Ceremonial drums ^

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With each clap of thunder, the sky bellowed with its encore, intermittently blinding the world. Sparks danced across the gloomy skyline, forking and snaking a path for the flood of rain. The puddle only grew larger and it wasn't long before Mikyla was completely saturated yet the puddle before her did not shift. It vibrated. It slopped. It rippled. But it did not shift. The boy within did not cease its bewildered stare.

Reaching out a hand, it soon became clear who are what the boy truly was. As Mikyla's fingers brushed the waters surface, it rippled once again but instead of flesh meeting flesh, her fingers scratched the bottom of the pool revealing it to be nothing more than a reflection. A reflection she had seen earlier. A reflection that couldn't possible be her.

Running grime laced fingers through her hair, she grasped at the roots unable to distinguish reality from fiction anymore. She couldn't take this in. After all, the talking mirror was just some sort of sick joke. It was, wasn't it? But then, how does it explain the shortness of her hair? How does it explain the sudden paleness of her skin?

Taking another glance at her reflection, Mikyla just shook her head. She was a completely different person. But that's impossible. It must just be another trick of Kismet's, a lingering effect of shock. It's too real though. It's just too real.

Slapping both hands against her cheeks in the hopes it would work for her when it has failed for almost everyone else in all other media's, Mikyla attempted to drag herself back into reality yet her biological response was an affirmation that she had never even left. Instead of the slight sting she had expected, she felt as if her face was on fire. Tears began to swell at the corners of her eyes but her comfort response of punching the bridge of her nose only magnified the pain. It was only when she had calmed down that she saw the reason why. Sprouting from around her nose was a flora of garish purple splotches, her skin slowly blossoming into a bruise. How it manifested she did not know yet that question seemed to be the least of her worries. As long as Kismet's shop was still around she would have been better off stuck in the centre of the Bermuda Triangle so her first priority was to get away. as far away as possible.

Casting a final look at where her confusion spiralled out of control faster than all things out of Pandora's box, Mikyla wanted to get a lasting view of the place she would make sure to stay very clear of. The thing was, it wasn't there. The street was there. The lampposts were there. A building was there... but it wasn't Kismet's. In its place is an abandoned mannequin shop, the glass smashed and board withered. It looks as if it hasn't been touched for years and there is no sign of their having been any type of miscellaneous shop let alone a tourist trap.

At first, all Mikyla can think of is how peculiar the events have turned out to be but on second thought perhaps moving buildings is one of the easiest parlour tricks in the book. With talking mirrors, spatially shifting floors, and if she wasn't mistaken, a flying pig, albeit miniature and have dismissed it as nothing more than a realistic figurine, it wasn't difficult to fathom the shop in all its weirdness completely up and vanishing. Either that or Mikyla had completely lost the plot. In any case, the encounter with fate had left her in a state of exhaustion and although she would be met with dire consequences, she could only return home. With her clothes leaking faster than the sky itself, Mikyla could only hope she could come up with an excuse to save her skin, at least until the truth was buried deeper than the grave prepared for her inevitable death.

Surprisingly, as Mikyla got deeper into the outskirts, the sound of drums started to vibrate within her soul. Not just drums - ceremonial drums accompanied by chants that only happen on one occasion. The chants the signal the branding of the mark. The branding of The Verdant Mark.

Mikyla gulps and she can already feel her skin tingle where she knows where she will be scarred for life. Flexing her hands, she can only stare at the now pearl dusted flesh and try to commit to memory her fleeting moments of freedom. She almost flinched at the embers yet to come and nausea upsets her balance as the past smell of burning flesh is brought to the forefront of her memories. At least she has a few hours left before the ceremony begins but it's strange for them to do a practice run beforehand. The ceremony is said to be too sacred to waste resources but with the downpour, it may be necessary to make sure everything works no matter how unconventional it may seem.

As unwilling as Mikyla was to even remotely being interested in the pact of slavery, her legs had the opposite opinion. No matter how much Mikyla struggled against it, she couldn't sway her body from being drawn to the ceremonial practice like insects drawn to light. The closer she got, the more realistic the events appeared to be. She could feel the sweat hanging in the air like a thick fog and she could hear the bellows of song ripping out the voices of each individual, one by one. She could feel the tension in the air, the effort everyone was making and if she didn't know better she would say that this was the real deal.

Mikyla got closer and closer, this viscosity of the clash between culture and domestication trapping her like a thick sludge. Nevertheless, against her own will and the suffocating air of the situation, Mikyla trudged onwards only ro be halted by a scream.

The now short hairs on Mikyla's neck stood on end and swallowing her own heart back down almost gave her a heart attack by itself. It wasn't real though. It couldn't be. It's only a trial run yet how the resonance of pain itself curdled her blood, Mikyla could only admit; she never knew her community was so good at acting. Another scream followed shortly after and with each hesitant step forward Mikyla was soon within the sightline of the main event.

It looked as it always did. Those coming of age lay huddled within the centre whilst the rest of the community stood on the edges, on looking yet never participating. One by one the youths came forward ready for their brandishing. Prior to the events the nobles would choose whom to select. Those selected would receive their own style of The Verdant Mark, the nobles crest clearly conveyed for all to see. Those who weren't selected... Well... You can say that they're no longer with us.

By the time Mikyla had gotten into clear view at least half of the youths were branded, the welts already blistering against their dark skin. For a trial run the audience seemed almost as large as the real one and whoever portrayed the youths must have practised for a long time. In some way, it's fascinating how much detail has gone into the trial. If Mikyla didn't know better she would say that the one just now was Sade but that's impossible, after all, Sade is still at school. Nonetheless, if that was Sade, next in line should be-'

Mikyla's mouth felt dry as she saw the next youth being dragged to the alter front ready to be baptised with her own Verdant Mark. It's evident that she's trying to resist but with each kick in protest, she winces as two adults clamp on your wrists, forcing her palms to be outstretched. She didn't know how they do it but it's as if Mikyla is watching herself and for a split second she feels her eyes meet her own. As soon as the connection is made, the fake Mikyla stops resisting and within seconds everyone's eyes are on the real Mikyla. They all stare at her like a piece of meat in a lion's den and it takes a second for Mikyla to realise why. She looks like a noble in the heart of a Drow's sacred ceremony.

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Word Count for Chapter 7: 1409
Total Word Count: 10406

Authors Note:

Hope you liked the UNEDITED chapter 7! Don't forget to press on those magical stars to light up Mikyla's future path and leave a comment telling me what you like so far or what you don't like. Thanks for reading so far.

Happy reading
~ Dracollavenore