Mila Kivdahl, is a Rakshasan sorcerer, hailing from the country of Corinea. Rakshasa are a small sect of Tabaxi who undergo a dark ritual to gain twisted magical powers. Their hands are removed, reversed, and swapped to the opposite side. Their wrists are sewn back together in a way to leave runic scars that glow and crackle with magical energy.
Those who are deemed worthy candidates for “The Entwining” are pulled from their homes and taken away to an Academy where they undergo this ritual and are taught the traditions, magic, & rites of the Rakshasa.
The wind rushes past my pointed ears as I watch my flying ship get smaller in my vision. The tips of my ears sting as the heat is ripped from them, as if it had caught the edge of the ship before the fall and left me behind. reach for the grappling hook on my belt but I can already tell the rope isn't long enough at this point.
I flip myself to view the ground. I can see the rolling hills of Corinea below me, a place I used to call my home. Looking at it from this perspective, it looks so small, even as it grows in my vision. Of course, when I was a child, it felt massive. I could run around for hours, climbing trees, and exploring small caves, all in the name of adventure and discovery. I find myself remembering my mothers Spiced Strawberry Pie, she would always make it for me when I got home. Her soft fur as she hugged me and asked about my day was always how I knew that I was safe at home.
The ground is taking up most of my vision now, and I am wishing that I had mastered that slow falling spell Master Bailgruuf was trying to teach me. I can hear his words echoing in my mind as I try to recall his teachings.
“Now remember young Mila, you must imagine yourself as light as a feather. Then, chant these words of power, 'Gurash navo liteh vira moduul'.”
I move my hands in the way he showed me all those years ago. My twisted hands rapidly perform each gesture as I close my eyes to try and ignore the quickly approaching ground. I can feel the magic sparking off my scarred wrists, it burns as if my very soul were caught ablaze. Attempting to push past the pain, I visualize myself.
I imagine my tall and broad frame becoming smaller and loose. My orange and black striped fur becoming feathers. I imagine my large claws begin to shave down to small twigs. Then as I open my eyes I call out the words of my Master.
“Gurash navo, liteh vira moduul!”
I look ahead as the ground is just a few feet below me and before I become a red stain on the ground, a gust of air lays flat all the grass around me and I feel myself jolt as I am quickly slowed down and gently placed upon the ground on my feet.
I look up and can see my flying ship sailing off to the horizon, without me. I let out a large sigh, mostly in relife, but partly annoyed I must now track down my ship once again. I look down at my wrists, and can see the runic scars are bright red from the strain the magic placed on them.
I must get stronger and make my people proud. I, Mila Kivdahl, shall become the greatest Rakshasan Sorcerer the world of Bergomont has ever known.
When I woke up, the first thing I remember is the burning sensation radiating from my wrists. It felt as though my hands had been sewn back on using thousands of miniature electric eels wreathed in flames. All of my senses were reeling as I worked through the pain. I wanted to jump from my bed but the leather straps digging in to my forearms and ankles kept me firmly in place. As the ringing in my ears started to settle, I could make out the voice of Master Bailgruuf.
“Mila? So, you are alive, yes? Good...good...I was worried you did not have the fortitude to survive the procedure. Slow your breathing, your panic and sturggling will only exacerbate the pain.”
His voice was as cold and straight as glass, just as I remember. Even when praising me it comes off like I'm reading one of his reports.
Following his instruction, I slowed my breathing despite the pain. With each breath I could feel the sensation in my wrists start to dull. My vision began to clear and I could make out my surroundings.
I was in one of the recovery rooms in the medical wing of the Academy. The dark stone room was lit with a small amount of sunlight coming through a small window on the wall to my left. If I wasn't in so much pain I would cherish this breif meeting with the sun more.
Around the room were various cabinets and shelves neatly stacked with papers and medical equipment.
To my right I could see Master Bailgruuf standing beside my bed. He was a snow leopard Rakshasa, his large build loomed over me with his icey blue eyes staring down at me through small round glasses. Studying each detail like I was one of his experiments. His large, backwards hand gripped a clipboard, on which, he was methodically writing something down without even looking at the page. The sleeves of his silver silk robes were pulled back revealing the scars on his wrists. His runic scars had dulled and flattened over time, even still, his power was terrifying. Behind him, I could see his long striped tail was swishing from side to side with contemplation.
As I looked back up at him, he momentarily places his pen down and reaches down to wipe away the tears that I only just realized had been running down my face.
“Do not cry Mila. You are Strong. You will be the strongest of us all. I know this.”
He pulled his hands back and, almost as if to hide the care he has for me, he quickly swipes the tears off his finger and in to a glass vial. Speaking a word of power I couldn't make out, he pinched the top of the vial between his fingers as they began to glow, melting the end of the vial shut. He walks away to place it in a wooden stand with my name carved into it.
I glance down to my hands, my wrists are bright red and raw. My palms are facing upward though my arms lay flat at my sides. It's disorientating to see, but the pain keeps me from having any form of control. The intricate ruinc stitching in my wrists is glowing white with black electricity arcing to the metal plates in the bed beside my hands.
Behind where Master Bailgruuf was, I can see another occupied bed in the room soaked in blood, I don't recognize the Occelot Rakshasa laying there, unmoving. His arm hangs over the side of his bed, his wrists and hands looked like blood soaked shredded chicken. I dread to think that's what could have become of me.
It took me weeks before I could move under my own power with no pain. In that time Master Bailgruuf kept a close watch over my recovery.