Outside Toftlund City, Salt Province
Night descends on Toftlund.
Sigvid stands between Thrain and a Briny God Gothi near the cliff face where the city holds most of its funerals. The vast clearing on the hill allows nearly all of Toftlund, along with pilgrimaging Salt folk, to witness the ritual.
The three leading the Sacred Stone ceremony stand garbed in dark cloaks and ancient skeletal masks. The last time he found himself this way, his cute little golden-haired Queen interrupted the finale of their rehearsal.
This Sacred Stone Ceremony will be the last to exclude her. Next winter, the ceremony will include all three provinces with a unified Treland.
Sigvid counts on that.
“What are the names, Guardian?” The Gothi’s voice sounds muffled through the wolf's skull mask, representing the Briny God.
Sigvid wore the human skull mask, representing his connection and voice to the people of Salt. “Arnor Karsson, Beau Olafsson, Bjorn Hansson, Hilde Gunnison, Siv Morsson,” he pauses for a heartbeat, “and Thora Steinbjornsson.”
In his stag skull mask, representing the King of Salt, Thrain tilts his head toward them.
“Arnor, Thora, and Siv are all from Toftlund. Beau is from Briedalr Village, Hilde is from Klifunder, and Bjorn is a son of Sjoby.” Sigvid recalls the words the Briny God whispered to him a week prior.
Sigvid’s couriers, under Grim’s direction and accompanied by two soldiers each, were sent to the homes of the children of only thirteen winters whose lives would be forever changed. Like the other twelve children across the provinces of Treland, they will receive a unique gift from the gods this night.
“A good mix of the province.” The Gothi nods.
The trio watches as Gothi, garbed in white, hooded cloaks, light the crushed shell braziers lining the path toward the three men in black. At his side, Thrain steps to the polished marble altar and unfurls the satin sheet as pure as new snow. Crimson pillar candles are set andlit at each corner. An eerie glow flickers over the sheet, almost ominously.
No matter how many winters Sigvid has conducted these ceremonies as Guardian, he can never shake the goosebumps on the back of his neck. The sheer magnitude of witnessing the gods at work humbles him every time.
Drums rumble across the field, and a thick crowd of onlookers gape onward. Even from his stance, he spots Avina’s golden curls in the dancing flames of the braziers with Grim and Mother by her side. Her hand clutches the sapphire hung around her neck. He has no doubt she can feel theseidrpulsing from the stone as its power–fueled by the gods–prepares to bestow upon the children.
“That’s my cue.” Thrain disappears into the night, leaving Sigvid and the Gothi on either side of the altar.
Several breaths pass, and then the deep drums signal the six receivers garbed in white robes approaching. Thrain leads them, representing the king leading the people to the gods.
Sigvid scans the varied expressions on the children's faces, and his erratic nerves hop when a wild, dark-haired girl bobs forward. Thora stares straight ahead, unflinching and focused—a proper Drengr.
Sigvid can not be more proud.
The Briny God Gothi steps forward and stops the six receivers. “People of Salt,” he projects his voice to the crowd with his ability, “tonight we welcome these children, chosen by the gods, to receive gifts to better their lives. As many of our forefathers have found, these abilities only strengthen our unity as a province. We welcome our sons and daughters to willingly accept their abilities from the Sacred Stone.”
Sigvid steps forward beside a set of steps leading to the altar. The tiny nautilus shell hangs on a cord over his black robes. Salt’s Sacred Stone glows a green and blue hue atop his cloak, fully visible to his people.
“Arnor Karsson,” Sigvid calls the receivers one by one. The bestowments of Arnor, Beau, and Siv go smoothly.
And then he calls Bjorn Hansson.
He is a taller, lean boy with midnight black hair and cautious grayeyes. When he approaches, his shoulders pull back, signaling his heads-on approach. Bjorn settles onto the altar, his feet dangling off the side.
“Do you embrace our gods and accept the power they gift you, Bjorn?” Sigvid grips the dagger in his right hand, the Sacred Stone in his left.
“Yes.” Bjorn keeps his focus on the clear night sky overhead.
Sigvid makes a triangle-shaped cut in the boy’s wrist, signaling the three provinces. His blood adds to the stains of the satin sheet, a gift to the gods from their mortal servants. Sigvid closes his eyes and listens for the voice of the Briny God.
“Bjorn Redwood,”the voice no longer sounds like the gruff, deep male of the Briny God. Instead, it is feminine and husky.“We grant you the gift of…foresight.”
Sigvid’s eyes fly open as he observes the boy, who seems unbothered by the female goddess’ voice in his head.
Foresight is not a Salt ability.
