42nd of Summer, 508AV
The Village of the Shorn Skulls
Days of disaster rarely if ever begin with portents or omens of doom. It's what makes them all the more terrible: because they come like a rain of fire from a clear blue sky. The world wakes, then proceeds at a pace that is not deceptive, nor foreboding. Time passes. Events unfold.
And then, without any hint or preview, Fortuna gouges a scar through your soul.
Such it began that day, just before Syna was at her highest, and the village of the Shorn Skulls was busying itself with its usual chores. Two hundred or so Myrians of all ages, male and female, worked industriously around in and around the collection of long houses. So much had to be done. Fishing nets repaired, clothes made, weapons forged and sharpened, food prepared, lessons taught to the children and the Jungle scoured for herbs and food and materials.
Every day it had to be done... and every day, Razkar found himself longing a little more for his time there to end. Especially when it was his turn to maintain the clan's weapons.
"You won't maintain a weapon with your eyes, boy."
Yurta noticed the sound of stone and cloth on iron had ceased. She'd turned around from the weapons rack and found her son just staring at the battle ax in his hands. Her words were harsh, delivered in her customary growl, but there was a smile hiding behind it.
She knew that look. Reverence mixed with longing. That fierce, fledgling desire to serve and slay for the Goddess-Queen, to truly be worthy of the Myrian race.
Yurta remembered how she had looked at her mother's gladius, now sheathed at her waist.
"I want to go early, mother."
She cocked a dark eyebrow, impressed at his easy, direct manner of speech. Few among the Shorn Skulls were given to flattery or double-talk. It had been bred and beaten out of them over generations, as it had been for most of Myri's children. Their race was a matriarchy, true, but a meritocracy as well. Plain speaking of facts, thoughts and reality was not the social risk it was in the barbarian lands: it was expected.
"You know you cannot, Raz." She said gently, racking yet another sword after her whetstone had done all she could for it. "Twenty three years will you have walked the Jungle. Then you may go. That has always been the way of the Shorn Skulls."
"Mother, you know I am-"
"-an obedient son who does not needlessly argue with his mother?"
Razkar's jaw tightened but he was careful not to let his simmering anger bubble over into his eyes. Yurta's stare was hard as the blades at waist now, flinty and unforgiving, even to her own child. It was how she had tempered herself into the War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls, its most able and revered warrior. It was how she had raised her children.
So he sighed and picked up his whetstone, resigning himself to another year of tedium. Yurta's gaze softened slightly and he heard her walk over to him, silently fuming, until her hand, darker than his, reached over and closed around his own.
"Slower, son. Not so hasty. Your stone will not burnish all of the blade, and it will be uneven."
In her warm grip, Razkar allowed the stone to be bought back to the bottom of the ax head, then slide up against it with a scrape, to the very top, in a smooth and careful sharpening.
"Slow... smooth... and thorough." Her words had more texture to them than just that of an armoror's lesson, and even young and restless, Razkar could hear what lay under them. "Only with time, patience and practice will a weapon be prepared for use. Such is the way for most things..."
"But not all."
Yurta crushed the smile that threatened to alight her face. Ah, the quick one, was her son. Always looking for openings in an argument like chinks in an enemy's armor. But she just shrugged and moved back to the forge. Five blades needed to be re-fashioned, and she'd best start now.
"There are always exceptions, Raz. But-"
The scream shattered the moment and bought both their heads snapping round. instantly both old female and young male knew it came from beyond the treeline, to the north, and already there were shouts and raised voices as others in the Shorn Skulls reacted to it.
But not just to the sound. To the throat that had made it.
For it was Myrian.
The Village of the Shorn Skulls
Days of disaster rarely if ever begin with portents or omens of doom. It's what makes them all the more terrible: because they come like a rain of fire from a clear blue sky. The world wakes, then proceeds at a pace that is not deceptive, nor foreboding. Time passes. Events unfold.
And then, without any hint or preview, Fortuna gouges a scar through your soul.
Such it began that day, just before Syna was at her highest, and the village of the Shorn Skulls was busying itself with its usual chores. Two hundred or so Myrians of all ages, male and female, worked industriously around in and around the collection of long houses. So much had to be done. Fishing nets repaired, clothes made, weapons forged and sharpened, food prepared, lessons taught to the children and the Jungle scoured for herbs and food and materials.
Every day it had to be done... and every day, Razkar found himself longing a little more for his time there to end. Especially when it was his turn to maintain the clan's weapons.
"You won't maintain a weapon with your eyes, boy."
Yurta noticed the sound of stone and cloth on iron had ceased. She'd turned around from the weapons rack and found her son just staring at the battle ax in his hands. Her words were harsh, delivered in her customary growl, but there was a smile hiding behind it.
She knew that look. Reverence mixed with longing. That fierce, fledgling desire to serve and slay for the Goddess-Queen, to truly be worthy of the Myrian race.
Yurta remembered how she had looked at her mother's gladius, now sheathed at her waist.
"I want to go early, mother."
She cocked a dark eyebrow, impressed at his easy, direct manner of speech. Few among the Shorn Skulls were given to flattery or double-talk. It had been bred and beaten out of them over generations, as it had been for most of Myri's children. Their race was a matriarchy, true, but a meritocracy as well. Plain speaking of facts, thoughts and reality was not the social risk it was in the barbarian lands: it was expected.
"You know you cannot, Raz." She said gently, racking yet another sword after her whetstone had done all she could for it. "Twenty three years will you have walked the Jungle. Then you may go. That has always been the way of the Shorn Skulls."
"Mother, you know I am-"
"-an obedient son who does not needlessly argue with his mother?"
Razkar's jaw tightened but he was careful not to let his simmering anger bubble over into his eyes. Yurta's stare was hard as the blades at waist now, flinty and unforgiving, even to her own child. It was how she had tempered herself into the War Mistress of the Shorn Skulls, its most able and revered warrior. It was how she had raised her children.
So he sighed and picked up his whetstone, resigning himself to another year of tedium. Yurta's gaze softened slightly and he heard her walk over to him, silently fuming, until her hand, darker than his, reached over and closed around his own.
"Slower, son. Not so hasty. Your stone will not burnish all of the blade, and it will be uneven."
In her warm grip, Razkar allowed the stone to be bought back to the bottom of the ax head, then slide up against it with a scrape, to the very top, in a smooth and careful sharpening.
"Slow... smooth... and thorough." Her words had more texture to them than just that of an armoror's lesson, and even young and restless, Razkar could hear what lay under them. "Only with time, patience and practice will a weapon be prepared for use. Such is the way for most things..."
"But not all."
Yurta crushed the smile that threatened to alight her face. Ah, the quick one, was her son. Always looking for openings in an argument like chinks in an enemy's armor. But she just shrugged and moved back to the forge. Five blades needed to be re-fashioned, and she'd best start now.
"There are always exceptions, Raz. But-"
The scream shattered the moment and bought both their heads snapping round. instantly both old female and young male knew it came from beyond the treeline, to the north, and already there were shouts and raised voices as others in the Shorn Skulls reacted to it.
But not just to the sound. To the throat that had made it.
For it was Myrian.
