Growing Up Barbarian
Circus Spectaculum 4
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The seasons passed quickly for Dale under Moz’s tutelage, and together they learned the ways of the wilderness; tracking, hunting, gathering. Both boys grew steadily into young men, filling with burning passions of youth.
The storm the chieftain warned of raged on. It shed wounded warriors, some who came through the forest camp, mangled embers cast off from a fire burning hot.
Sight of the wounded soldiers didn’t deter Moz, who yearned to join the fight, or Dale, longing to find the circus. It was their stories, when they would tell them at all, that gave the two young men pause.
Squalls of arrows and bolts falling thick as rain. Enemies hard as stone, wrapped in steel and scale. Bearing steel weapons that could repel or attack. Magicks that could make geysers of flame erupt from the ground.
The chieftain took the warriors in, fed them, and treated their pain. He listened to their stories and asked questions to learn how to survive if the battle came to the tribe. The answers, after recommendations of avoidance, were battleaxes and allies, the latter meaning shamans and archers. All were in short supply in the region. Telius was a meatgrinder, Shampton stood almost empty and Grayfalls was hesitant to commit. The frontier kingdoms to the north and the east stood silent.
Dale and Moz often talked about traveling to the frontier kingdoms but it was mostly fantasy. They feigned disinterest in the old warriors’ stories in order not to worry Moz’s parents, but listened in whenever they could, Moz in particular.
One day, Moz could hold it in no longer.
“We should just do it,” said Moz out of the blue.
“Do what?” asked Dale.
“Head to the frontier.”
“You mean run away.”
“No, I mean run to a way.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sure it does, it means running to a place. Away from here.”
“Your folks won’t like that idea.”
“They are our folks now.”
Dale grew quiet. He didn’t like these discussions. Never did. They always ended up on the same point. He had run away, he had the experience. Moz hadn’t. Yet.
“We could make it our rite passage,” Moz suggested, surprising Dale.
“The Rite?” asked Dale.
Moz nodded.
“I didn’t know we could choose,” admitted Dale.
“We can claim it is our calling,” said Moz.
“Do you think the chieftain would accept it?”
“If we give him a good story.”
“What story could we give?”
“What the old warriors mentioned.”
“A quest for battleaxes, shaman and archers? It would be impossible.”
“Maybe we could become archers.”
“And the battleaxes?”
“Maybe we could find one.”
“And the shaman?”
“We will leave that for someone else.”
Dale considered the ideas. They seemed full of possibility.
“There is only one problem,” said Dale.
“What’s that?” asked Moz.
“The Rite is supposed to be done alone. A solo quest.”
“The chieftain ordered me to be responsible for you as long as you are in the tribe.”
“That’s genius!” exclaimed Dale.
“You just notice?” mocked Moz.
Dale jumped on Moz and the young men wrestled.
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I love it, very relatable, I think it will end positively for the boys.