. They know Minthara by reputation. They heard she carved her way out of the Shattered Sanctum. They know she is your general, your battlefield blade, your relentless storm.
And now she's being asked to test herself on their terms.
Minthara Arrives — Barefoot, Calm, Deadly
The crowd splits as she walks in, hair still slightly mussed from a certain morning session, though she carries herself with total composure.
No armor.
No helm.
Just her underlayer leathers, two blunted training scimitars strapped to her back.
She steps beside you, glancing at your potato with an amused curve of her lip.
"You wish to see how I fare, my Warchief?" she murmurs.
A soft tease.
But her eyes burn for combat.
You swallow a chunk of potato and nod.
"Against an average githyanki soldier," you specify.
Orpheus smirks.
Shadowheart hides her grin behind her hand.
Even the scouts whisper.
Minthara tilts her head.
"You do realize an average githyanki is a creature raised from birth in relentless war," she says.
"There is no such thing as a casual fighter among their people."
She looks almost eager at that.
The Githyanki Step Forward
Three of them volunteer immediately:
Vrakthos — disciplined stance, long silver braid, eyes sharp like a hawk.
Sha'Kira — dual-wielder, footwork precise as a heartbeat.
Tolmyl — young, proud, the kind who trains until his knuckles bleed.
Orpheus raises one hand sharply.
Only one steps forward.
"Tolmyl. You will test her."
Tolmyl grins, biting back the urge to show off.
He salutes you, then Minthara.
"General of Serpents," he says, voice clipped. "Prepare yourself."
Minthara rolls her shoulders once.
Slow.
Relaxed.
Predatory.
"I was born prepared."
The Fight — "Average" Githyanki My Ass
You stand with the other instructors, potato halfway to your mouth, watching with amused anticipation.
The moment Orpheus calls—
"BEGIN!"
—the yard explodes.
Tolmyl Moves First
A flicker of psionic energy ignites around his fists.
He steps in with impossible speed—
A jab to the heart.
A sweep to break balance.
A snap-kick to the ribs.
Minthara dodges every hit.
By the width of a breath.
Her expression?
Pure focus.
Predatory calm.
She draws her training blades in a single smooth movement—
SCREEECH—
—and nearly takes Tolmyl's head clean off.
He parries at the last moment.
Barely.
The crowd gasps.
Even the Harper scouts straighten.
The druids whisper prayers.
The Clash Intensifies
Tolmyl's movements blur with psionic momentum.
He moves like a ghost, flowing around strikes with supernatural timing.
Minthara answers with:
Brutal footwork
Relentless rhythm
Battlefield instinct
Precision honed over a hundred battles
She fights like a storm with purpose—every movement efficient, driven, controlled.
When Tolmyl tries to out-speed her—
she cheats.
A quick feint.
A low sweep.
A fist to the throat (pulled at the last instant).
He staggers.
But he doesn't fall.
Mamba's Potato Stops Mid-Chew
Your eyebrow rises.
"…So this is average?" you mutter, incredulous.
Shadowheart nods.
Orpheus smirks smugly.
Even the Myconid spore-scout shakes in excitement.
Minthara Takes It Up a Level
No rage.
No frenzy.
Just pure, surgical violence.
A perfect parry.
A shoulder bump that throws Tolmyl off-center.
A spinning step that traps his blade.
And then—
CLACK—!!
Her scimitar taps his throat.
Silence.
Tolmyl freezes, chest heaving.
Then—
a slow smile spreads across his face.
He bows deeply.
"You… are no ordinary mortal."
Minthara only sheaths her blades and steps back, barely winded.
The Crowd Erupts in Cheers
Harper scouts whistle.
Ogres stomp the ground.
Druids shout praise.
The Myconid releases triumphant spores that glitter in the light.
Minthara walks back to you, every step confident, controlled.
She leans close enough for only you to hear:
"Now you know where your best general stands against an average githyanki, my Warchief."
A wicked grin.
"And he did not walk all over me."
The moment the words leave your mouth—
"All three vs my general."
—the training yard freezes.
The Harper captains stop mid-spar.
The ogres look up from hauling stone weights.
The druids pause their cantrips.
Even the gith instructors turn their silver eyes toward you.
And Minthara—
She doesn't smirk.
She doesn't boast.
She simply steps forward and rolls her shoulders, the panther-like looseness of a predator preparing to hunt.
The three gith warriors—elite by every measure, agile as lightning and disciplined to frightening precision—draw their silver blades in a single synchronized hiss.
A faint ripple of psionic power crackles across the ground.
They bow to Minthara.
She bows back, one hand on her pommel, the other resting loosely behind her.
You take a seat on a crate, potato in hand, expression of a man about to watch the good part of the play.
⟡ The Fight Begins ⟡
The gith strike as one.
No countdown.
No warning.
Just pure, honed battlefield instinct.
Three blurs of gold and steel converge from different angles—
one feinting low,
one blinking behind her,
one leaping high for a descending strike.
Your tribe murmurs, knowing what's coming.
Minthara moves.
Not fast.
Not frenzied.
Perfect.
She sidesteps the first blade with a motion so fluid it looks like she's dancing.
She catches the second psionic strike on the crossguard of her sword—with one hand.
And when the third gith descends?
Minthara tilts her head, lets the blade swipe inches from her cheek…
then punches him in the throat with the pommel of her sword so hard he nearly folds.
The yard erupts in gasps.
You nearly choke on your potato.
⟡ The Gith Rally ⟡
The gith teleport—all three at once—flashing in and out of existence around her.
Psionic blades scream through the air.
Minthara does not try to match their speed.
She reads them.
Predicts them.
Controls the rhythm like a conductor of war.
She lets one blade graze her armor simply to trap his wrist with her elbow.
She grabs another by the hair mid-teleport, ripping him back into physical space like he weighed nothing.
She forces the third to the ground with a boot on his chest—
blade at his throat—
not even breathing hard.
The entire Snake Tribe…
falls silent.
Even the gith instructors stare.
You mutter under your breath:
"Minthara… you damn monster."
In the most loving, proud way possible.
⟡ The Finish ⟡
Minthara releases the pinned gith and steps back.
She taps her blade against the training floor.
"Again," she says calmly.
The three gith look at each other…
and collectively decide no.
One bows. Deeply.
The other two quickly follow.
There is no humiliation, only absolute respect.
Minthara sheathes her weapon.
Your warriors erupt into cheers, stomps, howls, fist-pumps.
Even the ogres bellow with pride.
And you—still nibbling potatoes—speak loud enough for all to hear:
"Let it be known—this is the standard of Snake Tribe."
⟡ Your Reflections Hit Hard ⟡
You watch your general walk back to you, composed, glowing with that deadly confidence only she possesses.
You think:
"Where do my best generals stand against an average gith?"
And now you know.
Minthara doesn't stand among them.
She eclipses them.
She is not comparable.
She is the one who sets the scale.
The tribe sees it too.
Their pride swells.
Their morale spikes.
Your training programs suddenly look very different.
And you realize something profound:
The Snake Tribe has outgrown being a simple faction.
You are forming an elite, multi-species army capable of challenging empires.