[P] Alte Füchse gehen schwer in die Falle [CALLIOPE]

[Turhan]

“ bone to rune ”

Woodfire moused up an otherwise perfect late blue dusk.  From the lookouts - anyone who was overlooking the plains could see the blaze even though the Elder smartly chose an area that would not impose an immediate danger to the summer-grass.  There was no wind tonight - the world was eerily silent.  It allowed the flames to rise up and up as the old horse paced in tight circles around the fire, foaming and uncharacteristically anxious as if channeling a nervous spirit.  It looked forbidden to gaze upon, or interrupt.


  Turhan's mane, wild like a lion's but alive like a swarm of snakes, rattled and jingled with bones and bells.  He moaned loudly over the flames and encouraged them to get hotter and hotter while he threw bursts of black powder into it with intention, with energy.  Take his anger away, take his anxieties too - these (to Turhan) were useless feelings.   As more black powder went into the fire, the Elder's energy began to appear unstable.


To make ritual out of it, a previously captured young rabbit screamed with fright when he stomped it and tore its head off with his teeth (it was small enough) - all of it then went into the fire which then started to turn blue.  He made sure to roll his crippled prey into a metallic salt bath for spiritual cleansing of the soul.  Blue was for purity, for spirituality, and when he licked his lips his tongue was blue too,


Turhan leaned into the fire and held his face over the heat until the blood flaked off of his lips like paint chips.  All the while  he was thinking about ..


He forgets ..


The rabbit's body twitched over the flaming pile, none of it made sense to the blind man in a way like that - he just knew what he could smell.


Lightning struck above the old witch doctor and instantly he threw his horned head to the sky and howled like a terrible white-faced beast.  His voice carried on through the empty land with no wind to guide it fatefully one way or another.  In his mind, body, and soul, he felt Vespera's hand through his heart, her claws running down his back, her love terrible, cruel, and wondrous.  All that she was, she was beautiful and savage like he was - and nights when Death felt closer to being Alive, the old man built his sacred fire - then fell to his knees and prayed.


Tonight he spoke in a very different language, a far-away one, and prayed while he rubbed his bloody face off on his shoulder.  The dark bay rocked and writhed in the dirt, his chorded and feathered tail threw dirt across sweaty white bone paint and fresh red horse blood - some of it his.  He reeked of death - and of prayer too being perfumed with copal resins.


 The Elder laughed when he felt the tension of the storm break open over his head with a loud peal of thunder, he sounded mad ... or as if he felt Nirvana in the heart of its Chaos. Lightning lashed in every direction, searing long seams through the clouds, painting it electric white and steel in the blink of an eye.  And Vespera's heartbeat, the constant and tumultuous roll of echoing thunder over distant mountains, matched the beat of his heart and the strength of his soul.  

T U R H A N
skull to dust

@Calliope   Because I believe in you and your imagination is incredible to me.  Feel free to interpret this however.