The ink ran across the page, where darkness and space met, and by contrast made the words. It was not darkness for no light had ever graced her eyes. Her mind painted the world in visages of death, scent, sensation, every vibration through her paws. She took in the sound of victorious howls, cheers, and the chanting of West Rise. Her padded feet walked the worn grooves of the oldest pyramid, which Horthgud had rebuilt with as many of the original stones as possible; she found the worn grooves where a thousand priests had walked before. Her claws slid, finding the next groove as she ascended the ten thousand steps to the top of the pyramid. They were occasionally caught in runnels formed by bloodshed. She saw, through the eyes of a sparrow dying in the talons of a falcon, the massed ranks of warriors at the foot, whose voices reached the peak in a dull rumble. The Chieftain Horthgud stood like one of two grand pillars that line some forgotten ancient harbor entrance. She looked over the dull hulk that was Harmon’s massive Hippo Dreite, who served as Horthgud’s lieutenant in warfare, the rows of priestesses and priests, warriors who bore captives for sacrifice.
She was Vilga Vaudau, the Pale Priestess, current Mortal Consort of Dreous, and the highest religious authority of her God. She stood at the zenith, she felt the lives that had been ended here, the blood that had long dried felt as if it soaked her feet, she heard the whispers reciting the names and lives of those lost here. Chieftains, Foe priests, Warriors, and skilled artisans taken by conquest.
She reached a hand out and ran it down a tattered thread of a soul, long past, that told her of the lives they had lived, and they were prone to greatness with every reincarnation. “Bring forth the dagger.” She spoke softly, but her attending high priestesses approached with a cushion on which a blade carved of one long piece of obsidian in the shape of a canine’s fang lay. She felt the bite of the stone still through the worn leather that formed its handle. She took a deep breath, smelling the heavy musk of Horthgud and the sweat and earthy stench of Harmon. She smelled the fear, the excitement, and the want from a violent victory. “The First Sacrifice.” She listened to the clan warriors who brought forth the first captive.
Vilga turned to the crowd below as the sacrifice was bound to a stone slab. “My tribe, my kin, my blood. Dreous has granted us another victory, and we have brought the valley to heel. Now we stand united against the last threats to our peace: the Marka and Nukok. We sacrifice these bodies to Dreous in thanks and take these wayward souls into our blood. People who will add their skills to our own in war, craft, and food.” She held up the dagger in a fist. “Bring forth the chosen.” She listened to the sound of more Dreite emerging from the chamber beneath the pyramid’s top. She approached the slab. “I give you peace, I give you mercy, I give your soul welcome and your body to our father god. Become of our blood.” She plunged the dagger down and, with a jagged cut, her free hand wrenched forth his heart. She held it above her head and crushed it in her hand. She felt the warm blood run down her snout, along her cheeks, down her chest. She felt the soul flow into it and led it to the first of the chosen marking on her belly, the runes of the Dreite, granting her a new child, the chieftain would be reborn of their blood, and his life would not be a waste. She dipped the heart into a pouch on her belt full of metallic dust and threw it into a brazier, where it burned in colors. She moved a hand through the smoke and blew forth an image of the twisting omni beast that was Dreous.
As she prepared to speak once more, she felt a presence. The gleam of a mask through eyes that could not see, and then no more scent, sound, or sensation of touch reached her. The scent of salt reached her first. Then of rot, not the rot of old fish but rotting maggot-infested flesh of a neglected corpse. The greatest terror was that she could see; a coastline she vaguely recognized spanned before her, and the waters had taken on a stagnant murk, washing onto shore bloated bodies of fish and twisted things. The star Siger, light of the sky, burned black, casting a haunting light across the land. She felt the coming as a foul movement in the air, bloated behemoth whales oozing across the water; spikes rose from their backs, holding flaps of skin aloft. She turned away, suddenly feeling something watching, and realized her eyes had caught the mask again at the edge of her vision. She turned back to see the monstrous things beach themselves upon the sands, and she stumbled away, disturbed as they burst forth, spilling forth near bald, flat-faced creatures with the skins of others hung over their flesh. She attempted to flee as the tide rose, knocking down the forests, flooding the villages; fire spread across wood and thatch, stone tumbled, and the great pyramids crumbled like the remnants of a fire. The tide that returned to the ocean was on rivers of blood. She called out in terror for her God, focused, drew upon her faith, and invoked his name. “Dreous.” There was the great shadowy silhouette, which was composed of pieces of every beast Vilga had ever seen, and it struck some unseen thing. She saw the figure sent flying, and the vision shattered.
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