As such a thing happened, the ritual continued in the surroundings. The Dance of Crimson Departure showed no signs of ending, the Tribesmen processing their grief in the only way they knew how.
The Chieftain put on what The Butcher had worn. The armor hung differently on his frame, but the overall impression was close enough. From a distance, with the distinctive weapon in hand, he could pass for the monster they had slain.
One Warrior came over with Healing Salves, carrying a hide pouch filled with rust-colored paste.
Damian watched as the paste was applied to the Chieftain's wounds. Another Warrior came to help Uncle Adam as well, gently spreading the substance across the gashes that covered the old soldier's back and arms.
The Mana within their bodies seemed to be spurned and churned even faster as their would began to heal much quicker.
These Healing Salves were part of the life and saving grace of any Warrior traversing the Lands of Stone.
In the Lands of Stone, the moving mountains and sacred groves concentrated Mana in ways that transformed ordinary plants into something far more potent.
These Primal Plants drank deeply from the lifeblood of the Land, and those who knew how to harvest and prepare them could create remedies that accelerated healing, restored vitality, and even temporarily enhanced a Warrior's power.
The knowledge of these preparations was jealously guarded. Wisewomen and healers spent lifetimes learning which plants to harvest in the Mountains, when to harvest them, and how to combine them without killing the one who consumed them.
A remedy prepared incorrectly could poison as easily as it could heal.
The most powerful ingredients came from the slopes of moving mountains, where Mana concentration was highest. But harvesting from such places was dangerous. The beasts that dwelt there were equally saturated with power, and they did not welcome intruders.
The Healing Salve being used right now by these Warriors was known as Bloodmoss Paste.
Damian knew it well.
Bloodmoss grew in the shadows of moving mountains, clinging to rocks that had been stained by the blood of fallen beasts. The growth appeared deep crimson, pulsing faintly with inner light as if remembering the life that had fed it.
To harvest it properly, one had to scrape the moss from stone during the hour before dawn, when Mana flowed most freely between Land and sky. The moss was then ground with river clay and the rendered fat of any herbivore, left to set in a hide-covered vessel for three days.
The result was a thick, rust-colored paste that smelled of iron and wet earth. When applied to wounds, it stopped bleeding within moments, prevented corruption and festering, and accelerated the early stages of healing. Minor wounds closed rapidly when combined with a Warrior's natural Mana-enhanced recovery.
Every tribe with access to moving mountains kept stores of Bloodmoss Paste. It was the most basic remedy, given even to children for scraped knees and minor cuts. Warriors carried small pouches of it into battle as a matter of course.
Practical and common, and highly effective for what it was.
But limited.
Damian watched Uncle Adam wince as the paste was also given to him and applied to a particularly deep gash. The Bloodmoss would help, but it would not mend bone or repair deep tissue. It was a remedy for surviving wounds, not eliminating them entirely.
The Lands of Stone were vast, and they held many wonders. Bloodmoss Paste was merely one of the most common Healing Salves across different tribes.
Damian had lived in luxurious abodes and in huts of tribes like the Purple Stone Tribe. He knew the wide ranges of things one could experience.
While there was something as common as Bloodmoss Paste for an everyday Warrior, there were many more rare remedies that some might never see in all their lives.
Mountain's Breath Salve, for instance.
He remembered his mother speaking of it, her voice hushed with the reverence reserved for sacred things. The salve was made from a lichen that grew only on the peaks of the most powerful moving mountains, where the air itself shimmered with Mana.
The lichen appeared to breathe, expanding and contracting in slow rhythms, its surface releasing faint puffs of luminescent spores.
Harvesting it required ascending during a thunderstorm, when lightning drew Mana to the surface of the mountain. The preparation demanded the rendered fat of a Primal Beast, never a common creature, and the ash of wood struck by lightning. Everything had to occur in complete darkness, guided only by touch.
The effects were legendary. Mountain's Breath Salve could heal deep tissue damage including internal organs. It could restore function to crushed or torn muscles, accelerate healing to supernatural rates, and even mend broken bones rapidly. Damage that would otherwise be permanent could be repaired...in time
'A rough, minor effect of what just an aspect of this letter, this fraction of a letter from The Primordial Tongue can do...'
Damian shook his head.
Very few ever saw it. Fewer still could afford it.
Then there was something called the Thunderblood Elixir.
Not a salve but a consumable, and dangerous if misused. It was made from the blood of Primal Beasts that had the element of lightning, combined with plants that grew only where lightning had scarred the earth.
The most potent version used blood from Storm Serpents, massive creatures said to swim through thunderclouds and feed on lightning itself.
Those who consumed it received a massive temporary boost to physical strength and speed. Their Mana sensitivity and absorption enhanced dramatically. They gained brief resistance to lightning and felt a sense of invincibility that could either save them or lead them to foolish deaths.
There were things like these and many more that Damian knew of.
But in the end, it was all knowledge that he could not apply right now.
He had no Mountain's Breath Salve. He had no Thunderblood Elixir. He had only the memories of a Lugal who had learned much and lost everything.
But as he had just experienced such a profound change...
As he was now grasping a letter of something as mysterious as the Primordial Tongue...
Many things that he thought would be impossible for him might be close to his reach.
For this, he would have to plan and make a regiment. To potentially go into the Mountains. To hunt Primal Beasts. To look for resources that could accelerate his recovery and growth.
Because everyone knew that the Lands of Stone were barren, except the Mountains that held everything.
Well, the Mountains also held Primal Beasts that could eat you up and shit you out in a few hours.
But many things were possible.
His eyes flashed sharply as he began to think.
The letter he had spoken, the fragment of the Primordial Tongue, had done something extraordinary. It had healed him from mortal wounds. It had purified whatever blockages had prevented him from sensing Mana. It had doubled the concentration of Mana in his flesh with a single utterance.
What else could such power do?
What other letters existed in that ancient language?
What would happen if he learned more than one?
These were questions that demanded answers. And answers, in the Lands of Stone, required resources and strength. Required the kind of power that came from facing danger and emerging victorious.
He would need to plan carefully. He would need to train. He would need to build himself back up from the broken farmer he had been into something that could survive long enough to find those answers.
He did not realize that near him, Uncle Adam was having the Bloodmoss Paste applied to his wounds while looking at Damian with an extremely happy expression.
The old soldier watched his change with eyes that saw not the thin young man in torn wrappings, but something else entirely.
At this moment, even while standing amidst corpses and mourning, even while wearing the simple garb of a farmer, Damian Vakochev still held the aura of a Young Lugal whether he knew it or not.
The way he analyzed situations and the way he proposed solutions.
The way he stood with quiet certainty while chaos swirled around him.
Uncle Adam had protected this boy for years, hoping that someday the broken Lugal might find a way to rise again.
And now, watching Damian's sharp eyes calculate possibilities that others could not see, watching the wheels turn behind that calm expression...
The old Warrior allowed himself to hope that someday had finally arrived!
Oh!