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Calling Tart
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Little Chatak had been sick, covered in sweat, breathing heavy, coughing blood from his weak lungs. You could not hope to understand it all, you are no healer, but you knew what all had been told. The Jungle Fever had taken hold of the boy, and there was little to be done without the Tulta herb. Though the tribe had attempted to find some of the rare plant, searching the places it had been found before, they had little luck. You, however, kept on. You had blazed a trail through jungle canopies, fighting past hunger and exhaustion, ceaselessly seeking until the world itself had blurred. You had been told later that you had returned to the tribe nearly broken, but with the Tulta clutched within your iron grip, released only after the medicine woman had forced a brew down your throat and coaxed your body into dreamless slumber.
The crone nods knowingly as you relate the story of your deed, hands continuing to work at the stone bowl and its contents.
"Worthy, yes. Soon we shall see what your soul has to say. A shame one so young must be burdened with it..."
The seer draws you closer to the fire, seats you upon a mat woven of jungle fronds. A few final preparations are made to the mixture within the bowl before the seer places it into your hands, her old eyes narrowing as if to see your face more clearly. With a snap of her fingers, the contents of the bowl ignite, smoke billowing up and into your face.
"Breathe in, Urrat."
You breath in at the command, the smoke filling your lungs. Almost instantly the world seems to slowly fall away as the crone's voice continues.
"Breathe deep, child, and remember..."
Everything falls away, only to be replaced within moments. You blink in confusion for only a moment before things begin to click into place. The sun hangs high within the sky above the beach, beating down upon the shore and the assembled tribes that stand behind you. Upon the ocean dozens of boats, heralding another attempt by the humans to take what does not belong to them. You know they attempted an invasion by land, but they had been ill prepared for the dangers of the jungles or the ferocity of the tribes. And now, they come by way of the sea, seeking to catch your people by surprise. You know without looking that by sheer numbers they will overwhelm the few tribes gathered here, the Talonrake, the Fadeleaf, the Jaggedtooth. Too few to fight this battle and hope for victory.
"They think they have won."
A voice, old and raspy, breaks your focus upon the coming ships. You turn to stare down at the strange old seer that stand next to you, that none of the others seem to see. Where had a seer come from? Surely they would avoid the bloodshed that must be done.
"We would, wouldn't we? Yet here I am. Come come, Urrat, show me your victory."
You feel your hackles rise, the insinuation that you could not achieve victory here angering you. You feel something deep within stir, answering your anger, coming to your call. As you turn once more to the ships, see them dropping their skiffs, the men within likely ready to do battle. You hear behind you the whispers as you step forward, the volume steadily increasing as someone takes that whispered word and turns it into a shout, a battlechant.
"God-Touched! God-Touched! God-Touched!"
The crone eyes seem wide, almost frightened as the jungle thunders with the word, the title, that now marks your passage. The power within swells as you grasp at it, as you roar your defiance at the men that come to take, as what is within awakens and come forth to strike at your enemies, resounding with the sound of your second name.
>What form does your name and power take?
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