48th of Frost, 120
It had been a day of celebration; Arkash was to become an adult in the eyes of all Rathor that day. In the days to come, he would know what it truly meant to be Rathor, too. The first half of the festivities was made up of a surprise feast held in his name among those of the kinship old enough to partake, and the second half was some sort of undescribed rite.
Dorn, Sharok, and Tavlin all abandoned the feast part-way through to prepare such a ritual in the room beyond, but the party was too loud and lively for Arkash to take much notice than their initial disappearance.
Korr and Garrel, the kinship's two biggest beastalt, were at it in an arm wrestle. The grizzly bear had challenged the otherwise lax saltwater crocodile. It seemed to be something of a regular thing, as more than a few of the smaller members of the kinship had anticipated such a clash. He watched with intrigue as they started, then leaned toward the happenings as the two stayed locked in place. Calls for victory on one side or the other rang out. Some Rathor cheered for Korr, and others called for Rel to best the hulking reptile.
Korr began to waver, and his lip-teeth parted slightly to breathe as Rel pushed his arm a little closer to the table. The giant reptile began to fall, and the cheering ramped up even further. Arkash stared, fully invested in the outcome of the game until sharp whispers spoke over the cheering. He blinked and snapped his head to the source. Stood in the doorway of the hall's east wing was Dorn, holding direct eye contact with him. A motion of his wing indicated that he wanted Arkash to come, but his eyes looked back to the arm wrestle between the titans.
He squinted a bit, then stood and stepped away from the table to approach the goose. Korr was holding on by a thread, but he wasn't out of the match. Rel was tiring herself out trying to finish him off, but the scute-armored croc wasn't having it.
The young rath's eyes watched with piqued anticipation as he backed up toward Dorn. Even as the goose pulled him into the room, Arkash watched 'til the very moment the door was shut, where his view was blocked. His yellow eyes then lifted to the goose's tiny head just seconds before a slam echoed in the other room, and cheers of congratulations rang. Impulsively, he reached for the door to peek, but Dorn held it closed. "Korr won," the chief spoke with a gesture of his head. "He always does."
"How do you know? Looked like he was losing to me," Arkash returned and crossed his arms.
"Rel's strong, but she always goes full force from the start. Korr reserves his strength until she's exhausted, then turns it on her when she can't hold her own anymore," he explained with a shake of his head. "She should expect such things from an ambush predator, but she never learns," he affirmed as though such a thing was an uncontested fact.
Arkash furrowed his brow; Dorn was smarter than he'd given the man credit for, so was Korr. Tactics so valuable would be useful in his own life.
At last, he looked about the room to find Sharok and Tavlin sat on an uncomfortable-looking bench with their left hands wrapped. in bandages. They'd bled, he could smell it. What was more, their wounds had been appropriately dressed and cleaned. He looked between them then with a tilt of his head, then looked on at the low-burning hearth in the middle of the smaller room. "Dorn's right; Korr's a monster," Tavlin spoke with a nod. "How was the fish? You were chugging them when I saw you out there."
"It was great," Arkash admitted with a smile. "I love seafood, but I don't get to eat it often out in Lorien. So, thank you," the rathor spoke with a grateful bow of his head, then looked between the three with a quirk to his brow. "Is this the second half?" He asked as Dorn stepped past him, then knelt beside a small fire pit in the middle of the room.
"It is, yes," Dorn answered as he piled some branches in the pit. With ease, he lit some tinder and fed the growing fire into the pile of wood. "The ceremony is in two parts, as you know; the initial celebration to bid farewell to your days as a hatchling, then a journey in which your spirit walks to mature with your body," he explained with a turn of his feathered hand.
"...My spirit?" He quizzed with an obvious mark of concern. "You mean like... out of my body?"
The goose nodded in return, paused, then shook his head. A motion of his wings invited the rath closer, and the rath approached hesitantly. "It's not quite like that; you'll be safe, trust me," the avian swore with a bow, then took Arkash by the claws with his malformed hands. There, he brought the dragon to sit before the flame, then stood to retrieve a deep, wooden, engraved bowl and gently lowered it to the Rathor's claws. Arkash took one look at the fluid within and furrowed his scalie brows. It was blood. "You must first drink this; as a neoalt, your body needs to recognize the blood of fully recognized shape changers."
Arkash looked then to Sharok and Tavlin. His eyes lowered to the bandages that wrapped their hands. It was their blood; he could tell so by the smell. He hesitated. Not because he was squeamish, no. Arkash had eaten many mortals in scraps at that point, but they were all humans and elves. As a result, he struggled to control himself in their presence. He knew the smell of their flesh to herald food, he'd been conditioned to think so for the past month. If he sampled rathor, would he come to crave his own kind?
"It's alright, Arkash," Sharok spoke above the sink of his thoughts.
"We volunteered to donate, so don't feel bad," Tavlin assured.
Arkash looked between them and dipped his head. He hadn't hesitated out of guilt. With false hesitation, he lifted the bowl to his lips and dipped his muzzle in to drink from it with his straw-like muzzle. The taste of their lifeblood stained his palette and filled his nose with their scent. The pit of his gut churned at the offering, and the aching void within him returned. When he finished, he gagged a little, then coughed hard into his balled fist for show. Even for a predator species, drinking straight blood was irregular. He had to make it look authentic.
"That's the hardest part done," congratulated the goose with a slow nod. "Now..." he spoke as he collected the bowl in the rathor's claws and set it on a nearby table. A reach of his wing collected a pot of clay, opened the lid, and pulled some oddly pungent dried leaves from its contents. Arkash watched carefully as the goose threw them into the open flame, then blinked quickly as they began to release a thin white smoke. The smell burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. "...Look into the fire and breathe the fumes. Do not resist the beckon of your spirit," he warned as he took his seat opposite the younger rath.
Arkash swallowed hard and squinted. It was uncomfortable, and he didn't really want to subject himself to the effects of the smoke. Neither did he want to leave his body, but such a thing surely wasn't possible, was it? At best, he suspected it might have been some drug trip, the fumes from those leaves? Regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, he stared on into the flickering amber. He admired the waves of heat on the crimson fingers of each branch of flame and leaned in to inhale the smoke.
The smoke no longer burned his nose after his third drag, and instead filled his senses with a pleasant warmth. With every breath in, his chest lifted a little and his body grew lighter. The corners of his vision darkened at a point, and boredom set in. With a sigh, he looked up from the flame but found that he'd moved. He was no longer in the chief's home, he was instead inside a darkened hallway made of stone, illuminated by naught but shallow moonlight. Despite his dranoch night eye, he couldn't see well.
It didn't strike him as strange, however. Instead, he pressed into the cold stone floor with both his clawed hands and rose to his feet. The world rippled around him, and the edges of his vision blurred. He stepped over the burning fire and began his long walk.
The walls were adorned with aged embroidery and carvings. The save between the brick ceiling and the wall was smoothed with plate skirting boards of old, grimy metal. Muffled rumbling began to stir in his hearing, and the further he progressed down the hall, the louder it became. Indistinct screams and cries filled his ears; that of panicked crowds and terrorized citizens. Ahead of him, the left wall dipped a little, and pale moonlight shined more intensely in the area.
He paused as he came to stand before it, then turned to face the light. There, he beheld a tall window of stained glass depicting the white vulture. Arkash furrowed his brow before the display, then looked to the windowsill. There, he spied an old, rusty hammer. Then it was in his claws. He looked to the tool in his grasp, then stepped closer to the window, reeled a twist of his body, and swung the hammer at full force to strike the pane. It was weightless, easy. His weapon broke through the glass with ease, and the entire surface shattered and burst into fragments that briefly scattered and withered to nothing. Harsh sunlight took place of the moonlight, then overgrowth poured through the gap he'd created; healthy, strong vines and roots poured into the eroded stone room before him, and he smiled.
Continued here.
