Lady Sabine
Member
The High Circle resided in a deep valley in the hills, as they had for thousands of years. Viortu did not doubt that hundreds of feet had rested on the same boulder she did, that hundreds of shamans had watched the path to the valley just as intently as she did now. High top the hill, the tallest point for ten minutes' walk in any direction, she could see the riverbed far below and the canoes, no larger than twigs, brought up its bank, and the warriors, no larger than ants, escorting a prisoner even smaller.
She loved standing up there, close to the sky. As a girl, her father had always told her that a shaman must learn to spread their wings and fly, even though she would never see them. Spreading her arms up above her, she imagined that she could feel her wings now, stretching behind her, and if she wanted to, she could have simply taken off right there, like an eagle. Perhaps the spirit of an eagle would catch her, or the soul of the mountain would keep her from harm- but perhaps not, and so she chose a more mortal means of descent. Her feet, tough as leather and sure as a goat's, bounded neatly down the mountain, never missing a step or overbalancing.
If the older shamans had warned her once to stop acting like a child they had warned her a hundred times, but Viortu had never once listened. She had seen only six-and-twenty summers, a woman grown, but still young. She had been made a full shaman just last summer, younger than any other in memory. And why not? Her father was the Anchorstone of the High Circle, her mother one of the most accomplished Herbalists and Whisperers, and she had both of their talents and more besides, a Voice and Eye that put most others to shame. She was good and she knew it, and she saw no reason to change. If the spirits saw no problem with her manners, why should her elders?
They grumbled as she sprinted through the City in the Mountain, long legs carrying her deer-fast and cat-certain. She was tall, tall as most men, with a lean, athletic figure that one would expect on a huntress before a shaman. Pale green-gold skin and bright orange hair made her stand out in any gathering, even without the dizzying swirls of white and blue she had painted onto herself that morning. She made her way to where the High Circle sat, taking her place standing just behind her father.
Mator Strongbull was not the leader of the Circle, persay, but he sat at its head and organized them as best he could. If only he could organize his daughter so well! Casting a frown at the way she panted and fidgeted, he arranged his features carefully, rubbing at the third eye that he, and all the others, had painted on their foreheads, and noticed with some irritation that Viortu had presumed to give herself one as well. He was beginning to regret Speaking for her, but now was not the time.
The warriors had set aside their weapons upon entering the City, but the prisoners hands were still bound as she was marched roughly into the central square, into the middle of the Circle. Four-and-twenty they were, the most respected and powerful shamans of the land.
The warriors bowed and left again, leaving just the human standing on the dusty ground, surrounded by millennia of history and the unfriendly faces that represented it. "You stand accused," Her father began, speaking only with his normal voice now in the Orcish tongue, loud enough to be heard but soft enough the crowd would need to be silent. "Of profane acts most dire. Of polluting our sacred spaces and purposefully bringing dishonor to the spirits who resided there. Do you understand these charges as they are brought against you? On the morrow, the High Circle will convene to determine how retributions may be made."
Viortu leaned forward as she waited for a response, studying the woman carefully. She had met humans before, if only once, and frowned at the thought of killing one. They were simple creatures, yes, and woefully Blind, but the ones she had spoken with had never so much as heard of third eyes before. Could one blame a creature for never opening an eye they never knew they had?
She loved standing up there, close to the sky. As a girl, her father had always told her that a shaman must learn to spread their wings and fly, even though she would never see them. Spreading her arms up above her, she imagined that she could feel her wings now, stretching behind her, and if she wanted to, she could have simply taken off right there, like an eagle. Perhaps the spirit of an eagle would catch her, or the soul of the mountain would keep her from harm- but perhaps not, and so she chose a more mortal means of descent. Her feet, tough as leather and sure as a goat's, bounded neatly down the mountain, never missing a step or overbalancing.
If the older shamans had warned her once to stop acting like a child they had warned her a hundred times, but Viortu had never once listened. She had seen only six-and-twenty summers, a woman grown, but still young. She had been made a full shaman just last summer, younger than any other in memory. And why not? Her father was the Anchorstone of the High Circle, her mother one of the most accomplished Herbalists and Whisperers, and she had both of their talents and more besides, a Voice and Eye that put most others to shame. She was good and she knew it, and she saw no reason to change. If the spirits saw no problem with her manners, why should her elders?
They grumbled as she sprinted through the City in the Mountain, long legs carrying her deer-fast and cat-certain. She was tall, tall as most men, with a lean, athletic figure that one would expect on a huntress before a shaman. Pale green-gold skin and bright orange hair made her stand out in any gathering, even without the dizzying swirls of white and blue she had painted onto herself that morning. She made her way to where the High Circle sat, taking her place standing just behind her father.
Mator Strongbull was not the leader of the Circle, persay, but he sat at its head and organized them as best he could. If only he could organize his daughter so well! Casting a frown at the way she panted and fidgeted, he arranged his features carefully, rubbing at the third eye that he, and all the others, had painted on their foreheads, and noticed with some irritation that Viortu had presumed to give herself one as well. He was beginning to regret Speaking for her, but now was not the time.
The warriors had set aside their weapons upon entering the City, but the prisoners hands were still bound as she was marched roughly into the central square, into the middle of the Circle. Four-and-twenty they were, the most respected and powerful shamans of the land.
The warriors bowed and left again, leaving just the human standing on the dusty ground, surrounded by millennia of history and the unfriendly faces that represented it. "You stand accused," Her father began, speaking only with his normal voice now in the Orcish tongue, loud enough to be heard but soft enough the crowd would need to be silent. "Of profane acts most dire. Of polluting our sacred spaces and purposefully bringing dishonor to the spirits who resided there. Do you understand these charges as they are brought against you? On the morrow, the High Circle will convene to determine how retributions may be made."
Viortu leaned forward as she waited for a response, studying the woman carefully. She had met humans before, if only once, and frowned at the thought of killing one. They were simple creatures, yes, and woefully Blind, but the ones she had spoken with had never so much as heard of third eyes before. Could one blame a creature for never opening an eye they never knew they had?
