[center][h2]Itztli of the Great Lake in Kubrajzar[/h2][/center]
The cities had fought. Prisoners were taken and their blood was fed to Ohae. So the circle started anew. Warriors hung up their weapons and took up the plows. While priests of the Mother Pool began to bless the artificial islands doting the coastline near Aklux. Even the magical teachings of Omathaequai were suspended for now was a time of hard work and regrowth.

Istril had felt uncomfortable for the last few months of the cycle. He knew his brother and sisters somehow reveled within the wanton warring. As a youngling, he too wanted to pick up a sword and charge headfirst into the enemy. These days the sight of blood upset his stomach. He knew Ohae, goddess of light and war, required it to defeat the World-Eater. Yet it still didn’t feel right to him. He wanted to no part in that. Nor did he participate in the great revelries that followed. The stain of blood was too fresh upon the Great Pyramid.

Yet two weeks later, the first petitions came from the various priesthoods. For Istril was blessed by the gods to heal the land. When he came out of his adobe before dawn, various offerings of fruit and meat laid before his door in bowls. He smiled. Even without the offerings, he would have gladly helped everyone. He took the bowls inside the shade and cooked the meat as breakfast while Ohae rose up once more. When he came out once more, the various priesthoods’ representatives stood before his remote adobe.

“Pthin Istril. The fields need your blessings. Aklux has grown during the year once more and the harvest may not falter. Lest hundreds suffer famine.” One said. He was an acolyte of the Mother Pool. Then he bowed and stepped aside so the next petitioner could be heard. “Pthin Istril. The spirits are still quickened from the Day of the Sun. We ask you to calm them.” Then the next came. “Pthin Istril. I-I come with a request from the gibbon-god.” The acolyte was practically shaking. Suddenly Istril noticed the glares of the other petitioners threw him. He was not even 40, how could he be an acolyte of the moon? “Come inside. We can talk in private. For the rest of you: I shall bless the fields after Ohea reached her peak. The spirits will calm down.” The acolytes bowed and left. Except for the one frightened one.

He entered the shadowy adobe and was quickly followed by Istril. Who had to tell him to take a seat even. “So what is it you need, master-?” He asked with a genuine smile.

“My name is Khaten but I’m not a priest. I-I’m sorry Pthin. I have come under false pretenses.” He confessed. Istril could almost imagine his heart beating. “The gibbon-god does not require your attention today. The bodies are being buried well. I have come because…” The Itztl was almost shivering now. Tears were pooling in his eyes. “Because I’m a failure!” he finally blurted out, before he threw his face into his hands and cried. “Omathaequai surely cursed me! I cannot even weave a hex!” He managed to say in between sobs. “This year I am supposed to march with the Qadesh to fight alongside them and capture my own sacrifices but I’m useless!”

Istril slowly padded him on the back but waited. He knew well how painful that felt. Because 60 years ago he felt the same pain. He too thought he was cursed by Omathaequai. He had cried and ran away. He swam into the Mother Pool and begged her to drown him. Nothing happened. Then prayed for a sign. For something to help him. He had been good and pious. Every day he prayed to Ohae and the Mother Pool. Every dusk he prayed to the gibbon-god and the Star Serpent. He danced with great joy and abandon around Meghzaal’s temples and even learned how to write to appease Omathaequai, which was not a cheap thing to do for a commoner he was at the time.

“You know how I became who I am now?” He asked, as the acolyte calmed down and whipped away his tears. He shook his head. “I was once like you. I couldn’t Weave with the Gift. I had prayed and cried. Begging the gods to hear me. Then one day…I think they did.” Istril said with a small, melancholic smile. The day he found that horn in a shallow pool was perhaps the happiest day in his life. He had cherished that horn, but only a few days later it was gone. It had just vanished. “I found a horn in a small, reflective pool. It wasn’t there before. It just…appeared.”

“Why do you think you were chosen?” The acolyte asked.

Priests of Ohae had demanded he would lie about such a question. Gods chose the strong and the mighty. The rainbow eyes were living, breathing proof of that. Which each one being born, new ways of Weaving were created. Yet this wasn’t the truth for him. It could never be. “I just… did my best to do good. To work hard. I fed the animals, even the wild ones I encountered in the jungle. I sang and danced as Meghzaal asks of us all.” Truly, he wasn’t special. Not more special than some others. He never took captives in his life. He never drew blood or stole from another city. “Just live a good life. That in itself will be enough. You don’t need to become like me. I know that’s what you want to ask me but I can’t give you the answers. Just know that the gods are more generous than they appear.”

A sniffling acolyte nodded. “I will try. Thank you Pthin. I won’t forget your kindness.”

Istril just offered him a kind smile. They both exited it and went to their duties. The acolyte would return to the burial pits. While Istril headed for the fields. There was lots of work to do but first, with foodbowl under his arm, he would spread the gifts of food the petitioners had brought him amongst the poor. He didn’t need all that food anyway.
[center]~[/center]
The market was bursting at its seams today. Artisans from other cities had come in to sell the last bits of their wares before the seeding of the fields began. Sadly, there were also many beggars lined against the wall. Begging for scraps of food to survive. Most of the artisans and shoppers passed them as if they did not exist. They preferred to barter and trade their own creations for those of others. Pots were exchanged for copper knives without a care given to the maimed. Istril knew it was wrong, yet also a part long ingrained within Aklux’s way of life. To be poor, hungry or maimed is a punishment of the gods. Still, he crouched next to each one of them and offered them a piece of fruit. “Go with the gods.” He said every time he handed over his own food. His bowl was nearly empty when he heard that familiar sound of commotion behind him.

People were gasping, then moving aside. The drone of heavy march reverberated through the ground. He didn’t even need to turn around to see who was approaching him. Yet he did, ready to face the oncoming storm. “We meet again, master Sekhem.” Istril said with a genuine smile.

The iztl escorted by four of the Qadesh, those of the nobility who dedicated their lives to Ohae’s aspect of war and dressed in highly polished, sun reflecting brass. He was dressed in white robes with a purple trim and wore jewelry of various gemstones. Yet his eyes were his true symbol of status: they were rainbow colored. “How many times must you lower yourself to this useless scum?” He asked with no small amount of disdain for the beggars he did not even want to look upon. “You are god-blessed. A Pthin for the love Omathaequai! Would you start acting like it? You are supposed to be blessing the fields and calming the spirits. Not bother with these leeches of the world. Start doing your duty to this city!”

“I am doing my duty.” Istril calmly retorted. “These people deserve food too. The fields will be blessed and the spirits calmed.” Something deep down in Istril wanted to challenge Sekhem. He had the king’s ear. How could he let his own people live I poverty? But no, despite their almost constant confrontations, Istril did understand Sekhem’s position. Unlike himself, Sekhem sat at court. He had many responsibilities. Which meant that he could be blamed for many failings as well. As sad as his disdain for the poor was, even he was just doing a job. Even he was just a another wheel that made the cart move. “But if you insist then I will go to the fields now.” He gave Sekhem a small yet polite bow and left once more with an empty bowl under his hands.

Sekhem knew it wasn’t the end of it. His brothers and sisters in the other great cities had been talking about the Pthins more and more. They were rare, very rare and a great boon to any city. Yet almost always were they born from a weakness: their failure to Weave the Gift. Worse, some had challenged the wisdom of the gods. One even dared to say that Ohae was not bloodthirsty at all. Such fools, how could she not? How much more proof did they need. High Priest Khentii had demonstrated her need for mortal blood two weeks ago to fend off the World-Eater. Sekhem would pray tonight that Istril would not spout the same blasphemy. Heret’s laws had to be upheld and equal for all. Even a Pthin.
[center]~[/center]
The fields outside of Aklux were a marvel in of themselves. Not one as big as the Great Pyramid of Ohae but still, it was a testament to the city’s greatness. Grand canals, flanked by large, rectangularly carved stones to keep the banks for collapsing, allowed small boats carrying seeds, mud, people and tools to go and come from the irrigated fields. In the distance a mason-master and field-lord were overseeing the construction of an expansion of the canals and it’s irrigation water ways. While Itztli dressed in nothing but loincloths were digging out the earth. Istril knew that from across the lake, in the city of Habsut, gold would be traded for stone and then slowly shipped over. It was always busy but so early in the Cycle it was even more so. More fields had to be created and the jungle had to be pushed back to free up the land.

A boat was waiting. Perhaps for the next load of seeds or mud. Instead Istril casually stepped aboard and sat down. A day-dreaming Iztl barely registered his presence. Though when he did he nearly jumped. “Pthin. An honor! An honor! Forgive me sir. I will be on my way immediately.” He said with a hasty voice. Istril didn’t mind the wait. The itztl man cast off from his mooring point and pushed himself away from the bank. Very few of Aklux’s ships had sails or rows. Most were one-man flat-bottomed boats, which were pushed along with a pole.
[center]~[/center]
After nearly a full day of praying, Istril always felt exhausted. As Ohae sank beneath the horizon and relinquished dominion to the moon, he finally reached back his very humble adobe. Yet inside he was surprised by the little acolyte he had met that morning. “Khaten. A surprise.” He said “Why are you in my home?” He wasn’t mad. Just curious. Still, Khaten had technically broken in.

He swallowed deeply as he turned. Showing Istril the horn in his hand.

Istril’s eyes widened as he dashed towards it and took it from Khaten’s hands. “How…” he stammered as he observed the horn. It was exactly like he remembered it. But there was only one test. He put his lips on it and slowly drank from it. The water tasted strange. Almost foul with an earthen side-taste. A smile formed on his face. “It’s back.” Then he turned to Khaten. “Did you drink from this?”

Khaten shook his head. “No, Phtin. I-I don’t think I should.”

Istril motioned him to sit down. “How did you find it?” He asked.

“I was in a deep, dark cave. Praying. Begging the gibbon-god to give me a second chance. I know it’s wrong to ask him such things but I still did it. Then, in a pool, I found it. I couldn’t drink from it, Phtin. Not unless you told me to.”

“But you want to drink from it?” Istril asked. Khaten nodded but Istril understood the conundrum. It had taken many years for him to understand what was required of him by the gods as an Phtin. The prayers, the actions, the different mindset. He had to steel his resolve against the other priests. It required training. He said nothing, but instead got up and walked out of his adobe towards the nearest well he had dug. 

Khaten followed him and arrived just in time to see Istril toss the horn into the well. “Why did you do that!?” He exclaimed.

“Because it will reappear when the time is right and that is not now. You will need thousand hours of prayer and the nerve to stand up against the other priests. Being an Phtin isn’t easy and it will be lonely. You will need to work hard and long, every day. Are you ready for that?” Istril said. Khaten didn’t even stop to think about it, he just nodded. “Good, then tell your priest that you are no longer an acolyte of the gibbon-god. Right now you are my apprentice.”

[hider=Summary]Pthin (honorary title for those blessed by the gods (IE: a druid)) Istril wakes up and finds offerings for his services. Then petitioners appear to ask him to bless the fields and calm the spirits. One petitioner is an acolyte of the gibbon-god. Istril talks to him private and the acolyte, Khaten, admits that he came under false pretenses and instead needs council. Istril tells him about how he lived and how Khaten could live. They part ways and Istril heads for the market first to give his offerings to the poor and the cripples.

This rather endangers the local servant, Sekhem. Who holds a position at court and demands Istril fulfills his duties to the city of Aklux and blesses the fields. Instead of offering food to the useless. Istril feels a need to challenge him but refrains from doing so. As he understands Sekhrem is under a lot of pressure as well.

When he comes back from blessing the fields, he finds Khaten in his humble adobe with the Hir. He asks if the acolyte drank from it but he says no. He wouldn’t drink from it unless Istril told him to do so. Istril, instead, tosses it into a nearby well and tells Khaten that he is not ready but that he will teach him.[/hider]

[hider=Prestige]
Post length: 12.3K characters
Servants >> +5 Prestige
Hir >> +5 Prestige
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