The loss of light heralds that I must offer another measure of dried beans to whatever God would take my soul and save my skin. The hunt begins anew.
The tribal elders tell of a Goddess given to us; Pax Mundus. She is playful, however, and would not stay confined in the mortal guise we had pinned her in. She flees from us, laughing, and we, her true warriors, of the order of Law, are charged with her search and capture. She is elusive, and demands that we must work to have her. Must be worthy of her.
Armed only with our ritual clothing, we track signs of her, and others, such as would seek to harm her. The clothing, through the magic of Psykoloji, protects us from the spirits and demons that are rife through our domain. We are like animals to them. They are like ghosts to us; Both equally unfathomable, and unquestionable.
I prepare scribs and scrolls at the onset of the night, hoping to protect myself and others should anything...occur. We are trained well, but sometimes all that stands for us is sheer luck. I have a pain in my stomach, like a gazelle threatening to kick through. I'm sure it means a bad omen. I spend some time meditating this unfavorable event.
Soon, however, it is time for me to go on the hunt. I start at the plains. Their serenity soothes me. Perhaps my stomach is nothing? I move to the watering hole, where we usually commune, now it stands empty.
I must listen to the chanting of the ancients today, they are howling strangely. I must interprete what this means. My guts tense. In order to properly understand, I must consult the wall markings. We are unsure where they come from, but they have shown us things we could know not. No mortal could know of. These are powerful majiks, but I must, to continue the fight.
People talk lately of a huge white bird that has engulfed our lands. I must hunt for it and kill it, but it may take months of preperation. Spiritual journeys, better weaponry, and more training. It is making my men jumpy however. We dislike things we cannot tame.
My muscles clench, sore from the last exhertion (but I was so close to her!). I take a strange sort of glee from this; A badge, a marking, a distinction within the tribe. I am marked as one of the elite. The chief knows as such. He is away, on a hunt in foreign lands, but will return. Hopefully with news. We have not had a campfire ceremony in a long while; That shows not well. The scholar I converse with, from a neighbouring tribe called Zhong, reassures me. I trust his council.
Yet, and yet, I feel wearied. Tired, like, I've been on a long scavenge, for sad scraps. This can be thankless work. And sometimes, I feel lost. Without civil human contact. Sometimes all I encounter are savages and monkeys.
Still, I am proud. Of who I am, and where I have come from. I cannot help but wonder where I am going though? I have heard talk of a huge tribe, with spells I can only dream of. I am thinking of applying for their ranks, but I am afraid. How strange that I would take on a 6 legged wildebeast with razor claws, but be afraid to put myself forward. I have also heard of a roaming nomadic tribe, all in blood red. I would hesistate to leave my homeland, but they, too, attract me. I suppose it matters not what tribal markings I wear. No matter where I go; I am a warrior.
(I really wish there was a way to use this joke in the blog, but there really isn't, so here it is;
"I know a man so tough he fights with rockets!"
"That's not so tough. Anyone can use a rocket launcher."
"No no no. He throws them!")Commence with the fun now! Read Pug Davis. So good.