Pathos Omake - The Four Shamans
Cecylene
Eternal Idea Engine
- Location
- Massachusetts
- Pronouns
- He/They
I've been hit with an inspiration stick after my little schpeel. Time for typing other things.
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The Shamans sat around the stacked and unlit bonfire wood, the large and numerous chimes that were hanging from posts around their circle were utterly still and silent, the earth was tamped flat for dozens of feet in every direction, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky for miles around.
Many had been chosen to participate in preparing the Warchief for his audience with the Furies and the Ritual to follow and all of them could be found in this one location. Waiting for any signs to come that the Warchief's audience was over and the Shaman could return to the Throne of Elements to bear witness to another rebirth of an ancient Pact and Tradition.
Or collect the corpse that more than a few feared they would find there.
There were no drinks to be found in the Shaman's makeshift camp save water and no food would be found either, only a stockpile of herbs that were on hand for, hopefully, praise and thanksgiving to the Furies and accolades to the Warchief.
Of the Shamans who fretted away the minutes and hours, the eldest four had not spoken a word since personally preparing and chanting over the Warchief immediately before the leader of the Mag'har entered the Throne of Elements alone as his friend Jorin had so long ago. They had known some of the older Blademasters and had studied under the Shamans who had presided over those preparations. While none had ever uttered a word about what was necessary or the chants used, they had spoken at length of the manner of the Furies immediately before the Ritual.
Their mentors had spoken of strict standards, swift urging and correction at even the slightest hesitation, a blazing desire hotter than a campfire, and secrets that would take days of meditation to discern.
Any familiarity and hope of reconnecting to the lost mentors of the past was shattered when the Furies began to direct the four on the methods to prepare Dranosh Saurfang for his audience. The Furies commanded them with words that brokered no error or uncertainty in thought or deed, corrected them with a lash sharper than their original guilt at ever believing in the false teachings of the Shame, a fervor and aggression that threatened to consume them from the inside with it's desire, and with every action and word flowing from one to the next to add another layer of meaning and importance more inscrutable than the last.
So the four remained seated on the ground shivering in the cool and utterly silent air, and desperately trying to not mention that fifth voice that called so softly and sweetly from over the horizon. It's words were honeyed milk and a father's encouragement. When it's murmurs first intruded into the preparations the four nearly cried out in fear at lingering fel taint on the land until they were swiftly, and painfully, told to continue without pause. The new voice did not stop it's susurrations until Dranosh had entered the Throne and disappeared from sight. Once the Warchief had disappeared from view, the four had collapsed as though their spines had been cut and needed to be carried to their current positions.
They had recovered enough of their strength to move but had not done so, for they could hear a faint call over the horizon once more. So weak yet so beautiful even in it's low and quiet tone. Now that they could divert a thought to the noise, the four glanced nearly as one to the direction they had realized the voice was calling from.
They would forever after swear that in that moment they could see a glow and hear the ringing of bells come from Oshugan.
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The Shamans sat around the stacked and unlit bonfire wood, the large and numerous chimes that were hanging from posts around their circle were utterly still and silent, the earth was tamped flat for dozens of feet in every direction, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky for miles around.
Many had been chosen to participate in preparing the Warchief for his audience with the Furies and the Ritual to follow and all of them could be found in this one location. Waiting for any signs to come that the Warchief's audience was over and the Shaman could return to the Throne of Elements to bear witness to another rebirth of an ancient Pact and Tradition.
Or collect the corpse that more than a few feared they would find there.
There were no drinks to be found in the Shaman's makeshift camp save water and no food would be found either, only a stockpile of herbs that were on hand for, hopefully, praise and thanksgiving to the Furies and accolades to the Warchief.
Of the Shamans who fretted away the minutes and hours, the eldest four had not spoken a word since personally preparing and chanting over the Warchief immediately before the leader of the Mag'har entered the Throne of Elements alone as his friend Jorin had so long ago. They had known some of the older Blademasters and had studied under the Shamans who had presided over those preparations. While none had ever uttered a word about what was necessary or the chants used, they had spoken at length of the manner of the Furies immediately before the Ritual.
Their mentors had spoken of strict standards, swift urging and correction at even the slightest hesitation, a blazing desire hotter than a campfire, and secrets that would take days of meditation to discern.
Any familiarity and hope of reconnecting to the lost mentors of the past was shattered when the Furies began to direct the four on the methods to prepare Dranosh Saurfang for his audience. The Furies commanded them with words that brokered no error or uncertainty in thought or deed, corrected them with a lash sharper than their original guilt at ever believing in the false teachings of the Shame, a fervor and aggression that threatened to consume them from the inside with it's desire, and with every action and word flowing from one to the next to add another layer of meaning and importance more inscrutable than the last.
So the four remained seated on the ground shivering in the cool and utterly silent air, and desperately trying to not mention that fifth voice that called so softly and sweetly from over the horizon. It's words were honeyed milk and a father's encouragement. When it's murmurs first intruded into the preparations the four nearly cried out in fear at lingering fel taint on the land until they were swiftly, and painfully, told to continue without pause. The new voice did not stop it's susurrations until Dranosh had entered the Throne and disappeared from sight. Once the Warchief had disappeared from view, the four had collapsed as though their spines had been cut and needed to be carried to their current positions.
They had recovered enough of their strength to move but had not done so, for they could hear a faint call over the horizon once more. So weak yet so beautiful even in it's low and quiet tone. Now that they could divert a thought to the noise, the four glanced nearly as one to the direction they had realized the voice was calling from.
They would forever after swear that in that moment they could see a glow and hear the ringing of bells come from Oshugan.
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