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The lone figure crouched low, eyes closed and head bowed, by a still smouldering pit of earth and broken stone. It's breathing was rhythmic and the corded muscles in it's long limbs flexed as if rebelling against their master's stillness. Slowly, the dark lids of the creature's eyes peeled back, bright blue orbs peering from a dark-skinned face to focus on what now lay in the extinguished pit.
The spirits whisper from the living and cry to be reclaimed from the dead.
Reaching a dextrous hand forwards, still breathing slowly and steadily, it reached into the cast iron pot standing where the fire had once been. It's wrist flexed and rotated, feeling the vicous fluid within flow and cling to the four digits as they swirled and probed at the liquid. It's breathing beginning to intensify in volume and rapidity, the creature's hand withdrew from the pot, long quills shaking at the back of it's head and standing up on it's limb as the scent of spices, herbs and something metallic triggered an instinctive responce.
We are the reclaimers of spirits. We put the fallen to rest within ourselves.
Forcing it's breathing down from the frenzied highs that the scent has called forth, it extended two of it's fingers and drew them rapidly down it's beaked face, applying more pressure as it neared the line of it's lower jaw. Using it's other two fingers, a line was drawn from the top of it's upper beak, to where the dark grey flesh of it's scalp met the quills extending back from it's head.
As we reclaim the fallen, we grow strong. Only the strong may survive.
Not stopping to wipe what remained of the sticky fluid from it's hand, the creautre rose quickly, taking in a deep breath before unleashing a shrill, deafening screech. Quieter, deeper warbles and cries returned from the tree-line surrounding the lone figure, and as they moved closer, the one long-limbed creature became many.
Only the flesh of the strong can feed us, only their spirits may strengthen our own.
As they moved cautiously from the shadows, with bated breath and the scent of anticipation upon them. The Shaper turned and pointed to the pot, a warbling call vibrating in it's throat. The Kindred were to gird themselves for battle once more...
Last edited by Sokahrthumaniel; October 19th, 2008 at 18:51. Reason: grammar and concluding sentence structure
Very good, I like the ritualistic, instinctive feel of it
Thanks for the positive feedback guys
And Yeah, it is a Kroot .
Very good story.
Perhaps you want to join the fluff contest with this story?
PM me for more details