“The true duty runs deeper. They guide not for the people, but for the mountain. To see that those who do not belong will not remain. To see that those who pass will not despoil.”
The dark scales on her shoulders and chest still whispered, as the maw opened again, just ever so slightly. It drank from the needle without haste, the slick sheen of inner flesh barely visible as it tightened around it. The shaman’s body smiled where her mask could not. The smile lingered, even as the scales closed around her again, and still, as she returned the needle to the selder. The whisper remained, curling itself deeper into the air.
“The Almara is only the first. A selder may gather many sevrants across their lifetime. Some heighten the senses, sharpening awareness until even the faintest shift of stone beneath snow may be felt, or the most subtle of trailing presences. Others grant temporary powers. See here.”
Her fingers guided the needle along the fine lines within the fur, tracing with a patience so deliberate it was mesmerising. Like that, she waited. She kept waiting until Yu felt the frozen pressure on his shoulders tilting towards her, threatening to throw him off. He surrendered and shifted forward, stumbling just to stay upright.
The shaman’s fingers hovered above a dark servant, which consisted of two circles bound by a single line. “This one is rather common. It grants the Phantom Flame, a fire not of matter. It gives warmth from within.”
It sounded like magic, yet her tone offered no sense of wonder.
“Some sevrants are pacts. Not only ties to clan, but bonds sealed with mountain beasts, with resin and blood, sometimes essence. They may be of gratitude, when a selder has aided. Or debt, when the beast demands return.”
She lifted the needle. Its length held more red.
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