Thursday, March 2, 2017

The Tehir Chronicles, Part 2, The Scattering

The Scattering, a continuation of "Itinerant"

Introduction

A new home, a sense of belonging, a new beginning, this is what the desert has brought to them.  For a people such as these there can be no sacrifice too great to achieve this; they have traveled for so very long, they deserve to have a place to call their own.

The desert, with its oppressive heat, lack of water, and hostile wild creatures found nowhere else in Elanthia, is now their domain.  They will master it, or they will die trying; their pride will allow them nothing less.

However, decades of being an itinerant race have taken a large toll, they are no longer a strongly united people.  Many factions came into being over the years since leaving the green wood of their ancestors, and many of these separatist groups have not always chosen to achieve their goals through peaceful means. 

Fights and skirmishes have become more common over the last few decades, some between individuals and others through groups, ranging in size from a few individuals to many scores of people.  It seems that their exodus began with warfare, and so shall their existence continue to be so; the days of being at peace with each other has come to a bitter and enduring end.



Separation

Gorvan is a man of great stature, both physically and psychologically intimidating, and he knows it.  His mere presence at a meeting has been known to shift the direction of a debate, without him saying a word.

Gorvan is also a separatist.  His belief in "one people" was shattered long ago when his grandfather was killed for nothing more than the copper bracelets adorning his wrists.  Though there was a strong suspicion of who the culprit was none were ever brought to justice due to the family affiliations of the suspected perpetrator of the crime, proving once again that it is always about who you know.

Gorvan is deep in thought, his brow furrowed with his intensity.  As if from a great distance he hears his name being called, bringing him back to the present.  He looks up at the people around him in the great tent and smiles slightly.

"My apologies," he says.  "My thoughts were elsewhere."  His muscles ripple beneath his nut-brown skin as he stands to his full height of six feet, ten inches; he towers over the assembled people and his head barely misses touching the roof of the tent.

A hush settles over the crowd as he begins to speak, his voice a rich, full baritone.  "I have asked to speak here because I have an announcement to make."  A few in the crowd fidget uncomfortably at his words.

"At the next Festival of the Sun, six weeks from this very night, some will be leaving you.  We have decided it is time, we are of sufficient numbers to establish a clan of our own."

There are some outcries from the crowd, but a single look from Gorvan silences them.

"There are too many of us to be stopped, so don't bother trying.  Shedding blood upon what should be a peaceful event would be folly, and foolish; we have the strength to do as we wish."

"We will take any who want to join us and we will force none to come who do not wish it.  But be forewarned, if you choose to join us the road will be hard and you WILL be expected to keep up and do your share of the work.  We will brook no laziness and if you expect anyone to cater to your whims you will be cast out into the sands, without a moments hesitation."

He pauses a moment to gather his thoughts; fully aware that what he says next will heavily influence the assembled people.

"We have been told by our elders, through the histories passed down through the generations, that, long ago, when we lived in the Wood, we were a strong people, a proud people, a deeply respectful and respected people."

"Over the many, many years that we were without a home of our own, we have become weak, complacent, and without the great "sense of self" that we once had, and those who have chosen to accompany me will stand for it no more.  We will be known as the Mir'sheq, and we will once again become a strong people, or we will die; either fate is preferable to what we have become."

"So we shall leave, and we will become that which the desert dictates.  We will venture into this ocean of sand, this sea of fire.  It will not be easy, leaving that which we have grown familiar with, the comforts we have, our friends and family who may not choose to accompany us; but we shall endeavor to persevere."


Thirty-Two Years Later

They number in the many hundreds, those gathered to pay their last respects.  The pyre upon which the man has been laid to rest is immense; the wood (a very precious commodity in the desert) stacked nearly ten feet high has been drenched in the oil rendered from the fat of the great morduska.

All walk past the body of the man, resplendent in his deep purple ridgeweaver silk burnoose and veil, each placing some trinket in the sand near the place of the imminent conflagration.

Stones, bones or teeth from some desert dwelling creature, copper jewelry, a yierka spur or takouba, a swatch of ridgeweaver silk, small flasks or bladders of water, parcels of food, all are in abundance; each a small token of the respect shown to this man in death, as in life.

A torch is tossed onto the dry wood and almost immediately the fire grows large and the heat becomes intense.  The flames lick at the body upon the pyre, seemingly almost hesitant to consume the remains of this great man of the Tehir people.  Suddenly, with a mighty roar, the fire encompasses the corpse, the smoke billowing black into the sky.

A strong wind begins to blow, scattering hot sparks through the air, as the body is consumed in the flames of death…

And then, as if mourning in their unique way, the sands begin to sing.

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