Sun Mote Copse red breath

The day that Ar-Khalba both eagerly awaited and thoroughly dreaded approached with each cycle of the sun. When the call of the high-priestess sounded through the copse, the man knew it was time. Eshuman had carried their litter -- their sacrifice -- to term. The ritual soon approached. His heart lurched in his chest, wrenching as if it had been caught in the tight grip of a vice, but he rose from the spot to do his duty to the Malkaria.

He joined the others near the whelping den. The scent of blood and afterbirth hung heavy in the air. He could hear them -- the sounds of his first born. But, were they truly his? Their souls -- of them Ar-Khalba bore no ownership. However, knowledge of the old ways aside, he was unprepared for this day. Truthfully, there was no way. Not when it was the same blood that ran though his own heart smeared across the altar.

And so, he stood in silence and slipped on a stoic mask.