Every day since she was taken has been a day of endurance for the deformed Eeee, Hebaket. Learning the ways of the Yodhblakat when they took her was difficult at first, but over time the Eeee took to the ways of conflict ... and even discovered that she enjoyed them. However, there were many times that she was brought into conflict with her 'sisters', whether it was over some perceived insult, or the fact that she was a natural vampire. While blood was certainly the realm of Blakat, drinking it was the realm of the hated Dipath. Even Hebaket could not escape being accused of being a Yodhdipath by some. Still, her skill in battle was enough to stay any real persecution of this. Which ... made the order from one of the elder Priestess' of Blakat to report to the Chamber of Endurance to answer for her 'deviant' ways puzzling.
One of the older and excessively scarred Yodhblakat stands inside. Her lips are drawn back in a sadistic and amused smile as she slowly sharpens some set of tools used for the faithful in expressing their delight in conflict and pain. "You're late, Sister," the Yodhblakat rasps to the arrivee at the door.
"So I am," Hebaket says as she enters. Her approach down the hall had long been known to her fellow priestess; the combination of rattling skulls hung from her deformed wings and her uncommonly heavy armor made her approach obvious even to non-Eeee hearing. That she's here at all vaguely annoys Hebaket, but if she's any sort of Yodhblakat, she's a dutiful and faithful one. The deformed Eeee ha;f suspects her older 'sister' knew she'd be late -- when one can't fly, getting around anywhere in babel in a timely manner is next to impossible.
Once inside, Hebaket looks around with an impassive expression. Such sights no longer phase her, though they once did, and not so long ago at that. Life as a Yodhblakat is hard, and leaves no room for weakness or fear. After the cursory glance, Hebaket turns to watch her 'sister' expactanly.
The older Yodhblakat examines the edge of the implement with uncommon precision; but then it is her duty to ensure that the maximum amount of torment is extracted from each tool here. "Being deformed is not an excuse," the elder recites in a speech heard many times, "It is Blakat's test of you, and you must answer it and not let it hinder you. But, no matter, it is not why you are here now. The elders have received some complaints from those who donate heavily to ward off our blessings that you have been rather ... shall we say, indulgent in matters of blood in public lately. While they have given you much latitude in the past due to your nature and abilities; it does not mean you have free reign to act upon those urges in the presence of our benefactors. You are here to answer for that sister. Are you ready to face the temple's judgment?"
Though she never voiced it for obvious survival reasons, Hebaket has little love for the Yodh's benefactors. Before she was Yodh, she was a smith, slaving over a hot forge night and day for lesser nobles and their guards. While she never expected kindness -- this is Babel, and she is a true Babelite daughter -- she seethed under their disgust of her. She never forgot the slight, even after becoming Yodh. Though forbidden from vengeance by the nature of her religion, she's found other ways to irk the nobility. Ways like feeding in public, when she feels the lesser nobility can't muster the strength or the influence to truly harm her back. Unfortunately, it seems she's pushed the matter too far, but she isn't particularly chastized by it. This is a secular concern, not a matter of broken religious law, and the pain she can endure. Life is pain, after all -- it's what you get for your blood that's important.
"Of course," Hebaket answers. She glances at her massive steel sword -- real steel, forged by her own arm out of metal she took from others -- then stabs the blade in to the ground so it sticks in the wood. "We have the keep our benefactors placated, don't we?" She allows for a hint of disgust to settle in, such indirect punishment for political nonsense sits porly with her sense of justice -- twisted as it is by babelite morality.
"Good. I promise you it will be memorable and merely help you further endure to serve," the elder says with near sadistic gee. "Lie down on the alter and prepare yourself for Blakat's touch," she says and waves her blood red hand towards the star-shaped table, obviously designed for those with arms, legs, and wings.
"Blakat wouldn't take a weak man's coin to punish his foe in a dark closet," Hebaket remarks with an edge. She eyes the other woman, but proceeds to the table and lays down anyway. She may diagree with her elders, but she obeys them, for the most part. But just because she obeys and is dutiful to the tenants doesn't mean she doesn't have an opinion, and as a Eeee who has recieved more than her share of hate and disgust, she's ended up blunt in her words, uncarring of others' opinions of her, for the most part. That 'most part' doesn't include religious tenants, which she adheres to, well, religiously, and to her own survival. She may be blunt, even to her own detriment, but she's pragmatic enough to shut her mouth if it'll end in her death. Well, not unless it's death at the end of a sword or a monster's jaws -- death in conflict is always welcone. Death from being stabbed in the back, rotting in a dungeon, or poisoned is unfulfilling. Besides, she has a goal now. No use throwing her life away for
nothing.
"We accept no gifts. We simply wish to ensure that certain people devoted to us who leave items of value out as offerings for us to claim continue to do so," the elder snaps as she heads to join Hebaket. Now there, she goes about the task of chaining Hebaket to the frame. The irony of this is, these are chains and bands that Hebaket herself forged for the temple. That, of course, means they are unlikely to be broken, even by her own unusual strength. "And outside of your disgusting habits, you have served the temple well. This is why your punishment is to become a symbol of endurance for our temple, child. An honor." That sadistic smile the elder flashes doesn't exactly imply honor, though. "We'll start with those useless ears of yours," she says as goes to get her 'tools'.
Hebaket feels a certain pride in her work, looking at the chains that now bind her. She remembers their forging well, for it was early in her initiation time, and the metal had come from a great conquest by what Yodh remained. It was a good day, by Yodhblakat standards. Drinking, fighting -- she ended up with two black eyes and more scars than she could count, as well as will a hangover, but it was a good day ...
Snapping back to her situation, Hebaket looks up to her 'sister' and asks, "Why do endure people to be so blatant about seeking our assistance? And why is the drinking of blood so hated? Yes, the Yodhdipath," and here Hebaket spits, " ... I know. But they are pathetic and hide. I make no effort to conceal. I take the blood that is mine to claim, from my sword and my conquest. Is that not the way of Blakat?"
"We do not wish to be linked to those cowering blood drinkers," the elder growls as she brings back a tray of assorted nasty looking tools and a small portable coal firepot. "Taking it is not the concern, but consuming it in public is. The public associates them with us and thus weaken's our Mother," she adds as her hand roughly takes Hebaket's chin and she forces her head to the side to expose her left ear.
Hebaket snorts, both because she can't think of a good counter-argument and because the idea that the public is so stupid as to confuse the Yodhblakat with the Yodhdipath is infuriating. She jerks her right hand up as an outlet for her frusteration, testing the strength of the chains she forged and being unsurprised that it refuses to show signs of deformation even as she uses all her considerable might to try and break it. The irony that so flawed a creature as she can produce such fine work isn't lost on her, and if she were the sort to laugh, she would. As it is, laughter is not her way. The comic irony of life does sooth her slightly, prompting her to ask, "Why do we not simple destroy the Yodhdipath?"
The elder draws up the glowing blade of a red-hot knife. "Because they have nothing our Mother would want," she answers simply ... and without hesitation, uses that red-hot kife to cut several evenly spaced slits in Hebaket's ear. The flesh burns and cauterizes as it sinks in and the pain hits Hebaket at the same time the stench does. The cuts do not go all the way to the edge, but rather leaves thin holes in the ear membrane. The knife is set aside as the Elder draws up a rather nasty looking bit of curved chitin, shaped like the jagged greatsword their Mother carries. She weaves this into the slits in Hebaket's ear, lining its edge with the well known symbol of their Mother. Red hot pliers are brought up and two thick closing balls are affixed on each end, making the ornament impossible to remove without tearing it through her flesh.
Hebaket inhales sharply, a sibilant sound not unlike the one made by the hot metal burning her flesh. It takes her a moment to steady herself and not, as she so wants to do, suddenly try and strangle her 'sister' or otherwise lash out. Not that she could, with the chains binding her. 'Fortunately' for Hebaket, she's spent much of her young life infront of a forge, and metal burns aren't scuh a rare thing -- she steadies herself, continuing to speak to demonstrate her fortitude and deny the other Eeee some pleasure in her pain. "Agreed," she says, making effort to speak without showing signs of pain, "She would have no use for their hidden pauper trinkets and vermin-filled temples. If only they were better sport; they are nothing but irritations. Like flies."
"Indeed. And they would not fight an honest battle, my young sister. They would use poisons, strike from the dark, and use traps should we attack. There is no glory for our Mother in fighting them," the Elder agrees. The pliers are set aside and Hebaket's head it now forcefully turned to the other side. As pressure is applied to her wounded ear, it throbs hotly. The Elder insects her right ear now, and without even a word of warning, lifts up a glowing hot circlet of iron with a small, spiked, gap in one side. It's placed around her right ear and clamped closed, the hot metal spikes tearing through flesh with a sizzle and fusing together. The elder Yodhblakat then just dumps a glass of cold water on it to cool it. It isn't over, though, as several more rings are roughly placed along that long ear-ridge. By the end, it's about ten from base to tip, large at the base and growing smaller as they ascend her ear. Now both ears hurt and throb noticeably.
While Hebaket disagrees with her elders from time to time, there are times she agress: like now. The Yodhdipath are vermin, and though she loathes that anyone could possibly mistake her for one, she has little ground to strike at them. It is good that her elder reminded her of this, the deformed Eeee thinks. "You had better no-" Hebaket pauses to dring her teeth as her flesh fries and metal fuses to her skin like slag on a apprentice's food, " ... not mangle my-" another pause, her wings twitching like awful bladed hands trying to claw free, " ... my metalwork."
"I expect you to wear it with pride, my sister. Few would endure what you are right now. Let this remind you that you are one of the Mother's chosen," she says and takes ahold of Hebaket's chin and pulls her around to face the older, blood-red, Eeee. "You have potential, you just must learn to control appetites not of our Mother. We are here to help you do that," she claims, then unceremoniously sticks two fingers in Hebaket's nostrils for a moment. "Mm, yes," she seems to decide and sticks something in the glowing coals.
"You are ... always encouraging, sister," says the deformed Eeee, a touch of amusement in her voice. It's a honest comment, too. The older Yodh has always been encouraging -- in one way or another. "And worry ... not. My dedication is steel ... and my pride is ... like fire." And fire burns. Hebaket's never fully accepted having been seized or having her life decided for her, but she does have pride and faith, even if it burns and singes. "I still urge that consuming my foe's ... blood ... is of Her. I do not feed from that which ... is ... untaken. I am no cursed Yodhdipath, but I ... also do not ... hide my victories."
"When you are High-Priestess, perhaps you can have our Mother declare that in her visions, but not before," the elder says coldly. She lifts up another steel ring with a pointed gap, the ring behing about 2 inches in diameter. This is pressed into Hebaket's nostrils and the elder clamps down hard on the pliers grip. Hebaket hears and feels a sickening crunch as the sharp tip breaks through the Eeee's sceptum. The Elder spins the ring in her nostrils, exposing the small gap point. There she reaches back into the fire and brings forth a dripping brazing rod. With a crackling hiss, molten metal is dripped into the gap, fusing into a solid ring. Satisfied, she releases it and it thumps with noticeable weight against Hebaket's lips. "Almost done, sister," the elder Yodhblakat states. "One more fitting."
Kebaket grins widely at the idea of being High Priestess, though not out of thoughts of grandeur or success. No, the path she has been decided on -- or been given? -- leads elsewhere, with her either dead or accomplishing the seeingly impossible at the end. Most likely dead, her pragmatic mind admits, but she will see the path to its end irregardless. For her, there is only one way to go, with only two possible outcomes. She moves to comment, but is momentarily blinded by the pain from her nose. Tough she may be, but she's still only mortal, and she has to admit that hurt a lot more than she expected. She blinks several times, teeth grinding, hands balled in to fists. Maybe she should strangle the elder when she gets free.
"Save your anger for worshipping Mother," the Elder comments as she lifts up the last of her punishment. It's hard to see what it is at first, but when the elder slides it over her muzzle, it becomes apparent enough ... it's a chitin muzzle of a sorts. Her new nose ring is slipped through a slot in the front and folded down into a notch made just for it. It wraps around and under the deformed Eee's muzzle, and should she try to open her mouth, she finds she can, but the series of sliding, fang-styled bars will effectively prevent her from biting anyone. The elder also hooks the back ends to the lowest points of the 'ornamentation' in her ears. Once set, she uses a small octagonal key to lock the device to Hebaket's fresh piercings. "When you are within the walls of our city, you will wear this. It will help curb your base instinct to drink your foes. If you leave the city, then visit of of the Elders and they will unlock the cage. What you indulge in outside of the sacred city is less o
of the sacred city is less of our concern." The device itself has some weight to it, but the broadness of the points where it lays over her muzzle do not make the weight particularly bothersome.
Hebaket's red eyes glare pure malice at the elder, but she doesn't struggle. Thoughts of killing the elder run through her mind, but they're forbidden indulgences, not something she would truly do. For while she might easily slaughter the other woman, vengeance is forbidden by the most sacred of Yodhblakat law. Vengeance is the realm of Rephath, another of the Seven Sisters, and as such denied to her. To even give in to it would be to honor Repath before Blakat, anf though she was forced in to her life as a priestess of Blakat, she won't blaspheme against her god. Despite all that has happened and may be, Hebaket is a true beliver and will not defile her sacred place or her God's wrath by slighting Her. That her path may lead her against her God is different, and correct. The way of the blasphemer is wrong, and vile, to be detested and avoided. "Understood," she growls.
"Good," the Elder comments as she goes about releasing Hebaket from the chains. "You are a prize to Blakat and She has great hope and faith in you. You will one day be her emblem to the world, each scar and wound testament to your faith in Her. We will make sure you continue to follow her path and not stray to other Goddesses. Waver again in your faith and actions and more drastic measures will be taken."
Hebaket nods -- in this, she can't fault or hate her elder. "And so you should," she says.
"See me in a week and I will check that your bindings of faith are healing properly and make adjustments as necessary," the elder Yodhblakat says. She wheels her implements back tot he cabinets to be stowed again. And with a rather dismissive wave of her hand to the deformed Eeee, she says, "You may go."
Hebaket rises, rubbing her face for a moment before sliding off the table and standing. "I will be back." She retrives her massive sword with a jerk, checking the edge a moment. Unlike less skilled Yodh, Hebaket is well learned in the art of blades and armor. Though her creations often look jagged, twisted, fierce, they are sharp and strong, keeping both quality as well as Blakat's fearsome image.
As she walks for the door, Hebaket pauses. "I had long thought to travel, to see what conflict stirs in the lands of the foreigners, what mighty beasts dwell far from the cities, what might be taken that has been thought lost. I will take your encouragement here as a blessing -- I will return, and then I will will wander." And with that, the massive Eeee woman departs.