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Iron Hill
Areka
Drifting in a sea of wenches' bosoms
Going to begin gathering the various logs for the clan and village. Iron Hill is a player-initiated village located near Jaru, with our own laws, society and culture. We are still a bit rough around the edges and fleshing things out, so bear with.
The Scarring of the Kevok
[spoiler]Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan confidently strides in from the south.
Tall and ruddy, Agtul is a fine specimen of well-preserved Troll. Muscle cords beneath his rust-hued skin, which has lost its vibrancy with time. A dark tattoo of a braid-patterned triangle marks the crook of his neck and sprawls onto his shoulder and collar bone. White hair, coarse and smoky in colour, has been pulled back behind his half-tapered ears and bound in a lose ponytail at the nape of his neck. His beard is groomed, ears pierced with bone ornaments, and tusk-like lower canines a smooth ivory. His gaze retains a sharp, golden edge, which is complemented by the embroidery along his over-robes, the lush, rough-woven silks lavish in comparison to the simple trousers, boots, and shirt worn beneath. His leathery hide is marked by wrinkles, with deep lines forming parentheses around his mouth, and creating lines at the corners of his eyes.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan looks weak and feeble.
"It is time, Areka." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan says, his weathered voice rumbling through the gutteral tongue. Standing akimbo, the Troll studies you for a few moments before gesturing out towards the village streets.
Releasing a measured exhale, you nod and stroll out into the night, turning through the square before taking the pathway down the steps and past the great library, towards the northern side of the hill.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan strolls after you, his footsteps evenly paced and face devoid of emotion, remaining placid and reserved.
-movement-
You stop outside of the northern threshold, linking between the road and the circle beyond the curtain wall. Taking a moment to smooth out your garments, you nod once to Agtul to demonstrate that you are ready.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan says, "From this point forward, you are to utter no words, no sounds, beyond those directed and asked of you."
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan abruptly turns and passes the threshold, and enters out into the ritual circle, walled in by stone and fire.
Clearing ringed by stone and torches. (Jaru.)
The inner curtain wall gives way to a few shallow steps that encircle this space, easily serving as tiered seating as much as easing the incline. Circular in shape, a secondary wall wraps this clearing, protecting it as it overlooks the northern fields and into the valley beyond. Stone plinths punctuate the inner clearing's perimeter, each carved with rustic images or symbols and hosting shoring for torches. To the north, a broader stone has been set, able to hold two torches and with a basin-like top fitted with a pestle still stained with residue from previous use, the staining colours muddied between blue, a rusted red, and gold.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan stands beside the altar in the center of the circle, the surroundings lit by torches and candles that cast an uneven glow around the space, drawing at shadows and sending them away in a fickle dance.
Untying the outer knot of your shirt, you sling the wrapped garment off of your shoulders to hang about your waist like a skirt, baring your shoulders and the black cloth that binds your chest. With a nod to the elder Troll, you kneel before the altar, crossing your arms into an 'X' and bracing them against the coarse stone.
"As by the decree of the Rahatheki, all who live as Havothi are to be marked - brethren in blood and duty. You are to bear our mark, so that all may know your purpose." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan's coarse, gravelly voice sounds. The Troll steps forward and lifts bevelled blade from the alter's bowl, pressing it's edge to your neck. "Do you offer yourself?" The blade simply hovers as he asks, and the hillside seems to quiet in wait of your words.
You say in Trollish, "I offer all that I am to the Havothi."
The first cut is like the breaking of ice in spring, sudden and giving of a season's change. Your flesh parts as the blade punctures and cuts in an angling line, welling blood and fire. Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan shifts around you, working the chisel with a small mallet to open a second line, which travels from collar to shoulder, and a returning third from shoulder to neck.
You shut your eyes and exhale, withdrawing into meditative breathing to balance against the pulsing of hammer and chisel, the slow and deliberate pace of the wounding taxing your forced calm.
"Do you undertake your duty to our home?" Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan asks again, while pouring a pale, gold-tinted liquid over the wounds, releasing a hiss and jet of steam in the process.
You say in Trollish, "Life and limb, I swear to uphold the needs of the Hill and our cause."
Again, the chisel comes down upon your now tender flesh, rending fresh lines that connect with those sealed from Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan's potion. Each strike and inch irritates those already made, more so as the night's chill settles in and teases at the dripping trails blood drying along your chest and back.
Raising the dish of liquid again, Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan asks, "Do you pledge your time for the coming tide, stalwart and without hesitation?"
You say in Trollish, "I pledge my time and strength until the tides sap me and I enter the Halls without reclaim."
Your words are met with relief, the liquid soothing the bleeding, though sealing the wounds as well. Once more, the chisel meets your shoulder, though the lines are shorter now, meeting into the last set but without as much pressure. A rushing sensation fills your head, making it light and woozy, before it fades with the onset of a last uppouring from Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan's stone vessel.
"Welcome in full, Kevok Areka Morrog." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan states, his voice grave, but approving, as he steps away and sets the instruments back within the altar's hold.
You release a breath, and unclench your teeth, not realizing you had done so in the first place. Pushing to stand, you drag a hand through the blood along your sternum, and stride to the marked rock. Gingerly, you splay your fingers and press your palm to the stone, leaving behind your own mark.
"The joining is done." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan states, clearly dismissing you from the sacred space and concluding the formal initiation.
She is a powerful Azudim, tall and smoldering. Towering over most mortals, she is broad shouldered and athletic, with limbs carrying scars and calluses alike. Her dark, charcoal coloured skin is marred by the natural creases and folds along her joints and palms, which glow with a fiery hue, as if she were kin of the deep-earth's fire. Sprawling from neck, to clavicle, to shoulder-blade, a triangular scar holds a broader glow, its interior filled with woven lines in bold strokes. This warm, forge-like glow is echoed within the cracks of her lips and set deep within her oddly bestial eyes. Their ridging and colour reminiscent of cooled lava, two horns sprout from her crown and curve back along her head, their tips sharpened and capped in engraved gold. Coal-black hair, long enough to reach her mid-back, has been twisted and coiled into a slightly messy bun against the back of her head, and bound in place by vibrant red cording. Despite her odd colouring, her features and build echo her Trollish heritage.[/spoiler]
Tall and ruddy, Agtul is a fine specimen of well-preserved Troll. Muscle cords beneath his rust-hued skin, which has lost its vibrancy with time. A dark tattoo of a braid-patterned triangle marks the crook of his neck and sprawls onto his shoulder and collar bone. White hair, coarse and smoky in colour, has been pulled back behind his half-tapered ears and bound in a lose ponytail at the nape of his neck. His beard is groomed, ears pierced with bone ornaments, and tusk-like lower canines a smooth ivory. His gaze retains a sharp, golden edge, which is complemented by the embroidery along his over-robes, the lush, rough-woven silks lavish in comparison to the simple trousers, boots, and shirt worn beneath. His leathery hide is marked by wrinkles, with deep lines forming parentheses around his mouth, and creating lines at the corners of his eyes.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan looks weak and feeble.
"It is time, Areka." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan says, his weathered voice rumbling through the gutteral tongue. Standing akimbo, the Troll studies you for a few moments before gesturing out towards the village streets.
Releasing a measured exhale, you nod and stroll out into the night, turning through the square before taking the pathway down the steps and past the great library, towards the northern side of the hill.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan strolls after you, his footsteps evenly paced and face devoid of emotion, remaining placid and reserved.
-movement-
You stop outside of the northern threshold, linking between the road and the circle beyond the curtain wall. Taking a moment to smooth out your garments, you nod once to Agtul to demonstrate that you are ready.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan says, "From this point forward, you are to utter no words, no sounds, beyond those directed and asked of you."
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan abruptly turns and passes the threshold, and enters out into the ritual circle, walled in by stone and fire.
Clearing ringed by stone and torches. (Jaru.)
The inner curtain wall gives way to a few shallow steps that encircle this space, easily serving as tiered seating as much as easing the incline. Circular in shape, a secondary wall wraps this clearing, protecting it as it overlooks the northern fields and into the valley beyond. Stone plinths punctuate the inner clearing's perimeter, each carved with rustic images or symbols and hosting shoring for torches. To the north, a broader stone has been set, able to hold two torches and with a basin-like top fitted with a pestle still stained with residue from previous use, the staining colours muddied between blue, a rusted red, and gold.
Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan stands beside the altar in the center of the circle, the surroundings lit by torches and candles that cast an uneven glow around the space, drawing at shadows and sending them away in a fickle dance.
Untying the outer knot of your shirt, you sling the wrapped garment off of your shoulders to hang about your waist like a skirt, baring your shoulders and the black cloth that binds your chest. With a nod to the elder Troll, you kneel before the altar, crossing your arms into an 'X' and bracing them against the coarse stone.
"As by the decree of the Rahatheki, all who live as Havothi are to be marked - brethren in blood and duty. You are to bear our mark, so that all may know your purpose." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan's coarse, gravelly voice sounds. The Troll steps forward and lifts bevelled blade from the alter's bowl, pressing it's edge to your neck. "Do you offer yourself?" The blade simply hovers as he asks, and the hillside seems to quiet in wait of your words.
You say in Trollish, "I offer all that I am to the Havothi."
The first cut is like the breaking of ice in spring, sudden and giving of a season's change. Your flesh parts as the blade punctures and cuts in an angling line, welling blood and fire. Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan shifts around you, working the chisel with a small mallet to open a second line, which travels from collar to shoulder, and a returning third from shoulder to neck.
You shut your eyes and exhale, withdrawing into meditative breathing to balance against the pulsing of hammer and chisel, the slow and deliberate pace of the wounding taxing your forced calm.
"Do you undertake your duty to our home?" Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan asks again, while pouring a pale, gold-tinted liquid over the wounds, releasing a hiss and jet of steam in the process.
You say in Trollish, "Life and limb, I swear to uphold the needs of the Hill and our cause."
Again, the chisel comes down upon your now tender flesh, rending fresh lines that connect with those sealed from Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan's potion. Each strike and inch irritates those already made, more so as the night's chill settles in and teases at the dripping trails blood drying along your chest and back.
Raising the dish of liquid again, Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan asks, "Do you pledge your time for the coming tide, stalwart and without hesitation?"
You say in Trollish, "I pledge my time and strength until the tides sap me and I enter the Halls without reclaim."
Your words are met with relief, the liquid soothing the bleeding, though sealing the wounds as well. Once more, the chisel meets your shoulder, though the lines are shorter now, meeting into the last set but without as much pressure. A rushing sensation fills your head, making it light and woozy, before it fades with the onset of a last uppouring from Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan's stone vessel.
"Welcome in full, Kevok Areka Morrog." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan states, his voice grave, but approving, as he steps away and sets the instruments back within the altar's hold.
You release a breath, and unclench your teeth, not realizing you had done so in the first place. Pushing to stand, you drag a hand through the blood along your sternum, and stride to the marked rock. Gingerly, you splay your fingers and press your palm to the stone, leaving behind your own mark.
"The joining is done." Bek-Mughith Agtul Irfaan states, clearly dismissing you from the sacred space and concluding the formal initiation.
She is a powerful Azudim, tall and smoldering. Towering over most mortals, she is broad shouldered and athletic, with limbs carrying scars and calluses alike. Her dark, charcoal coloured skin is marred by the natural creases and folds along her joints and palms, which glow with a fiery hue, as if she were kin of the deep-earth's fire. Sprawling from neck, to clavicle, to shoulder-blade, a triangular scar holds a broader glow, its interior filled with woven lines in bold strokes. This warm, forge-like glow is echoed within the cracks of her lips and set deep within her oddly bestial eyes. Their ridging and colour reminiscent of cooled lava, two horns sprout from her crown and curve back along her head, their tips sharpened and capped in engraved gold. Coal-black hair, long enough to reach her mid-back, has been twisted and coiled into a slightly messy bun against the back of her head, and bound in place by vibrant red cording. Despite her odd colouring, her features and build echo her Trollish heritage.[/spoiler]
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