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The Rise.



“Kutoka kuwapiga wa elfu mioyo,

Damu ya sadaka

Kutoka kwa wahenga wa Brita kale na mpya

Mila wewe ni mlezi wa tambarare”



“mlezi! mlezi!”


A dozen savage voices screamed into the open night air of the Platedo Plains. Circling… enclosing a single entity, their resonance grew fierce, primitive and baritone, while wild drums beat violent rhythms in the background. The target of their chanting, head tilted fully up to the black sky and arms extended in the middle was nothing more than a frail thing. Skin and bone, paled against the olive skinned surrounding her… though it would not be noticed over the cascade of warm, crimson liquid descending the length of her body from neck down. Blood. This time welcomed, and of the sacrifice. Mila stood as still as possible. To even finch during her the ceremonial purge could have meant death. To falter in her stance translated to her people that the demon inside had already consumed her. That it was too late for the sweet daughter of the late chief Adeniyi. What they could not fathom in their primordial minds was that Mila was already the demon. There was nothing to cast out as thick, stallion blood bathed her cold form… only embrace. The Brita decided upon her arrival again to Plateado, that they would take the blood drinker as their leader or they would die by her will.


Behind the tightening circle of Brita, tribal women danced, howling at the men staggering the skirts of the massive fires in native tongue… calling forth any adversary that dare question the ceremony in place. It was tradition in Brita culture to have opposing members of the tribe challenge new rule, if only in hopes to take the heir’s place. In history, some succeeded; others failed. The Villanen name conquered for four generations behind Mila. She would not break the chain if mutiny erupted. The ascendancy of a queen of the Plains was imminent. Her crown not of gold or emeralds, but the broken bones of her enemies. Her throne, the wild grains that spanned the horizon to the Bovania. Beyond that, if she dared into Dordado.


The cries of men died out slowly; dwindling, as once Mila was drenched in the horse blood, they backed out from her wider until they encircled the woman enough to form an arena. The purging ceremony had ended. Mila lowered her head and watched the perimeter for any violent breech. Moments passed… no opposing came forward. With a wolfish grin bearing pearlescent fangs spread across her features as her arms lowered, mlezi spoke. “None then? Shame…”


“BLOOD DRINKER! NITSU WHORE!” A gargantuan Brita stormed forward, angered grunts preceding the sight of him. He was a warrior no doubt, perhaps one of the best from Plateado.




“Quiet, you traitorous demon. You do not speak my name. You are not my mlezi. Your homecoming will damn this tribe. Already you’ve chosen to exile our people from Orisia, their resources. Protection!” The beast of a man spat at Mila’s feet while the rest of the tribe braced for the fight impending. Drumming ceased, the women no longer called. “For what purpose? To protect your dead heart from the stab of an enemy, a Nitsu enemy, you chose to fuck? Worship? Abandon your people for? No. I will kill you, Mila. And this whole tribe will call my name at the end. No one will cry for you. They are afraid of you. But I, Isaji, am not.”  


He braced himself in a stance typical of Brita warfare and lunged at the women three times smaller than he and soaked in blood. Mila said nothing as he came rushing forward, nor did she move. When he reached within blade’s length of her, she only side stepped, inhumanly quicker than she was when alive. Within a moment she was at his front again, before he could comprehend, hand at his throat and fangs bared. She swooped in at the base of his neck and incisors sank deep, inciting a feral yowl of agony from the mutineer. In turn, the girl contorted into a hunch representative of long forced starvation of blood, Suckling violently, Mila could not help basking in the overwhelming feel of the thick life liquid of the man draining from his body and sliding down her throat in quick current. Her tiny hand gripped his throat harder, tighter… nails sinking in and penetrating the flesh in horrific fashion. For the first time in a long while, she felt powerful, alive. A voice in the back of her mind began laughing. Maniacal, the mocking grew until Mila's joy in the kill of Isaji was completely replaced with agonizing pain of her own. The sound jolted her, drew her from the haze that found her in feeding. She needed to stop. Suddenly, she pulled away, ripping the warrior's flesh open and gripping the innards of his neck in her hand...  She held them into the sky even as she kicked the dying man to the ground in front of her, a sacrifice of her own to ease the pain of realizing the monster she'd become. 


For a long pause, Mila stood there in her own trance of adrenaline and following repose. The rest of the tribe disappeared from her vision, so astonished, they did not make a sound.  Isaji’s words rang cruelly in her mind, each piercing remark brushing cobwebs from thoughts entombed in the deepest part of her. It had taken all of her to forget; to become who she was in the aftermath. No ardent warrior with a mouth stronger than his sword was going to tear down the walls she fought so diligently to rebuild. She threw the man's torn throat to the waste pile that was the rest of his body. He deserved to die. They all would die if it meant vindication from the past. Deep, steadying breaths drew her back to reality—to the call of the tribe once again cheering her name—and Mila would not smile. She would do nothing more this night. The Brita stepped over the body and moved to the circle’s edge. Men parted to let her pass and as she did such, placed a hand on the rightmost bordering warrior. “Burn the body. Now.”


There were plans to be made. Hunts would begin in the morning for the feasts. Beyond that… pursuits for less brute creation needed to be underway, defenses needed improvement, and above all… Mila needed peace for a least a day. A fog horn in the background signified the exit of the new leader, mlezi wa tambarare. Guardian of the Plains. 

Edited by caustic.

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