Teja moved to grab the bag from his knelt position, and spread out a black wool swath of fabric beside him - a makeshift alter, where he set a chalice, his dagger, a bowl of herbs and ashes of a sacrificial boar, and two candles. He moved gracefully as he set up, his motions practiced and reverent, but what Charles said gave him brief pause. "Um. Charles, then. Charlie just seems a little too irreverent for my tastes," Teja murmured, feeling that welling up of pride that he couldn't help with every time Charles praised him or gave him special permission to do anything whatsoever. But to call the man he'd so long admired and looked up to - in more than just a professional, but personal regard - by his first name was not lost on him. It was a sign of deep respect from Charles, who rarely let anyone see themselves as peers, and Teja felt extremely honored.
He continued on as he quietly poured the wine into the chalice, "To call you anything but sir will take some getting used to, however. Old habits," he chuckled. With the wine poured, he started speaking in a language predating Norwegian, though it was similar to both his father's native language as well as Swedish. It was rhythmic and low-spoken, an old chant of reverence for his forefathers and the Gods to which they pledged their lives. As he spoke the spell, he took up the dagger and sliced the palm of his hand, drawing blood which he spilled into the bowl with the herbs, before sliding his bleeding hands down the candles. He then lit the candles and poured the wine from the chalice onto the mound, and then overturned the bowl as well.
He got up from his kneeling position and stood beside Charles, hoping that the spirit still was attached to the soil, even though the bones below it had long become dust, and he wrapped his hand with gauze, reminding himself that his powers of regeneration were starting to slowly wane. "Now, all that's needed is patience. It takes a long time for the libations to reach the remains. The ground's packed."
He continued on as he quietly poured the wine into the chalice, "To call you anything but sir will take some getting used to, however. Old habits," he chuckled. With the wine poured, he started speaking in a language predating Norwegian, though it was similar to both his father's native language as well as Swedish. It was rhythmic and low-spoken, an old chant of reverence for his forefathers and the Gods to which they pledged their lives. As he spoke the spell, he took up the dagger and sliced the palm of his hand, drawing blood which he spilled into the bowl with the herbs, before sliding his bleeding hands down the candles. He then lit the candles and poured the wine from the chalice onto the mound, and then overturned the bowl as well.
He got up from his kneeling position and stood beside Charles, hoping that the spirit still was attached to the soil, even though the bones below it had long become dust, and he wrapped his hand with gauze, reminding himself that his powers of regeneration were starting to slowly wane. "Now, all that's needed is patience. It takes a long time for the libations to reach the remains. The ground's packed."
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