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smokescholar · 2 years

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01: A memory from your character’s childhood

Character Development || Accepting

TW: violence, gore, death, childhood trauma/abuse. It's horrible, read with caution.

The crowd gathered around the ash pit was roaring, shouting for blood. Two Mahjarrat were chosen to do battle, a fight to the death to have another chance at life. One, a criminal of the tribe, a coward that had fled during a raid instead of dying with honor. Now, he faced the void, erased from existence.

The other, a child.

He had done nothing wrong. The only crime he had committed was existing. He was born defective, and in a society where only the strong survive, he was nothing more an animal bred for slaughter. Ripped from his caregiver's arms within a cycle of coming of age, he had no chance against an adult who had cut down enemies far stronger than he was.

Did he even fully understand what was going on?

Claws raked against his skin as the crowd pushed him away, sneering and spiting on him as he tried to escape the death circle. His own mother shouting at his opponent to 'get it over with already'. A hand grabbed his neck, throwing the pup across the arena.

AIN OLTRU! AIN OLTRU! AIN OLTRU! Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.

His opponent lunged, pinning the child to the ground and wrapping his hands around his neck, squeezing. "You aren't even worth using magic on. I'll kill you with my hands." The Mahjarrat hissed, smiling as he watched the child struggle underneath his weight. Going for the neck was a sign of true disrespect, a weak point that was used to assert dominance over others. In a culture of creatures built to kill, a slow bloodless suffering was a true act of sadism. His blood was unworthy of being spilled. A quick death was too good for him.

Blinded by tears, the child gasped for air; the thrumming of his crystals struggling to maintain energy flow to his body was quickly drowning out the shouts around him. Tiny clawed hands grabbed his attackers arms, trying to pull him off but to no avail. Any pain he was inflicting just made the other squeeze harder. Scrambling desperately, his fingers brushed over a large piece of volcanic debris buried under the ash. Gripping it tightly, he swung it upwards, striking his attacker on the side of the head with enough force to make him stagger.

He was acting purely on instinct now, adrenaline coursing through his veins. As the older Mahjarrat hit the ground, the child pounced; climbing on top of him and began to bludgeon his opponent's face with the rock. From this position, he could finally fight back, shattering bone and cartilage with each other-the-head swing. Claws tore into his skin , scraping bone but the child did not relent.

Boom. His nose caved in, practically resting against his cheek. Boom. Blood and black ichor spilled from his eye socket as the bone practically exploded on impact. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

The crystals wouldn't break. No, it would take more than that, but it didn't stop him from caving in his skull, embedding the near indestructible gems deeper and deeper into the bloody mash that was once his opponent's face. All his opponent could do was gurgle, the hands tearing into his exposed torso fell away as he stopped moving.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

He didn't stop. Even as he was violently pulled off the older Mahjarrat's body he continued to swing, shrieking incoherently. The crowd was silent, stunned at what had just happened. Two warriors dragged the barely alive Mahjarrat to the ritual stone, his life force barely enough to satiate their God.

The runt had won. He had survived his first ritual, against all odds. From that moment on, Wahisietel's life would change. He was no longer a worthless spawn. He had proved to them all just how dangerous he truly was. The bullying and mockery had stopped, instead, the other children were scared of him; isolating him. But it was for the best, he had wanted peace and he had killed for it.

When he returned to caregiver, he couldn't speak. The blood was still fresh, his little body shook like an earthquake. Nabor didn't ask, instead he just held the child close like he always did; humming a soothing song as he cried in his arms.

#long post #violence tw #blood tw #abuse tw #death tw #this hurt to write tbh #ive mentioned it before on this/past blog but ive never actually written The Ritual

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