In Chapter 174, Pandora used hypnosis to help Grip recover a memory from his childhood:
The Runt couldn’t believe he had gotten away with this for two days. For two days he’d hid behind these barrels of oil (and who knows what else) while Fargrid had his lessons with Ghramush, the tribe’s shaman. And a harsh master he was.
Fargrid was learning of The Binding. The Runt didn’t really understand what it meant, but Fargrid was to be sequestered in this tent for three days while Ghramush taught him. When he learned that his brother would have to spend the three nights here the Runt begged that he be brought along. He couldn’t stand to be with the rest of the tribe if Fargrid was not there to protect him, and he was small, and he would hide and not make a noise, and he would just watch, and then the Runt would be there when Ghramush left and he’d keep Fargrid company, and and and… until Fargrid relented. They found him a place behind the barrels, some filled with water, some with a strange oil, and he hunkered down. And Ghramush never seemed to notice!
The Runt still didn’t really understand much, but he could tell that there were tattoos that had something to do with a Sun God, and strength, and power. He liked the sound of that. For two days he watched as Fargrid had little bits of a pattern tattooed on his arm while strange words were said, just a little bit each day.
“Blood in the ink is what secures the binding,” Ghramush said. “Without the blood this is all just noise.” The three Gnoll corpses, drained of blood, were stacked in the corner of the tent, the odor of decay winning out over the quicklime. The fact that they were kept to the corner, outside the direct sunlight coming through the flap on top of the tent, was the only thing that kept the air inside bearable.
But it looked like it hurt. It looked like it hurt a lot more than such a little needle should.
Then on the third day Ghramush was adding the largest piece of the tattoo to Fargrid’s arm he had yet. It seemed like he was working on the same small area over and over, and the Runt could tell that Fargrid was in agony. Fargrid let out a gasp, and before the Runt could stop himself, he burst out from his hiding place and said, “No, stop please!”
Ghramush stopped what he was doing and turned his head towards the Runt. And stared through him to the core. Then to Fargrid, “Did you bring this pup with you?”
A pause.
“Yes,” Fargrid said, “but I—”
Ghramush backhanded Fargrid hard across the jaw. “Quiet!”
The shaman walked over to the Runt. “You want me to stop, runt?”
The Runt started to nod “yes” but the backhand cuffed him at least as hard as it did his brother.
Ghramush walked to a chest full of different bottles, picked up a round green one. He then returned to Fargrid, set the bottle down next to him and said, “You’re not ready. You’re still a fucking child.”
Then he started saying words that the Runt could not understand. They were repetitive, and they sounded similar to the words that were being said while the tattoo was being applied, but different. Perhaps spoken backwards? It was beyond the runt’s understanding as he watched, rapt, as the words spilled out of the shaman‘s mouth. Ghramush reached over, unstoppered the round green bottle, held Fargrid’s arm down on the stone table and poured the thick black liquid onto the tattoos that had been created during the two days before.
Fargrid howled in pain as the layers of flesh containing the ink melted away. Just as this chemical burn got deep enough to remove the ink, the shaman dunked his hand into one of the oil barrels and smeared the oil across the acid, neutralizing it, leaving red, wet, exposed flesh.
Ghramush picked up the huge cat-o-nine-tails whip, the lashes embedded with salt and blood. The last part of the ritual. It was what was to come next for Fargrid. But that was ruined, the Runt realized.
Ghramush walked right up to the Runt, the lashes of the whip dangling directly in front of his face. The Runt could smell the blood and salt. “Is there anything you don’t fucking ruin, runt?” He slammed the child across the face with the handle of the lash and walked out.
Fargrid continued to howl in pain, as blood ran from the Runt’s split lip.
First Reference: Chapter 174
Other Notable References: —