My mind began to wander. I wondered what being blessed with a class ment. Did they just get one when they became old enough? Did they have a break through? Or did the coming of age ceremony itself call upon a diety and grant them power?
An image of the silver haired prince came to mind. His hair was a wild mess cut just above his dark shoulders. Two black scars already cut into his bare chest, but it lacked the muscles he would develop when older. His face still held a hint of youth, but his eyes were cold and focused forward with a face devoid of emotion.
A crowd surrounded him with the marry sounds of eating and drinking. Musicians played drums, horns, and string instruments echoing through the great hall as people casually danced in chaotic pockets. The great hall itself was large enough to hold over 200 people. Men and woman drinking, children playing, and animals searching for scraps. It all felt natural and full of life. Even the walls themselves rose up made of dark wood trunks as if the trees grew right there. The roof was a canapoy of branches and leaves wove together to bare witness to the festivities and feast.
A man a head taller than the prince put a hand on his shoulder. His skin was the same dark shade and his brow and nose held a simular shape to the prince's. "Today is your day. Ready, Myre?"
Prince Myre stood at the begining of a gauntlet of men in full leather armor. It wasn't thin leather like what Ranger wore, but thick bands held with dark wooden studs. The line was around 20 men long. Myre nodded.
The men of the gauntlet began to pound their weapons against the dirt floor. Axes, swords, hammers, it was a motley of heavy thudding accompanied by the tinks and twangs of metal disks tied to their handles and steins against their shafts. "Myre! Myre! Myre!" They began to chant as the rest of the hall fell silent.
Myre sucked in a breath. As he stepped forward, the clashing of weapons rang out. However, instead of hitting him, they hit each other just above his head in a rhythmic battle. Myre past under them at a steady pace, his eyes fixed on the raised ground beyond them. Every once in a while a playful jab would part from the ruckus above. Each of his brothers and uncles snuck a swipe at him, but he dodged most of them with ease. If they wanted to kill each other it would be different, but a few bruises were a part of the right of passage.
The only thing that really hit him was the stench of heavy mead. Each of the elders held out a stein before he could pass. The only way through was to chug the liquid within. Each held their own brew from sweet to stout. Some tasted good and empowering, others pure fire. By the end of the gauntlet, his steps wavered a bit. I liked to imagine there was a little smile on his lips as he took a knee at the alter before him.
There, a large twisted stump rose up with roots reaching towards the sky. The roots were smoothed over with time and oils, yet some of them had still begun to grow leaves. A woman sat in the center dressed in furs. Each still had a skull attached and spectral animals lazed about on the roots or ground. The largest skull was a three eyed beast covering her face as her silver locks flowed out in wild waves all the way to her ankles.
The woman reached toward the sky. Lightning struck down through a hole in the ceiling, lighting a root on fire. She held a bundle of herbs to the flame and they began to smolder. She stood with steps full of grace, a guttural chant calling out from her lips, and began to dance around Myre. The smoke of the herbs wrapping around him.
The air began to fill with fleeting whisps of blue and green. My tongue snapped out and grabbed one. It was like eating pop rocks sizzling and sparking in my mouth. The flow of whisps took loose natural shapes as the magic was woven. A power much different from what the princess used.
The whisps grew thick around Myre and the woman. She ended the dance holding a bowl covered in symbols. A dark clear liquid rippled inside. Holding the burning herbs to the liquid they lit the surface on fire with a flash. Then the greedy symbols sucked in the fire, leaving a glowing purple liquid behind. The woman poured some of the liquid down Myre's throat, then took her own draught as she sat down across from him on the clover covered hill, drinking in the magic that swirled in and out of their bodies, connecting them.
I ate a few more whisps. Each color seemed to be a different flavor. They weren't fruity, but I still liked blue and red the best. A white one kept dodging me. I narrowed my eyes at it wondering if it was worth the chase. If white was a combination of all colors, would that make it taste like rainbow?
The woman's eyes snapped open, a purple glow bleeding from them as she looked down at Myre. She began to speak in a voice full of power that echoed in the trees. "Passion stolen by fate... A beast holds all you desire... Find it and you will unlock your greatest power."
The woman dipped her hand into the liquid. When she took it out there were no drips but the hand held the same light glow. "Our guardian, the mighty Beast of Thunder, has spoken, your strength lies in your devotion--Take this gift from the forest's domain to stand by your side while you search for the one you are destined to stand beside."
The woman reached out towards me. I dodged to the left, jumping onto one of the stumps armrest like roots. The other creatures spared me a glance like the dream had just turned into a highschool lunch table nightmare, but I chose to ignore it. My prey, on the other hand, had dodged to the right to avoid me... right into her hand. Her fingers clasped around it, pulled it to her, and crushed it until the white mixed with the purple swirling around her fist. With a swift slap she pressed it into Myre's skin. His skin sizzled.
Myre clenched his teeth in pain, then let out a slow roaring howl from deep within his chest. It was an empty sound. Loud but searching. The others joined in with their own hoots and hollers. Sounds of cheer and family.
When the cry quieted down, the woman took her hand away. Just under Myre's rib cage the dark skin had turned white in a whispy knot pattern that wrapped around his side. It formed the profile of a wolf's head with a red eye looking forward.
The wolf bowed to the woman as if accepting its charge. She then rose above Myre with her hands held high. More whisps swirled around in a frenzy as she announced to the forest: "Devoted!"
The crowd cheered. The man from earlier strode over and offered Myre a hand up. "Congratulations my son."
Once again Myre was swallowed by the crowd complementing him on this and that, his task completed. He was a warrior now.
Why was I here again? What was I doing? The woman had sat back down on her wooden thrown with one leg over a root and one hand scratching my head as she looked over her people. Head scratchies, I liked head scratchies. All dreams should end with head scratchies.