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A Matter of Cremation; Short Story of a Ritual Gone Wrong...
Tweet Topic Started: Feb 10 2008, 12:24 PM (190 Views)
Post #1 Feb 10 2008, 12:24 PM Grunt_of_War
Eh, I wrote this sometime during the latter half of last year, but I never took the time to edit it through and post what I had. So, after about ten minutes of clean-up, I present to you the first part of this short story - maybe sometime soon, I'll get around to the last couple sections.

---

A Matter of Cremation

a Short Story by R. C. Whitley (my pen name... wee)

Part 1 – Less Than Blissful

“Hush,” the shaman immediately replied in a muffled voice. The man turned to face the agitated speaker, releasing a light sigh. Geff never enjoyed being corrected or commanded, no less from a tribal witchdoctor whom he had met just before noon that day. It was now evening, and Geff still didn’t know what the heck he was doing here. If it wasn’t for the fact that food and shelter were to be offered at the camp, he would have ignored Vaheron’s proposal to meet the barbarians. But so far, his stomach had ceased to stop its irritated growling, and apparently he would have to wait through the upcoming ceremony.

Geff’s eyes rotated towards the fire, able to make out growing and receding shapes and colors before losing himself before the brilliant flames. The fire seemed almost unnatural; it continued to lash out in random directions like a serpent backed into a corner, licking the air only inches away from Geff’s skin. But then he felt a light tap to his shoulder, to which he immediately shuddered in surprise. Expecting it to be the witch doctor again, he exhaled tightly, gritting his teeth before turning to face the usurper, but it wasn’t who he expected it to be.

“I’d move from that spot if I were you,” Vaheron commented with a small sense of amusement in his voice. Geff looked to his side as the shaman approached the fire, drawing a small number of round, red tablets from a pouch at his waist before his loaded hand lifted itself a few feet before the smoke. But before he could react, Vaheron continued his annoying banter.

“See that outlined ring in the dirt?” he asked, loosely tracing the border in the air with his staff. “Essentially, if you’re within that circle at the time those tablets make contact with the flames, you’ll be little more than roasting ash before you have time to react.”

Geff merely shook off his explanation as he turned and began to exit the perimeter. “I was well aware,” he grunted, “but thanks for the safety note.” He strolled towards and then past the outlying viewers, with deep, angry thoughts prioritizing themselves in his mind. Damned mages: every time he met one of their kind, they always acted in such a demeaning way that drove Geff bullocks. Their tone of voice always protruded words that made the listener sound inferior or too idiotic to understand the nature of the world and the events within it. Just because Geff couldn’t manipulate magic, it didn’t mean he was a complete imbecile.

He took a seat upon a large stone with just a bare view of the fire, several yards past the small, clay structures that outlined the hamlet. Geff’s eyes wandered randomly to and fro every few seconds, his stomach the only thing on his mind. Within a few moments, he exerted a long string of growling and weeping, to which he responded by clutching his stomach with both arms; it was bad enough before when it only felt like a knot in his stomach.

---

He swallowed another batch of saliva as soon as it threatened to pour past his lips. He could already hear the drums in the encampment beginning to sound off, which Geff could assume was the start of the ceremony. It had been at least twenty minutes since the swordsman presumed his position on the outlying cylinder of wood. A number of deep voices emerged from the background to accompany the instruments with repeating lines of rhythms, typical of those he had imagined from narratives he read as a boy – not that he cared too much.

Blast! Geff stood up to his feet, unable to deter his hunger any longer, and walked further into the woods to find something to eat.

The sun had set behind the horizon no less than five minutes after he strayed past the outer boundary of the camp. If he was to find anything, he would need to find it quickly; the illumination was already beginning to wane from the sky. The sound of the ritual already faded to less than a whisper in his ears now, which provided him with a decent chance of successfully tracking an animal – and something to divulge himself with. The swordsman twisted his head to and fro as he trekked along the forest brush until the noise pollution finally disappeared. Spotting a suitable tree capable of carrying his weight, Geff directed his path into a line before climbing clumsily along its rough bark. Finding a thick branch to sit upon, he rested his back along the main trunk. With any luck, something would pass by, just below his position, for him to catch. It was an impractical approach, but then again, Geff himself tended to have the best luck when the opposite is expected…
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