Post by Me'ing on Nov 9, 2006 23:18:54 GMT -5
Whispers of execution trailed with the wind, carried from hut to hut, clan to clan, island to island in the archipelago until all the clan heads and shamans were forced to put down the rumor and meet on the main island to deal with the situation effectively. One of the strongest, and most aloof, of their kind was dead, the Head Shaman, teacher of all, guide to the clans and speaker for the council; who belonged to all clans and none, worshiping all the gods and none; had been struck down, and there was only one of their kind who could have possibly been responsible. The huddled masses called for blood and the chiefs felt much the same way, only the shamans felt that the laws must be upheld instead of giving into the peoples ever present bloodlust; punishment for murder was exile from the islands, but for such a heinous murder they could add a few additional punishments.
The prisoner in question was, no, had been the shaman’s foster daughter, raised and primed to fulfill a prophecy spoken by all the shamans that had the gift of Foretelling, a retelling of an ancient prophecy, and chosen had to be treated delicately; if not taken care up what was to come and should come to pass wouldn’t, heaving the islands into chaos. As part of exile her name was stricken from records, and she would be remembered as ‘The Black Daughter’, burly guards had to hold the writhing young woman down, her hands bound to wood to keep her from lashing out with claws as they carved away the tattoos that marked her as one of their own, bloody scraps of skin left to burn, the ash used to create a paste that would be ground up with the murdered Shaman’s bones, to ease his passage into the afterlife with the knowledge that his murderer was being dealt with properly.
Even through it all, the burning, branding, carving and flogging, she would not cry or scream, the most any guard ever got out of her was a grunt; her father had taught her not to show weakness, though once back in the cell where no one could see her she wept, not for the punishment, but for her father; she hadn’t hurt him, she hadn’t killed him, but that’s what they believed and they made the laws, she’d found him dead, had his blood on her, so she was the murderer. It didn’t take long for them to denounce her and tie her to the mast of a small ship; setting her out in the storm and rain; exile was as good as death, there were naught but savages on the mainland, or so they thought…her father had known better, had taught her better; but it was terrifying still. Lost in the waves, she prayed to all the little gods, as the storm raged she denounced each of the shamans and chiefs, each name screamed to the winds where they were carried back to the islands, rage and hate coloring her voice; she’d never know what killed her father but she’d see him avenged once she fulfilled the damnable prophecy that marked her Outcast.
The prisoner in question was, no, had been the shaman’s foster daughter, raised and primed to fulfill a prophecy spoken by all the shamans that had the gift of Foretelling, a retelling of an ancient prophecy, and chosen had to be treated delicately; if not taken care up what was to come and should come to pass wouldn’t, heaving the islands into chaos. As part of exile her name was stricken from records, and she would be remembered as ‘The Black Daughter’, burly guards had to hold the writhing young woman down, her hands bound to wood to keep her from lashing out with claws as they carved away the tattoos that marked her as one of their own, bloody scraps of skin left to burn, the ash used to create a paste that would be ground up with the murdered Shaman’s bones, to ease his passage into the afterlife with the knowledge that his murderer was being dealt with properly.
Even through it all, the burning, branding, carving and flogging, she would not cry or scream, the most any guard ever got out of her was a grunt; her father had taught her not to show weakness, though once back in the cell where no one could see her she wept, not for the punishment, but for her father; she hadn’t hurt him, she hadn’t killed him, but that’s what they believed and they made the laws, she’d found him dead, had his blood on her, so she was the murderer. It didn’t take long for them to denounce her and tie her to the mast of a small ship; setting her out in the storm and rain; exile was as good as death, there were naught but savages on the mainland, or so they thought…her father had known better, had taught her better; but it was terrifying still. Lost in the waves, she prayed to all the little gods, as the storm raged she denounced each of the shamans and chiefs, each name screamed to the winds where they were carried back to the islands, rage and hate coloring her voice; she’d never know what killed her father but she’d see him avenged once she fulfilled the damnable prophecy that marked her Outcast.