The Call

Inspiration: Artist - Slow Meadow; Album - Palemote; Track - Ghosts in the Brazos

Riven silently choked on dust raised by the creature’s cloven feet as it dragged through the temple courtyard, searching. What was this place? Riven knew it once belonged to the remnants of an ancient, squat-legged race that had died out hundreds of years ago. He froze, sudden silence alerting him. The damn dust was making it difficult to see even with the moonlight. There. The creature had paused and was instead…swaying rhythmically, a soft croon building from its gut as it rocked back and forth. Riven’s hands were shaking & clammy. Why had the seers sent him here?  Most young men at the time of the Call were sent out to raid the neighboring Vaakali tribes, required only to bring back various extremities, proof of their success. He had been told that to prove his worth of the Call, the Old One must be sought out at the Drowned City and all would be made plain. The croon grew louder…gods what was this thing? He began to pull himself deeper into the alcove in which he had been hiding. Too late. The drooping head swung towards him, at the same time flinging two objects from its earthen hands. The first slammed into the stone above his head, the second into his right shoulder, pinning him against a carven frieze. Riven screamed in rage and pain, vision briefly darkening as he dropped his spear and tried to pull the jagged object out of his flesh.  A wooden spike, but of no wood he had ever seen. He swore �" the creature was shambling quickly towards him, its face hidden by hanging moss and vines. He screamed again, using all his strength to try and pull the spike out of his shoulder. It tore loose with a wet sound, blood pouring down his jerkin. He almost blacked out, the pain was monstrous. Diving for his spear, Riven came up on one knee, already stabbing, hands slick on the haft. The creature stopped short, its breath coming in sharp rasps. It appeared almost surprised. Riven felt movement under his palms, a writhing. He flung his spear, scrabbling away from the Old One. It hadn’t moved, but was now focused on his spear. Riven glanced at it, half illuminated by the moon, his hand pressed over his wound. A tiny leaf bud had sprouted from the haft where one of his bloody hands had gripped it. Reeling, he sank to his knees, blood pulsing over his fingers. Glancing back towards the monster, his breath was pulled from him. It was gone.