A History Through Blood

With-in the confines of a small clay hut on the outskirts of the remote village was a singular dark-skinned figure, sitting hunched over a plank of wood and slowly carving away it's surface. The man remained in trance-like state, allowing the intimate sensation of creation to guide his blade, without care for his dirty or disheveled appearance. Other villagers had attempted disturb the amateurish artisan, only to find the once joyous man unresponsive and detached from his surroundings. Even the attempted intervention of the village's elders, knowledgeable on all manner of spirits, did little to curb the sudden mania.

Nathaar had, in his formative years, sat in with the Village elders' lessons on masks* and absorbed many of the tribal histories and folk tales of the land. Each mask in the central building had a story imbued into it, passing along wisdom to the next generations. There were of course moral lessons imbued into the mask's craftsmanship, communicating virtuous traits and harmful vices to the successive generations them through use of allegory or metaphor. Usually, these masks were crafted on the whims of the creator, filling a need for the village or to record their tales for future generations.

On warm summer nights children would huddle around the village center listening to these tales as the adults would convey them with their own unique spin. Stories of the trickster god Anansi** were a favorite of Nathaar's youth, often requesting the spider's cunning antics from his mother before falling to sleep. He spent many an afternoon trying to design his own mask to properly exemplify his idolized deity, trying to perfect his design all the way into his adulthood.

To try and gain inspiration for his eventual creation, Nathaar carefully examined the other masks and looked to the village's protective masks as baseline. Throughout the small community were distributed masks providing a host for the spirits of the land, in return providing protection, prosperity and guidance. Each of these masks held various mystical presences who granted such boons for as long as regular offerings were made to them, under the terms of their agreement made by their fore-bearers. Usually, these tributes would be animal parts or assortments of produce, but it was not unheard of for blood or live sacrificial offerings to be made in some customs. Sadly, none of the local carvings fulfilled his creative urges, even the surrounding villages he visited with delegations were unable to meet the high standards placed on his desired creation.

Under the supervision of the elders Nathaar had been granted permission to inspect the ceremonial masks, ones far more elaborate and colorful than the others. Usually kept with-in the patriarch's home, the masks in question were only brought out when needed for ceremonies or such similar situations. Whether it was the ancestral masks used to communicate with village elders of times past or religious ones appealing to the numerous gods, such as Yemonja***, none met his creative desires. The sacramental designs were to lavish and bold, failing to capture the true cunning of the idolized image he had of his chosen god.

With no spark of creativity derived from his various inquiries, Nathaar continued his aspirations between his regular duties. Unless the spark of inspiration occurred, all he could hope for was for Anansi to guide his hand. In some circumstances individuals could be visited by spirits or gods, driven to make such a mask of their own designs. Oh, how he wished the cunning spider would grant his dream to create such a mask, but alas such a blessing would not come.

During one of his walks to gather firewood from the surrounding lands, he stumbled on a particular piece of dogonyaro wood. On it sat a pair of a orb-weaving spiders, seeming staring down a tanned beetle. The natural arrangement of the creatures created a face, with leaves and other foliage providing more identifying features. This must surely a sign from Anansi. With newfound purpose Nathaar carefully moved the pair of spiders onto a nearby tree, as to pay respects, before claiming the fallen branch. Just holding the piece of wood filled his mind with confidence and purpose, almost carrying him back to his humble home.

For several days all Nathaar could do was focus on carefully carving his masterpiece, slowly shaving down the branch as to shape the mask. The presence of the other villagers was vaguely felt, but were such trivial concerns compared to his calling that they were ignored in favor of his craft. Soon the attempts to disturb him petered out, allowing the continued work on his masterpiece. As the minute details came together, Nathaar carefully made the final touches with the blood from his blistering hands lightly caking its surface.

Having completed his work, Nathaar stood back to admire his craftsmanship. The spider in the centre of the visage sat in the middle of a web, with six thin strands going to the extremities. Spots lay scattered about the mask, each showing an ensnared victim of Anansi's cunning. A small light descended onto the wooden surface, before coating it in a blue incandescent glow. It must be a sign that his artisanship, guided by their hand, was blessed by the grand trickster himself.

Answering some unheard call, the trembling and exhausted Nathaar slowly placed the mask over his head. With a wave of reassuring calm sleep fell on the would-be craftsman, his consciousness faded. Throughout the days he had worked on his creation, the supernatural guidance prevented him from seeing the true form of the icon he was actually carving. The thin lines from the central spider were in fact whiskers and a nose, with the captured pray being a leopard's spots. The wandering feline spirit, now in control of a host, was able to roam the plains in a physical body and hunt to its own content.

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For two days now Jaali and his men instinctively felt something stalking their wagons from maybe a mile away. Their suspicions were confirmed when several of their traps had been tampered with overnight and signs of movement had been detected by their spotters. The two brothers did not witness their pursuer and the adze was similarly unsuccessful, only catching a glimpse of a catlike face in a far-off tree. Leopards as a were a constant danger on the Savannah, but this one seemed to bear a grudge against humans. Perhaps a local village had killed its mate, in some form of primal vengeance it sought to repay the blood debt with interest.

The looming paranoia, while mild, was not healthy and would likely soon cause the moronic pale priests to act erratically. Even if their client would accept their loss due to the consequences of their own ignorant actions, it still would be a poor reflection of their abilities. He had already spoken to the badger who agreed to keep his peers inline, the madman luckily had the sense to accept that an open challenge would be ignored by the beast. He did occasionally wander further out in an attempt to bait the creature, but it did not respond to the blatant attempts to goad it into a fight. Ultimately Jaali had to mandate pairing up until the danger passed, which was taken with mixed results by their secondary clients. The adze had also begun acting weird since its presence was recognized, hiding away her dark spirits and taking on their assigned tasks.

On the second night the adze decided to take action with an apparent change in circumstances, deciding to act as a more enticing target. Seemingly she had spotted their primal stalker and declared that it was “partially human,” with enough confidence that it could be subdued long enough for aid. His protests were met with conveyed bargaining and contingencies, as she had enough proficency in combat to survive until reenforcements arrived. Eventually he relented when satisfied with her plan and demonstrated abilities with her familiars hidden in her shadows. As an additional measure she had provided an hourglass from her satchels to gauge her absence, if there was any noise or no response after three turns Jaali was to make the call to support or abandon her. The complaints originating from four moronic holy men did not need to be translated, they likely only saw her ability to walk freely as a double standard compared to being escorted by any of the stronger warriors.

Their wait was short lived as wild and feral screeching came from the general direction the adze. A quick point to Biton, Marka and Leo was enough to muster the mercenaries on standby and charge towards the source of the noise. What they found was a bloodied Victoria pinning down a near naked, skeleton of a man with her two shadows struggling to hold him in place. Her supernatural strength was barely able to hold back the possessed man, evidenced by the violent flailing motions that dislodged a subduer with regular frequency. Leo, upon hearing her strained orders, quickly stripped the wooden feline mask from his face, rendering the wild-man limp.

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Nathaar woke up bound by a small campfire, eyes soon focusing on the spear tips and metal blades pointed at his exposed chest. The unknown men shouted down at him, silencing his attempts to ascertain what was going on. A quick glance around the camp showed various strange men, including a pale white woman being treated for a horrible wound to her shoulder. He then saw his own chest, covered in dried blood that he could not simply explain. All he could remember was picking up a piece of wood outside his village and then everything after that had become hazy.

The white skinned woman, now having been treated, by what appeared to be her similarly pale kin, was helped across to him with the aid of a local woman. Upon arrival she ran a damp cloth across the blood before tasting the mixture of blood and dirt. The woman's translator thankfully said it was mostly animal blood mixed with a bit of her own, although he was uncomfortable about how she knew the difference through taste the relief that he wasn't involved with murder the unknown time he spent in the mental fog. What followed was a muffled conversation between the travelers out of earshot, huddled around some unknown object.

Soon the assembled group returned, presenting to him some unknown feline mask of fine craftsmanship. At first there was confusion as to what they were holding, as the carved image was wholly unfamiliar to him. Then came the denial of what Nathaar ultimately knew to be true, no matter how he would try to repress reality. Soon there came the acceptance that he was fooled, like many to fell for his hero's schemes he too suffered at the hands of others far more cunning.

How could he worship Anansi or even call himself a devotee, if he fell for the scheme of a lesser god? He meekly accepted the ride back to his village, relinquishing his carved idol onto the strangers. The villagers welcomed the depressed Nathaar back home, thanking his former captors for breaking the spirit's hold on him. Once he had worn that mask, he lost something that day, not his soul or anything tangible, but something he could not describe. Every day now was repetitive, the previous joys were now soulless and dull, robbed of all meaning in the face of his own failings.

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