Common Text
Xanthean Text
Kashehino Text
Saun 24, 696
“Wake up.”
Qit’ria groggily rose up, wiping away the sleep from her eyes. The little girl’s eyes fluttered around, her body still warm and snug in her furs that served as her bed in her family’s little one room hut. Looking around, she saw no sunlight streaming in. How early in the trial was it? Qit’ria looked over at the pile of furs near her, where she saw her baby sister, Dubä'iro, born last season, sleeping peacefully. On the other side, was her older brother, Hork'alin, sprawled out, barely covered. And at the opposite end of the hut, her father, Flek'ack, snoring loudly.
But there in the middle of it all was a dark skinned woman, with hair and deep brown eyes that matched Qit’ria’s own. Her mother. Lat’ora. She wore a simple hide band across her breasts and a fur loincloth, the same clothing Qit’ria was given to wear, the same her sister would be given. Her eyes were harsh, cast down sternly toward Qit’ria. She was not going to repeat herself.
Qit’ria got out of bed, dressed, smiled at her mother. A smile that was not return, and Qit’ria’s retreated. It was her third birth-trial. And she was expecting gifts, food, something to celebrate the day, as the other children she’d met would do. Her mother turned, and walked out of their bamboo hut, and Qit’ria followed in her exact foot steps, having to hop a bit to do so. A habit required of her by her mother. Qit didn’t know why her mother wanted her to do that, but every time she’d failed, she was met with violence.
Qit’ria bounded as quick as she could, for her mother never slowed down for the child. If she fell behind, she was left behind to fend for herself. Through the darkened woods they walked, the sounds of insects and reptiles singing for mates ever present, though the birds had not yet awoken. Over the mossy stones and thick roots they traveled, until they slipped through into a clearing.
There was a light fog on the ground, coming up to Qit’ria’s hips. Her mother moved over to the center of the clearing, and slipped the bundle off her shoulder. Qit’ria stayed behind her mother, watching with wide, curious eyes. There were small thunks, into wood it seemed, before her mother turned aside. There, before Qit’ria was a stump with now several weapons sticking out of it.
From left to right, there was a throwing knife, a fluttering ribbon tied to its handle; a circular blade, a chakram, with a dark wood handle; a javelin, stuck right in the center; a sling and sack of stones; and finally a throwing club, perfectly smooth, dark wood like the rest. Her mother didn’t say anything, didn’t offer any direction, just stood there in complete silence.
Qit’ria stepped toward the stump, butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach. She looked at her mother, who scowled at her hesitance and need for guidance. Qit’ria looked back at the weapons, stepping close enough to reach them now. Her hand went out, first to the knife. Fingers slipping around it, she let go immediately. She didn’t like the cold feel of metal against her skin. She didn’t even reach for the chakram, intimidated by the strange and foreign shape of the blade. She stepped past the javelin, thinking it was too big for her. She reached for the sling, picking it up. She flipped it about all willy nilly, but something just wasn’t quite right. Putting it back down, she moved on. Picking up the throwing club, she felt it. Playfully swung it, only to accidentally strike the stump, dislodging it from her hand.
She jumped back with a squeak, and picked it up, casting nervous side eye at her mother. She set it back on the stump. Walking back and forth, she finally stopped at the javelin again. She reached out and touched it. The wood feel was nice. Her hand slid along the shaft and she gripped it, tried to pull it out of the stump. It didn’t budge. She set her foot against the stump, and with a heave, yanked it out, flailing wildly backwards, as she fell on her rump. To her own surprise, she didn’t drop the spear.
She found it not nearly as heavy or as large as it had looked. She swung it about a bit, finding it awkward, yet comforting. She played with it a bit, swung it at the stump. When it struck, it vibrated out of her hands, and she smiled.
Smack.
The back of her mother’s hand sent her head to the side, and sent the little girl sprawling into the dirt, obscured by the fog. Qit’ria tasted blood, her face red hot from the strike. Tears were immediate, and she began to sob. A hand entangle in her messy hair, and pulled her up to her feet, and slapped her again.
“Pick up your weapon! It is not a toy! And stop crying, only the weak cry!”
Lat’ora threw her daughter back to the ground, and the little girl crawled around until she found the spear in the dirt. She quickly stood up, stifling her sobs and tears as best she could, so mama wouldn’t hit her again. She looked at the woman, waiting for whatever came next.
Her mother held out her hand, and Qit’ria handed her the javelin. The woman turned, and slowly showed Qit’ria a strange motion, where she skipped forward, and faked a heave of the javelin. She’d done this many a time when teaching Qit’ria important skills. She then displayed the motion again, in full speed, launching the javelin across the clearing, thunking it deep into a tree.
“Qitten. It is your third birthtrial. Time for you to become a huntress like me. That is the weapon you chose. You may come home when you’ve killed something with it. Papa will cook it for you.”
And with that, her mother gathered up the remaining weapons, turned and left, leaving her daughter alone in the forest, a place full of more than enough dangers to a three year old girl. Qit’ria watched as her mother left, knowing that to go with or to ask her to stay would get her hit again. And so, she didn’t sob, but hot tears streamed down her face. This was her first time out here alone, it was foggy, and dark.
Squawk!
Qit’ria jumped at the sound. The first of the forest’s birds had woken up, and with it, the rest of the forest started to stir. More and more bird sounds began to stir, and with each one, Qit’ria’s fear grew. With nothing else to turn to for comfort, the little girl rushed over to the tree where the javelin was lodged.
It was a bit out of her reach, likely intentionally. She checked the area at the base of the tree, finding several large roots. She stood on the tallest one, and stretched out to reach her javelin. Still, just out of reach. She tried to lean against the tree and push up for more height but to no avail. Her breathing beginning to race in anxiety, Qit’ria scrunched up her eyes, balled her fists.
And then she jumped, extending her arms outward above her. Her forearms struck it, and she fell forward, the spear not dislodging a bit, firmly stuck in the tree. Qit’ria landed hard among the roots, busting her lip in the process. She laid there in the dirt, crying, her tears seeping into the soil to help sustain the tree, the damnable tree. Her sobs were loud, louder than she could ever cry in her mother’s presence.
Once the tears stopped running, she pushed herself up. Qit’ria could see the sun was beginning to rise and the fog retreating. Walking back up to the tree, she looked up at the javelin. Her javelin. Her only friend in this scary wilderness. Her security blanket. It may have been brand new, but it was all she had. And she knew if she went home without a dead animal, her mother would beat her and send her back out again.
She climbed back up on the roots, and prepared to jump again. She didn’t extend her arms this time, at least not beforehand. She sprang, and she got a hand around the javelin’s shaft, hanging from it like a little monkey. She snarled and got her other hand up on it. And then she began to swing on it, up and down, side to side, trying to shake her spear loose.
Bouncing over and over, eventually the spear slipped out and Qit’ria fell to the ground, and once more dropped it. Immediately a hand was raised defensively, to prevent a blow from coming. But none came, for she was alone. Scrambling, she picked up her javelin. No. She wasn’t alone. This was her new friend. Her only friend. She walked a bit away from the tree, and prepared to try what her mother did earlier when she threw it.
And from up above in the highest branches, her mother laid there watching, a slight smirk on her face.
Xanthean Text
Kashehino Text
Saun 24, 696
“Wake up.”
Qit’ria groggily rose up, wiping away the sleep from her eyes. The little girl’s eyes fluttered around, her body still warm and snug in her furs that served as her bed in her family’s little one room hut. Looking around, she saw no sunlight streaming in. How early in the trial was it? Qit’ria looked over at the pile of furs near her, where she saw her baby sister, Dubä'iro, born last season, sleeping peacefully. On the other side, was her older brother, Hork'alin, sprawled out, barely covered. And at the opposite end of the hut, her father, Flek'ack, snoring loudly.
But there in the middle of it all was a dark skinned woman, with hair and deep brown eyes that matched Qit’ria’s own. Her mother. Lat’ora. She wore a simple hide band across her breasts and a fur loincloth, the same clothing Qit’ria was given to wear, the same her sister would be given. Her eyes were harsh, cast down sternly toward Qit’ria. She was not going to repeat herself.
Qit’ria got out of bed, dressed, smiled at her mother. A smile that was not return, and Qit’ria’s retreated. It was her third birth-trial. And she was expecting gifts, food, something to celebrate the day, as the other children she’d met would do. Her mother turned, and walked out of their bamboo hut, and Qit’ria followed in her exact foot steps, having to hop a bit to do so. A habit required of her by her mother. Qit didn’t know why her mother wanted her to do that, but every time she’d failed, she was met with violence.
Qit’ria bounded as quick as she could, for her mother never slowed down for the child. If she fell behind, she was left behind to fend for herself. Through the darkened woods they walked, the sounds of insects and reptiles singing for mates ever present, though the birds had not yet awoken. Over the mossy stones and thick roots they traveled, until they slipped through into a clearing.
There was a light fog on the ground, coming up to Qit’ria’s hips. Her mother moved over to the center of the clearing, and slipped the bundle off her shoulder. Qit’ria stayed behind her mother, watching with wide, curious eyes. There were small thunks, into wood it seemed, before her mother turned aside. There, before Qit’ria was a stump with now several weapons sticking out of it.
From left to right, there was a throwing knife, a fluttering ribbon tied to its handle; a circular blade, a chakram, with a dark wood handle; a javelin, stuck right in the center; a sling and sack of stones; and finally a throwing club, perfectly smooth, dark wood like the rest. Her mother didn’t say anything, didn’t offer any direction, just stood there in complete silence.
Qit’ria stepped toward the stump, butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach. She looked at her mother, who scowled at her hesitance and need for guidance. Qit’ria looked back at the weapons, stepping close enough to reach them now. Her hand went out, first to the knife. Fingers slipping around it, she let go immediately. She didn’t like the cold feel of metal against her skin. She didn’t even reach for the chakram, intimidated by the strange and foreign shape of the blade. She stepped past the javelin, thinking it was too big for her. She reached for the sling, picking it up. She flipped it about all willy nilly, but something just wasn’t quite right. Putting it back down, she moved on. Picking up the throwing club, she felt it. Playfully swung it, only to accidentally strike the stump, dislodging it from her hand.
She jumped back with a squeak, and picked it up, casting nervous side eye at her mother. She set it back on the stump. Walking back and forth, she finally stopped at the javelin again. She reached out and touched it. The wood feel was nice. Her hand slid along the shaft and she gripped it, tried to pull it out of the stump. It didn’t budge. She set her foot against the stump, and with a heave, yanked it out, flailing wildly backwards, as she fell on her rump. To her own surprise, she didn’t drop the spear.
She found it not nearly as heavy or as large as it had looked. She swung it about a bit, finding it awkward, yet comforting. She played with it a bit, swung it at the stump. When it struck, it vibrated out of her hands, and she smiled.
Smack.
The back of her mother’s hand sent her head to the side, and sent the little girl sprawling into the dirt, obscured by the fog. Qit’ria tasted blood, her face red hot from the strike. Tears were immediate, and she began to sob. A hand entangle in her messy hair, and pulled her up to her feet, and slapped her again.
“Pick up your weapon! It is not a toy! And stop crying, only the weak cry!”
Lat’ora threw her daughter back to the ground, and the little girl crawled around until she found the spear in the dirt. She quickly stood up, stifling her sobs and tears as best she could, so mama wouldn’t hit her again. She looked at the woman, waiting for whatever came next.
Her mother held out her hand, and Qit’ria handed her the javelin. The woman turned, and slowly showed Qit’ria a strange motion, where she skipped forward, and faked a heave of the javelin. She’d done this many a time when teaching Qit’ria important skills. She then displayed the motion again, in full speed, launching the javelin across the clearing, thunking it deep into a tree.
“Qitten. It is your third birthtrial. Time for you to become a huntress like me. That is the weapon you chose. You may come home when you’ve killed something with it. Papa will cook it for you.”
And with that, her mother gathered up the remaining weapons, turned and left, leaving her daughter alone in the forest, a place full of more than enough dangers to a three year old girl. Qit’ria watched as her mother left, knowing that to go with or to ask her to stay would get her hit again. And so, she didn’t sob, but hot tears streamed down her face. This was her first time out here alone, it was foggy, and dark.
Squawk!
Qit’ria jumped at the sound. The first of the forest’s birds had woken up, and with it, the rest of the forest started to stir. More and more bird sounds began to stir, and with each one, Qit’ria’s fear grew. With nothing else to turn to for comfort, the little girl rushed over to the tree where the javelin was lodged.
It was a bit out of her reach, likely intentionally. She checked the area at the base of the tree, finding several large roots. She stood on the tallest one, and stretched out to reach her javelin. Still, just out of reach. She tried to lean against the tree and push up for more height but to no avail. Her breathing beginning to race in anxiety, Qit’ria scrunched up her eyes, balled her fists.
And then she jumped, extending her arms outward above her. Her forearms struck it, and she fell forward, the spear not dislodging a bit, firmly stuck in the tree. Qit’ria landed hard among the roots, busting her lip in the process. She laid there in the dirt, crying, her tears seeping into the soil to help sustain the tree, the damnable tree. Her sobs were loud, louder than she could ever cry in her mother’s presence.
Once the tears stopped running, she pushed herself up. Qit’ria could see the sun was beginning to rise and the fog retreating. Walking back up to the tree, she looked up at the javelin. Her javelin. Her only friend in this scary wilderness. Her security blanket. It may have been brand new, but it was all she had. And she knew if she went home without a dead animal, her mother would beat her and send her back out again.
She climbed back up on the roots, and prepared to jump again. She didn’t extend her arms this time, at least not beforehand. She sprang, and she got a hand around the javelin’s shaft, hanging from it like a little monkey. She snarled and got her other hand up on it. And then she began to swing on it, up and down, side to side, trying to shake her spear loose.
Bouncing over and over, eventually the spear slipped out and Qit’ria fell to the ground, and once more dropped it. Immediately a hand was raised defensively, to prevent a blow from coming. But none came, for she was alone. Scrambling, she picked up her javelin. No. She wasn’t alone. This was her new friend. Her only friend. She walked a bit away from the tree, and prepared to try what her mother did earlier when she threw it.
And from up above in the highest branches, her mother laid there watching, a slight smirk on her face.
