The Ritual

Ron Koppelberger

The Ritual

Iron Crosspoint acknowledged Crisp with a brash expression of trust. Crisp had firmly accepted Irons dedicated resolve. They would breach the veil, forgoing the murmur of immortal deserts and encroaching shades of evil.
Iron delivered the appropriate phrase and slashed the palm of his hand. A well of bright scarlet announced the advent of mortal conclusions. Crisp winced as Iron handed him the hilt of the duel edged blade.
“Yer next!” Iron said pointing to Crisps palm. Crisp closed his eyes and inhaled as he held his breath. With a violent slash his palm was laid open, crimson springs of coppery baptism flowed in rivulets and beaded confluence with the ritual.
Iron held his hand over the bone fragments that were scattered in the shape of a cross, Crisp did the same. The sun shone saffron gold amidst the bones; tiny puffs of dust arose from the arid ground as the blood spattered in gentle rhythm, a rhythm of passion and heartbeats, fury and anger and vengeance. The conviction of bond and infamy wore the lined faces of their determination. They paused in red ribboned whispers of release. The bones rearranged the disarray and a creature of purpose was borne. The anatomy of an enchanting allure in the embers of spirit, in tender devotion to the cause that drove them both. A shadow, a silhouette in shape, in symmetries of divinity and purpose, the legend lay bare in wrath and wonting songs of legend.
It arose from the desert sands and dust in the order of the brotherhood and the task at hand. Growling it flexed its sinew, its breath the incense of a thousand dreams and understanding purpose. The two men stepped back a few paces as the creature considered them. Crisp troubled the bleeding wound on his palm with a complaining grip, hands clasped he remembered the silence of the moment. An empty space filled with cascades of blood, dripping to the dry skeleton of the creature.
A bit of saliva fell to the desolate soil as the beast snapped its muzzle in fussy fanged hunger. Iron reclaimed the moment as he approached the creature.
“EEEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” it cooed. Touching its fur covered paw he intoned a Latin phrase. It moved forward and Iron saw the flames in its eyes. Fields in ash, burning, burning. In staid sober certainty Iron imagined his enemies falling, one by one.
“Burning saffron seas!” he muttered as they began moving westward toward their fate and the vengeance they would exact in fire.