A Life of Ritual

[Zhokril]

The End of Childhood

 

The Shaman raised his obsidian dagger high in prayer, dark, now dried blood, still clinging to the shining blade. Sweat pearled on his naked body, the skin covered head to toe with tribal tattoos and snarling skulls, even though the night was chilly with the first gusts of winter. His Incantations became more frantic, nearing a climax. The full Blood Moon illuminated the three figures kneeling at his feet, themselves clad in little more than the Shaman, with just a loincloth wrapped around their middles.

 

The warriors of the tribe stood somewhat to the side, watching intently for a sign of the Goddess' favour, or disfavour. The three youths crouched before him without moving a hair, their heads not yet shaved but for their warrior's topknot, which they would have to earn yet, should they survive the night. At the appropriate time all three raised their wrists, which were bound with a token shackle, no more than a few threads any of them would be able to snap at will. Again, raising his voice and invoking his goddess, the Shaman cut the bonds of the first youth, symbolizing the end of childhood. He paused briefly, scrutinizing the two remaining supplicants. Their resemblance was uncanny; they could not really be distinguished at all with only the Blood Moon giving illumination. Berating himself for this lapse in concentration the Shaman quickly severed their bonds as well, then offered the adequate prayer and reached for the thick bone needle placed on the altar.

 

This time starting in reverse order, so he would seal the period of trial for the one who had shed the bonds of childhood first, last, he deftly pierced the skin just below the lower lip of the first youth, one of the twins.

 

Then the unthinkable happened.

 

Instead of the proper silence and immobility of acceptance of the Dark One, the youth uttered an ever so slight grunt of pain deep inside his throat and flinched almost imperceptibly. Neither of the other two youths moved so much as a muscle as the shaman cut the offending youth's throat without a second thought. The Dark One's rejection of this one had been plain enough, making him shame himself. He continued the ritual and finished fastening the dark ribbons through the holes pierced just below lower and just above upper lip of the remaining youths, both still as statues as their own hot blood dripped down their chins, mingling with their former playmate's body fluids pooled around their knees. The bond was ceremonial more than anything else, it would allow muffled speech as well as eating, so long as the meat was cut into tiny enough bits. The full battle roar the initiates would have to earn together with their warrior top-knots.

 

The shaman turned back towards the altar, waving for his assistants to bring in the sacrifice. With detachment he noticed that the elf's face was even whiter than their fair kind was wont to, his jaw clenched firmly. The Shaman allowed himself a smirk, he knew this weakling would lack the true discipline of the Resh'hal. The two youths swiftly rose, both dripping blood, and restrained the elf on either side of the sacrificial altar. The dark priest again raised his obsidian dagger, invoking the Dark One, then plunged the dagger deep into the sacrifice's entrails. He intoned the proper words louder, so he would not be drowned out by the elf's delicious screams of agony. The Dark One showed that she was pleased and mollified enough by this sacrifice to overlook the earlier sacrilege of the now dead twin.

 

All through the night the Shaman was able to sustain the elf's life, making him scream until his voice broke and beyond while carving out his innards. He did not die until the full moon finally set and the dark priest ended the Prayer in the ritual words of bestowing the Dark One's blessing to the two youths. Both made full obeisance before the altar, pressing their foreheads into the damp floor. The Shaman handed each a smaller obsidian dagger, and with only these dull edged weapons for defence and only their sodden ragged loincloths to warm them, both loped off in wide strides. The chieftain grunted once and turned around, leaving to return to the comforts of the camp, his warriors on his heel. He did not look once down at the twisted body of his son, nor did he let his eyes follow his only surviving issue. The Shaman watched the retreating backs of the two Resh'hal youths for a time, one having chosen the path into the Mountains, the other loping down towards the plains and the cities of the humans. His brow creasing momentarily, he considered this rash choice. The humans and their elf allies had little love for the Resh'hal and they might put a swift end to his chief's only surviving son, long before that one could gain his warrior's rights. They did not understand the tribe's devout service to the Dark One, and were abhorred by the notion that screams of pain were as a prayer to the Goddess. The Resh'hal had long since secluded themselves from any other intelligent beings, even members of their own race and dedicated fully to the Dark One's worship. When they struck, it was without regard for their own lives, without regard for pain and wounds. They were a terrible force as the Dark One had truly blessed them.

 

With a small shrug, the Shaman turned from his musings and set to the task of cleaning the skulls of both elf and ogre youth to add them to the ones at the foot of the sacrificial altar.

 

 

Trial of Admission

 

Almost exasperated, the Master turned to one of his warriors, "And you say he is STILL there?" Flinching at having drawn the Master's attention and ire fully upon himself, the guard nodded glumly, "Still kneeling beside the entrance, which you ordered barred to this brute. He's not raised a hand against anyone." the warrior added helpfully. "Even when we tried to run him off using the flat of our swords, he just ignored the hits, although he received a cut above his eye and blood has started to drip into it. He's not even reached up to wipe the blood away." The man shook his head in disbelief. "Nor has he uttered a single word. Not sure if he can with that cord through his lips." the man flinched.

 

An even deeper scowl darkened the Master's already sun tanned features. He stopped his pacing abruptly, having come to a conclusion. "Well, he won't be run off, nor can we simply kill him if he's not even raised his hands in self defence. That would be a cowardly act." The large man sighed. "Might as well admit him. Though I am sure there will be bloodshed soon enough, if he indeed should be one of those savages from the north as the Sergeant suspects." The Master again grunted in displeasure. "Lips stitched together", he muttered to himself, then waved his hand dismissively at the guard who had lingered. Even more quietly, he said to himself, "If he is indeed one of these Reskal worshippers of Anume, no good will come of this." Considering, he brightened up somewhat, "Unless. He's very young they say. Perhaps he can yet be molded to a more gentle course. We have always need of strong and honourable warriors."

 

 

 

Journeyman's Mistake

 

A single bead of sweat slowly dripped down the young human monk's chin, his breath coming in great ragged gasps from his throat. Half bent-over, he studied his training partner who met his gaze calmly. They had been at it for the whole day, he perfecting his jabs and anatomical knowledge of his brutish opponent, the ogre training his skill in disarming shields. With a sigh, he once more took up the huge shield, which was not only far too heavy for comfort but also made him feel clumsy, his movements restricted.

 

The ogre's eyes narrowed slightly, making himself ready for another round of combat, practice weapons only - this was training and not real combat after all. A few hours later, both having suffered some mild bruises but no serious wounds, the monk called for a rest and, leaning his head against the bark of a huge tree, promptly fell asleep. He came wide awake with a grunt of pain, the blunt side of a real axe, no practice weapon, having hit him with full force in his side, making him retch. He rolled over and came shakily to his feet, staring in disbelief at his enraged training partner. An arrogant looking elf stood nearby, pursing his thin lips with contempt. "You should kill this evil brute, the world will be a better place without the likes of him! How can you disregard his dark path and actually TRAIN with such scum!?" the elf reproached him, looking down his long narrow nose at the young human.

 

In a slurred voice, almost made incomprehensible by overlong teeth and the odd rope drilled through his lips, the ogre growled at him "You have deceived me. The Dark One will not be pleased if I aid you even indirectly." And with that another swing of the axe came at him, still the blunt side, smacking him painfully into the upper arm. Holding his injured arm the young human backed off, whining to the elf "But what harm can come from only training, how am I to fight the darkness later in my life when I know nothing? He's far more advanced in his guild than I am." The elf only shook his head in mild disgust. Dodging yet another swing, the monk saw the prudence in retreating and made a run for it.

 

With a snort of disgust the elf turned his eyes on the ogre, "Are you so clumsy or why did you not fight him in earnest? You both do your patron deities disgrace." All he received as an answer was a level stare and a muttered, "The bond has not been cut yet." With that, the ogre turned his back on him and walked off, cursing softly under his breath.

 

The next full moon shone on a remote clearing, the floor in front of a small self-constructed altar drenched in sweat and blood. Repeating the soft chant of the ritual, the young ogre rocked back and forth on his knees, inflicting himself yet another cut with the dull bladed obsidian knife grasped in his right fist. After watching his own blood mingle with the rest already making the ground muddy before him, the Resh'hal raised his eyes and studied the moon, which turned a bloody red as it set, announcing the end of night. A slight smile on his face, the youth collapsed on top of the altar, weak from three days fasting and self-inflicted blood loss, the full Blood Moon proving the Dark One's acceptance of his repentant sacrifice.

 

 

 

 

Master of his Guild

 

The Master squinted his eyes, peering down into the courtyard. His eyesight was not what it used to be, and he could not distinguish all of his former pupils from up here. Lumps and blobs, probably chests and bags, were stapled beside most of the graduates. He knew without being able to see it that all but one would wear new, shiny armour and beautifully crafted weapons. All but this stubborn ogre.

 

He'd stand out of the crowd for the rags, bits and pieces he wore with as much pride as a prince would wear his crown. He'd stand out as the only one not chatting amiably with classmates and instructors but keeping his own council. The Master sighed, rubbing his old eyes. Perhaps taking that one in had been a mistake after all. Nothing to be done about it now. The young brute had turned out quite opposite of his expectations, there had been no bloodbath but a total lack of bloodshed whatsoever. The youth would not be provoked even by the most insulting verbal jabs or the roughest shoves. He'd just smile his horrible creepy smile through the bond drilled through his lips or ignore his opponent altogether. There had been quite a couple accusations of outright cowardice. Rumours of the ogre fleeing battle as soon as he was assaulted and simply running off.

 

The old Master frowned. The ogre had excelled in training and in most disciplines surpassed his classmates through iron discipline. The classes on warrior ethics, courage, honour and discipline he had attended with polite interest, never showing either approval nor rejection of the concepts. He'd not even flinched when he got cut or hit a bit harder than would have been called for by his training partners when sparring. Hard to believe he'd loose his nerve as soon as a real battle was joined.

 

The Master shook his head and sighed once more. No sense putting it off now. He'd probably hear soon enough if the rumours were true or if he'd have a bloodbath on his conscience. Slowly but with dignity he walked down the stairs into the guild's courtyard. The graduates would be released from the guild today with a big feast. There was nothing more he could teach them. He prayed fervently that it had been enough.

 

 

 

All bonds cut

 

It was time.

 

The young Resh'hal removed the rags he had used for warmth and protection for the last years, stripping down to the loincloth. He tossed it all away, only keeping the obsidian dagger he had treasured over the years. Eying the barely conscious form before him, a slight smile crept on his face, as much as the bond allowed. The Knight came to with a groan, eyes snapping open, body straining against the bonds. Of course, they held firm. The Resh'hal bent down towards him, still smiling. In a slightly slurred voice he said "The time has come for the bond to be cut." Fingering the obsidian dagger he added pleasantly "Of course this may only be done with a bone knife." The smile intensified, lips straining against the leather cord. The ogre chuckled. "You have my thanks for providing it."

 

With that, he plunged the obsidian knife into the man's forearm and started cutting, his victims screams accompanying his work. The Resh'hal started to hum softly under his breath as the man's screams quieted down, still carving the bone knife from the ulna. Blood loss, shock, unconsciousness, then, eventually, death. It would be the first life he'd ever taken. He gave his work another scrutinizing glance, then nodded.

 

This would do. He got up and started loping towards the territory of his tribe in long, ground eating strides, dressed in no more than he had started out with, carrying now two knives.