Shadows flickered across the etched stone face of the pillar,
the scent of burning tar twisting with the stench of decaying flesh and mud.
The ancient guardian of the swamp stood silent vigil, carved eyes forever
watching the waters that continued to churn and bubble with barely concealed
life.
Crouched before the pillar, Kara’char placed the carved wooden bowl upon the
mud before filling it to the brim with the blood from his pouch. Powdered root
of the Shava tree joined a chunk of shattered genzite crystal as both tumbled
into the bowl. After a moment, Kara’char reached into the bowl, letting the
mixture coat his gnarled hands.
Blood dripped from his hands to feed the swamp as the shaman reached up and
wiped his hands across the face of the pillar, talons finding the grooves with
the ease of long practice. The words of the spirits tumbled from his jaw,
spilling past blood stained fangs to call to those who had come before.
Their guidance was needed.
Settling onto his haunches, the Ra’shan shaman contented himself to wait. The
spirits would answer in their own time and not that of mortals. Though
Kara’char knew his time was limited and that the swamp would call him back to
its embrace soon, he also knew that to do other than wait was a follow.
One could not compel the dead to speak. One could only ask.
Minutes passed by, then an hour. Still the ancient one waiting, hardly
stirring. The torches burned down slowly, their shadows stretching and flexing,
as if they too were calling for the spirits.
Suddenly the blood smeared on the pillar bubbled and burned before seemingly
disappearing into the pillar, as though the stone itself drank in the power of
life. The etched eyes took on a new life, glowing a dark, ominous red.
“Why do you call us, shaman?”
The voice hissed directly into the mind. One did not hear the ancestors. They
felt them.
“Great ancestors. I come to give warning. Soon, many of our people will swell
thy ranks. We return to war, to rescue those who had been taken and twisted.
Cursed to be not of us and yet of our blood. I freely give of my body and the
body of that which sustains life to ask for guidance and direction.”
He settled in to wait. As with all things involving the ancestors, it would be
on their terms and their timeline. The feeling of their voice in his head
almost immediately startled him enough that he almost toppled over, needing to
use his tail braced against the ground to remain in position.
“We know of the struggles of our children and those who were once of us. We
have watched over all that has befallen those who left the swamps. Many have
suffered much at the hands of those who would wield magic to rend flesh and
twist it into a mockery. Were we able, we could strike down those who had been
warped.
“Yet they are no longer of us. They are no longer part of the tribe. Do with
them what you will, but in this we cannot guide you.”
Kara’char felt the presence recede from his mind before fading from the pillar
as well. The shaman heaved a sigh of loss, trembling for a moment. With another
soft, hissing sigh, he pushed off his knees to stand. Reaching out, he took
hold of the torch beside the pillar. There was no more need to cast light upon
this site. He had what he needed, little though it may be.
The ancestors were leaving the decisions in his hand. Though it pained him to
do so, he made the only decision he could.
It was time for war.