Malkhad closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.  This was an important moment for him, one that he had been training for even before he knew his purpose, the moment that could define the rest of his life’s journey.  He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him as acutely as he could taste the expectation that hung thick in the air.  Even with his eyes closed, he knew exactly where his family was sitting.  His father and younger brothers were practically bursting with pride; it almost made him smile.  His mother and sisters had a bit of worry around their edges, but that wasn’t anything new.  He could hear the stragglers running up and jockeying for a good position.  Whispered thoughts were quickly silenced, hushed by stronger wills.

The day a monastery-trained Kalashtar declared their purpose was an important day for everyone in the community.  Would they gain another Lightbringer, or would the young one choose to be a Shadow Watcher, a potential champion to end the current Age of Nightmare?  Few doubted what path Malkhad would take, but this would be the first public demonstration of his skill, which no one outside of the monastery had seen.

For an instant, he remembered what Lanakhad, his trainer and Hamarkhad’s father, had told him almost a decade ago.  Malkhad, he had said, never once actually speaking, This village hasn’t seen a wilder in over a generation.  It’s been twice as long since one has trained in this monastery.  I can show you the ways of the psionicist, but your path is your own, and wilders have little use for guides.

Malkhad took another deep breath, drawing on the anticipation of those gathered around him.  They have never seen the likes of one like him before; that much he had always known.  They were waiting, truly waiting, with their eyes wide and hardly breathing.  Fear crept around his feet and his fingers where he crouched on the stone floor, but the fear was not coming from him.  It came from those watching.

They are afraid of me.  Malkhad’s fingers tensed at that realization, almost clawing into the rock.  The crowd gave a shallow gasp at his sudden movement.  They fear me like they fear the chaos inside of themselves.  They fear the potential of disorder and of madness.  They don’t understand the freedom to be had…

Slowly and carefully his mind crept into that of the lead Thoughtsinger’s.  He almost laughed at the surprise he felt in her consciousness, but she composed herself quickly and left her psyche open to his influence.  The Dance of the Spirit is a very public but also a highly personal affair.  The music comes from the dancers’ own will and is translated through the band of Thoughtsingers gathered there.  The lead Thoughtsinger acts as a psychic hub and via their power conducts the rest of the band.

A few drums began first, low and steady, before being joined by more.  Malkhad slowly got to his feet, and stretched his arms towards the sky.  The music began to take on a tribal, almost primitive sound.  The crowd shifted in an uncomfortable fashion; most traded furtive glances with their neighbors.  When Malkhad finally opened his eyes, they were blazing a bright cerulean blue.  He could see the other Kalashtar surrounding him, and he could taste the fear and the confusion in the air.  The music played by the Thoughtsingers was unlike anything anyone had heard before, and the musicians had never in their lives known such rhythms.

Oh, but he did.  This was the music he had longed to dance to.  This was the sound of his soul, and now everyone could hear.

He brought his arms down and drew his sickle, his favorite weapon, from his belt.  His heart began to quicken.  As all aspiring Shadowwatchers do, he began to cycle through the various motions his trainer had taught him, so that all would know his mastery of combat.  The music had taken on a smooth, almost seductive air, but it rode a rumbling tide of raw passion.  Psychic energy licked along the surface of his blade, crackling as it etched a patch of lightning in its wake.

What Malkhad lacked in form, he made up for in ferocity.  An uninhibited frenzy took the place of grace, and his loud cries when he struck out made the crowd jump.  The Thoughtsingers were visibly shaken, but there was nothing they could do to pull themselves away.  Their collective will had been shanghaied, and their voices and hands were strangers to themselves.  The music was forcing its way inexorably towards a crescendo, and when it hit, Malkhad froze.

The music did not stop, but rolled provocatively around the circle of musicians.  At some point the tie holding back Malkhad’s hair had come undone, and it hung in a tangled black mess down his back.  Long strands of it stuck to the sweat running down the sides of his face, and he was panting heavily.  He resembled an animal, and with his arms crossed over his chest in that manner it seemed as though he were trying to hold something in.

Oh, but he wasn’t.  The whole time, he had been acutely aware of those watching.  Their shock and approval, their disapproval and admiration were intoxicating.  Moaning softly, Malkhad curled his body around it, and a streak of blatant desire and fear suddenly sizzled at the edge of his brain.  His head rolled back as he savored it, his mouth open and panting to the sky.  His audience was uncomfortable, but they couldn’t look away.  They were afraid, but they dare not leave.  They belonged to him.

Suddenly, without warning, Malkhad sprang to his feet and flung his sickle right at the gathered crowd.  The curved blade spun through the air and was mere inches away from striking a Thoughtsinger in the front row when its path abruptly changed.  Someone screamed, but Malkhad, lost in his euphoria, didn’t even hear them.  The sickle began to whirl in a controlled spiral back towards the center.  While it traveled to him, he went through the hand-to-hand combat motions he had been taught.  As the weapon drew closer it began to go faster and the music began to get higher.  Malkhad struck and dodged, and the spinning blade formed a veritable wall of death around him.

The stone floor began to be smattered with blood, and it wasn’t long before there was enough to mark his exact footsteps.  At some point in the routine his legs were slashed, and a sleeve was cut from his arm.  In his ecstasy he did not notice; he was laughing like one possessed.  The tiles under his feet shifted and cracked, and nearby pillars started to shake.  Torches surrounding the circle roared as alien shapes writhed within the flames.  The music crashed as he finished, his arms once more stretched open to the sky.

The Thoughtsingers, overcome with emotion, collapsed as a unit.  Some had fainted dead away, while others were merely dazed.  Malkhad, panting heavily and smiling to himself, slowly came back to his senses, riding in on a tide of pure joy.  I’ve done it! he thought to himself, as the blue fire in his eyes faded away, and he looked around at everyone there.  No one was helping the fallen Thoughtsingers yet.  They were all staring at him, their mouths agape.  But he had done it.  The Dance of the Spirit was to show what they had become, to reveal their talents and what they stood for, and to what purpose they would dedicate themselves for the rest of their lives and even undo their own deaths.

Malkhad walked around the staging area, picking up his sickle, his hair tie, and the bits of his clothes that had fallen or been cut off during the Dance.  When he had gathered everything up, he bowed deeply to his trainer, and half walked, half staggered back towards the monastery.  The silent crowd split as quickly as a door to let him past, and as he limped away, he head someone whisper, “What was that?”

“That,” bellowed the familiar voice of Hamarkhad “Is a Wilder!”