A new layer of greasy sweat coated Azar’s skin each time she tried to wipe it off. Such was the life of the jungle. Humid, hot and an ever-present layer of thick mush comprised of decomposed dead leaves laying there for centuries to rot under the baking heat. The compost itself was not a problem, simply an inconvenience. What was under it though, massive undergrowth and a labyrinth of contorted roots that lay there waiting to catch an unwary foot into an unfortunate event that may be their last. Grotesque vines and shapes which seemed to depict the trees stretching out their massive roots made it as if the trees were alive, and enjoying their little game.
Most that did not live in the jungle found it treacherous. Azar had made it her home. With casual dexterity, navigation through this maze made the trees themselves frustrated at their futile attempts. She mocked them, and the spirits. Who could ever catch her?
Her mother was sitting in the village sqaure alone, beside a large circle of soot and charcoal that stained the area around it. Only the last glows of the firelight could still be seen now, persistent and stubborn in their existence. Azar’s mother gazed into them, hypnotized by the soft but fiery glow that edged the last pieces of coal. Overhead, the night stars hung there for the spirits to tread on, each star part of a greater pattern that spoke one’s fate, of ill or good.
Azar approached her from behind. She tried to make it obvious she was there but to no avail did her mother return from her gaze. Finally, the small tribesgirl tapped the shoulder of her frail mother which did bring her out of her limbo.
“You need not startle me young Azar.” She looked at her with a gentle smile that softened her gnarled face, covered in wrinkles like tree bark after years of the same signature smile. “I had known you were there.” Her snowy white hair hung free over her shoulders, which was never a common sight unless only she and Azar were alone. Despite her age, Mother Alash was still vigorous in her work as the village shaman, another oddity for it was uncommon for women to take a place of position. It was because of this Azar admired her.
“You were gazing into something, like you did yesterday and the day before. Is it something that is troubling you?” Azar said with a voice almost angelic.
“My troubles are none of yours for it would be cruel of me to burden you with them, especially at such a young age.” Mother Alash spoke gently, her smile never breaking.
It was impossible to read her. Her deep eyes that showed no emotion other than compassion and love. Her face looked as if it were made of wood, carved to form the ancient-old creases and grooves that embedded themselves around her features. It did not tarnish her beauty though. It was never a question of Mother Alash’s former beauty that seemed to only fade away slightly while the other village elders completely changed. It was a question though of why she never married.
For a while, the two simple sat there, one trying to read the other and the frail village shaman simply retaining her seated position by the burnt out fire pit while Azar standing there, stubborn and short with her fiery crimson hair the same way as the elder. The two were alone underneath the jungle night, light only by the moon that shone white with stars that adorned the vast expanse. It was believed that the sky was a crown for the great king. Perhaps one day Azar will have a crown like it. Forge it from silver and layer it with gold.
The two continued their gaze, neither of them breaking. Mother Alash’s expression seemed to never wane or waver from patience and acceptance. Azar’s face showed determination and defiance that she knew, at the back of her mind, was futile. The expression slowly changed to shock, and finally, as expected, horror.
Azar finally knelt down beside her. “Your gown!” her voice trembled for a while. Azar tried to reach out to it but quickly kept it to herself. The shaman’s gown was ancient, only for the shaman to wear and to touch. The gown itself was made of colorful bird feathers that showed an impressive display of colors and markings. The gown was the symbol of the shaman.
But tonight, the gown had been blemished. Streaks of dark crimson added onto the pattern, added not to further beatify but to blaspheme it. Horror and disbelief was evident in Azar’s face now while Mother Alash’s expression still remained as it was before.
Lightning Storm Loop Copy
Events
Time - Every 0.20 seconds of game time
Conditions
Actions
Unit Group - Pick every unit in stormgroup and do (Actions)
Set caster = (Picked unit)
Custom script: set udg_handle = GetHandleId(udg_caster)
If (All Conditions are True) then do (Then Actions) else do (Else Actions)
