Prush Folklore

a story
2015-10-08 13:18:12
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Three hundred fingers

There once was a young warrior. The warrior was from a powerful family and was given the command of thirty men. The young warrior boosted that he was the best leader in all the army, even better than the venerable lord commander. His men followed him, but disliked him for his bragging. One night the warrior drank too much liquor, and challenged the great lord commander to a duel, bound by honor the lord commander meet the young warrior in single combat.  Sadly the young warrior cut down the great lord commander. His blood covered the young warrior and his men. The last words from the lord commander were that the warrior and his men shall never be honored in life or death. The young warrior was banished from the army and thrown in to the desert to die, and his men were executed for their dishonorable leader. To show further dishonor to the prisoners the guards cut the hands of the men off and used them to feed the vultures.

The Young banished warrior wondered the dunes for days. Above him he saw desert vultures flying, ready for their next meal. That night the warrior happened upon a rocky outcropping that formed a natural shelter. The young warrior decided that he would try and sleep there. Hours into his slumber, he heard rustling just outside the rocky shelter. He squinted to make out a shape in the twilight dune scape. At first he saw something small dragging itself in the sand. The warrior lunged for it, hoping it was dinner. Once he grabbed it, he felt the clammy cold mass in is hand. With it still squirming he bit down. It was boney, and tough. But that didn’t stop his mouth from crunching the thing. Finally he bit down on something hard and metallic. He almost broke a tooth on this stone or bone that was in his food. After he fished it out of his mouth he tried to study it in the early morning light. It was a brass ring.   He looked down in his hands was a pail white hand, half eaten and still moving. Then he felt it. The grasp of a unseen assailant. The warrior quickly moved and fell on his back. It was a hand. It was around his leg. He looked for an arm, but there was none.  Then another hand grabbed his hair. Soon he was covered by sand covered, clammy cold hands. With his last breath he tried to scream, but there was three hundred fingers crushing the life out of him.

This story dates back to before the forming of the Empire; it is used to teach children not to be boastful.