Trial of Blood

[Chuuwys 502]

Spoiler

The following is a creative writing piece for experimentation, personal character lore and exploration.

 

Please do not use the information here unless it has been shared by me in character.

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.⋆.ೃ* :･↟ ⸙͎ ↟⋆.ೃ* :･.

 

The flames crackle and spit as more wood and cypress branches are thrown on top. They fill the air with the thick scent of old sap and fir, quickly pulled away by the wind of the Northern region's blizzards.

 

Suliin’yuln lays beside the fire, propped up on the damp logs of her lean-to she had made the last time she came to the tundra for a trial. Right... her trial. She’s sure the hunt is meant to be purposeful, one where she directly goes out to scout for her answer. But in this weather, it firmly sets her plan back to the burner. Again.

 

Her bow rests on her back, quiver open on her side and a simple dagger set near her head for emergencies. Tippen’s Root in her pouch and some rations of meat for energy if she needs it. A pot to boil water with, and a blanket to stay warm. The last thing she wants till the storm passes is to be beset by the monsters that cackle in the night or animals that howl at one another. The imperative part is staying awake long enough to stop from freezing before the storm passes. . .

 

 

 

 

The sound of shuffling and sniffing comes first. Her eyes struggle to open, her body still tired to budge. Too cold to lift a finger as the sound comes closer. Suliin’yuln's body shivers, a grateful win against hypothermia, and the sound comes closer. To the fire’s dead ashes, to the lean-to. To her.

 

The creature approaches her face, pushes itself around her scarf and hood. Finally waking her, her eyes fly open to meet those of the attacker. Two full amber beads that stare directly into hers with hunger, then... then fear. An arctic fox. A starving one. Desperate, regretful, necessary.

 

Her body flies into survival mode. The sudden movement earns her a scratch to the face in the flurry to grab her dagger with her right hand, swinging once into the retreating animal. It catches between collarbones with a pained cry, biting her other wrist in retaliation. She tears the dagger out and rolls off the logs to push the fox and pin it down, blood staining the pristine white blanket of snow underfoot. That bright crimson seeps into the fur and pools below them with steam, coating her hands. Aspects above, she hit an artery. She can’t tell if the stench of iron is her or the sickening red in front of her.

 

The animal panics beneath her, biting at her hand to be let go. But Suliin knows she can’t let it go, or it will bleed to death slowly. She knows she won’t manage to do this a second time if she fails here. Her eyes burn with hot tears as she feels the animal struggle. She drops the soaked dagger and digs her hands into the snow to grab anything blunt she can find. Rock if she must. She must do the only thing she can – put it out of its suffering, and grant it what mercy is possible.

 

Her fingers clench around a rock, large enough to commit what feels like a crime, a sin, an unholy sacrament to all of the life around her. Her only witnesses are herself, her victim and the Aspects above that she swears she can feel burning their judgement into her back. Her arm lifts in the air shakily, tears dropping past her cheeks.

 

“I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

 

With a full-throated sob, she swings her arm down. All she hears is the crack of rock against bone. The struggling stops. The biting that rid her hand numb stops.

 

She throws the rock to the side and moves her arms away to wait for any sign of life.

 

Seconds

 

A minute.

 

Five. Till the blood stops flowing.

 

Acid rises up Suliin’yuln's throat and stings the back of her nose. Scrambling and pulling down her scarf away from her face, she hunches over and coughs out little more than bile. Much as she wishes it would, her tears don't stop, even as she returns to the body to pick up her dagger. Suliin'yuln lays her blanket over the ground and pulls the body of the fox over to her lap gently, stroking the fur with what care and admiration she can give.

 

She cries, for who else is there nearby to do it for the beast? She sobs, for who else would be saddened if the victim had been herself? Did it have kits waiting in the den, or simply wanted to see another winter? Just how many years had it lived before she was the one to strike it down so bitterly?

 

The stark white fur of a predator made to survive the harshest conditions through the year, without the benefit of hibernation. Cunning hunter who must take the risk for survival. Nose that tracks, eyes that search into the night for prey, teeth that rend carrion. Claws that dig, keen mind.

 

When her tears have stopped and all that fuels her is exhaustion, under the dim light of her lantern and the moon, she begins her bloody harvest. Every single part has use in some way. Her whispers come softly as she reddens her skin and clothes further. Listing each item she can make in her mind, a small prayer for each piece suffixed with an apology.

 

 

 

Amongst the rays of sun peeking low past the trees, a haggard voice finishes its prayer.

 

“Ahernal ito.”

 

ᨒ↟ ⋆ ❅ ･:*:｡ ❆

 

For the Guide:

Spoiler

The fur, to be cleaned and returned to be used for clothing.

 

The claws, tiny but usable for jewellery. One for each of her loved ones.

 

The skin, to be cooked down to gelatin for use as a glue.

 

the skull, preserved as it is. She doesn't remove the teeth. It fought her in life, it can keep them in death.

 

The sinew, to be kept and dried for cording.

 

The bones for chimes and charms as needed.

 

The fat, rendered down to be used as grease.

 

The meat, carved from the bone and boiled with balsam sap until softened and edible.

 

The innards, eyes and brain, preserved in snow for later compost on her tree.

 

[DistantCryptid 405]

"Not all ends are merciful, and even less of them are quiet ones"

Remarked  the guide in question, ann arm wrapped around the 'ame's shoulders, the other holding onto a living stave formed in the way of the crook of a shepherd, their gaze slinking from the pelt of the fox to their student in question. Their mind had wandered to their own first kill, the shaking hands, the blood. The dread that crept up their frame and never trully left. They understood it, the weight of no longer being harmless, the weight of a life.

 

"This weight you feel, pressing against your chest, creeping into your bones will cling to you until it is heard. The weight of a life, it will cling to you until it is heard, and will remain even after that. Sit with it."

"Heed it."