Post by D'Kali Hegemony on Mar 31, 2015 19:17:40 GMT
The funeral games had lasted the whole week. Begun at the command of the Archon, and mirrored in dozens of cities and states across Kalisa and the Hegemony, the torches had burned. In the central plaza of Rox'ka, a great collection of pyres had slowly been built up over each day of the festivities. The great square where marches or parades often took place was now dominated by dozens of square pyramids of logs and brush. Each day, more were careful constructed by black-hooded Priests of Xorai and their gloomy acolytes, chanting in deep and muted monotone as they went about their work. Each night, the spaces around the empty pyres were filled with D'Kali, dancing or singing, feasting in small groups and regailing tales of past glories. The celebrations were lit with a few artificial lights, but laregly by lamps. Despite the crowds of D'Kali around them though, not a single pyre was disturbed, or accidently caught alight.
By the final day, the twin Cygni suns rose over what must have been thousands of small wooden ziggarats in the temple plaza, debris and refuse from the previous nights feasts being quiet swept or gathered by dozens of dutiful slaves as beasts and birds intermitently broke the silence. The great city of Rox'ka was eerie in its calm and quiet that morning, as the final day of the funeral seemed to cast a spell over the very stones of the buildings themselves. Even as the morning slowly waned into the afternoon, the business of the day could only do so much to shake the uncharacteristic stupor that seemed to have befallen the D'Kali capital, especially in contrast with the celebrations of the previous week.
As the evening began to fall, D'Kali from throughout the city emerged from their homes, shops or factories and made their way towards the plaza. Instead of moving among the open pyres however, they only collected along the edges of the square, crowding along the streets and temples that lined the square. Denkeepers held back hatchlings who squirmed uncomfortably with the silence and lack of activity. They did not have to wait long.
Once the larger of the two stars disappeared over the tree-topped horizon, a low, droning chant began to drift up from the temple at the west edge of the square. It was the darkest and most foreboding of the ziggurats, dim and blank like the smaller star now providing the light over the city. It was the temple of that smaller star’s namesake. Xorai, the God the Death and Betrayal. Xorai, the dishonoured one.
Under Xorai’s failing twilight, two rows of D’Kali began to emerge from the gates of the temple, their dark hoods hiding most of their faces as their snouts moved subtly with the sounds of their chants. Each pair of acolytes held between them a wooden litter, supported by beams resting in they front hands and along their backs. Unusually, the litters held not a body, but a single helm and spear. The rows of litter-bearing priests seemed to flow for hours, before finally the High Priest emerged. Like the acolytes and more junior priests, he too wore a dark, black robe that covered from his horns and back to his tail, though threads of silver were stitched into the hems and seams. In one hand, he held a large, ornate torch. In the other a large staff crowned with a glowering silver statutette of an otherworldly D’Kali, and under his cowl his face was covered by an equally grotesque silver mask.
The procession made its way down the temple steps and into the square, where one by one the pairs of priests, still chanting, stopped to one of the pyres that had been built in the previous week. With great care, they kneeled to let their litters rest with perfect balance upon the wooden pyramids before removing the supporting poles and holding them like staves, cowled heads bowed as they stepped back to the edge of the square, facing the pyres until all the stood as such.
At the east side of the courtyard, the High Priest stopped and waited, the crowd parting as Archon Rakx stepped forward. He was wearing his full battle plate, resplendent red armour trimmed in gold and embossed with etches of prior battles. His cloak hung off his shoulder and fluttered with his motions. His shield was strapped across his upper back and his sword hung at his side, the buckles rattling softly, and in his hand he bore a torch much like that of the Xorai High Priest, only his was trimmed in gold instead of silver.
Turning his large, armoured bulk around to stand next to the priest, Rake raised his arms to hush any lingering whispers drifting up from the crowd, as well as the droning chants of the other Xorai acolytes. “My people…before you are the pyres of the fallen,” the Archon began, his voice booming out over the square and echoing off the surrounding stone buildings. “Pyres of those who we can never truly return to Kalisa…They were snatched from glory and denied the honour of falling on the field.” The crowd began to murmur in agreement or confirmation, small ripples of discontent.
“Tonight, we plead to Roxal to take these warriors to his side, betrayed as they were by the Kortl! Xorai would have these souls for himself, these betrayed warriors to swell his own ranks. We, as once voice and one people, must make our will known!” The murmurs in the crowd were beginning to grow now, Rakx’ stern expression unbroken as he paused for a moment. “In once voice, we must declare that we will never allow the Kortl to deny us an honourable death again! As we commit the effigies of the fallen to the flame, we must deny Xorai his prize!”
Holding his torch aloft, pointed to the grand temple of Roxal, Rakx bellowed out “Roxal Allsire!! If you would have these warriors and save them from The Betrayer, then guide my hand!!” before he twisted around and threw the torch. The crowd fell silent and all eyes watched as the flaming brand tumbled threw the air, sparks trailing behind it as it began to fall again…then landed directly on one of the pyres. At once there was a great roar as the oils and sacred unguents soaked into the wood ignited, yellow-orange flames bursting around the empty helm and abandoned spear at the top of the pyre. Thin strands of oils that had been laid on the ground the night before were lit as well, and a web of flames that connected each pyre to its neighbours began to illuminate the square just as the second sun disappeared over the horizon.
The assembled crowd, in one unified voice, bellowed together as the flames of the pyres chased Xorai from the sky. The High Priest of the Death God turned his own torch and snuffed it out in a small bowl before him as the roar and crackle of the thousands of fires began to drown out even the roars of the crowds.
Thousands of pyres, of empty helms and bearerless weapons. One for each of the dishonoured dead, Rakx thought grimly. One for each unforgivable act.
By the final day, the twin Cygni suns rose over what must have been thousands of small wooden ziggarats in the temple plaza, debris and refuse from the previous nights feasts being quiet swept or gathered by dozens of dutiful slaves as beasts and birds intermitently broke the silence. The great city of Rox'ka was eerie in its calm and quiet that morning, as the final day of the funeral seemed to cast a spell over the very stones of the buildings themselves. Even as the morning slowly waned into the afternoon, the business of the day could only do so much to shake the uncharacteristic stupor that seemed to have befallen the D'Kali capital, especially in contrast with the celebrations of the previous week.
As the evening began to fall, D'Kali from throughout the city emerged from their homes, shops or factories and made their way towards the plaza. Instead of moving among the open pyres however, they only collected along the edges of the square, crowding along the streets and temples that lined the square. Denkeepers held back hatchlings who squirmed uncomfortably with the silence and lack of activity. They did not have to wait long.
Once the larger of the two stars disappeared over the tree-topped horizon, a low, droning chant began to drift up from the temple at the west edge of the square. It was the darkest and most foreboding of the ziggurats, dim and blank like the smaller star now providing the light over the city. It was the temple of that smaller star’s namesake. Xorai, the God the Death and Betrayal. Xorai, the dishonoured one.
Under Xorai’s failing twilight, two rows of D’Kali began to emerge from the gates of the temple, their dark hoods hiding most of their faces as their snouts moved subtly with the sounds of their chants. Each pair of acolytes held between them a wooden litter, supported by beams resting in they front hands and along their backs. Unusually, the litters held not a body, but a single helm and spear. The rows of litter-bearing priests seemed to flow for hours, before finally the High Priest emerged. Like the acolytes and more junior priests, he too wore a dark, black robe that covered from his horns and back to his tail, though threads of silver were stitched into the hems and seams. In one hand, he held a large, ornate torch. In the other a large staff crowned with a glowering silver statutette of an otherworldly D’Kali, and under his cowl his face was covered by an equally grotesque silver mask.
The procession made its way down the temple steps and into the square, where one by one the pairs of priests, still chanting, stopped to one of the pyres that had been built in the previous week. With great care, they kneeled to let their litters rest with perfect balance upon the wooden pyramids before removing the supporting poles and holding them like staves, cowled heads bowed as they stepped back to the edge of the square, facing the pyres until all the stood as such.
At the east side of the courtyard, the High Priest stopped and waited, the crowd parting as Archon Rakx stepped forward. He was wearing his full battle plate, resplendent red armour trimmed in gold and embossed with etches of prior battles. His cloak hung off his shoulder and fluttered with his motions. His shield was strapped across his upper back and his sword hung at his side, the buckles rattling softly, and in his hand he bore a torch much like that of the Xorai High Priest, only his was trimmed in gold instead of silver.
Turning his large, armoured bulk around to stand next to the priest, Rake raised his arms to hush any lingering whispers drifting up from the crowd, as well as the droning chants of the other Xorai acolytes. “My people…before you are the pyres of the fallen,” the Archon began, his voice booming out over the square and echoing off the surrounding stone buildings. “Pyres of those who we can never truly return to Kalisa…They were snatched from glory and denied the honour of falling on the field.” The crowd began to murmur in agreement or confirmation, small ripples of discontent.
“Tonight, we plead to Roxal to take these warriors to his side, betrayed as they were by the Kortl! Xorai would have these souls for himself, these betrayed warriors to swell his own ranks. We, as once voice and one people, must make our will known!” The murmurs in the crowd were beginning to grow now, Rakx’ stern expression unbroken as he paused for a moment. “In once voice, we must declare that we will never allow the Kortl to deny us an honourable death again! As we commit the effigies of the fallen to the flame, we must deny Xorai his prize!”
Holding his torch aloft, pointed to the grand temple of Roxal, Rakx bellowed out “Roxal Allsire!! If you would have these warriors and save them from The Betrayer, then guide my hand!!” before he twisted around and threw the torch. The crowd fell silent and all eyes watched as the flaming brand tumbled threw the air, sparks trailing behind it as it began to fall again…then landed directly on one of the pyres. At once there was a great roar as the oils and sacred unguents soaked into the wood ignited, yellow-orange flames bursting around the empty helm and abandoned spear at the top of the pyre. Thin strands of oils that had been laid on the ground the night before were lit as well, and a web of flames that connected each pyre to its neighbours began to illuminate the square just as the second sun disappeared over the horizon.
The assembled crowd, in one unified voice, bellowed together as the flames of the pyres chased Xorai from the sky. The High Priest of the Death God turned his own torch and snuffed it out in a small bowl before him as the roar and crackle of the thousands of fires began to drown out even the roars of the crowds.
Thousands of pyres, of empty helms and bearerless weapons. One for each of the dishonoured dead, Rakx thought grimly. One for each unforgivable act.