Phunkenstein
Moon
- Joined
- Dec 10, 2011
The wind picked up, cutting through the thick forests of northern Rivain to stir the mossy green blue waters of the pond before him. The large expanse of water was almost of a size to be called a lake. Almost. The kossith sat cross-legged, a foot on the inside of either thigh in the lotus position. Tonight was the Right of Naming, where he would earn his name as a ranger. Tonight was the culmination of a lifetime of training, from the time when the Dalish clan had taken him in as their own, a small and frightened child. Fourteen long years had passed, and in that time the Dalish had done their best to make him one of their own.
It would be a historic event. If he survived, he would be the first kossith ranger, a tradition that was now a century old, having begun when the civil wars of men had ravaged Thedas from shore to shore, scattering man and elf alike. The Dalish, in the combined wisdom of their Keepers, had begun a practice of fostering children orphaned by the conflicts; raising them, training them, forging and refining them into weapons that returned to their people and defended them in the dark years against whatever threat, never taking a side of political allegiance. Today, only slightly more than twenty rangers patrolled the wilds of Thedas. Most human, some elves, even three that were dwarves, but two had not been heard from in years.
The wars were ended now, but the world was hardly a brighter place.
And on this eve, Valerik would gain a new name. Among the elves, it would become as if he had never had another, but in his heart he vowed he would always be Valerik, his parents' son. But his people had been driven near the brink of total extinction, thrown back to the islands of their native Par Vollen and the immediate unit of his kin were now many years in their graves.
In the mean time, his elven teachers had instructed him to meditate and reflect upon his past and his training, upon all the events that had led to this moment. The kossith, whose people had once been called the Qunari, a militaristic society of "fevered zealots"; had also spent the time moving through his forms as a sword-dancer, a style of sword combat perfected by the elves for their rangers that involved quick, darting strikes over the chopping motions of Fereldan knights and Orlesian chevaliers. The dance had to be altered to accommodate Valerik, as there had never before been such a large student and practitioner.
Evening eventually came and with it his escort.
"Valerik," the melodious voice of an elven woman called to him. "The time has come."
He turned his single horned head to regard her. His right horn curved away in a thick arch from his forehead, hugging his skull before rising away in a downward crescent. The left mirrored it under reaching his long, pointed ears, where it had been sheared clean off as child. Curiously, rings circled the flat of the stump like a felled tree, one for each of the twenty winter Valerik had seen. Valerik's stark, silver-white hair fanned out from behind and between the horns, gathering into a tail that reached the small of his back.
The qunari stood, towering over the elves of the forest with a height closer to seven feet than six. The woman led him away from the pond, deeper and deeper into the wood until night had fallen completely, the full luminescent moon cutting the deep dark of the forest floor with columns of silver-blue light. Valerik's eyes, inky black pools for orbs, the abyss of them only broken by the red rings of pupils; drank in the faint light. As well as he could see in the dark, he knew the elves saw all the sharper. He'd seen them take down a bounding deer with a single shot of a longbow with less light than this.
At long last they reached a clearing. He could see a gathering of twenty elves lining the where the forest bordered the clearing's edge, some sitting before drums, others clutching flutes and wind instruments, others strings and the rest clutching their empty hands before them. At the far end sat their Keeper, Enariun. At his side stood his First, a young elven woman of considerable magical talent.
The thought of the magic the Keeper and his First commanded still made Valerik nervous when his thought dwelt upon it too long. He recalled the night of his orphaning, the way the mage in their band had howled as the demon possessed and warped his flesh. The way the thing he had become had torn apart his loved ones and the other kossith. Once qunari mages had been shackled and bound, unable to speak magic unless by the will of their handlers, but the devastation brought down upon them had led to... desperate measures in attempts to salvage a lost war.
The would-be ranger shoved the memories away as his guide stood before him.
"Remove your clothing. You came into the world with naught but your skin; the People would name you as you are." Valerik nodded his lantern jaw at the words, not entirely surprised. The Dalish carried not the taboos of the 'civilized' humans and nudity was as common place for them as clothing. The qunari pulled off his tunic and handed them to the guide who promptly and briskly folded the deep green garment. His large but deft hands then went to the buckle of his empty swordbelt, unfastening it fluidly, handing it to the guide as well before turning his fingers upon the straps of his boots. He kicked those off and then removed his breeches. The elven woman gathered his clothes and boots and vanished into the forest.
As the young kossith man came forward, the elves without instruments of music began to hum so faintly that he almost did not hear them, mistaking the sound for the wind. He was as broad of shoulder, back and chest as any of his brethren, but he tapered at the abdomen and waist before his corded muscles flowed into defined thighs and calves. Valerik's was a swordsman's body down to the last fiber, trim and void of even an ounce of fat. He moved with the fluid, almost arrogant grace of a hunting cat, the moon light reflecting strangely off the ash pale tone of his skin, the bone white of his single horn and the deep obsidian of the small onyx rings the pierced his ears.
"Keeper," he said, nodding, his voice a deep rumble sounding like the low grumble of a beehive. "First." His eyes fell upon her before sliding back to Enariun. The features of his face were sharp and pronounced. Save for his strong jaw and height, Valerik's frame and appearance was not unentirely elven.
"Valerik," the Keeper began, standing. His chair sat upon a natural dais in the clearing floor. Or perhaps he had raised it and the chair of vines from the earth with his magic. Valerik could not be certain, he'd never before been to this place. "It has been some years since you came to us, but I can still remember the day you were presented to me at the Arlathvhen and it was decided that you would be my charge to train as a ranger. There is little left before you now to earn your Name, your Sword and the title."
The Keeper wrapped an arm around the kossith's shoulder, leading him to a large brazier filled with a simmering silver metal, a fire burning beneath it with a heat the made sweat begin to bead upon his pale skin. "This metal is silverite, it will be used by the camp smith to forge your Ranger Sword. But first it requires your life essence to be bonded with it."
Valerik sucked in his breath, taking a small but noticeable step back. "Keeper, that is-"
"Blood magic," Enariun finished for him, his tone quiet but harsh, silencing the loud offense in Valerik's tone. "Fear not. It will bind the weapon to you and no more. Should you lose it, you will know its general direction, a feeling that will become more acute as you draw nearer to it.
"Now, open your wrist." The Keeper produced a curved, ornate ceremonial dagger from the folds of his robe and pressed the hilt into Valerik's palm. He regarded the elf flatly, but did as he was bid. Standing nude over the brazier, the fire reflecting brightly off his skin, the kossith pressed the blade to his wrist and slid it across, giving no indication of the sharp sting in his wrist as his blood oozed out, running red and hissing as it fell into the molten metal.
The way the metallic liquid began to glow faintly did not escape Valerik, nor did the faint sounds of the elves surrounding him beginning to gently play upon their instruments. After a few moments the Keeper urged him to cease his bloodletting and uttered short words of power over the brazier. Then a robed elf appeared and handed him a wooden chalice.
"What is this, Keeper?" The qunari asked as the old elf handed him the chalice. It was filled with some thick golden fluid that Valerik recognized as sap by the smell, but it was far thinner and mixed with several herbs he could not recognize.
"It the nectar of these forests." The elf replied. "It shall induce a holy trance, and the earth shall speak your Name. Some do not awaken and the earth claims them as her own. In the end, this is the fate of all things, ranger and elf alike."
Valerik nodded gravely; he'd known before hand of the risks. The chalice in both his hands, the cut along his wrist having stemmed itself, the qunari raised the wooden rim to his lips and drank deeply. It was fiercely bitter and he fought not to choke, but with each swallow it became at once sour and sweet, metallic and rancid.
In short order he drained the cup. At first he felt nothing, but as he took a step back the world lurched. Everything around him exploded into vivid detail like fresh wet paint upon an artist's canvas. The surroundings melted and it took him several moments to realize he had fallen upon his ass. When he regarded the First, he could make out the pores upon her skin. When he regarded the trees he could see the fine details of each rivet in the bark. When he regarded the other elves, now deep into their song, he could see the sounds of their music.
Other elves deeper in the wood joined in the song until the sounds bled together and he could not discern male from female. His head spun and he eased himself back until he lay upon the green forest floor, feeling for all the world as if he would sink into it. Around him the song heightened to a crescendo. He could feel his heart beat, thrumming in his ears as heat spread across his veins; could feel his pulse acutely in his slashed wrist.
Their was a beat coming from beneath him as well. He was aware of the worms beneath the soil, writhing in rhythm to it. The pulse of the earth.
"What do you hear?" The question came from just above him and yet from someplace far away. It took Valerik a moment to remember it was Enariun. He tried to reply but his jaw would not open and he could not remember how to command his mouth to speak.
A piercing howl cut through the woods. Cut through him. It silenced the music and the sounds of the earth and forest. Somehow, he was aware the howl and the silence were his alone, and for those gathered the song of the elves continued still.
"I hear," he replied, his voice distant. The qunari was still unsure he could recall how speaking worked, but one way or another he managed. "the Wolf. Fen'harel calls my Name."
"And so it is." Came Enariun's voice. "Rise, Direhowl, Ranger of the Dalish."
On legs that felt like water, the trance still heavy upon him, Valerik Direhowl came to his feet to stand reborn before the People.
It would be a historic event. If he survived, he would be the first kossith ranger, a tradition that was now a century old, having begun when the civil wars of men had ravaged Thedas from shore to shore, scattering man and elf alike. The Dalish, in the combined wisdom of their Keepers, had begun a practice of fostering children orphaned by the conflicts; raising them, training them, forging and refining them into weapons that returned to their people and defended them in the dark years against whatever threat, never taking a side of political allegiance. Today, only slightly more than twenty rangers patrolled the wilds of Thedas. Most human, some elves, even three that were dwarves, but two had not been heard from in years.
The wars were ended now, but the world was hardly a brighter place.
And on this eve, Valerik would gain a new name. Among the elves, it would become as if he had never had another, but in his heart he vowed he would always be Valerik, his parents' son. But his people had been driven near the brink of total extinction, thrown back to the islands of their native Par Vollen and the immediate unit of his kin were now many years in their graves.
In the mean time, his elven teachers had instructed him to meditate and reflect upon his past and his training, upon all the events that had led to this moment. The kossith, whose people had once been called the Qunari, a militaristic society of "fevered zealots"; had also spent the time moving through his forms as a sword-dancer, a style of sword combat perfected by the elves for their rangers that involved quick, darting strikes over the chopping motions of Fereldan knights and Orlesian chevaliers. The dance had to be altered to accommodate Valerik, as there had never before been such a large student and practitioner.
Evening eventually came and with it his escort.
"Valerik," the melodious voice of an elven woman called to him. "The time has come."
He turned his single horned head to regard her. His right horn curved away in a thick arch from his forehead, hugging his skull before rising away in a downward crescent. The left mirrored it under reaching his long, pointed ears, where it had been sheared clean off as child. Curiously, rings circled the flat of the stump like a felled tree, one for each of the twenty winter Valerik had seen. Valerik's stark, silver-white hair fanned out from behind and between the horns, gathering into a tail that reached the small of his back.
The qunari stood, towering over the elves of the forest with a height closer to seven feet than six. The woman led him away from the pond, deeper and deeper into the wood until night had fallen completely, the full luminescent moon cutting the deep dark of the forest floor with columns of silver-blue light. Valerik's eyes, inky black pools for orbs, the abyss of them only broken by the red rings of pupils; drank in the faint light. As well as he could see in the dark, he knew the elves saw all the sharper. He'd seen them take down a bounding deer with a single shot of a longbow with less light than this.
At long last they reached a clearing. He could see a gathering of twenty elves lining the where the forest bordered the clearing's edge, some sitting before drums, others clutching flutes and wind instruments, others strings and the rest clutching their empty hands before them. At the far end sat their Keeper, Enariun. At his side stood his First, a young elven woman of considerable magical talent.
The thought of the magic the Keeper and his First commanded still made Valerik nervous when his thought dwelt upon it too long. He recalled the night of his orphaning, the way the mage in their band had howled as the demon possessed and warped his flesh. The way the thing he had become had torn apart his loved ones and the other kossith. Once qunari mages had been shackled and bound, unable to speak magic unless by the will of their handlers, but the devastation brought down upon them had led to... desperate measures in attempts to salvage a lost war.
The would-be ranger shoved the memories away as his guide stood before him.
"Remove your clothing. You came into the world with naught but your skin; the People would name you as you are." Valerik nodded his lantern jaw at the words, not entirely surprised. The Dalish carried not the taboos of the 'civilized' humans and nudity was as common place for them as clothing. The qunari pulled off his tunic and handed them to the guide who promptly and briskly folded the deep green garment. His large but deft hands then went to the buckle of his empty swordbelt, unfastening it fluidly, handing it to the guide as well before turning his fingers upon the straps of his boots. He kicked those off and then removed his breeches. The elven woman gathered his clothes and boots and vanished into the forest.
As the young kossith man came forward, the elves without instruments of music began to hum so faintly that he almost did not hear them, mistaking the sound for the wind. He was as broad of shoulder, back and chest as any of his brethren, but he tapered at the abdomen and waist before his corded muscles flowed into defined thighs and calves. Valerik's was a swordsman's body down to the last fiber, trim and void of even an ounce of fat. He moved with the fluid, almost arrogant grace of a hunting cat, the moon light reflecting strangely off the ash pale tone of his skin, the bone white of his single horn and the deep obsidian of the small onyx rings the pierced his ears.
"Keeper," he said, nodding, his voice a deep rumble sounding like the low grumble of a beehive. "First." His eyes fell upon her before sliding back to Enariun. The features of his face were sharp and pronounced. Save for his strong jaw and height, Valerik's frame and appearance was not unentirely elven.
"Valerik," the Keeper began, standing. His chair sat upon a natural dais in the clearing floor. Or perhaps he had raised it and the chair of vines from the earth with his magic. Valerik could not be certain, he'd never before been to this place. "It has been some years since you came to us, but I can still remember the day you were presented to me at the Arlathvhen and it was decided that you would be my charge to train as a ranger. There is little left before you now to earn your Name, your Sword and the title."
The Keeper wrapped an arm around the kossith's shoulder, leading him to a large brazier filled with a simmering silver metal, a fire burning beneath it with a heat the made sweat begin to bead upon his pale skin. "This metal is silverite, it will be used by the camp smith to forge your Ranger Sword. But first it requires your life essence to be bonded with it."
Valerik sucked in his breath, taking a small but noticeable step back. "Keeper, that is-"
"Blood magic," Enariun finished for him, his tone quiet but harsh, silencing the loud offense in Valerik's tone. "Fear not. It will bind the weapon to you and no more. Should you lose it, you will know its general direction, a feeling that will become more acute as you draw nearer to it.
"Now, open your wrist." The Keeper produced a curved, ornate ceremonial dagger from the folds of his robe and pressed the hilt into Valerik's palm. He regarded the elf flatly, but did as he was bid. Standing nude over the brazier, the fire reflecting brightly off his skin, the kossith pressed the blade to his wrist and slid it across, giving no indication of the sharp sting in his wrist as his blood oozed out, running red and hissing as it fell into the molten metal.
The way the metallic liquid began to glow faintly did not escape Valerik, nor did the faint sounds of the elves surrounding him beginning to gently play upon their instruments. After a few moments the Keeper urged him to cease his bloodletting and uttered short words of power over the brazier. Then a robed elf appeared and handed him a wooden chalice.
"What is this, Keeper?" The qunari asked as the old elf handed him the chalice. It was filled with some thick golden fluid that Valerik recognized as sap by the smell, but it was far thinner and mixed with several herbs he could not recognize.
"It the nectar of these forests." The elf replied. "It shall induce a holy trance, and the earth shall speak your Name. Some do not awaken and the earth claims them as her own. In the end, this is the fate of all things, ranger and elf alike."
Valerik nodded gravely; he'd known before hand of the risks. The chalice in both his hands, the cut along his wrist having stemmed itself, the qunari raised the wooden rim to his lips and drank deeply. It was fiercely bitter and he fought not to choke, but with each swallow it became at once sour and sweet, metallic and rancid.
In short order he drained the cup. At first he felt nothing, but as he took a step back the world lurched. Everything around him exploded into vivid detail like fresh wet paint upon an artist's canvas. The surroundings melted and it took him several moments to realize he had fallen upon his ass. When he regarded the First, he could make out the pores upon her skin. When he regarded the trees he could see the fine details of each rivet in the bark. When he regarded the other elves, now deep into their song, he could see the sounds of their music.
Other elves deeper in the wood joined in the song until the sounds bled together and he could not discern male from female. His head spun and he eased himself back until he lay upon the green forest floor, feeling for all the world as if he would sink into it. Around him the song heightened to a crescendo. He could feel his heart beat, thrumming in his ears as heat spread across his veins; could feel his pulse acutely in his slashed wrist.
Their was a beat coming from beneath him as well. He was aware of the worms beneath the soil, writhing in rhythm to it. The pulse of the earth.
"What do you hear?" The question came from just above him and yet from someplace far away. It took Valerik a moment to remember it was Enariun. He tried to reply but his jaw would not open and he could not remember how to command his mouth to speak.
A piercing howl cut through the woods. Cut through him. It silenced the music and the sounds of the earth and forest. Somehow, he was aware the howl and the silence were his alone, and for those gathered the song of the elves continued still.
"I hear," he replied, his voice distant. The qunari was still unsure he could recall how speaking worked, but one way or another he managed. "the Wolf. Fen'harel calls my Name."
"And so it is." Came Enariun's voice. "Rise, Direhowl, Ranger of the Dalish."
On legs that felt like water, the trance still heavy upon him, Valerik Direhowl came to his feet to stand reborn before the People.
