Land of Despots

[Agent Legit 22]

The squad's leader considers his options, and decides to use the log to wait for the rain to stop

[Ad Bot]

[grunterdb1951]

The men heading toward Hamcha dissent, pointing out the dark, rolling clouds. "If we return now, the gifts would be soiled. The Halut-dan would be displeased."

As they head back down to the boats, a few men in the canoe point out the storm moving in. Seeing by the downpour to the NW, they have half an hour before the deluge will hit them.

Dolo squints, looking over at the clouds rolling in before he snorts and motions them back. "Bring it back. We'll hold it until then. And get those canoes flipped and on land." he says before he stomps back over to his tent- the men carrying out his orders.

The villagers of Utisho take notice of the incoming storm, and several of the people begin to talk to one another. The Yaksha remains unfazed, standing still. As the sound of rolling thunder proceeds over the storm, his right hand leaves his staff, lifting it into the air, his palm facing the people. The drums and singing stop. Only the sound of the wind blowing at the countryside can be heard.

The score of children arrange in the common area in front of the fire, somewhat spread out, but presented to the Yaksha, hands behind their backs.

One of the men behind Shau speaks in a hushed voice, "There's a storm incoming. It looks like we don't have long before it arrives."

Shau looks around at the sky for a moment or two before he stares back down over to those at the village. When the beating of the drums and the choir comes to a halt, Shau's nostrils flare in a bit of annoyance before him and other head back in order to beat the storm.

"We have to go back now. Come on." The others wade through the foliage and head back over to their boats, the commanders looking back and forth before noticing them and waving them over, "Get in! We're going to find a spot to wait out the storm!"

The scouts climb back into their canoes and begin setting off to go find a spot suitable for the group to wait out the storm.

The shamans and Shef exit the tent to a storm just setting in. Well this is going to be fun.

Shef looks up at the gathering storm clouds and shrugs, following the shamans without resistance, a slight smile on his face.  The years of toil and shame will be washed away by the tide or he will find rest in its embrace.  Still, he is afraid of what is to come - he's been so far from the sea for so long.

The shamans pause, looking over the clouds for a moment as if reading them before one of their brows furrow before he looks back around to Shef, "She's watching. You're lucky." The vague words make some sense to Shef. She always refers to the sea, and storms of the variety with heavy rainfall is seen as her wetting the earth so she may see through the water she pours down upon the world. It's usually around this time that people act on their best and most pious behavior.

The shamans lead Shef along, heading through the dirt roads to a small beaten path- coming upon a cove of jagged rocks in a small natural harbor. Too small to act as the village docks- but perfect for rituals. The shamans wade into the water at waist deep before they look back to Shef, bringing their hands out. "Come. We will hold you under, and we will see if you last."

[Plethora]

Shef freezes for a split second and resigns himself once again to whatever end the sea holds for him.  He takes a few deep breaths before wading shakily toward the shamans, his entire body shaking from a strange mixture of mortal fear of death and gleeful excitement at being reborn into the clan.

[grunterdb1951]

Shef freezes for a split second and resigns himself once again to whatever end the sea holds for him.  He takes a few deep breaths before wading shakily toward the shamans, his entire body shaking from a strange mixture of mortal fear of death and gleeful excitement at being reborn into the clan.

The cold sea water wraps up around Shef as he wades forwards, the calloused and wrinkled hands of the shamans resting at his shoulders as they take a firm grip on him. Such a touch would bring back bad memories, were it not for the nostalgic sounds of the stormy tide and the familiar faces who are conducting the ritual.

"Three, two, and..." They murmur before they lean Shef back and hold him down under the water. Now Shef is completely enveloped in the freezing salt water. He lasts for a good few moments before he finds that he can't hold out much longer- air bubbles escaping his lips and nostrils to rise up and above. Did they always hold people under this long? It went so much quicker when he was a babe, yet right now it feels excruciatingly long.

If he doesn't do something, they may end up drowning him. And the idea of death offers no comfort.

[Figure]

despotcito

[SWAT One]

The squad's leader considers his options, and decides to use the log to wait for the rain to stop

They wait there all night. It may be warmer near the end of spring, but the pouring rain drenches all but their heads. It feels as if it drenched all the way to the bone.

Shau looks around at the sky for a moment or two before he stares back down over to those at the village. When the beating of the drums and the choir comes to a halt, Shau's nostrils flare in a bit of annoyance before him and other head back in order to beat the storm.

"We have to go back now. Come on." The others wade through the foliage and head back over to their boats, the commanders looking back and forth before noticing them and waving them over, "Get in! We're going to find a spot to wait out the storm!"

The scouts climb back into their canoes and begin setting off to go find a spot suitable for the group to wait out the storm.

They go back downriver double-time, and find a place in the forest suitable for a camp. They wait out the night as the rain falls down on them as if thousands of hammers fell from the sky.

One of the tents, not properly pitched, falls apart in the wind, and is swept away in the storm. The two men in that tent, soaked, beg for places in any of the other tents.

The cold sea water wraps up around Shef as he wades forwards, the calloused and wrinkled hands of the shamans resting at his shoulders as they take a firm grip on him. Such a touch would bring back bad memories, were it not for the nostalgic sounds of the stormy tide and the familiar faces who are conducting the ritual.

"Three, two, and..." They murmur before they lean Shef back and hold him down under the water. Now Shef is completely enveloped in the freezing salt water. He lasts for a good few moments before he finds that he can't hold out much longer- air bubbles escaping his lips and nostrils to rise up and above. Did they always hold people under this long? It went so much quicker when he was a babe, yet right now it feels excruciatingly long.

If he doesn't do something, they may end up drowning him. And the idea of death offers no comfort.

By now, the strong wind and pounding rain had offered no ease for the shamans conducting the ritual. The tumultuous waves threaten the grip of the shamans. Finally, a particularly large wave approaches the shamans from the sea, and they too come to grips with their mortality.

[Agent Legit 22]

The Squad Leader's takes a look on the distance on their current position and the village, then weighs his option.

[Plethora]

At this point, Shef can take no more and begins to struggle.  His years of toil have made him strong, but being without air as long as he has been, he is unable to use his full strength.  Nonetheless, the shamans cannot help but feel the rising panic in his tightening grip and thrashing legs.

[grunterdb1951]

They go back downriver double-time, and find a place in the forest suitable for a camp. They wait out the night as the rain falls down on them as if thousands of hammers fell from the sky.

One of the tents, not properly pitched, falls apart in the wind, and is swept away in the storm. The two men in that tent, soaked, beg for places in any of the other tents.

The least cramped tent take in the two men, trying to do what they can to help dry them off however they can to avoid sickness- as well as trying to help ensure warmth while they try and wait out the night.

By now, the strong wind and pounding rain had offered no ease for the shamans conducting the ritual. The tumultuous waves threaten the grip of the shamans. Finally, a particularly large wave approaches the shamans from the sea, and they too come to grips with their mortality.

At this point, Shef can take no more and begins to struggle.  His years of toil have made him strong, but being without air as long as he has been, he is unable to use his full strength.  Nonetheless, the shamans cannot help but feel the rising panic in his tightening grip and thrashing legs.

The shamans stare out towards the massive oncoming wave, their grips wavering from a mixture of growing fear and the growing resistance from Shef. They look down and then back up to one another before they grab Shef and yank him up and out of the water as they begin pulling him along and out.

Trying to wade out of the water and bringing Shef up to the shore, one shaman manages to get him up well enough before the other abandons his grip on Shef altogether and finds himself overtaken in his attempt to rush further to get to the shore. Even when Shef and the one remaining shaman hit the sands, their hit at the knees with the water and knocked over.

When the water begins to pull out from the wave, the other shaman is nowhere to be seen- his fate made obvious as they look over at the tide crashing against the natural walls of the cove.

The shaman pants, clearing his throat before he hobbles up to his feet and looks down at Shef. "You..." he begins to murmur for a moment before he looks out to the sea, "To reject you so strongly..." Stammering for a moment or two, the shaman raises his hands and draws his hood back revealing an aged and wrinkled face- seeming to be going on from his middle ages to the beginnings of elderly years with a graying beard that grows out in tufts.

"This ritual isn't enough." he says once more, shaking his head before he looks back down to Shef, "Not for you." he adds with a steely gaze. And Shef thought the other looks he had been getting were bad... But it's now more along the lines of the looks the violent outcasts get. Fear.

The shaman turns and begins heading off in a hurry, holding himself to protect himself from the cold of the storm as he seems to begin leaving Shef behind. When Shef thinks he's about to go off, he pauses and looks back, "Hurry, before your presence makes her lash out again." he says, waiting for him.

[Plethora]

Shef, his blood pumping and his brain on fire cries out to the havens and beats his chest in grief at the Shaman's words.  Surely, this means the end for him - to be rejected by the Sea, the Sea.  As the shaman calls for him to follow he is overcome by the knowledge that the Sea that he had yearned for during his years of slavery, the Sea whose memory had kept him going, the Sea who had been a constant friend in his early days, the Sea had rejected him.  Shef lets out a pitiful wail and falls to the ground, senseless of anything besides his grief and the darkness inside of himself.

[grunterdb1951]

Shef, his blood pumping and his brain on fire cries out to the havens and beats his chest in grief at the Shaman's words.  Surely, this means the end for him - to be rejected by the Sea, the Sea.  As the shaman calls for him to follow he is overcome by the knowledge that the Sea that he had yearned for during his years of slavery, the Sea whose memory had kept him going, the Sea who had been a constant friend in his early days, the Sea had rejected him.  Shef lets out a pitiful wail and falls to the ground, senseless of anything besides his grief and the darkness inside of himself.

There is a long silence from the shaman, who watches with mixed feelings. There is obviously a great deal of pity for Shef- up until now, he has been Haluti. And now because of circumstances out of his hands, he's not. At least, not in any way his people will recognize him as one. But the animosity challenges the empathy held by the shaman. Pursing his lips, his gaze wanders elsewhere- namely at the raging waves beyond before the shaman glances down to his feet searchingly and then back up to Shef.

The sound of his feet rustling through the sand fades in to Shef's ears as he wanders closer, before he leans to grasp on his shoulders and give him a shake. "Listen." he says, loud and demanding. "Your taint is too great. It was a hopeful notion, but the ritual is a failure. Calm yourself, there's still hope." As much as the words themselves are meant to be uplifting- the Shaman's tone, both weak and holding back a suspecting tone, manages to balance any hope building out.

"There are more rituals. More drastic rituals. We can try to do these- to wash you clean, but first you must be calm. We must tell the Halut-dan the result of this ritual, and then we must go to Rogal on what is suitable for you next. Can you do this?"

The shamans words linger, somewhat quiet in comparison to the roaring sea and the great crackles from the sky- his concern meant as a small beacon.

[Plethora]

Shef, with monumental effort steadies his nerves and raises himself back up, though his pain and shame remain visible in his shrunken posture and mournful voice.  "I can do these things."

[SWAT One]

I am alive.


The Yaksha glances over the children with a shaking hand still raised. His eyes scan the sky, focused as one would have toward another in discussion.

He speaks out, barely audible over the roaring wind. "It is time for me to choose my successor."

The Yaksha reaches his hand out toward the assembly of children, trying to remain still, but each face in the crowd painted with emotions of excitement, worry of the choosing, and worry of the wall of dark clouds quickly closing in. His trembling hand stops seeming to fixate on one particular girl in the crowd. The Yaksha opens his mouth, to say, "You–" as the girl hesitantly takes half a step forward. A bolt of lightning strikes a nearby tree, sending off a shower of limbs and splinters and shaking the ground of the village. Everyone flinches, muttering to themselves, "We must get inside" and "The storm is coming. We will get sick."

Their attention is drawn away from the storm as the Yaksha's tremors get worse. His shaking hand now govers above his chest, and he is having trouble breathing. In a few seconds, he collapses to the ground in pain, tumbling off the stage. A number of the Yaksha's disciples spring to his aid, trying to stop his fall, but fail. Other than the girl, the children scream and scatter, running to their families, and the families begin to panic as well.

General Tiyala commands a number of warriors to go out to the people and calm things down. The soldiers instruct the villagers to go to their homes and keep themselves warm and dry, and to care for their families. The girl they instruct to go back home. After blankly staring at the officer who gave her the order, she turns and runs back to her mother.

The disciples carry the Yaksha into his tent and lay him on his bed of furs. By now the Yaksha is barely breathing. The disciples, shocked and stunned at what to do, kneel and begin chanting. The Yaksha's condition doesn't improve, and over the next few minutes, he remains in distress until his body gives up and dies.