| The Whispered Beginning |
[Apr. 10th, 2006|02:12 pm] |
Some time ago.
A few moments before midnight. The East. A grassy mound. A Full moon.
A lone robed figure sits cross-legged, unmoving. There is nothing but the sound of the rustling wind as it causes a few dry leaves to wind around the figure as if caressing them. The figure remains still, unmoving, their face hidden by a hood.
After long moments, the figure moves slowly and reaching into a pack produces four small silver bowls that glint in the moonlight. With reverence and care, it places one facing the north, one facing the east, the west and finally the south. Then, with the same slow care the figure uncorks a small, dusty bottle produced from the depths of their robes and into each bowl pours what looks to be clear water. Each bowl sits directly in the moonlight, reflecting its pale and mysterious glint.
Reaching into their robes once again, the finger pulls out a single, brown and black feather, several inches long. It holds the feather up, examining it. After a few moments, the figure again turns its attention back the silver bowls.
Holding the feather over the western bowl, the figure watches the water carefully. Nothing happens. The figure repeats the process over the eastern bowl and then the south. Again, nothing seemingly happens. However, when holding it over the northern bowl, something happens. The barest ripple forms, spreading across the surface of the bowl’s water as if a pebble had been dropped in. Nodding in quiet satisfaction, the figure drops the feather into the northern bowl.
At this moment, the wind stops, the rustling ceases. There is only silence and a feeling of something long anticipated and in a voice solemn but serene, the figure whispers softly:
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats of the story of your birth;
While all the stars that round her burn,
It will be for your wisdom that Creation will yearn.
Chosen of the Moon Gods be born
And become the guide, the mantle you must adorn.
Come, apprentice. You must succeed me.
The figure then lifts up the bowl and holding it up high towards the moon, tips it slowly and drinks deeply of the waters.
Breathing more heavily, the figure slowly reaches into a small pouch on their belt and opening it carefully removes a small handful of dirt. Holding the dirt carefully, the figure moves it over the eastern bowl and smiles slowly in satisfaction as it watches the same ripples form as they did for the northern bowl. Slowly, the figure tips their hand and lets the dirt sprinkle slowly into the bowl and in a few moments, murmurs softly:
You, bright and shining lady, with sword and shield you ride,
In every war, on every day, you lead them at your side.
To avenge the ones who've fallen, when war has laid them low,
To lift the horn of welcome, and staunch the bloody flow.
Your mighty blade of battle, leads us to the fray,
Flying high above the host, and those who die today.
A cunning heart, a mighty hand, a soul upon the tree,
You speak to those who hear you, and tell us to be free
Come warrior. Your greatest battle is at hand.
Like before, the figure repeats the raising of the bowl to the moon and once again, drinks deeply of its contents.
Letting out a long sigh, the figure then reaches into the folds of their robes and produces a small, luminescent pearl clutched carefully between their thumb and forefinger. The figure examines the pearl with keen interest before carefully holding it over the western bowl, and seeing the ripples forming in the bowl, they then drop it in with care. Closing their eyes, the figure whispers hoarsely:
Luna, our shepherd,
As your flock you guide us
She, the Moon, Luna
Saw her, loved her, sought her,
Coming down from heaven
To the glades of our people
Kissed her, showed her the way
Blessed is your fortune,
Evermore you are needed
Come forth, blessed concubine. You are needed.
Lifting the bowl to its lips, the figure drinks deeply of the water and then sets it back down in the same place.
Next, the figure reaches into the folds of their robes and produces what looks to be an old tarnished silver coin. Turning the coin over in its hands, the figure for the first time moves as if confused and agitated, uncertain of what to do. It then firsts holds the coin over the western bowl. Nothing happens. It then holds it over the eastern bowl nothing happens. However, reaching the southern bowl, a ripple happens like before and the figure nods slowly, as if satisfied with a new understanding. The figure then drops the coin into the southern bowl and whispers softly:
You walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had beenled astray
Through the heav’n’s wide pathless way,
And oft, as if her head she bow’d,
Stopping through a fleecy cloud.
You walk unseen, child. But soon your moment will come.
Holding up the bowl, the figure seems to hesitate for a moment before once again tipping the bowl and drinking deeply of its water.
For long moments the figure sits in the center of the four bowls, once again in complete silence. The wind again picks up and rustles their cloak around them as they sit, clearly deep in thought. After a time, the figure stands and muttering words in an ancient tongue seldom spoken, a small scarab materializes from thin air in their hand, formed from a glowing silver aura that seems to emanate from the figure itself. Leaning down, the figure whispers at the scarab and within moments, the scarab unfolds its wings from its glittering carapace and with shocking speed lifts up flies away with blinding speed.
The figure watches it leave with a determined expression, hidden beneath the hood of their robes.
It whispers: “What legends, they tell of your deeds”. |
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