talesfromthegraavim

[talesfromthegraavim]

Perfection Moore, Wife of Rictus Erectus, Daughter -later Wife- of The Immortan Joe. Mother of Equitus Aurelius, Filius Superbus, and Bellator Stellarus

[talesfromthegraavim]

(UNFINISHED) WHAT IT MEANS TO BE PERFECTION

When she was born she had a brother, Miss Giddy said. She didn’t remember what it was like to have a brother anymore, she didn’t remember her Whelper- some Wretched woman who gathered too many debts and paid them on her back- but Miss Giddy said that’s where Perfection got her looks. Her eyes like Aqua-Cola, and her hair like rust, and her unmarred, unmutated face and body. Miss Giddy told her that The Immortan Joe saw her in the Whelping Bay and Chose Her Special, that He Himself had named her Perfection and brought her to the High Vault to be a Wife for his own son when she was just seventy-seven days old. 

Perfection had just turned five years, and when she asked Miss Giddy what a year was the woman had explained that a year was three hundred and sixty-five days. Perfection had lived three hundred and sixty-five days, five times over. The Immortan Joe had brought her chrome gifts: a sparkly suncatcher and a soft thing that Miss Giddy said was called a Teddy Bear, and a whole watermelon just for Perfection. The Wives had come together and sewn her a new blanket and slippers, and asked The Immortan Joe if they could have ham that night to celebrate. He had nodded and ruffled her hair with a chuckle, “Anything for my Perfection, of course.”

So Perfection and The Wives and Rictus (who Miss Giddy said was eleven years old, and she was going to be his Wife when they were grown, and give him many babies) and even the Immortan Joe all sat down to a Special Meal while Miss Giddy played happy songs on the piano. Perfection was thrilled, Special Meals only ever happened when The Wives were going to have a baby. The Immortan Joe always did Special Meals when they told him, even if the baby died later or was born wrong. None of the babies that she gave Rictus were going to die early or be born wrong, Perfection decided. Her babies would be Perfection, just like her. 

When Perfection was nine she was allowed to sit in The Immortan Joe’s lap during meals and sing for him while he ate. She loved The Immortan, and she loved that Rictus stared at her the whole time she sang. Her husband should pay attention to her always, even if he was more like a kid her age than a Grown Man of fourteen. They played together alone now, since she was older and he had once even kissed her! He blushed afterward and said that he was sorry.

“Why are you sorry, Ricky? I’m going to be your Wife and have your sons.”

Rictus blushed harder and ducked his head between his knees, “Dad said that I haveta wait until we get married to give you any babies, and I heard one of the Warboys talking about how doing… That. What I just did. Is how you get babies.”

Wildly Worldly Perfection had asked Miss Giddy last year how to get a baby, because The Immortan Joe had said it would be time for her to have Rictus’s babies soon. “Just a few more years, my Perfection. Then you will be my daughter, and give me fine Gransons.”

“Oh, Ricky! It takes more work than that! And besides, I can’t give you babies yet. Miss Giddy and The Immortan said it isn’t time.”

He peeked at her over his knees, eyebrows raised, “Really?”

Perfection laughed and butted her hip against his, “Yeah, I asked Miss Giddy how to get a baby and she explained it all.”

Sitting close to Rictus, Perfection could see the bump in his pants that Miss Giddy said was called an erection, and in a fit of boldness she placed her soft, pale hand on his thigh. Rictus flinched hard away from her, eyes wide and gasping, “Persha! What are you doing?!”

“Miss Giddy said that I have to touch you. To make your erection go away. With my hands or put it inside me, and some people put it in their mouths, or their butts!”

Rictus was stricken, “But you… You poop. From your butt? And I piss from there, why does it go in your mouth?!”

Perfection shrugged, she really didn’t understand it either, but Miss Giddy said that it was supposed to feel good and she told him as much. Rictus only looked more confused and he chewed on his thumb as he thought about it. “I don’t know about all that other stuff, but I know kissing felt good. And I like when you hug me. And when you sing. Maybe we should save everything else for when you can give a baby?”

“Okay,” Perfection said brightly. She just wanted Rictus to be happy, and obviously he wasn’t happy when she tried to touch him like The Wives and Miss Giddy said you could touch your husband. “D’you wanna hug? And then I’ll sing the Mountain song?”

Rictus nodded and opened his big arms, her future husband was so strong, he could lift her in the air with one hand. Perfection sat squarely on his thighs, her own skinny arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He smelled like the Garage, motor oil and sweat, she loved when he smelled like that even if Rictus thought he was stinky. They sat like that for a while until Perfection noticed him squirming, and she readjusted to sit in his lap just like she did when she sang for The Immortan Joe. 

Softly, slowly, she hummed “Listen, baby. Ain't no mountain high. Ain't no valley low.

Ain't no river wide enough, baby.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening Perfection was seated on The Immortan’s lap, being gingerly fed fresh strawberries from his fingers when Rictus -who had been staring at his Wife and his Dad with a gaping mouth until Corpus had told him he’d catch spiders if he didn’t shut his gob- cleared his throat and looked frantically from his Dad to the table. 

The Immortan sighed, the heave of his belly threatening to unseat Perfection, who scrabbled at his shoulder and twisted her fingers in his hair to hold on. He favored her with a soft smile and untangled her fingers before addressing his son. “Rictus Erectus, you will stand proud and look me in the eyes like a man if you wish to speak.”

Rictus stood and took a shaky breath, “Dad…”

“Speak up, boy.” Perfection smoothed away invisible dust off of The Immortan’s chest. It wouldn’t do for him to be upset tonight, Glorious was going to tell him about her baby later and The Immortan didn’t give as good Special Meals when his sons had upset him. 

“Dad. How do you get a baby?”

The Immortan Joe stiffened and Corpus began to cackle madly, “How- heh-heh-gak-heh-heh- Rictus have you not had a woman yet?! Even I’d had a woman at your age! And I’m in a fucking chair!”

The Immortan glared at Corpus and his hand on Perfection’s hip tightened until she whimpered at the sting, “Corpus Colossus be SILENT. Rictus Erectus, I will teach you later tonight. You’re old enough to observe The Wives at their duty. But not around my Perfection, your Perfection. Women are jealous creatures, son.”

He gently lifted Perfection off his lap and sent her off to bed with a kiss to her hair. She swished herself down the table by Corpus and whispered, “You don’t need to be mean, Cory.”

Corpus rolled his head to the opposite shoulder and whispered back, “Wouldn’t need to if he wasn’t such a baby, sweet Perfection. Goodnight.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Perfection was dreaming of a Green Place hidden in the mountains where she ran through pools with her lost brother and played hidey-seek with Rictus through a grove of lemon trees when she heard a humming. It wasn’t bees, though she had seen hives in the boughs, and when she looked around the grove she noticed that Rictus was nowhere to be seen. The humming grew louder, and she willed her eyes to open. 

Rictus was sitting on his heels in the corner of her room, his frantic rocking making jumpy shadows in the moonlight that streamed through her window. He flicked a glance at her, catching her confused gaze and, with a muffled screech, rocked harder. He was chewing his thumbnail, humming tunelessly and staring at her like she was scary.

“Ricky? What’s wrong?” Perfection had never seen him like this, and she silently slipped from her bed to kneel in front of him. 

“Uh-Uh. No. Won’t. He hurts them, Persha! Uh-Uh. Won’t,” Rictus stared resolutely at the wall behind her, refusing to meet her eyes, still rocking on his heels and humming as if the movement and sound would drive the things he’d seen away into the waste.

Perfection remembered that The Immortan was going to show Rictus what The Wives’ Duty was. Why would the Wives’ Duty upset him so, she didn’t understand, wasn’t it meant to be wonderful and filling and an honor? She had to get him calm, Rictus’s feelings mattered more than her questions. “Ricky, I’m going to touch your hand okay? And I’ll sing the Mountain song. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Perfection waited until he nodded to touch him, sometimes touch frightened him worse and she remembered the time The Immortan Joe had beaten him for accidentally pushing her before she knew to ask. She’d resolved then not to touch him without asking first, he hadn’t deserved to be hurt over her, even if she was Perfection. She gently rubbed one finger over the back of his clenched hands as she sang and sang and sang. It felt like forever, and Perfection had nearly sung herself back to sleep when Rictus relaxed and pulled her against his chest like a Teddy Bear. 

“Persha. If I gotta do the things Dad does to the Wives I don’t want you to be mine. I won’t hurt you like that. Dad said she were happy, that she loved it, but I could see that Righteous was hurting. She cried and yelled and flinked away and it was awful! And then he said he changed his mind! That you’s big enough now to practice Wifing!”

Perfection was confused, “But that’s how you get babies? And I can’t give you a baby yet?”

“He said it don’t matter, practice makes perfect and Perfection makes sons!” Rictus started to rock again and his breath came quicker, “An’ if I don’t do it he’ll take you away from me! He’ll make you his Wife, Like Glorious and Righteous and Heavenly and Merciful and Pleasant. He’ll hurt you if I don’t, and I’ll hurt you if I do and… And.. NO! NO! I WON’T!”

Perfection wriggled loose enough to wrap her limbs around Rictus’ torso as tight as she could, “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay Ricky. I love you, and if The Immortan says you have to do it for me to be your wife, we will. It’ll be okay. It’ll be chrome. I just wanna be your wife, and I bet we can make it not hurt, It’s okay, Ricky. It’s okay.”

They sat there like that until Perfection figured out how to keep Rictus’ promise to The Immortan and help him relax. She hushed and rocked with him until he looked down at her with steel in his eyes, resigned but determined, and pressed a clumsy kiss to her lips. 

She kissed him back, that’s all she could do. It was not graceful, their first foray into lovemaking, far from it. But they, a child of nine and a child of fourteen, managed. Rictus was timid, deathly afraid to make her flinch or cry as he had seen his father do, and Perfection -while well-versed in the theory- struggled against demands made of her body that she was too small and too young to accommodate. It wasn’t until dawn, when the pair was exhausted and tearful that they could relax. Rictus spooned his naked body around hers and sobbed into her hair, while Perfection could only hum and rub mindless nothing-shapes into his encircling arm, eyes on the wall, her gaze a thousand miles away. 

Part of Perfection was happy, Rictus loved her enough to do what it took to keep her. But she felt sick and stretched like old rubber. Sore and wobbly and too tired to do anything but appreciate her husband’s warmth at her back. 

In the four years since The Immortan Joe’s drunken demand of his son Perfection had learned to enjoy making love to Rictus. He refused to call it any of the names the Warboys did: fucking or tumbling or even simply “sex”. Rictus said that he wouln’t tumble Perfection, or fuck her or sex her, he would only make more love with her.  But she got her First Bleed just days after her thirteenth birthday, and Miss Giddy had convinced The Immortan to wait to announce their marriage for a year. 

“She’s more likely to survive if she’s past the first year of her bleed. Strong sons are not born from weak mothers, My Immortan. Your late Wife is proof of that.”

Miss Giddy meant Delight. Delight was a sweet girl, just older than Perfection, with tight curls of black hair and rich, dark skin that The Immortan Joe had plucked from the pit of Wretched. Perfection had liked her smiling brown eyes, and appreciated having someone her own age around for the few months before Delight had fallen pregnant and died pushing out a deformed daughter. Perfection was reminded daily by The Immortan that she would never fail like that, and she didn’t need to be afraid of having a Mutie or a girl, because she was Perfection. She was better than any Wife from the Wretched, because He Himself had chosen her for Rictus when she was a baby. She would have a thousand strong, smart sons to grab the sun like their grandfather before them, and before that she would watch over his Vault with Rictus as Alpha and Omega. Rictus’s eyes had never strayed from his Wife, but The Immortan Joe, her Second Greatest Love, was a jealous man and only allowed Rictus to guard The Vault from the outside while his Wife In All But Name held sway over the Wives inside. 

Perfection ruled over her little queendom with an iron fist, sharp eyes and ears like a hawk. There was no whisper she did not hear, and no secret that she kept from The Immortan. The Immortan Joe loved her best, above even his own Wives, calling her to sit in his lap and sing or be fed from his plate, though it drove Rictus to distraction, fearing even now that The Immortan would steal his Wife away. But The Immortan had his Five Wives, and Perfection was for Rictus. 

As soon as Miss Giddy could be convinced to Kibosh the rule about making love to her husband before marriage. 

She and Rictus had gotten used to making love as often as they liked and sleeping in Perfection’s bed since the morning after they had first made love and Perfection waddled in like an Oldworld penguin with a sore bottom and stiff legs. Miss Giddy, silly fusspot that she was, had wanted to put a stop to it that very day, but The Immortan laughed and said that meddling old women minded their tongues or lost them. And Miss Giddy grudgingly allowed it until Rictus had woken from a midday nap positively covered in Perfection’s menstrual blood, screaming that she was going to die. Once Perfection got her First Bleed she couldn’t so much as touch her husband until they were Announced. 

It was inconvenient, but The Immortan Joe had explained that he allowed Miss Giddy’s overstep because He wanted Perfection to stay alive. “No Granson is worth the loss of Perfection. Not My Perfection, the Best and Beautiest of all Wives.”

Sometimes Perfection mulled over whether or not she would be better off as Wife to The Immortan, not Wife to Rictus. Obviously the Wives as they were didn’t appreciate his Greatness or Legacy, and they had no respect for the V-8, or the Warboys who would soar Fury Road with The Immortan Joe to Valhalla. She had crouched in secret once, listening to The Wives whisper treasonous thoughts amongst themselves and they had scoffed at the Warboys dying for Valhalla. Whelping children was a far harder, and far more worthy reason to die than something as stupid as guzz or bullets, Manifess Dess said. 

Perfection was astounded to hear a buzz of agreement from the other Wives, and nearly fell over when Heavenly - who should have never spoken, she was about to be Retired having borne two Mutie Girls and just last week bled one child from between her legs- laughed and suggested, “Maybe Old Joe should put us shotgun when we die birthing his get!”

Now wasn’t that something? To ride shotgun with The Immortan to Valhalla, Witnessed and Mediocre. None of the Wives who had died in her thirteen years were worthy, but surely she would be? She asked it of The Immortan that night when she was sat on his lap at dinner, stroking his fleshy chest with her head pillowed on his shoulder.

“My Immortan?”

“What is it, My Perfection? What do you need?”

She was unsure the second she had spoken his name, feeling like a foolish child, but she pushed past the lump in her throat, “If I were to die birthing your Granson would I be allowed to ride shotgun with you to Valhalla? I overheard the Milk Mothers saying that birth is a Woman’s Fury Road.”

The Immortan Joe stared deeply into her eyes, searching for some joke or deception. He was silent, gravid and heavy before he smiled at her toothily, “Birthing my sons may be a Woman’s Fury Road. It’s not something I had considered, My Perfection. But if any Wife was ever worthy of being Witnessed it would be you.”

He was still for a moment, and he wore his calculating face, “What would you say, My Perfection, if I told you that I would attend the birth of every child you carry? So-ways, if your Whelper’s thin blood overtakes you I will Witness You into Valhalla myself?”

Perfection felt tears well so hard that her vision blurred. She launched herself into his arms, burying her face into his thick neck and fisting her hands in his hair. The Immortan chuckled as he rubbed her back, “Anything for My Perfection. Anything.”

She was fifteen and it was deep in the dark of night when she felt a wrenching pull in her enormous belly. Miss Giddy had warned her over and over for what felt like an age that the contractions would be horrendous, and the Braxy-Hizz “practice” contractions had been… Strange. Odd more than truly painful, and the twinges she had vaguely noticed for most of the last two days were intense, if short-lived, but this. This was another beast entirely.

“MY IMMORTAN! RICTU- AUGH! RICTUS! MISS GIDDY!”

Perfection could only stumble from bed and clutch at her tight belly, the next wrench-pull followed by a fierce kick from her son stole her breath. Poor choice to sleep in the Vault that night, not beside her Husband as was her custom since their marriage. But Perfection was determined to show the ungrateful, weak Wives that there was glory in carrying Blood of The Immortan Joe. She’d been too tired afterward to walk back to Rictus’s rooms, and he wasn’t there to carry her. Perfection gasped through another contraction. She was dripping… Something. From between her legs. It dribbled slowly down her thigh, over her calf and her ankle and when she dared to look it was clear like Aqua-Cola. No blood. She wasn’t bleeding out Rictus’s son, Blood of The Immortan Joe. Perfection fell to her knees, bracing her hands against the floor of the Vault and rocking back and forth. For ages, it seemed, she rocked and keened and screamed for The Immortan, for Giddy, for Rictus, for a Wife, anyone. 

Manifess Dess stormed out of her room to see Perfection on all fours, whimpering, and she ran to the Vault Door. Deliriously Perfection thought she looked like an Impala, the fastest of animals and the fleetest of cars, graceful. Manifess Dess pounded and hollered for Giddy, The Immortan, SOMEBODY NOW! IT’S PERFECTION, COME NOW!

“Hold on, Persha! They’ll be here!”

She opened her mouth to correct Dess for using her nickname. Only for Rictus, and The Immortan, if he ever called her anything other than Perfection. Rictus gave her that name, it wasn’t for lowly Wives. What came out was not an abrupt and haughty reprisal, just a moan. 

 Flurry of movement, horrible pain, uncounted eons, voices raised and the staccato snap of broken bones and the fwump of a body hitting the soft sand of the Vault floor. Walls blurred through tears, sobs echoing, panicked gasps that did not come from her throat. Aqua-Cola dripping. Dripping. Drenching. Everywhere. Blessedly cool. Praise The V-8. Perfection felt her body being moved, belly wrenching tight and a high, thin scream tearing from her lungs. 

“Shhh. Easy, My Perfection. My Granson is coming, that’s all. It’ll be over soon, breathe and listen to Miss Giddy now.”

EASY FOR YOU TO SAY. FANGING PENIS-HAVER. I HOPE YOU CHOKE. 

The Immortan chuckled and rubbed her head soothingly. It wouldn’t occur to her until later that The Immortan could not read thoughts, that she had shouted directly in his ear those, and many more, hateful things. “Where is Rictus? Where is my Husba-AAAAANGHH!”

“Rictus! Your Wife calls!”

Distantly she heard Rictus retch up his dinner against the far wall.

FANGING-FUCKING PENIS-HAVER! CAN’T EVEN BE HERE! HE WAS HERE TO PUT THE VALHALLA-DAMNED BOY INTO ME! LEAST HE COULD FUUUUUUUCKING DO IS HOLD ME WHEN HE COMES OUT!

She labored in the Vaultpool for many vague and blurry hours, braced against the chest of The Immortan, catching only fleeting impressions of sight and sound. White powder floating on clear water, mixing into galaxies with red ribbons of blood. A high voice screeching profanities and The Immortan’s throaty, deep chuckle. The animal urge to bear down and roar like a lion of the Oldworld. Squelchy-pop. Slick slug of Something slipping out of her body. Relief. Cheers. The Immortan’s words of praise, his arms around her tightly before he handed her over to Miss Giddy.

Through her lashes she saw Her Immortan lift her squalling son in the air and shout triumphant. 

“HE IS CALLED EQUITUS AURELIUS! HE IS OUR GOLDEN RIDER! MY GRANSON IS BORN, UNMUTATED AND WHOLE! PRAISE PERFECTION! PRAISE RICTUS! PRAISE THE V-8!”

When Perfection was seventeen she labored against The Immortan again, this time in her own quarters, and birthed the howling Filius Superbus. A second strong, unmutated Granson to carry The Blood, and there was no prouder Grandfather than Her Immortan. He praised Perfection to the high heavens, and anything she wished was hers for the asking. Perfection was shown off to The Wives, and the three new ones were in awe of her. 

“How do we make him love us like he loves you?” They begged.

“The Immortan will never love you as he loves me, silly girls. I am Perfection, chosen when I was only a baby to birth strong sons for Rictus Erectus, who carries The Blood of The Immortan. But if you work very hard to please him, and give him strong sons, he might come to care for you.”

The girls looked disheartened, and Manifess Dess- heavy with her third and final child before Retirement- scoffed, “Don’t be stupid. Joe doesn’t love any of us, not even you Persha. We’re bodies for him to fill with his rotting seed and discarded when his Muties rip us open. The best you can do is lay quiet while he gets ‘em on you and be grateful that you aren’t still down with the Wretched. The rapers there don’t bring you watermelons and ham when they see your belly round.”

Perfection screwed up her nose, affronted at Dess’s constant disregard for her status, but let the comment go with only a pointed look to the woman’s belly. The Immortan, as a show of graciousness, gave each wife three years, three miscarriages or three mutated or female children before he Retired them to the War Boy Pleasure Pits or they could be shuffled into the ranks of the War Boys, serving The Immortan as warriors until their death upon the Fury Road. As far as Perfection ever knew there were only two Former Wives who had chosen that path: a woman called Jive, originally Wife to the Organic Mechanic before The Immortan Raised Her Up, she disappeared on a scout patrol and had been presumed dead for nearly twenty-five years. Jive herself was unremarkable, except for the son she had given to the Immortan, a son that He had named Rictus Erectus. 

And the other was the newest Fleet Imperator, Furiosa. While the woman had utterly failed as a Wife -bleeding out all three of her hard-won pregnancies before they had so much as quickened- she was fearsome as a War Boy, a Blackthumb and now as an Imperator. Perfection vaguely recalled the acerbic, often verbally violent woman. No Wife before or since had fought The Immortan so hard and, if she hadn’t been a particularly vigorous Full Life despite her missing arm, Perfection suspected that The Immortan would have rather tossed her from a window after her third failure. She had defied him with mind and mouth, and it would seem that her body followed suit, but she was a boon to the War Fleet. 

“Dess, you of all people should be grateful to be here, under the shelter and protection of The Immortan. I was here when you were brought in from the Wastes; dirty, sand-scraped, halfway dead from thirst and hunger. Here you are cared for. Well-fed. We do not scrabble for our survival, we only have to rest and pray that a child catches in our belly and grows strong, healthy, and male. A simple tradeoff, don’t you think?”

Manifest Dess stood to her full height, towering over Perfection and glaring down with rage-bright grey eyes, “GRATEFUL?! YOU SAY WE SHOULD BE GRATEFUL?!”

Perfection was unmoved, taking a breath to meet Dess’s gaze and resting her hands placidly on her lap. Dess, fueled by long-repressed anger went on, “WHY  SHOULD WE BE GRATEFUL THAT HE SEES FIT TO CRAWL BETWEEN OUR LEGS, WHETHER WE WANT IT OR NOT?! WHY SHOULD WE BE GRATEFUL THAT HE LEAVES US BRUISED AND STICKY?! HUH?! STICKY WITH THE PUS FROM HIS WOUNDS, AND THE SEEPING SEWAGE FROM HIS COCK?! HOW MANY WOMEN HAVE DIED BECAUSE HE SAT THEM ON HIS COCK, PERFECTION?! HOW MANY!! DO YOU KNOW? CAN YOU COUNT THEM?!”

[talesfromthegraavim]

THE FIRST OF FOBBER, HE WHO STOLE THE LEMONTREE

War pups, fresh-weaned off Touching Soft and Mother’s Milk, were tossed from the Whelping Bay and into the Pupyard by one thousand days, if they lived that long. Fobber shouldn’t have.

His Whelper was young and Senty-Mental like all first-time Whelpers were, and while she didn’t make enough to be a Milk Mother, she had managed two healthy pups even if one was small and the other was a girl. The other Whelpers and the Milk Mothers encouraged her to do the kind thing and give them to the sands so that they didn’t struggle and hurt her worse for their failings. But his Whelper fought for him, nursed him on Touching Soft and what little milk she made. She didn’t give him to the sands and hid him from Culler. The girl survived because The Immortan himself was brought down to inspect her, and he declared her Perfection, to be taken and raised in The Vault as a future Wife for his young son Rictus. His Whelper cried when The Immortan took Perfection away, seventy-seven days old and her future decided.

While his sister easily grew fat and strong on the thick of plentiful Mother’s Milk, wrapped in white and comfort, the tiny boypup struggled and fought for every breath, every inch, every pound. But he too grew strong off of stolen sips and smearings of gruel, indulged by the Milk Mothers only when he beat other Pups to the tit. When he was coming to his nine hundred and fifty-sixth day his Whelper, carrying heavy another pup - her third since his own whelping- cried out and collapsed, soaked in red, clutching her belly. Bad luck, the Milk Mothers and other Whelpers whispered. She shouldn't have been back in the rotation so soon after her last whelping- another boy, born perfect but still as stone- and such a hard one at that. She died, but managed to whelp a living boy before she did. Another strong back for The Immortan, if he should survive.

A shame, they whispered. She was good for boys, and they stuck well in her belly. There were rumors that -had she lived- The Immortan himself was going to raise her from the Whelping Bay and into the world of Wives. Such a shame, though, and her first son so near Weaning couldn’t be kept in the Whelping Bay.

So the unlikely tiny boypup was tossed unceremoniously into the Pupyard. He didn’t earn his name for four hundred days, after he had learned to scrap for his scraps, knocking teeth and taking bruises, tasting blood and breaking bones to earn his place. He was called Fobber, and he never forgot his Whelper; the smell of her hair, the kindness in her eyes -blue and shining like Aqua-Cola-, the warmth of her pressed against him as they slept.

On the day that Rictus was announced to have a Wife, Fobber looked up and nearly cried for seeing the ghost of his Whelper on the platform. Perfection was plump and healthier than most, smiling on the arm of Joe’s son who bounced on the balls of his feet in excitement. Fobber felt sorry for her then, even though she would be cared for and unwanting for all her days, she was too young. He knew he wasn’t older, he’d been told about his Whelping by the Milk Mothers when he did a Milkrun, but she seemed so frail next to the hulking Rictus Erectus. So frail and so young.

Time passed. Fobber blackthumbed, he stared out at the vast yellow expanse of the Fury Road eagerly waiting for the day he could ride Lancer and be Witnessed to Valhalla. Days and days uncounted were a whirl of black and grey and red and white.

Perfection, he heard in passing, had their Whelper’s gift for sticky boys and bore two for Rictus, though they died a-cradle. It wasn’t until The Immortan took her for himself that their Whelper’s curse of thin blood came through. Perfection was lost, and Fobber quietly prayed to the V-8 that she had been Witnessed into Valhalla. He’d heard the Milk Mothers saying that a woman who died Whelping should be Witnessed to Valhalla, that Whelping was a woman’s Fury Road, and -having heard the screams and seen the blood when he did his Milkruns- Fobber was inclined to agree.

[talesfromthegraavim]

Max Rockatansky, The Zebra, The Road Warrior, The Lost

[talesfromthegraavim]

The Revved Gra, She Who Knows, Called Grace. (Yes. I know, she should be missing an eye, but here we are)

[talesfromthegraavim]

Lemontree and Fobber

[talesfromthegraavim]

Max Rockatansky and Kayra Orchieborn

[talesfromthegraavim]

Kayra Orchieborn, age 18. Blinded by a flash of radiation refracted through her goggles, survived.

[talesfromthegraavim]

K-Rat and his Lemling

[talesfromthegraavim]

OF K-RATS AND LEMONS

This story begins, as most here do,  with a man. This man had left behind a great many things, not the least of which was his Name in the Beforetimes, but what he had chosen to bring with him into the present was a large military-issue rucksack filled with scavenged K-rations. And when this man stumbled upon our PigHeart that was the name he gave to our Revved Gra, She Who Knows, Called Grace. 

“Who are you, child?” She said in her high sandy voice, extending the Hand Of Friendship to Him The First Uffornate.

“I’m not nobody. Just a K-Rat Hound.”

From that day he was called K-Rat, The First Uffornate, and he was tasked to tend the lemon trees at the base of our mountains. This job was no small one, for the lemon trees needed protection and careful tending, and reaching The Home if there was a ‘Vasion or a Breech was difficult. But he did his tending well, coaxing those stubborn trees into growing, multiplying, strong and fruitful, guarding them from the Ruddy-Damn Goats and mischievous children. For years it was only K-Rat living in a small cave-hut in view of his Orchie, he only visited The Home at Storytime and after Harvest twice a year.

K-Rat was a young man, tending delicate saplings until one day he looked around to realize that his saplings were tall, strong trees heavy with fruit and leaves, having many grand-saplings of their own. When he looked into the warbling water of the irrigation canal he saw himself, greying and grizzled and bearded and a part of him wished to cry. In this same rippling reflection he saw a shadow in the tree overhead, and he rose to shout his customary grump. 

His grump startled the small girl so badly that she fell arse-over-bucket and K-Rat had to catch her in his arms, lest she broke her neck. The girl was thin and knobbled at the joints, with lemon-yellow hair and brown eyes, and she chirped at him that she’d only wanted to see her namesake. This deeply confused K-Rat, because as far as he had been aware nobody in The Home even knew his name, much less cared enough to name a child after him. 

“And who is your namesake, you knob-kneed dollop?”

The little girl looked like she wanted to cry, so frightened was she by his fierce scowl and rough appearance, “M’name’s Lemontree, but Ma and Oppa call me Lem. Or sometimes Lemtart when I’m bein trouble.”

K-Rat couldn’t help but chuckle at her wide eyes and the gooberyness of her name. Lemontree? Of all things, her sandmad Ma called her Lemontree. “How many times have you heard your Story, little sapling?”

She chirped at him, trepidatious, that she was First Grease and had heard her Story five times. Her ma, she said, had named her Lemontree because Ma had been poked with a lemon tree branch to bring her into this world, and because she’d been born with yellow hair and brown eyes. “Just like a Lemon Tree for true.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

From that moment on K-Rat saw Little Lem near-constantly, the young girl was raptured by her namesake and the Grizzly Man who kept them. He grew, stubbornly, to adore her, and was glad to hear her chirping song in the Orchie.  One day, years later, around Harvest Time his Lemling - for he refused to call her by her fullname or Lem, she was his Lemon Sapling, his Lemling- skipped her way into the Orchie and tugged K-Rat by the sleeve, begging and wheedling for him to come Home and stay for Storytime this year. It was, after all, her Twelfth Story and now she was on the road to Becoming Second Undercolyte.  K-Rat was hezzy about it, he hadn’t for true stayed for The Story in many years, but he grudgely hobbled up the Stair Road after her, his customary Harvestbasket heavy at his back. 

Grace welcomed him as she had every year, offered Hand Of Friendship as she had every year, and a place at the fire. Grace had prepared the usual Rationpack for him, the provisions which would see him through the next Storytime, and expected the Grizzly Man to refuse, as was his custom, but she grinned loony to see him be tugged down beside the excitable girl. Grace watched over them the whole night through, smirking when K-Rat shared his precious Mokee with her- the rare treat of rice dough and bean paste sweetened with beet sugar being a well-known favorite of his. It was plain for all to see that K-Rat loved that girl as much as his Trees, and no one was prouder of his love than Lem herself.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Further years downline, when Lem was a woman-grown and about to be Johanna-ed to a nice enough Uffornate Boy that had joined the Searchers as soon as he was off his medbed- she skipped down to the Orchie and K-Rat stumbled hard when he rose to greet her. 

“K, are you ‘thritic or something? What’s wrong?”

He smiled at her, soothing, and opened his arms to hug her, “Maybe so, my Lemling. It’s not many men that’ve heard all the Stories as me.”

Lem sniffed and pressed her head into his shoulder, knowing as well as him that he’d heard almost forty Stories when she’d first fallen out of his tree, and that was fifteen of her Stories ago. “You’re coming Home for my Johanna tomorrow, right K?”

K-Rat chuckled, rubbing her yellow hair, “With your Ma gone he’ll have to pry you out of my arms hisself, Lemling. May have to start the Stair Road tonight for my old bones to make it, but I wouldn’t miss it for all the fruit in the Orchie.”

“Keep telling you to come Upstairs and take space in mine. Leave the Orchie to me’n Fobber, you stubborn goat.”

He took a step back and braced her elbows with his hands, shaking his head at the familiar argument, “An’ I keep telling you, Lemling, that I’ll leave the Orchiecare to you and that boy when they find me crashed at the roots. Then three days and six pokes to make sure.”

They spoke under the shade of the lemon grove until nearly dusk when K-Rat walked her to the base of  the Stair Road to begin the pampering for her Johanna the next evening, promising that he’d just pack himself a bag and be following her shortly. “Gwan now, girl, ‘fore they send your Searcher for you. S’bad luck for him to see you before you’re Jo'ed. I’ll be right along.”

The next evening it was K-Rat’s job to put up a good struggle for Fobber, who crept in from the shadows to “steal” Lemling from him. He’d never admit it, but the struggle the old man put up was for more than just the Show, he only released his Lemling when she tapped the back of his hand with the rhythm that he’d taught her for knocking at his door. Forever ago, that had been. But K-Rat did finally let her go, his eyes joyfully heartbroken and wasting water. Like his trees she had grown tall and strong without his notice, and soon - Pinkbread Blessings Upon Her- she too might bear fruit. And here he was, an old grizzled man who had stolen years from Gods Themselves to watch her grow, seemingly destined to be alone but for his Orchie. 

He’d never managed to Steal Johanna himself, none had caught his eye enough to willfully separate from the peace and quiet of the Orchie. He regretted that a bit now, taking in the bliss on Fobber and Lem’s faces, maybe he should have tried. Given his Lemontree a playmate, maybe then this wouldn’t hurt so much.  If he had someone to stumble back to the Orchie with he wouldn’t feel so… so damned hollow. But hollow he was, and hollow were his smiles at Lemontree and Fobber as he watched them dance and feast before “sneaking” away, swapping bites of Pinkbread. 

K-Rat decided then that his job was fair-done, his Lemontree was happy, off to start a new life, and he pulled Grace aside in the shadows of the firelight.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a year after her Johanna that his Lemling skipped down the Stair Road into the Orchie, heartful with good news, and calling for him. 

Lemling peered around the Orchie, singing for K-Rat, and hopping from behind trees at suspicious shadows to startle him playfully, feeling like a Mite all over again so happy was her news. She didn’t have any cause to worry, not in her mind, after all Lemling and K-Rat had been playing Hide Games since she had heard five Stories. Lemling sang and called out, voice arching slowly to a panicked holler. For one abrupt moment it stopped, the Searchers and The Half that were stationed on Patrol near the Orchie huffed in relief, and then Lemontree, K-Rat’s Lemling, began to scream. A horrid, animal-grief scream that never seemed to end, not even when they raced down the Stair Road and pulled her away from him. Lemontree, four Stories gone with her third pregnancy, had hauled him out of the Irrig Stream and desperately pounded on his cold, wet chest, shrieking at him to come back.

But K-Rat, He Who Was The First Uffornate, Keeper of The Orchie, was long gone. 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lemontree raged at the Revved Gra and the Council when they took K-Rat away to be burned, fought them every step they took toward fulfilling his wishes. They couldn’t skin him, she refused to allow it, but they produced the bit of paper that bore his last words to her and the absolute dictation of his Last Rites. 

She frightened Fobber with her ferocity, he reached for her stomach and pleaded with her to remember the Ones Before It, to calm herself if only for the baby she carried. Lemontree, with featherlight fingertips on her swelling belly, took a deep breath and went utterly silent. Her tears stopped on a grain, and no word or sound would pass her lips again for the next five Stories. When the time came for the child to be born Lemontree gathered herself and a blank Cordbook, fleeing silently to the Orchie in the dead of night, seeking her Home Of Homes instinctually. She gripped tightly to the Cordbook, her only companion through the pains, and uttered not a sound as she labored against a lemon tree. It was nearly noon when, with a deep guttural roar, her daughter was born. Lemontree, K-Rat’s Lemling, heaved great breaths through her nose and wiped the viscera from her child with one hand, the other scrabbling for the handle of K-Rat’s knife.

The tiny girl, with the last cord to her mother severed and her mouth clean, howled lustily. As all newborns do, she wanted nothing more than the warmth and nourishment of her mother, who hushed her and rocked her as she was brought to breast.

Lemling stared down at her daughter, so much in awe and pain that she paid no mind to the yelling of Searchers, The Half and Fobber from the Stair Road above her, “You are born Second Zebra, Full Moon. You are alive, Kayra Orchieborn, daughter of Lemontree and Fobber, named for The Man Who Was My Father.”

[talesfromthegraavim]

PINK BREAD IS FOR BABIES

When PigHeart was young there was a couple who had come together late in life, and they wished to be married and blessed by The Revved Gra, for they had known her many years and trusted in her Magicking. The Revved Gra did so graciously, she wished them well and even made them a special gift, which she left at their door in the dead of night, as was her custom for gift-giving.

The gift she left them was a loaf of bread, dyed vibrant pink with beet powder, in a diamond shape with a handful of sliced mushrooms in the middle, and herbs around the edges. The couple smiled upon this spell-gift for they knew that the Revved Gra would help in any way she could to fulfill their dream of having children, even old as they were. And so the couple ate the bread to the last crumb, and came together as couples do in their beds at night.  Lo and Behold! The very next morning the woman had grown round with child, and would later birth two healthy sons, the elder son became a renowned Road Warrior and Searcher, and the younger son became a Teaching Gra who still lives among us to this day! We have made and given the Pink Bread at every wedding feast ever since, and been blessed by many children because of it.   

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Duke and Flit had just gotten married, and it was a grand ceremony for the Wasteland. The Gra had puttered around in her kitchen for hours, wondering what kind of gift they’d like best. She eventually decided on a little joke, and went about executing her vision, a vulva-shaped bread, dyed pink with beet powder, with mushrooms in the middle to represent penises, and herbs along the edges for pubic hair. Who doesn’t want to eat pussy on their wedding night, after all? She crept to their cave-hut in the dead of night, because the thought of “sneaking” pink pussy bread onto their doorstep amused her greatly, and left it wrapped in blue linen with a little paper, on which was written only three words: Pink Bread = Babies. 

Four months later, the joke hardly mentioned and mostly forgotten, Duke called across the cavernous halls to The Gra, “OI! REV! GET IN ‘ERE! THE BREAD WORKED!”

The Revved Gra was deeply confused for a moment, and then she remembered her little joke on their wedding night. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her toward the door of their cave-hut, “WHAT IN THE GODDAMNED FUCK DO YOU MEAN THE BREAD WORKED?! I WAS BEING CHEEKY, IT CANNOT HAVE WORKED!”

Flit sat grinning on the bed, one hand rested against her rounded stomach, “Your First, Kelp, has just been in with the listening horn, Gra! Two Heartbeats!”

“WASN’T THE BLOODY BREAD THOUGH, YOU COCKMONGER!”

[talesfromthegraavim]

THE SIX STORIES 

The Gra gathers the tribe under the light of the full moon for A Story, and there are Six Grease, Jeezoos (Jesus Christ, Superstar), The Zebra Of London (Sweeny Todd), Frank (Rocky Horror), Chickago (Chicago), and The Fiddler (Fiddler On The Roof). When each StoryTell has been told twice that marks the end of a Year, and the Cordbooks -which contain the births, deaths, and Becomings, as well as any new resources or Wanderers who have chosen to join- are closed and stored to be looked after and upon by future generations.

 (January, Aquarius)  The First Tell of Frank

(February, Pisces) The First Tell of Grease

(March, Aries) The First Tell of The Zebra Of London

(April, Taurus) The First Tell of The Fiddler

(May, Gemini) The First Tell of Chickago

(June, Cancer) The First Tell of Jeezoos

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

(July, Leo) The Second Tell of Frank

(August, Virgo) The Second Tell of Grease

(September, Libra) The Second Tell of Jeezoos

(October, Scorpio) The Second Tell of The Zebra Of London

(November, Sagittarius) The Second Tell of Chickago

(December, Capricorn) The Second Tell of The Fiddler

When a baby is born among The Graavim and the Vuvalini, their Gra will look to the Story and the Moon to see the first glimpse of their future. If the moon is Full then the child is blessed with all the greatnesses of their Story, their lives are foretold to be Great Tells for good or for ill. Half-moon children are blessed enough to be average, they will taste the sweetness and the sorrows of their Stories. Black Moon children have a harder path to walk, they will face trials but all is not lost, they are not cursed. Black Moon children must make their own way into light, and they are cherished and affectioned deeply by The Graavim and the Vuvalini for nothing chases away the chill and loneliness like Hearthfire and Community.

[talesfromthegraavim]

THE TWELVE COLORS OF GRAAVIM

The Revved Gra stands before her newest crowd of Undercolytes, their shining eyes and smooth faces gazing up at her with a reverence that she will never -for all her long years- accept as her due. There are six this year, so very few places and peoples have children to spare, and she hopes in her heart that they all live to be her age. Six more that carry the hope of a generation of Healers and Teachers and Feeders, she sighs and begins her Tell. It is the First Tell all Undercolytes learn.

There are Twelve Colors, which are Learned into the bones of every Undercolyte and Acolyte that has followed the path of the Sun since the Beforetimes. From The Five come all other colors, each with their meaning. 

Red for Blood, given and taken.

Blue for Water, which is freedom and life.

Yellow for Sunlight, control and survival.

White for Birth, newness, untouched by the Wastes.

Black for Death, which is final and shared by  all.

The Three, Blood, Water and Sun, begat the Second Five, and those Five sit encircled by the Three, headed and tailed by Life and Death. 

Brown for Shelter and Home, for between Life and Death there is always Home.

Orange for Soil, and the opportunities that rise from it.

Green for Growth, the plea for nourishment and change made by all things.

Purple for Luck, that which is rare and precious.

Pink for prosperity, the delicate and inconstant feasts and joys of life.

The Revved Gra sees furrowed brows and eyes scrunched in confusion on at least two faces who had come to PigHeart with some base knowing of Numbers. “Just be patient, Little Ones, and Gra will Tell.”

There are indeed Twelve Colors, not only Ten as some of you have counted. The Second Two- for the First Two are Black and White- are Chrome and Gold. 

Chrome for History, the glory of our past and all that has been lost to Immortan Greed.

Gold for Future, all that we may hope to become.

[talesfromthegraavim]

THE ZEBRA DEATH CAR

In the tradition of our Mothers, children learn the Omens as they earn their Learnings: letters, numbers, colors, shapes, animals and objects long-lost to the Sands of the Waste. 

Apples for trust, Bluebirds for freedom, diamonds for the spiritual power of the Witches of The Waste, Green for the growth and health that Mothers prayed for every night. Odd things like Ice Cream that the children could only fantasize about tasting, which denoted a great bounty from the Gods that no one alive had seen. But first and foremost, the fearsome Omen that no Mother or Child wanted to see when The Gra flipped their Cards with wizened, arthritic fingers, was the Zebra.

 Black and white, with the body of a horse and a stiff, upright mane like a Lancer’s mohawk, The Zebra meant nothing less than destruction, wholly and immediately. It was said that when The Zebra rode as a man he swept over the dunes in a jet-black car that no sand dared to touch. His engine made no sound, required no guzzoline to propel itself on Fury Road or the Silent Seas. It disturbed no sand and left no exhaust trail, silent and invisible as The Zebra himself when he trailed his blackened fingers through a sleeping baby’s hair and stole their breath in the night. 

There was no hiding from The Zebra and his Mortem Car, and most of those for whom The Gra had drawn The Zebra or the Mortem Car simply chose to say their goodbyes and walk into the Waste. In the desert there was nothing to spare for those cursed to suffrage and death, and the honorable thing was to minimize lost resources.

[talesfromthegraavim]

THE OMEN CARDS AND THEIR MEANINGS

COLORS

Black: End/Beginning, Death, Challenge

White: Purity,  Newness, Youth

Yellow: Sun, Blessing or Curse, Control, Watchfulness

Orange: Soil, Sand, Blank slate, Opportunity

Red: Blood- shared or spilt, Vitality

Brown: Shelter, Community

Green: Growth, Health

Blue: Water, Cleanliness, Nourishment, Freedom

Purple: Rarity, Scarcity, Luck

Pink: Positive surprise, Feast, Bounty, Love ===================================

COLOR/OBJECT CARDS:

Black Car: Death, Challenge, Outpaced, Enemy, Running out of time

White Eggs: Birth, Fragility, New start

Yellow Star: Leadership, Violence, Control

Orange Cat: Chance to rest, Restart in comfort, Watch and wait

Red Apple: Reunion, Bonds of blood and brotherhood, Fundamental trust

Brown Bear: Strength in community, Close ranks, Defense

Green Bug: Pay attention to details, Sickness, Loss, Famine

Blue Bird: FREEDOM, Release, Victory

Purple Shoe: Luck on your journey, Mind your steps, Leave no loose ends

Pink Pig: Feast, Bounty, Extravagance, Fullness ===============================================

SHAPES: (Outline only means lack of, or problem area, Shape+Color has the meaning of both)

Rectangle: Job, Task, Field to till

Square: Home, Family, Gift

Diamond: Spirituality, Spiritual Strength, Working together

Triangle: Journey, Goal, Direction

Star: Confusion, Differing Opinion, Leadership

Oval: Self+Other(s), Relationships

Circle: Self, Journey

Heart: Togetherness to reach a goal =============================================

SHAPE/OBJECT CARDS

Rectangle/Clock: Job with a time crunch, Move fast

Square/Present: Boon for community, Birth

Diamond/Kite: Spiritual freedom, Discovery, Fly high but mind the ties that bind

Triangle/Pizza: Gold at the end of the rainbow, Success, Indulgence, Lost treasure

Star/Starfish: Opportunity, Split Path, Choice to be made 

Circle/Wheel: Your journey, Movement, Path Made Easier

Heart/Heart: Building or built community, Reaching Goals ================================================

DUALITY CARDS

Open / Closed, Treasure Chest: Yes/No. Go For It / Stop And Rethink

In / Out, Doghouse: Work With Group / Go It Alone. Stay Home / Seek Outside

Over / Under, Cat and Stool: Open Rebellion/ Quiet Subterfuge. RUN NOW / Wait It Out

Day / Night, Window: You’re Being Watched / Watch Your Enemy. Lead to Freedom/ Being Lead to Death ========================================================

NUMBERS

1.Frog: Lone Hero, Forgotten Self, Unexpected Ally

2.Suns: Seek Shelter, Find Home

3.Cups/Mugs: Share Blessings, Mind Your Loved Ones

4.Teddy Bears: Inner Child, Back To Basics, Memory

5.Wagons: Time To Go, Choose a Leader

6.Cows: Abundance, Blessing, Success

7.Bats: Fear, Darkness, Bolting, Misunderstandings

8.Fish: Lost or Forgotten Gift, Rarity

9.Worms: Circle Of Life, Renewal, Little Things Add Up

10.Balls: Be Playful, Roll With It =================================================

ALPHABET (Also indicates name of person/place):

(A) Apple: trust, reunion

(B) Bear: strength, childhood

(C) Cat: protection, comfort, wariness

(D) Dog: loyalty, bonds of choice

(E) Elephant: wisdom, mystery, mysticism 

(F) Fish: forgotten gift

(G) Goat: riches, nourishment

(H) Horse: faith, movement

(I) Ice Cream: old knowledge, gift from the gods

(J) Jar: SHUT UP, secrets, keep it on the down-low

(K) Kite: false freedom, ties that bind, staying grounded

(L) Lion: fierceness, family, pride

(M) Mouse: spy, hidden things, hiding places

(N) Nest: home, returning, cycles, 

(O) Oranges: health, vitality, treat

(P) Pen: history, learning

(Q) Queen: benevolence, motherhood, sisterhood

(R) Rain: blessing, 

(S) Snake: betrayal, defense, warning

(T) Tree: life, stubbornness, will to thrive

(U) Umbrella: Faustian bargain, false blessings

(V) Van: new family unit, marriage, children, coming together

(W) Well: greed, being mindful, caring for others

(X) X: Leave, Stop, Danger, No

(Y) Yo-yo: inconsistency, lying, troubled path ahead

(Z) Zebra: death, harm, curse, insurmountable challenge (or is it?)

[talesfromthegraavim]

THE JAR OF PIGHEART

Deep in the Sands there lies a FishJar, which is kept by Sisters and Mothers who paint blue and green rectangles on their Rides and their clothes and their faces. These are Acolytes, the first to be hidden and protected, even above the elders and children, when they make their rare pilgrimage from PigHeart into the Waste. 

Every Gra who has ever been was once an Acolyte, though not every Acolyte survives to become The Gra. Acolytes are chosen as Children and spirited away under the cover of darkness to PigHeart, one of the last known Green Places. PigHeart was buried deep in the core of a mountain, much like The Citadel, and much like The Citadel it had its own springs and Gardens and livestock. But unlike The Citadel it was hidden, its location a Jar that every Gra and Acolyte would bleed themselves dry into the sand to keep Jarred. There could be no Wagoning to PigHeart, not even in spits and spurts of one or two Riders, lest their travels be noticed by  Immortan Joe or the greedy, squinting eyes of Gastown and Bullet Farm. 

[talesfromthegraavim]

BECOMING THE REVVED GRA, SHE WHO KNOWS

When a child is taken by the Searchers to PigHeart, or born to the Graavim and has reached their sixth year, they are called Undercolytes. They live as Undercolytes until they have reached their twelfth year, Earning the First Learnings of Letters and Numbers and Healing and Feeding and Cleanliness. In their twelfth year, if they have survived -while PigHeart is an Oassi, a Green Place, it is still part of the Wasteland and survival is not promised, but we must teach and try- they are called Second Acolytes. Before an Undercolyte can become Second they must learn and reproduce the Omen Cards onto metal that they harvest and hammer into thin sheets which are edged with rubber or gum.

 Second Acolytes spend twenty-two hundred days Earning the Second Learnings, which are specialized to the Acolyte’s strengths as determined by the Council Graavim. Second Acolytes practice their skills on the Wanderers, the Uffornates, and their fellow Acolytes, learning the depth of their craft. 

When a Second Acolyte seeks to become First and they have survived to pass all their Days and Trials -while PigHeart is an Oassi, a Green Place, it is still part of the Wasteland and survival is not promised, but we must teach and try- they are considered by the Council of Graavim, their conduct is considered, and the workmanship of their Rat Parchment Omen Cards, which are vital to their studies as a First Acolyte. 42 rats must be caught, skinned, and processed into parchment, which must be cut and painted with the Omens on one side and the Chrome Of History and Gold Of Future on the other. After Council Graavim convenes they learn if they become First or they become Half. To become Half was no punishment, for the Graavim only punished Underlytes and Acolytes when harm or loss was deliberately caused, most who became Half were sent out into the Waste to work as Searchers. Searchers would live or die in the Sands, bringing seeds and tools and Underlytes back to PigHeart and the Council Graavim. 

If chosen to become First an Acolyte would be given to a Gra who specialized as they did, in Healing, or Feeding, or Teaching for these are the Three Core Learnings, for an additional twenty-two hundred days. All Graavim were fighters from the time they could hold a rock -while PigHeart is an Oassi, a Green Place, it is still part of the Wasteland and survival is not promised, but we must teach and try- like their sibling-children the Vuvalini. 

 The amount of the Twelve Colors on their Omen cards denote their status, and each one must be earned. They earn Red with the Defeat of an enemy. Blue by The Gift Of Last Water to one person. Yellow when they survive three turns each of the sun and moon, meditating within the waves of The Waste. Not all First Acolytes stride triumphantly home on the fourth morning -while PigHeart is an Oassi, a Green Place, survival is not promised, but we must teach and try- but those that do are applauded and cherished for they are strong enough to become The Revved Gra, She Who Knows.

Every Gra is called “she”, though not all were born with the anatomy of a she, it is a mark of respect, for the Graavim are Mothers Of Knowledge, Heavy With Past, Present and Future. The Revved Gra is called so because she vibrates, body and mind, with the knowledge of all Graavim - a word which sounds like a powerful engine on the Sands- and she is heavy with the revving hope of all who hear our name in times of hardship. For while PigHeart is an Oassi, a Green Place, survival is not promised, but we must teach and try.