Veteran’s Plateau Altar

Aslatiel · 10-25-2022, 08:55 PM

Word had spread of alters and statues and gods coming to life. Aslatiel had never given such things much thought, but she felt the urge to travel to one and see for herself. It was customary to make some sort of offering, she knew. If the gods were alive and were all powerful, then they deserved something nice, did they not?

The scarred warrioress made her way to the Veteran's Plateau, a place that she had been to many times. The atmosphere had changed, however. Galactic eyes were instantly drawn to the statue. A warrior, for sure covered in battle wounds, each a tale of its exploits. This was a god that Aslatiel could respect. Though she was small and a woman, she was a warrior at heart.

Moving up to the statue, Asla shifted, letting a sack fall to the ground. Digging about within, she removed her very first piece of armor that she'd ever had; reinforced, leather covered steel coated with porcupine quills. Asla placed the piece of armor, used, but still in very good shape, at the paws of the statue. "A piece of armor stained with the blood of my enemies," she told the statue. She then removed the buffalo hide cloak that went with the armor and flung it about the statue's shoulders. "And a thick hide to keep a warrior warm at night." With a nod of her head, the fawn and grey woman turned and began moving off, feeling... oddly satisfied.

"Speech"

NPC:

There seems to be a murmur of approval as you offer the armor, used but clearly once loved. You look up at the large imposing stone figure and you feel it is somehow looking down at you, your legs freeze and you cannot move, you do not know how long you stand there frozen, unmoving and feeling the appraising gaze.

Then a low sound hum starts up around you, a melody you do not know. The sounds grow closer and you realize it’s a chorus of voices, all singing in a language you’ve never known but somehow understand. The voices have no obvious sex but the song sings of mothers, of sisters, of daughters. Women of the battle field, it is a song of their own battles, some literal: Men killed at their fangs, those that would seek to hurt them cut down and their manhoods claimed. Others are less literal: The battlefield of birth, of proving themselves again and again, of love and loss. And as the song seems to wrap around you, you understand what it is trying to say: Though you are small and a woman, there was never any doubt of who you are, and which battlefields you’ve conquered.

The song seems to swaddle you and ten whole life times pass in its warm, comforting embrace. And you don’t even notice your eyes closing, letting yourself drown in the song which you hear yourself join in singing. The verses end and you lightly hum it to yourself, your eyes opening and you are once more at the altar. The tune that was just on your lips slowly fading from your mind, and in only a few minutes you will struggle to remember its sound, but not the feeling it filled you with.

The tabby steps forward and gives you a look that you realize is a warm smile. “May fate be kind to you sister.” It says and you realize there is a weight against your chest, a pouch hanging from your neck. You look up at the statue again for a moment, feeling the word sister reverberate in your mind, there is something holding you for a moment, and then you are released.

You have received:
A Minor mutation pass

Staff: note when claimed

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