The Totem
/Shazar stood upon the doorstep of the ancient catacombs. He was adorned with long red hair, silverish blue eyes, pale skin, and tall stature. His face was handsome, and his body was strong, yet there was a medium-sized scar upon his left cheek, the scar of an animal, a grim reminder. Wielding a staff of willow and wearing wolf-skin robes, one may mistake him for a Witch were it not for the totemic pole strapped upon his back. It was carved with the images of various animals, runes, and even battle-scars of its own. With a deep breath of the chilled northern air around him, he placed his left hand upon the iron padlocked door that sealed away generations of his tribe’s dead. He then shut his eyes and began to speak as his mind attuned to the strong spiritual presence before him.
“Ancient dead of the Winters-bane Tribe. I seek permission to enter your resting place. I come with benevolent intent; do you accept?” he asked. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Not a word was spoken back to him. Nor did any rush of cold air move up from the depths of the catacombs. Then, the padlock suddenly unlocked and fell to the ground with a loud thud to break the silence. He was granted permission indeed, he thought to himself. Thus, he slowly opened the metal door and stepped into the entry stairwell of the dark catacombs.
A little more than ten stairs down, the light of the entryway found itself being consumed in shadow. Shazar knew it would be foolish to attempt to descend in the pitch blackness, so he shut his eyes once again. He placed his left hand behind him, upon the totem which he carried. As he attuned his mind with the mysterious energies within the timber, he willed for a rune of light to brighten his surroundings that otherwise were unknown to him. Five seconds passed, and his will was made manifest. The rune began to shine brightly, illuminating the dark stairwell of the catacombs. He raised his left eyebrow as his eyes focused on the carvings etched into the stone walls. Images of prosperous chieftains leading their people, warriors defeating hated foes in battle, hunters slaying mighty beasts, and more were perfectly detailed before him. Inquisitive, Shazar looked closer for possible names yet found none.
“A shame…” He idly said to himself.
A sudden banshee-like scream broke his concentration. He felt his blood chill and the hairs upon his body stand to full length. However, he was not as fearful as a warrior would be upon hearing such a terrible sound. Their axes, blades, and spears could not repel nor wound fleshless spirits, yet the knowledge Shazar possessed was able to do that and much more. With a determined mind and face, he continued down into the depths.
Soon, he found the air of this ancient place colder than the outside, for large amounts of steam followed each breath he exhaled. This is not surprising, he thought, but then came the gentle scent of brimstone. This worried him greatly, for brimstone was known to be a material of ill omen. Such a scent often accompanied demons and their vile cultists. He inhaled sharply, still slowly descending the stairwell of the catacombs; the scent only grew stronger as he ventured deeper and deeper.
Conor Bruce
Conor is an avid writer, an enjoyer of books, and most things to do with creative writing. He's currently in his 3rd semester of Professional Writing at Algonquin College, and is eager to begin work in the wider world.
