The Oath and the Homecoming
Vuudu - December 5, 2005
On the horizon, the outline of a female troll slowly appeared
from the morning mist, walking with silent determination. A
well-worn long bow was slung over her back, and at her sides hung
a sword and a painfully sharp axe. Nearly dragging next to her
was a sack, so heavy it pulled her arm straight. She left 2-toed
footprints as her well-callused feet trod through the burning
sand. On her head, a wide brimmed black hat was pulled down low,
her eyes only visible when she paused to glance up at the village
that she approached - the village of her family, and of her
birth.
Sen’jir Village.
She stood, taking in the sight of her home for a long while. At
her feet, the black lion that accompanied her growled softly.
Finally breaking her gaze at the noise from her companion, she
knelt down and scratched his mane.
“Yes Humar,” she murmured to him, “dis is it. It been too long.
Don’ worry, dey like you fine. We don’ eat pets.” She paused and
sighed, “Now whether or not dey happy to see Da Vuudu again … dat
be a different story.”
Humar ruffled his mane at the scratching. The pair set off again
towards the village, with Vuudu slinging the heavy pack over her
shoulder.
The sun was still low in the sky when they reached the outskirts
of the village, but it was clear that everyone was already quite
awake. The scent of heavily spiced cooking filled the air, and
cauldrons bubbled in front of most of the thatched roof huts.
Tiny troll children ran back and forth, with baby raptors winding
their way in between them. Huddled together, the adults talked,
danced, and sang. Every once in a while, the whole village would
jump with a start at a loud bang from the witch doctor’s hut,
which was promptly followed by even louder cheering.
The mood of the village changed slightly as Vuudu and Humar
entered. Adults stopped their dancing and turned to stare at her.
Voices, previously raised in song, became hushed and subdued.
Even the children and raptors seemed to sense that something was
amiss, and the stayed closer to the huts as they played.
Vuudu’s red eyes glanced from side to side as she walked through
the village, the brim of her hat casting her face in shadows.
This had been the homecoming she expected … and it was no doubt
about to get worse.
Passing the fire at the center of the village, Vuudu made for the
witch doctor’s hut. The heavy bag hung lower and lower to the
ground with each of her steps, until finally she was dragging it,
leaving a deep path in the sand behind her. She stood outside the
hut, staring in.
“Who dere?” came a voice from inside.
“It me, dad,” she answered, “it be Da Vuudu.”
Strange bluish green smoke wafted through the door. The vapors
curled and coalesced into odd shapes – a dragon, a troll, a
sailing ship – and then drifted apart in the morning breeze.
Vuudu stared through the smoke, into the darkened hut.
In a moment, a large, bent-over troll emerged. He was clearly an
elder, his bright blue air tinged with silver as it cascaded down
his back. He worn shabby robes, covered with arcane symbols in
various colored thread, obscured in some places by splatters from
bubbling cauldrons.
He regarded her up and down for a moment. “Didn’t tink I see you
again. Much shame you bring to us.”
Vuudu opened her mouth in protest, but her father did not pause.
“De blood oath is not someting you take lightly, Vuudu. De elders
still gots ta hold you to what you said. You know we no can let
you come back. You remember wat you did.”
Vuudu remembered it well. She remembered the day she and her
childhood friends returned from fishing to find most of the
village in ruins. She remembered the hoofbeats as the Alliance
riders rode off, cheering with victory. Most of all, she
remembered the bodies, the 20 of her tribe that lay dead,
slaughtered in a senseless raid.
It was that night that she stood before the council and swore a
blood oath. Flushed with rage, she swore that she would not
return until she had slain 100 Alliance soldiers for each troll
that died that day. That the task was impossible was of no
consequence. She had spoken the words, she had added her blood to
the cauldron. She had no choice now. Complete the oath, or die
trying.
“Vuudu,” said her father, “we miss you but … you gots to go.”
Vuudu smirked, “unless I fulfil de oath I took.” Her eyes
traveled to the bag at her feet.
Her father followed her gaze, not speaking a word. Vuudu stooped
over, grasped the bag by the bottom, and dumped the contents
partially out on to the sand. Dozens and dozens of shriveled red
pieces of meat flowed from bag. Each one no bigger than a stone,
each one rough and dark from being heavily salted and cured. Her
father gasped in amazement. The other villagers began to crowd
around, their collective jaws wide.
“Hearts,’ said Vuudu. “Two thousand Alliance hearts. One hundred
for each of our tribe who died.”
Light shone in her father’s eyes. He bent over, picking up one of
the dried hearts, and took a large bite out of it. Chewing, he
smiled and clasped his arm around his daughter’s shoulder.
“Welcome home Vuudu … welcome home.”
And the party began.