"You've made it another year, the boys ought not to fear, knocked one down, made not a sound, so you made it another year- hey!" sang a chorus of mostly 12 year olds and a smattering of adults. Ren found the birthday song moderately morbid, but Sam was from Ossilith so he would get a proper Ossilith birthday celebration. The song was followed by a chorus of cheers and applause as Sam flipped a fat gold coin into the air, caught it, and slapped it against the back of his palm. He peeked at it and let out a sound of displeasure, like one might after losing a silly game. Which, again to Ren's somewhat foreign viewpoint, the coin flip was a silly game, meant to predict if your year would go easy or hard, with the connotation that in Ossilith a hard year means a life-threatening one. However, as with most of the city's morbid traditions, it was held with a light air of playfulness and jest.
Sam held up the dagger side of the coin, the dove on the opposite side facing him, showing his party guests the fortune of bad luck to which they all made similar groans of protest or taunts.
"You Ossilithians are obsessed with death," Ren remarked over her shoulder to Duren who clapped by her side at the spectacle.
"Can you blame us?" he said. "You Treatiers donate- what, a few warriors a year?"
"If that," Ren agreed, providing this cavate with Parinth in mind from which she was the only 'donation' for years.
"You say goodbye to them at the gates of your city and they're gone. We actually live it."
"From cradle to grave," Ren echoed in a dead tone, glancing at Duren with a glazed expression which made him smirk. It was another Ossilith expression. Fight to fight, dawn to night, stupid and brave, from cradle to grave. Most people just used one piece of this expression at a time, because of course everyone knew the rest by just saying the one part.
"We'll make an Ossilithian of you yet," he said with a breath of a laugh.
"Why stupid and brave? Can't we be smart and brave?"
"If you were really smart, you'd be in a different line of work. Or so the saying goes."
"Hey, Master Duren! Whatcha get me for my birthday?" Sam said with enthusiasm, bouncing up to the two of them with a boy Ren recognized from the academy, another Year of the Wolf. He had a thick mop of brown hair which haloed dimpled cheeks that hadn't quite squared out yet, and a wide soft nose. He was entirely boyish, like Sam, except for the scar that ran from the right side of his forehead down through his brow.
"Look what I got him!" the boy said, dark brown eyes darting to the shiny set of throwing knives in Sam's clutches. They had engravings in them and a leather grip.
"You better not lose those," Ren said, thinking he probably would in the first 10 seconds of using them.
"I'm not gonna lose 'em, Kip got them made for me special!"
During all this Duren had withdrawn the gift he and Ren had picked out together, a new leather pouch for his belt, stocked with a compact first aid kit which wouldn't cure a fatal wound but certainly could help in a bind. Ren had wrapped it and addressed it from them both.
"A joint gift?" he explained. "What are you, married?"
Duren didn't react, and Ren just squinted at him. "My gift is inside his gift."
"You could stand to be grateful," Duren grumbled, handing over the gift so Sam could tear into the paper. Sam ignored him, of course.
"Ooo, awesome!" Sam exclaimed with excitement and turned to Kip to show him what he'd gotten.
YOU ARE READING
Renevere Mars: Part Three
FantasyThey're gone, and now there's no path in sight that might lead to them. Ren would love it if she didn't have to struggle just to find her place in a society of warriors either half her age or twice as experienced. She would love it if her Master, th...
