Yichimet
01-10-2006, 05:02 PM
(( Also cross-posted from my Journal and the Grim site, www.thegrim.org. ))
Yichimet’s body is frozen. The twisting, spreading branches of his arms don’t writhe in the fire-blooming wind. His ghost head does not turn. His wolf eyes see only in one way. Silence is a new language of comfort.
* * *
“Earthmother, who dwells in every object, every being and every place: we summon You from the far places to us.
“Mother of the North, Who gives wings to the waters of the air and rolls out the snowstorm, covering the earth with silver carpet: temper us with toughness to withstand the biting blizzard.
“Mother of the East and of the red sun’s rising, brace us that we neither neglect our gifts nor lose in laziness the hopes of each day.
“Mother of the South Whose warm breath of strength dissolves our fears and meets our hatreds: teach us that they who are truly strong are also fearless.
“Mother of the West and of the sunset, bless us with knowledge of the freedom which follows the wise life.
“Mother of the earth beneath our feet, storer of unreckoned things: we would give thanks unending for Your great bounty.
“Spirits within, may we be aware of the goodness of the gift of life and be worthy of it.” Hidua finished the prayer in Orcish, having stumbled over only a few words, and looked down from the sky. The Grim were assembling, and he was scared for the outcome of the night.
Suddenly, Zangen Stonehoof, the fire-keeper for the Bluff, turned to them and walked toward the large pile of wood in the center of the circle.
“The Earth Mother watch over us; under cover of the night as in the day. Let this fire illuminate both our bodies and spirits and remind us of our honored ancestors, who are ever present and guiding our way,” Zangen chanted in Taurahe.
“A good omen,” Snowfeather said.
“Ya mon. Good omen indeed,” the troll Phu muttered.
* * *
Silence is a new language of comfort, but Yichimet has not learned its words. He is of the Tree, and of the World, and yet separate from everything but his thoughts. How the winds blow, and how he stays still.
* * *
“We could…enter the Nether?” Hidua asked Pincus. The Grim crowd was now nearly thirty strong, and all were staring at the old bull and the blazing fire.
“Yes,” Pincus answered curtly. The Forsaken had just finished telling the group that he had paid an orc warlock to station herself on the edge of the Great Tree. “We will need to…get some of our more nefarious members to enter Darnassus first,” Pincus continued.
“The Forsaken Licidion scouts ahead,” Hidua nodded.
“Yes. We will need one more.”
“And do we have one more?”
“Yes. Eelai is en route to Auberdine.”
“The shadow. Good.”
“Do we need more?” Mohan asked.
“No, we do not.”
Rumbling from the crowd, creaking of the wooden benches, weapons being drawn: all sounds reaching Hidua’s ears.
* * *
How the winds blow, and how he stays still, and how he gains back his mind. Faces: scarred Mohan, pensive Snowfeather, insane Licidion. Broken-moon-horned Hidua. The faces of his father and mother. The face of his owl.
* * *
Hidua stepped onto the giant branch of the Tree and reached down to steady himself. The groove in the bark was as wide as his massive hoof. He could lay down three times over on it.
Several Grim were slaughtering satyrs in the rear, and more still were coming through the mind-blanking twist of the Nether. Hidua tensed as he spotted a single Kaldorei who moved tentatively, though obviously, among the Horde who were quickly flowing into Teldrassil’s green. He relaxed when he saw her vapid face and her inability to comprehend the situation. No call had been sent to the sentries. They were safe for at least a few more minutes.
Pincus whispered directions, and Mohan, Snowfeather and Daala set off to find the last ingredient for the ceremony: a live owl, whose blood would bind the Vision of those participating to Yichimet’s spirit. Hidua did not know how it would work on any of them, especially those who were not Shu’halo. He had only seen this sapta made once before, when he was so young that his memory cast it as a dream.
As the three crept off in search of the real hunt’s quarry, the others began yelling and running for the gates of the City in the Tree.
When he would try to recall it later, Hidua would get only pieces: his breath coming in short, painful, fiery bursts as he chased after the younger Horde. Pincus blasting what appeared to be Nether at the elves. A troll with a wolf—Phu?—pulling back his bow so far it looked to snap. So many Forsaken with knives and swords flashing that they appeared like goblin-designed machines. The blast of spells and the feel of heat singing his mane.
And then they were back in Thunder Bluff as suddenly as they came. Mohan had the owl, its trusting eyes looking up at its new master.
* * *
The face of his owl, the chick at birth, the Brave of feathers—it claws at his thoughts. His senses balloon. He is the World. He feels every foot of every being walking on him. He feels the roots of trees delving into his skin. He feels the trickle of rivers. He feels the Rot of the Great Tree in his heart.
* * *
The battle left Hidua so bone-dead that for seconds he looked around and saw only faces, and no one he knew.
“Snowfeather is lost behind, Hidua,” Mohan whispered in his ear. The old sorcerer snapped into himself again, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
“She will be all right, Mohan,” Hidua said back. Others—Danlily, Harusame—were echoing Mohan’s worry. “She will be all right because she is strong and crafty, like the first hunters. She will find her way home.”
Some who came only for the battle filtered out of the crowd. Hidua watched them passively—he, who had been on a great many Vision Hunts before, was afraid of this one with his whole bones. He could blame no one for leaving.
When all were settled again, he turned to face the crowd. “It is time. Yichimet is nearly returned to us!”
“But what of Snowfeather?” Danlily asked.
“Hidua, we may still mix the sapta? Perhaps save some for Snowfeather to drink?” Mohan asked.
“As Snowfeather said…we do not have time to waste. We must begin the ceremony, Mohan.”
“I will follow your lead, Hidua,” Mohan said. “Tell me what must be done.”
“A prayer first,” Hidua said as he looked to the sky. The Grim bowed their heads. “Great Spirit, I send these words to you. Hear my prayer.
“These are my words: to bright An’she the Sun, to sad Mu’sha, Moon, to the Earth Mother, to all my relations that have been Created as I. To the Four Winds, that bring us the Seasons of Life and Death.
“To the East where An’she rises, bringing to us a new day, a new meaning of life, a light in which to see the path before us.
“To the South where the warm air comes to us, bringing heat, the seasons of spring and summer, Living and Life.
“To the West where An’she goes to bring us to darkness, so we may see the sky and search for the questions of our life.
“To the North where the cold winds come from, bringing us fall and winter, Dying and Death.
“Oh Great Spirits, hear my words, for to you I offer my heart and wisdom, body and life, You made me what I am.”
* * *
He feels the Rot of the Great Tree in his heart and feels the anger of the spirits. He feels his Hunt ending and his Hunt beginning.
* * *
“Owl: be our Spirit Guide by your blood. Give the wisdom of the Night Hunter to all who drink you life.” Hidua pulled out a skinning knife and grabbed the owl by the head, pulling it from Mohan’s forearm. It squawked and dug its claws into Hidua’s forearm before he could plunge the knife into its neck, but its grip quickly loosened as its blood flowed. He ripped a handful of feathers from its wing, and then held the knife above the dragon-scale drinking skin, dripping the blood into the medicine slowly. The sapta began to mix in the skin.
With a feather, Hidua painted blood on Mohan’s forehead and passed the skin to him. When he was finished drinking, Hidua retrieved the skin and made his way around the circle, repeating the process for everyone, painting their forehead and giving them a taste of the sapta.
Hidua nodded. “Tonight, when you sleep, you will go on your first Vision Hunt, many of you. You may or may not find Yichimet. You may like what you see, or you may not. But thank you all—tomorrow, I expect Yichimet to wake up in this world, free from the Nightmare.”[/i]
Yichimet’s body is frozen. The twisting, spreading branches of his arms don’t writhe in the fire-blooming wind. His ghost head does not turn. His wolf eyes see only in one way. Silence is a new language of comfort.
* * *
“Earthmother, who dwells in every object, every being and every place: we summon You from the far places to us.
“Mother of the North, Who gives wings to the waters of the air and rolls out the snowstorm, covering the earth with silver carpet: temper us with toughness to withstand the biting blizzard.
“Mother of the East and of the red sun’s rising, brace us that we neither neglect our gifts nor lose in laziness the hopes of each day.
“Mother of the South Whose warm breath of strength dissolves our fears and meets our hatreds: teach us that they who are truly strong are also fearless.
“Mother of the West and of the sunset, bless us with knowledge of the freedom which follows the wise life.
“Mother of the earth beneath our feet, storer of unreckoned things: we would give thanks unending for Your great bounty.
“Spirits within, may we be aware of the goodness of the gift of life and be worthy of it.” Hidua finished the prayer in Orcish, having stumbled over only a few words, and looked down from the sky. The Grim were assembling, and he was scared for the outcome of the night.
Suddenly, Zangen Stonehoof, the fire-keeper for the Bluff, turned to them and walked toward the large pile of wood in the center of the circle.
“The Earth Mother watch over us; under cover of the night as in the day. Let this fire illuminate both our bodies and spirits and remind us of our honored ancestors, who are ever present and guiding our way,” Zangen chanted in Taurahe.
“A good omen,” Snowfeather said.
“Ya mon. Good omen indeed,” the troll Phu muttered.
* * *
Silence is a new language of comfort, but Yichimet has not learned its words. He is of the Tree, and of the World, and yet separate from everything but his thoughts. How the winds blow, and how he stays still.
* * *
“We could…enter the Nether?” Hidua asked Pincus. The Grim crowd was now nearly thirty strong, and all were staring at the old bull and the blazing fire.
“Yes,” Pincus answered curtly. The Forsaken had just finished telling the group that he had paid an orc warlock to station herself on the edge of the Great Tree. “We will need to…get some of our more nefarious members to enter Darnassus first,” Pincus continued.
“The Forsaken Licidion scouts ahead,” Hidua nodded.
“Yes. We will need one more.”
“And do we have one more?”
“Yes. Eelai is en route to Auberdine.”
“The shadow. Good.”
“Do we need more?” Mohan asked.
“No, we do not.”
Rumbling from the crowd, creaking of the wooden benches, weapons being drawn: all sounds reaching Hidua’s ears.
* * *
How the winds blow, and how he stays still, and how he gains back his mind. Faces: scarred Mohan, pensive Snowfeather, insane Licidion. Broken-moon-horned Hidua. The faces of his father and mother. The face of his owl.
* * *
Hidua stepped onto the giant branch of the Tree and reached down to steady himself. The groove in the bark was as wide as his massive hoof. He could lay down three times over on it.
Several Grim were slaughtering satyrs in the rear, and more still were coming through the mind-blanking twist of the Nether. Hidua tensed as he spotted a single Kaldorei who moved tentatively, though obviously, among the Horde who were quickly flowing into Teldrassil’s green. He relaxed when he saw her vapid face and her inability to comprehend the situation. No call had been sent to the sentries. They were safe for at least a few more minutes.
Pincus whispered directions, and Mohan, Snowfeather and Daala set off to find the last ingredient for the ceremony: a live owl, whose blood would bind the Vision of those participating to Yichimet’s spirit. Hidua did not know how it would work on any of them, especially those who were not Shu’halo. He had only seen this sapta made once before, when he was so young that his memory cast it as a dream.
As the three crept off in search of the real hunt’s quarry, the others began yelling and running for the gates of the City in the Tree.
When he would try to recall it later, Hidua would get only pieces: his breath coming in short, painful, fiery bursts as he chased after the younger Horde. Pincus blasting what appeared to be Nether at the elves. A troll with a wolf—Phu?—pulling back his bow so far it looked to snap. So many Forsaken with knives and swords flashing that they appeared like goblin-designed machines. The blast of spells and the feel of heat singing his mane.
And then they were back in Thunder Bluff as suddenly as they came. Mohan had the owl, its trusting eyes looking up at its new master.
* * *
The face of his owl, the chick at birth, the Brave of feathers—it claws at his thoughts. His senses balloon. He is the World. He feels every foot of every being walking on him. He feels the roots of trees delving into his skin. He feels the trickle of rivers. He feels the Rot of the Great Tree in his heart.
* * *
The battle left Hidua so bone-dead that for seconds he looked around and saw only faces, and no one he knew.
“Snowfeather is lost behind, Hidua,” Mohan whispered in his ear. The old sorcerer snapped into himself again, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
“She will be all right, Mohan,” Hidua said back. Others—Danlily, Harusame—were echoing Mohan’s worry. “She will be all right because she is strong and crafty, like the first hunters. She will find her way home.”
Some who came only for the battle filtered out of the crowd. Hidua watched them passively—he, who had been on a great many Vision Hunts before, was afraid of this one with his whole bones. He could blame no one for leaving.
When all were settled again, he turned to face the crowd. “It is time. Yichimet is nearly returned to us!”
“But what of Snowfeather?” Danlily asked.
“Hidua, we may still mix the sapta? Perhaps save some for Snowfeather to drink?” Mohan asked.
“As Snowfeather said…we do not have time to waste. We must begin the ceremony, Mohan.”
“I will follow your lead, Hidua,” Mohan said. “Tell me what must be done.”
“A prayer first,” Hidua said as he looked to the sky. The Grim bowed their heads. “Great Spirit, I send these words to you. Hear my prayer.
“These are my words: to bright An’she the Sun, to sad Mu’sha, Moon, to the Earth Mother, to all my relations that have been Created as I. To the Four Winds, that bring us the Seasons of Life and Death.
“To the East where An’she rises, bringing to us a new day, a new meaning of life, a light in which to see the path before us.
“To the South where the warm air comes to us, bringing heat, the seasons of spring and summer, Living and Life.
“To the West where An’she goes to bring us to darkness, so we may see the sky and search for the questions of our life.
“To the North where the cold winds come from, bringing us fall and winter, Dying and Death.
“Oh Great Spirits, hear my words, for to you I offer my heart and wisdom, body and life, You made me what I am.”
* * *
He feels the Rot of the Great Tree in his heart and feels the anger of the spirits. He feels his Hunt ending and his Hunt beginning.
* * *
“Owl: be our Spirit Guide by your blood. Give the wisdom of the Night Hunter to all who drink you life.” Hidua pulled out a skinning knife and grabbed the owl by the head, pulling it from Mohan’s forearm. It squawked and dug its claws into Hidua’s forearm before he could plunge the knife into its neck, but its grip quickly loosened as its blood flowed. He ripped a handful of feathers from its wing, and then held the knife above the dragon-scale drinking skin, dripping the blood into the medicine slowly. The sapta began to mix in the skin.
With a feather, Hidua painted blood on Mohan’s forehead and passed the skin to him. When he was finished drinking, Hidua retrieved the skin and made his way around the circle, repeating the process for everyone, painting their forehead and giving them a taste of the sapta.
Hidua nodded. “Tonight, when you sleep, you will go on your first Vision Hunt, many of you. You may or may not find Yichimet. You may like what you see, or you may not. But thank you all—tomorrow, I expect Yichimet to wake up in this world, free from the Nightmare.”[/i]