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| - The young warrior kneels down, examining the shape of the footprint on the dusty ground. He brushes aside the branch of a bush, and peers at it. Uneven, indicating that it is staggering already. And it is deeper at the front than the back, indicating that it is running now – excellent. It will tire, and he will catch up. He knows that it is weakening, because it is losing blood. And it is losing blood because of the spear the warrior thrust into its hide. He looks at the bush as well, because signs are always left. A few spatters of purplish blood smeared across its red leaves – he notices that one of the branches is missing foliage, and the wood has a gnawed look to it. It was hungry – but it was disturbed from its feeding, and startled, took off running. The warrior hopes that his hunt ends soon. The meat on a Rath Beast would fill his belly, but more importantly, its head will adorn the hall of the Autocrat. The Rite of Passage requires sacrifice. Days wandering in the wild, relying on the land to provide sustenance, shunned from all civilisation. Even wounded and dying, the people of a village would cast him out until the passage time was finished. So until then, he is forced to live off the small animals that inhabited the Morhekan desert, the roots and tubers that provided little nourishment, and the rare fruits that the trees gave. He thanks the Forerunners he had been born earlier in the Kaaranese year, before the dry season began – or else this would have been almost unbearable. He strides forward, moving to another footprint, and another, until he finds the trail again. The footsteps are closer together and more evenly depressed – the beast must have slowed down. The spacing is less even, and often wanders off to the side. It is getting dizzy from blood loss now. The warrior has not much longer to wait until his prize is his. There are a few other tracks here, from other Rath Beasts, but less fresh, the sides already filling with the dust that blew across the Morhekan plains. Perhaps his prey had come here, hoping to find the safety of a herd of its fellows? But they had moved on many hours ago, their spoor already hardening and the devastated brush the left behind already beginning to congeal their broken ends, the fallen leaves left behind dry and brittle. It had snuffled around, looking for edible leftovers. But dead leaves and dead creatures do not last long in the desert – they dry out, are covered up by dust and sand, or are claimed by scavengers more quick. The Rath moved on, and the warrior follows him. He lifts his head, and can smell water. He smells algae and stagnation, so it must be a small pool left behind by the rains. He would not drink of it, preferring the refilling flask of reclaimed water from the night air. But the Rath was less fussy. He finds it there, just at the waters edge, so close to the drink it had longed for and would never take. For a moment the warrior is moved by pity, and considers pushing the Rath to the water – fulfil its dying need. But he knows that every expenditure of energy in the desert came with a price, and it would be far more efficient to simply put the animal out of its misery. He readies his blade, bringing its sharpened edge to the beasts throat, and cutting. There is a violent jerk as the Rath spasms, but its death throes give way to stillness. The blood flows into the pool, but soon stops. The warrior has made his first kill. And now, he is a man. He looks up, at the sun Agarka as it sets on the horizon. To either side of it, the other suns, Qui'vra and Olos, are barely visible twinkles in the sky, almost like daytime stars. He knows that the common villagers believe them to be guardian spirits, moving the sun on its daily passage across Ketesh’s sky. He snorts, as he wonders at their ignorance, and promises himself that he shall bring Covenant missionaries back with him when he returns to the Kaidons Keep. He sets to work on the carcass, skinning the Rath’s tough hide to be fashioned into ceremonial armour. The meat is carved off in chunks of flesh to sustain himself on the journey home. He has subsided off of fruits and small creatures while he hunted, but now the path home is a straight line, unhindered by changes of a prey’s direction or the need to sleep, but weighed down by his spoils. He stores the meat and hide in the sacks and bags he carries with him, with the largest of them carrying the beasts horned head. The aim of the Hunt was not success. It was survival. If a warrior was unfit to live off the Morhekan scrubland for seven weeks, then they were unfit to survive. If they encountered a jabberwocky or other dangerous predator, they were expected to hold their own. And if they managed to claim a trophy to remind themselves and others of the ritual ordeal, then so much the better. A Rath was not difficult prey, but it was rare, and it was stubborn. And if wounded, it could fight back with a tenacity that could bring down even the best warrior. He had used his brains and his observations to make the kill – it had been honourable, and it had been efficient, but more importantly it had been quick. The suns are beginning to set now, and the warrior smiles at his luck. He will make better progress out of the sweltering heat, and even the largest Jabberwock will be reluctant to hunt without the aid of sunlight. To the east, the moon Qikost was already rising. He will have enough light to find his way. And when he returns? There will be celebration. If he still lives, the Autocrat will welcome his nephew back with open arms, overjoyed that he had raised a warrior who could endure the rite of passage. Younger warriors will ask him what it was like, and older ones will nod knowingly. He will visit the memorials dedicated to those who did not return from the hunt, who went to the halls of their fathers to await the Great Journey. And then…ascension! The Autocrat is old, and near death. And it shall be Qur’a’s time to lead his tribe, his people, his nation to glory. For too long, Morheka has been held back by its Elder Council, clinging desperately to the stagnant ways of the old, while embracing none of the new ways. The Autocrat is sick, and his nephew strong. They shall grant him ascension, hoping that things will stay the same. Perhaps they hope to send him off to war, fighting the enemies of the Covenant in the name of the Prophets, while they rule in his stead? Qur’a will disappoint them. And he will thoroughly enjoy it. But even the most glorious endeavour must begin somewhere. And so Qur’a decides that it shall begin here – at the end of a successful hunt, and the journey to claim his inheritance. The Rath head shifts in the sack, and Qur’a adjusts it against his back, stopping it from shifting. It shall be the new emblem of his House, and a symbol of the times. His times. The old must make way for the new. Ways that do not work are forgotten, and replaced with new ones. And when they too cease to work, they shall make way for new ones. And the cycle shall repeat. It always repeats. A never-ending loop of order and chaos. But order could bring stagnation if enforced for the sake of it, while chaos swept the land, cleansing the weak ways and leaving the strong. And Qur’a will be strong.
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