(( This was written for a character building exercise but I'm gonna cross-post it here anyways because I am a giant cheater. ))
Jajara was fifteen years old when she was finally allowed the marks. Her mother was, as per the usual, displeased. Throughout the ceremony she stood by as a dutiful wife and matriarch was meant to do. "Duty first" was Jojore's motto and she performed every task that was required of her with grace, even if that grace was often overshadowed by her stony, prickly nature. Her chin was high and she stared at her daughter down the slight nub of her nose until it became late enough for no one to speak unkindly of her departure.
Sasayome, on the other hand, was ecstatic. "There's m'darlin'," he boasted often and loudly to his brothers and cousins. "Tough as a sand drake an' three times as fierce, that's fer sure!" And then he laughed that booming laugh of his, planting his meaty hands at his hips. "HAR HAR HAR!" he roared while Jajara's uncles scowled amongst one another, amongst sons yet to earn their place. "So much fer yer lilly-livered sons! HAAAR HAR HAR!"
The significance of the occasion was not lost on her: there were, as far as she knew, few enough women in the clan who took up arms. It simply was the way things were and in those days she had never thought to question it. Her father seemed eager enough to bend the rule for her and even if her brothers and numerous cousins gave her odd looks and whispered when she walked by, she did not let it deter her. She could move and dance with the best of them and her strikes were fierce even if they were not always true. She was young still; she had time to learn and plenty of reason to prove her mother wrong.
It was to take most of the week that they were there, she was told. There were tales to be told of the achievements of honored ancestors, of lessons learned by those who lived and died by the ways of the clan. Little by little, as the marks were bled into her skin, she would become like those before and only when she was deemed worthy would he deed be complete.
"It'll hurt, lil' darlin'," her father told reminded her the night she was told. He wore the markings as well, as did all the warriors of the clan: like skeletal flames, arched and coiled across their eyes and brows in a deep sunset red. "It'll hurt real bad."
"S'fine, papa." Jajara wore but a single plait then, having not the patience to bother with two. "I ain't scared, not a bit."
"I know you ain't," replied Sasayome as he patted her on the head. Jajara dutifully made sounds of complaint. Later in life she would find that she missed that annoyance most of all, and that no one else could quite irritate her in such a way as her father. No, it would never feel right again.
"Don't change the fact that it's gonna hurt. Now, yer gonna be strong. You are strong, y'hear me, girl?"
"I know, papa. I'm gonna be strong."
Thick rugs were laid out near the oasis and a tent was set up to house the gnarled old seat that had served as the seat of ascension for generations and generations prior. Her grandfather and great grandfather dredged up robes and tomes, squat bottles of deep red ink and the long, iron-needled rod they would fill.
The first night was the worst. Sasayome stood well out of the way with his wife at his side, watching in silence. Now and again, when the needle nor the dour faces of her elders were bobbing in her face, she would glance over to watch him smiling proudly her way. It hurt like nothing she had ever felt before but not once did she allow herself to falter.
The first night was the worst, but the second was easy as breathing.
Jajara was fifteen years old when she was finally allowed the marks. Her mother was, as per the usual, displeased. Throughout the ceremony she stood by as a dutiful wife and matriarch was meant to do. "Duty first" was Jojore's motto and she performed every task that was required of her with grace, even if that grace was often overshadowed by her stony, prickly nature. Her chin was high and she stared at her daughter down the slight nub of her nose until it became late enough for no one to speak unkindly of her departure.
Sasayome, on the other hand, was ecstatic. "There's m'darlin'," he boasted often and loudly to his brothers and cousins. "Tough as a sand drake an' three times as fierce, that's fer sure!" And then he laughed that booming laugh of his, planting his meaty hands at his hips. "HAR HAR HAR!" he roared while Jajara's uncles scowled amongst one another, amongst sons yet to earn their place. "So much fer yer lilly-livered sons! HAAAR HAR HAR!"
The significance of the occasion was not lost on her: there were, as far as she knew, few enough women in the clan who took up arms. It simply was the way things were and in those days she had never thought to question it. Her father seemed eager enough to bend the rule for her and even if her brothers and numerous cousins gave her odd looks and whispered when she walked by, she did not let it deter her. She could move and dance with the best of them and her strikes were fierce even if they were not always true. She was young still; she had time to learn and plenty of reason to prove her mother wrong.
It was to take most of the week that they were there, she was told. There were tales to be told of the achievements of honored ancestors, of lessons learned by those who lived and died by the ways of the clan. Little by little, as the marks were bled into her skin, she would become like those before and only when she was deemed worthy would he deed be complete.
"It'll hurt, lil' darlin'," her father told reminded her the night she was told. He wore the markings as well, as did all the warriors of the clan: like skeletal flames, arched and coiled across their eyes and brows in a deep sunset red. "It'll hurt real bad."
"S'fine, papa." Jajara wore but a single plait then, having not the patience to bother with two. "I ain't scared, not a bit."
"I know you ain't," replied Sasayome as he patted her on the head. Jajara dutifully made sounds of complaint. Later in life she would find that she missed that annoyance most of all, and that no one else could quite irritate her in such a way as her father. No, it would never feel right again.
"Don't change the fact that it's gonna hurt. Now, yer gonna be strong. You are strong, y'hear me, girl?"
"I know, papa. I'm gonna be strong."
Thick rugs were laid out near the oasis and a tent was set up to house the gnarled old seat that had served as the seat of ascension for generations and generations prior. Her grandfather and great grandfather dredged up robes and tomes, squat bottles of deep red ink and the long, iron-needled rod they would fill.
The first night was the worst. Sasayome stood well out of the way with his wife at his side, watching in silence. Now and again, when the needle nor the dour faces of her elders were bobbing in her face, she would glance over to watch him smiling proudly her way. It hurt like nothing she had ever felt before but not once did she allow herself to falter.
The first night was the worst, but the second was easy as breathing.
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