Post by Shinigami on Mar 14, 2008 15:19:51 GMT -5
[ooc: Also known as, "Where Merquise Got His Wings From."]
The bat-child – not really a child, but not quite an adult – lay dead in the center of the gathering of a Clan from the Hisstor Wastes, adults staring in horror at the dead child and the living one. All of the other children had run at the first signs of combat, fleeing to their parents and then being barred from stepping out again once it became obvious what had happened.
Blood dripped from the fur of the Ace, and in his hand he held a crude knife, some apprentice’s practice weapon, badly balanced and lacking any sort of grace, but still possessed of a razor-sharp edge. The Ace stared down at his cousin, his pale blond hair swirling in the wind, and then slowly raised his head to meet the serious gazes of all of the adults.
He had killed a member of his Clan, someone related to him by blood. Under most circumstances, along with the bad fortune of his birth rank and the fact that he had always walked upon two feet instead of four, he would have been killed himself, or exiled from the Clan and branded with the mark of a kinslayer. What saved him was the fact that he had only defended himself from attack, and that the bat’s death had come only when the other boy had pressed the knife into his own neck.
There was still serious doubt as to the safety of his life here, though.
Harsh murmuring broke out amongst the adults, and the Ace didn’t bother looking toward his parents – he knew that they would already be distancing themselves from him, in case they were to lose the only child they had ever been able to bear. He had lived the first time around only by the barest margin, and he knew that the surety of his continued existence was now balancing on that thin wire again.
Now, as had happened the first time his life had been saved, an ancient wolf stepped to the forefront of the crowd, his eyes gone nearly blind with age, body so thin that he almost seemed to be part of the bone adornments that covered every part of his body. Those eyes were fixed firmly upon the Ace though, who stood tall under the dispassionate regard, and waited silently for his fate.
“Lightning’s Child,” the old shaman said finally, voice like the creaking of his ancient body. “Who is it that lies dead at your feet?”
“My cousin, Otto.” The boy’s voice was flat.
“Why has his life left us?”
“He demanded of me what I would not give, and then attempted to take it from me.”
“What was it that he demanded?”
Here the boy paused, before continuing. “My life.”
All of those who were gathered around burst into speech again, shocked voices ringing out, because surely they could not trust the words of an Ace, no matter that the Shaman had some sort of special interest in him. Then again, it was the Shaman that they spoke of, the one who guided their Clan, and who listened to and wore the bones of their ancestors. Who were they to question his wisdom? He would know the truth of the Ace’s words, after all, and finally they quieted down once more to hear what the ancient one said.
“His life is now gone, in place of your own,” the wolf spoke, and when the Ace said nothing, he continued. “And so you shall bear his life along with your own.”
It was only a moment’s effort to lift his hand to the corpse of the nearly-grown bat, and then the Shaman’s inherent power flooded across the dead body. The skin dried, cracked, and withered, and then it and all of the flesh beneath it suddenly turned to dust, joining with the endless sands of the Wastes. All that was left were the dusty bones, and the Shaman picked his way across the clearing to stand before the Ace.
“Gather the bones of his wings, Lighting’s Child. You will bear them as he once did, and so you will carry his life with your own.” Silently, the Ace did as he was bid, small paws reaching out and carefully and respectfully gathering each bone of the wings, leaving the rest of the bones for the family. When the Shaman returned to his tent, the Ace followed after, as silent as ever.
When next the Clan saw the boy, he bore the bone wings strapped to his back, a much finer knife tucked at his belt, and the name Merquise.
The bat-child – not really a child, but not quite an adult – lay dead in the center of the gathering of a Clan from the Hisstor Wastes, adults staring in horror at the dead child and the living one. All of the other children had run at the first signs of combat, fleeing to their parents and then being barred from stepping out again once it became obvious what had happened.
Blood dripped from the fur of the Ace, and in his hand he held a crude knife, some apprentice’s practice weapon, badly balanced and lacking any sort of grace, but still possessed of a razor-sharp edge. The Ace stared down at his cousin, his pale blond hair swirling in the wind, and then slowly raised his head to meet the serious gazes of all of the adults.
He had killed a member of his Clan, someone related to him by blood. Under most circumstances, along with the bad fortune of his birth rank and the fact that he had always walked upon two feet instead of four, he would have been killed himself, or exiled from the Clan and branded with the mark of a kinslayer. What saved him was the fact that he had only defended himself from attack, and that the bat’s death had come only when the other boy had pressed the knife into his own neck.
There was still serious doubt as to the safety of his life here, though.
Harsh murmuring broke out amongst the adults, and the Ace didn’t bother looking toward his parents – he knew that they would already be distancing themselves from him, in case they were to lose the only child they had ever been able to bear. He had lived the first time around only by the barest margin, and he knew that the surety of his continued existence was now balancing on that thin wire again.
Now, as had happened the first time his life had been saved, an ancient wolf stepped to the forefront of the crowd, his eyes gone nearly blind with age, body so thin that he almost seemed to be part of the bone adornments that covered every part of his body. Those eyes were fixed firmly upon the Ace though, who stood tall under the dispassionate regard, and waited silently for his fate.
“Lightning’s Child,” the old shaman said finally, voice like the creaking of his ancient body. “Who is it that lies dead at your feet?”
“My cousin, Otto.” The boy’s voice was flat.
“Why has his life left us?”
“He demanded of me what I would not give, and then attempted to take it from me.”
“What was it that he demanded?”
Here the boy paused, before continuing. “My life.”
All of those who were gathered around burst into speech again, shocked voices ringing out, because surely they could not trust the words of an Ace, no matter that the Shaman had some sort of special interest in him. Then again, it was the Shaman that they spoke of, the one who guided their Clan, and who listened to and wore the bones of their ancestors. Who were they to question his wisdom? He would know the truth of the Ace’s words, after all, and finally they quieted down once more to hear what the ancient one said.
“His life is now gone, in place of your own,” the wolf spoke, and when the Ace said nothing, he continued. “And so you shall bear his life along with your own.”
It was only a moment’s effort to lift his hand to the corpse of the nearly-grown bat, and then the Shaman’s inherent power flooded across the dead body. The skin dried, cracked, and withered, and then it and all of the flesh beneath it suddenly turned to dust, joining with the endless sands of the Wastes. All that was left were the dusty bones, and the Shaman picked his way across the clearing to stand before the Ace.
“Gather the bones of his wings, Lighting’s Child. You will bear them as he once did, and so you will carry his life with your own.” Silently, the Ace did as he was bid, small paws reaching out and carefully and respectfully gathering each bone of the wings, leaving the rest of the bones for the family. When the Shaman returned to his tent, the Ace followed after, as silent as ever.
When next the Clan saw the boy, he bore the bone wings strapped to his back, a much finer knife tucked at his belt, and the name Merquise.
