The dancers burned; with passion, with fervour, and with the heat of the fire around which they danced. Fire lit their souls, and glinted off the knives they held, knives they slashed, knives they threw. The dancers leapt and twirled, they threw their knives and they threw each other. Twelve in all, they performed for the fire, for none else watched them play. They performed in public as well, of course - to entertain, to instruct, to tell the stories passed down (and stories there were, thanks to a tiny god in a blade, though they never would know it), but some things were private. Some dances were to honour the dead, and the spirits, and the world.
The dancers danced, wearing thin white hides, cut so they splayed as the players moved, emphasising the movements of their bodies. Twelve white forms danced around the fire, each maintaining a crucial step of the form. Flin lit their bodies at first, then failed to light them at all, each figure subsumed by the dance into a thing greater than themselves. They danced, and the fire rose higher. They danced, and its roar was their beat.
Where the thirteenth figure came from, none could say for sure. Later, they would say he came from the darkness, or perhaps he was there all along. Still others would believe he rose from the fire, but whatever the means he was there. A thirteenth dancer, dressed as they were but in hides of deepest black, wove between the players, taking and throwing and catching knives. The dance grew complex, and the dancers struggled to keep pace, flying high on a burst of energy they had never known. When at last the dance came to its close, many were elated but close to collapsing from exhaustion.
The leader of the dance, Whitelock, sat down beside the stranger on the fallen log the dancers had dragged to the fire. Whitelock was old for a northren, yet as limber as the other, much younger dancers.
"Who are you, stranger, than can dance so well?" Whitelock asked.
"More to the point," said the dark stranger, "who are you that can dance well enough to summon me?" The northren adopted a puzzled frown.
"I did not realise any could hear us," he said. "We chose this spot to be far from the valleys - and for the mound." Whitelock nodded to a cairn of simple stones. "We danced to honour him." The stranger followed Whitelock's eyes to the cairn.
"Who was he?" the stranger asked.
"Our leader, and the first of us. His name was Durk, and after him we have named a form of knife." Pain seemed to flash across the stranger's face; his brows contorted in a moment of anguish. It passed almost instantly, and the stranger stared instead into the fire.
"He died of sickness, then?"
"Of age," said Whitelock. "It has been over a decade since he met the first of us."
"Ten years," whispered the stranger softly, the anguish returning to his face, "How quickly He passes us by."
"I remember the first day he came to our clan," said Whitelock, the warmth of memory spreading a smile across his face. "Spring had come and the passes thawed. We were amazed anyone outside of the Valley had made it through the winter, but not only did he make it, he brought in fresh kills. He taught us how to use a knife, how to hunt with them and how to use them to skin and carve. He taught us how to kill 'ren too, but thank the gods we never needed to do it."
"Yes, I know." The stranger's voice carried a hint of disapproval.
"But we gathered around him, twelve of us, though not the twelve here today. Death comes for us all, in time. I am one of the few left from the original band." Whitelock chuckled. "I remember he used to tell us how he came to learn his skills. He said he was trapped in a valley that harsh winter, fully expecting to die, when this stranger came by and started berating him for not using the knife right." This got a chuckle from the stranger. "Not only did he shout at him, the stranger then took Durk aside and alternately taught him and beat him up for months until he finally had a handle on it."
"Good times," said the stranger with a laugh. "And tell me, did he tell you the stranger's name?"
"Indeed, and it was the strangest thing. The man called himself a knife as well, a shaq like they make at the forge. Durk never did describe him well, just said that he was a dark... stranger." Whitelock's face fell.
"There we go," said Shaq with a somewhat cruel laugh.
"Oh gods," whispered Whitelock.
"Just the one, actually," said Shaq, "but pull yourself together, man. Durk had more composure and he was an idiot." Whitelock straightened up immediately. He clapped his hands.
"Some food for our honoured guest!" he called out. Two of the youngest dancers, a pair of girls, brought forward a skinned wolf that they had been roasting by the fire. They offered him a knife and a piece of bark to eat from.
"That's a lot of meat," said Shaq, taking the knife and bark but not reaching for the wolf. "Do the twelve of you eat it all?"
"Yes, though we can catch game like this often, enough that we may have too much to eat in the fatter months. We have honoured Durk's teacher in the hunt - which is to say, we have honoured you in the hunt, honoured Shaq."
"You kill too much, enough that it spoils?" Shaq raised an eyebrow and smirked. "I have a brother who would like you very much. Hunger is his whole point of being. Try cutting the meat into strips and holding it over the fire, not close enough to cook. Let the smoke fill it. I assure you it will last longer. Drying it on a cold day will work as well. In any case, what do you call yourselves?"
"Call ourselves?" Whitelock seemed puzzled and tugged gently on his lock of white hair as he thought upon the matter. "Beyond our names, we were just Durk's dancers."
"Durk's Dancers," mused Shaq. "It has a ring to it. Very well, you shall call yourself the Dirk Dancers. But I'm afraid I have a job for you, and you may not like it. But you will benefit from following it." Shaq watched Whitelock's reaction - to his credit, the northren didn't so much as flinch. Clearly he had learned his lesson about composure.
"You will split your group," continued Shaq, "and meet up twice in a year. Once at the longest day, once at the shortest night. You will keep in contact, however. The northren have spread far across the valleys since the Lord of Winter first made them from the wolves, and now it is necessary to keep track of them. To that end, you will settle amongst each of the northren clans, or travel between them as necessary. Then, you will dance and tell stories."
"Master?" said one of the two girls, who had sat by the god's feet with the roasted wolf, listening. The other dancers were gathering too. "Who is this 'ren?"
"He is our master," said Whitelock, "and the master of Durk. We must treat him as you would treat me."
"Yes, master," said the girl, "but I do not understand. Why tell stories?"
"One, because you must make yourselves welcome," Shaq explained. "It is important that you infiltrate the clans, that you are privy to their gossip, to their rumours, to their secrets. Stories give a reason for you to be there talking, and your dances will amuse them as much as your hunts will gain you respect. Two, because stories have a dangerous power. They have the power of hope. Hope inspires heroes, and conquers fear. Three, because the master of stories is my enemy."
"Your enemy?" asked the girl.
"Yes, and my brother. We must control stories to control hope. We cannot stamp out either, they will always arise, but we can stories to change the view of them. Take, for example, the tale of Ictor."
"Ictor, master?"
"Before your time, and forgotten by your people. Reviled, even, though he first gave you the fire that made your blades. He was a prophet of the Lady of Fire-" Shaq couldn't help notice the sign the dancers made against Her, "-and he first brought Her fire to the northren. He spoke of Her way, gathering support, and this support led to his death. Now one might say that he was cruelly murdered, a martyr to his cause, and that his death gave inspiration to those who followed him. Or they might say that he was a heretic, that he stirred trouble and that he was killed for endangering his people by turning against the Lord of Winter. In both tales, there is a hero - but it is the storyteller who may choose who the hero was."
"But why?" asked Whitelock. "Why give us this mission to live amongst the other clans, to separate except for twice a year? Why must we know their secrets and be trusted amongst them?"
"Because you will have a mission. Because I am first and foremost the God of Murder," - a few sharp intakes of breath from the dancers - "and murder is murder whether for good or ill. My disciple taught you these skills to serve me, and to better yourselves. So you shall serve me and be the better for it, and you must work for the betterment of all 'ren. Your skills are to be hidden in sight, to be welcomed, and to kill. The betterment of 'ren may not necessarily be for peace. You may need to ensure that a cleansing war begins, to clear the path for fresh growth - or you may need to kill to stop a war, lest it destroy your people utterly."
"And you will judge when it is right to kill, or not to kill, to have war, or to have peace?" Whitelock asked.
"No. Not directly. That is a burden I place upon you, Whitelock, as my newest disciple. You must choose, and you must maintain contact with your brothers and sisters of the dance so that you may know where and when to strike. But I will grant you this boon, disciple. If you or any of your kith are forced to kill, dedicate the kill to me and I will strengthen your body and your resolve. It is a harsh price, but it may prove necessary."
Whitelock seemed stunned by the revelation. If anything, he seemed ill at the prospect.
"Wh-why me?" begged Whitelock. "I don't want to kill, master. I don't want to be a 'ren to choose the difference between life and death."
"That would be why," said Shaq evenly. "I can find a ruthless killer anywhere (or at least I should be able to). I need someone who understands the weight of murder to choose it, so that they may choose it wisely." Shaq sighed and stood up. The dancers rose with him. "We may not meet again," he said, "but for the moment I advise you to look down."
The dancers looked down and found that their hides had changed to the purest black, each one save Whitelock, whose hides bore streaks of red. When they looked up once more, the god was gone.
Jack appears to the Dirk Dancers and gives them a mission to infiltrate the many clans of the northren, including those of the volcano and mountain if they can.
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Topic: Godhood III Play Thread (Read 38736 times)