At World’s Edge – Chapter 2

“The genesis of our journey,” she stated, turning her back to group as she did so, “Begins ahead!” She rose both her arms as she spoke, and the feathers at her back quivered at the spectacle. “May the generations of Earthend observe kindly our transit across this burial ground.” She spoke as if it were still in use, yet no Cefira had set foot here for centuries. “We should tread lightly,” continued Cescar, “Respectfully, for our sagacious ancestors watch both action and intention.” With the end of her short speech, she marched on wards to the sound of a not so distant drumming. It would be several more hours until the mere patch of dark in the distance would expand to evidently become the vast gulley they searched for. The sunlight had showered what little remained of the cowering plants as early morning appeared, causing a rout within the ranks of darkness and death among the sparse droplets of dew. The band ventured, now in the fall glaring capacity of the sun, towards the cliff edge that halted their otherwise incessant advance. A few strolled to the edge, glanced over at the dizzying canyon below, and scuttled back. After spying a point of cliff edge that entailed a somewhat easier descent, Cescar stepped ahead of the crowd she had fallen behind once more, saying “Under the scrutiny of this scorching sun, who will descend first unto this hallowed land?”

Awkward shuffles emanated from the group – heads went down, fingers traced the handles of weapons and eyes adverted the gaze of their guide. It was only after an excruciating silence that the figure clasped in robes and a lightening mask stepped fourth; now even the slight bustle was halted, as he silenced the band with a look of disdain. “Myamsar?” Cescar asked. It was his permission to speak; “A display hardly worthy of that name. I shall go!” He growled, making distinct eye contact with each apparent warrior whom he stood before. It was revealed, like the first rays of sun piercing a fog, that it would only be the brave that would survive this journey. Perhaps all would make it through this ravine unharmed, but many had fallen, and many knew they could. In the grasp of common sense, it should have been apparent that it was the withholding or withdrawal of confidence that would cause the Cefira’s failure. One of them should have volunteered; perhaps all of them should have. Afterall, it will be the brave souls that shift through the next altercation unharmed, not the dead.

“Honour has a height of forty-eight thousand feet, and it only one’s self that holds them back from the ascent.” Myamsar spoke in a low tone, his eyes staring into the distance. It was but a blink of an eye, however, before he was racing down the side of the cliff. Spectators rushed to the edge to the see the sight. He bounded from rock to verge, from edge to outcrop, descending for several minutes until he reached the foot of the cliff. His landing threw up the faint sound of a drum. One by one then, they traced the path Myamsar had followed, Cescar last, assisted by her staff, and the Cefiras, the warriors, most burdened by their embarrassment.

(Cont.)

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