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 The Worshom- A Sinful World Short

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Join date : 2010-01-20
Age : 29

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PostSubject: The Worshom- A Sinful World Short   The Worshom- A Sinful World Short I_icon_minitimeWed Feb 01, 2017 8:08 am

Worshom. Anyone around this area that has heard the name knows what it entails. Hunting, and not just small game. The Worshom can hunt and track any and everything. Game, magical beasts, demons, otherworldly beings, and of course, even humans. And the Worshoms are prideful; they always complete their mission. In the clan are units. The jobs are divided between these units. Some units are bloodthirsty and take any job. Other units focus only on hunting unintelligent beasts. Others still focus only on tracking. Each unit has a spotless record of always completing their assigned task. Among the Worshom, a girl was born. This girl was born to a common tracker, but on the day of her birth, she was blessed by multiple gods and goddesses. This girl was named Kayle of the Woshrom tribe.

“I’m ready,” I said for the umpteenth time. I stood before the leader of our clan, Aremis. Aremis looked a lot younger than he actually was with his long black hair tied back and his darkened tan skin. He was taller than most in the tribe and wore a cloak made of owlbear fur and feathers to signify his position. Aremis has denied me my rite of passage for many years now, and I wanted to finally take the title of Hunter instead of Whelp. Whelps were Hunters-in-training, and a sign that you had not completed the rite.

I was annoyed at being the oldest Whelp in clan history, and all because I am the proclaimed “Child of Ages.” I hated that title. It made everyone treat me as I was a porcelain doll. I am a proud warrior and would like to be treated as such.

Most Whelps undergo their rites when they turn 14 years of age. I was almost 18, and Aremis still denied me. “You are the Child of Ages, Kayle,” he said in a calm voice. “We must wait until we know what the Gods intend for your purpose to be.”

Frustrated, I stormed off toward my father’s hut. My mother was the Hunter in the family. Father was an herbalist, an uncommon job among our people, but not without its value.

“I was denied again, Father,” I proclaimed ahead of myself as I entered the hut. My father looked up. He was tall, fair of skin, with deep hazel eyes. He wore a leather vest made from the hide of a tiger my mother took down several years ago, nothing underneath it. With the vest he wore leather trousers made from a similar tiger he himself took down during a journey we took with mother.
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