March 5th, 2014 by Zundra · No Comments · Beginnings, Events, Guild storylines


“Daughter, take my hand! Now!”

Zun’dra reached his hand up in almost pliant submission to the terrified magi. Her wet hair wrapped her face and shoulders in an undignified grip. Her body shook. In one hand curled behind her back snuck a fine dagger, the hilt of which she anxiously fingered.

“Dzivah! Come take papa’s hand!”

The shouts and pleas of her brethren began to fade to sibilant whispers. She lost the sense of her mate standing by her side; her flank seemed vacant and quiet.

The mercury hot river bled out of its banks and kissed her toes. Bon’odom’s ripe red moon cast its glow over everything, even their shadows. She closed her eyes.

Mother. It ends now.

She took Zun’dra’s hand and fell into his embrace, her cheek thudding against his shoulder. The older Gurubashi man brought his other arm around to grip her shoulder tightly. As he looked up at the sky to see the red disc preside over their gathering, he felt the wet sting of steel come between them.

Dzivah trembled, looking straight into the mask to meet the eyes of the man she had just stabbed. Her father. His grip went slack and he fell back into the white waters, tears she could not see stinging his eyes.

“Am… am I too late!?” he cried.

He could not swim or struggle. Defeated, he let the water take him deep, to where the spirits of the white lake rushed to fill him, to breathe into him and resuscitate him. This was their demesne, and they had been waiting for him. He looked up, breathing quietly in the depths and saw her. His daughter’s mother, in all of her former beauty, high above the lake. He feebly raised his hands and knocked his mask off to look at her fully. Her voice was so splendorous and elysian that not even the several feet of water between them could distort her ineffable majesty.

Dzivah looked up, stunned into catatonia by the sight: her mother, brilliant in white and with an aureole of the red moon crowning her head. She spoke of gifts, of dues, and of responsibility:

“Dzivah. High Priestess. Guide the Ai’loa in prayer. Learn from your father and from them. Satisfy mighty Dambala, and grow his family large. To aid you in this task, I will join my spirit with yours, and can be birthed at any time to empower you in your hour of need.”

The newly anointed High Priestess felt her courage return, and she dropped the dagger in the red sandbank. “High… Priestess…Ai…loa” she murmured, testing the words in her mouth. After each and every Troll present was addressed and given their own spiritual tasks, her mother’s voice began to fade.

“The Ai’loa must claim their rightful place in the world, and help restore the severed connection between our people and our ancient customs. Go now. And remember, children of Dambala, the Ai’loa…. who loa bless, no mon curse.”

And with that, her spirit passed again into the Lake, and Zun’dra emerged: coughing, spluttering, and begging for aid.

He had been right. Her father had carried out only her mother’s wishes, and not his own. He had led them here to be tested in the Vale by Dambala, and they succeeded all trials put before them. They had earned their first gifts. But there would be many, many more to claim.

“Let us return home. For now.”

Jenroku limped towards Dzivah and nodded emphatically. “Yes…. High Priestess.”
She looked at him, and then the rest of them. “…who loa bless..”

Several voices broke the Vale canopy. “No mon curse!”

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