Aeric
[3 of Swords]: Mask of Blood
Masks are objects of incredible power. What they proclaim may be the naked truth or an artificial lie. Thy may hide emotion and personality, but they may show just one facet. They may submerge the wearer and allow them to act out of character. For the ancient people, wearing a mask may not have just given them supernatural power, but power and authority over what it represented.
This mask is one worn by our clan's chief hunter. Few other than our shamans are permitted to wear masks for ceremonies, which makes this one a precious thing indeed. My parent, who was also the chief hunter for our clan, proudly passed it on to me.
I am no shaman. My world is one of blood and sweat, of kill or be killed, the world of pure instinct. The animals understand this far better than humans, so we live to emulate them. This mask is proof of that. The face appears human, but bears the horns of a vicious spirit, inspired by our shamans' visions. It is topped by the skull of the animals we kill, so that their power and ours are one. The fiery energy of spirit is combined with the aggressive instincts of the animal, and placed upon me.
There are times when I am proud to wear this mask, to show the glory of being first. But often, secretly, I also dread it, because it means I am about to put my life in danger again. I may be killed not long after our hunting ceremony is complete. My family would be supported by the others, but I would be gone to the world of the spirits. This is the responsibility I bear, to provide sustenance for our clan.
Can you see how I feel when I wear my mask? Can you feel the fire and rage, the pain and the burden? Do you understand the life of a hunter? The next blood that stains this mask red and brown may be my own. This is what we realize, this is what we accept. We put our lives in the hands of the spirits and the tips of our blades that it will not be our blood.
Masks are objects of incredible power. What they proclaim may be the naked truth or an artificial lie. Thy may hide emotion and personality, but they may show just one facet. They may submerge the wearer and allow them to act out of character. For the ancient people, wearing a mask may not have just given them supernatural power, but power and authority over what it represented.
This mask is one worn by our clan's chief hunter. Few other than our shamans are permitted to wear masks for ceremonies, which makes this one a precious thing indeed. My parent, who was also the chief hunter for our clan, proudly passed it on to me.
I am no shaman. My world is one of blood and sweat, of kill or be killed, the world of pure instinct. The animals understand this far better than humans, so we live to emulate them. This mask is proof of that. The face appears human, but bears the horns of a vicious spirit, inspired by our shamans' visions. It is topped by the skull of the animals we kill, so that their power and ours are one. The fiery energy of spirit is combined with the aggressive instincts of the animal, and placed upon me.
There are times when I am proud to wear this mask, to show the glory of being first. But often, secretly, I also dread it, because it means I am about to put my life in danger again. I may be killed not long after our hunting ceremony is complete. My family would be supported by the others, but I would be gone to the world of the spirits. This is the responsibility I bear, to provide sustenance for our clan.
Can you see how I feel when I wear my mask? Can you feel the fire and rage, the pain and the burden? Do you understand the life of a hunter? The next blood that stains this mask red and brown may be my own. This is what we realize, this is what we accept. We put our lives in the hands of the spirits and the tips of our blades that it will not be our blood.
