Just something to distract people a bit. The downloadable story will also be posted as a separate thing: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/58743138/

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Rite of Passage

It was late one morning when you were startled awake by the sound of chanting.

Well, that, and one very excited squeal.

The voices came from just outside your bedroom window; shrill, overeager, but thankfully familiar. Still almost gave you a heart attack, though. Your half-asleep brain had all but convinced you that the village was under attack again. Thankfully this wasn’t the case.
It was a beautiful summer morning, already hot and muggy with the smell of wet clay and grass in the air. You hurried through your regular morning routine, practically stumbling into your fur kilt and thick leather sandals as the chanting and cheers intensified.

The radiant morning glow made you squint slightly when you finally stepped outside your home to look around. The village you called home was relatively small; just over two dozen homes built with sun-baked clay and mud with sturdy wooden frames and grassy roofs. Several larger buildings near the center of town were built with heavy wood and clay bricks. Tall trees with long, sinuous branches swayed gently in the breeze above the homes, full of life as various creatures scurried between their lush green leaves. The sky was a crisp crystal blue, with thin wispy clouds floating lazily overhead. Below that, the air shifted into a fiery orange as the sun peeked just over the trees. Draconic birds flapped in the distance, their scaled wings an iridescent green that sparkled in the amber sunlight. You could just about hear their warbling calls over the chanting and laughter.

Overall, another perfect day.

And yet, most of this wouldn’t register in your mind until much, much later. Mainly because your attention was immediately captured by the short, muscular woman in the middle of a crowd.

She was a blur of spins and graceful leaps; a twirling blend of earthen colors and shimmering scales that shone like the embers of burnt leaves. Shiny bracelet beads on her arms clacked together in time with the rhythmic thumping of bare reptilian feet against dirt. Her tapered tail cut the air behind her in slow, graceful movements, keeping her body’s momentum locked in an endless chorus of fluid rotations and wide, swaying hips. Sweat was already pouring down her face, sliding down the tensing muscles of her arms to spray the air in arching patterns.

Dumbstruck as you were, it took several seconds for you to understand what was happening.

The Rite of Passion.

An ordeal fit for only the most tenacious and desirable of kobold women.

Memories of the Elder’s raspy voice echoed in your head as you watched on. “On the 20th and 5th cycle of life, Kobold warriors must select a male tribesman as their life partner. To prove her strength and worthiness, the warrior must complete the Rite of Passion at Summer’s dawn.” A mating ritual. A simple, yet grueling task requiring every adult female kobold to perform a customary dance without rest from the break of dawn until high noon. And specifically during the summer months–the height of the Kobold mating season. Those who could complete the ritual for their chosen mate would have the right to take their hand in marriage.

And those who couldn’t would be left with the sickly and infirm. Or worse, with no one at all.

It was well understood by everyone that less than a third of all kobold offspring in the village were male. And the most suitable of them would always be taken by the strongest women.

You tear your eyes away from the female kobold long enough to glance upward towards the sun. She’d been at it for hours already. Turning to your fellow cheering tribesman, you couldn’t help but wonder which male she’d chosen to dance for. None of them seemed particularly more excited than the others, so it was possible that she was selecting a man she hadn’t spoken with prior to this.

Strong-willed and determined as she was, she must be very confident in her pick–

A rising cry of exhilaration from the crowd drew your attention back to the dancing warrior. And then your heart nearly lept into your throat when your eyes met hers. Like dazzling gemstones, her large ruby eyes sparkled with a deep, almost delirious joy. Faster and faster, her feet weaved intricate patterns across the dirt. Her arms swung low, fingers sprayed as if preparing to take flight. Then she leapt, her body twisting in midair like a leaf fluttering in the wind. She hit the ground with her knees and hands a second later with a sharp grunt and a spray of steaming sweat from her back and twitching shoulders. Her toe claws carved deep grooves into the dirt before her trembling thigh muscles launched her back into the air on a sea of swirling dust clouds.

It was…genuinely beautiful. Captivating, even. The more you watched, the more you found yourself hopelessly spellbound by her performance.

She was a lost soul, hopelessly gasping for air in the frenzied ocean of ecstasy and passion. Her exhausted muscles screamed out with every movement. Her rapid heartbeat, a desperate rhythm; her lungs, a cacophonic wheezing tune. A song of sacrifice, made custom for the one man she loved. One of her bracelets snapped from the force of a swinging kick, sending beads scattering into the crowd. You barely noticed when one sailed past your head, clattering against the wooden door behind you. You were taken. Dazed. A forlorn member of the audience. An outsider watching another give everything she had and more.

Her emotions bared open for all to see. Her suffering pure and exquisite.

Without looking, you could tell the other tribesman felt the same. Their chants intensified, their stomping louder. Flower petals and leaves were thrown into the sky, falling like snow over the dancing warrior whose name you didn’t know, but whose soul you’ve all become intimately familiar with. The scene became a chaotic and collective rise of emotion that ignited the world around you and stirred the deepest parts of your heart.

You resisted the urge to look at the other tribesman. One of them would be given the gift of this perfect moment forever.

But, whether you were picked or not, you could not turn away.

You would watch until the very end.

You knew it was finally time when the cheers and your own pounding heartbeat were interrupted by the village Elder’s call. The kobold woman immediately crumpled like a leaf, her legs giving out as her knees buckled from sheer fatigue. She let out a sharp, shrill cry when her butt hit the ground with a small bounce and a twitch of her tail. Her body leaned back on trembling arms, spine arched and tongue lolling from her muzzle as she sucked in lungfuls of air. Her body was a living collection of pain and exhaustion. Muscles spasmed and cramped. Fingers twitched, toes curling and splaying. Her brownish orange scales were slick with sweat that soaked the soft dirt under her. And yet, judging from the Elder’s approving grin, she’s done well.

Now, it was time for the other part of the ritual.

After proving her strength and endurance as a warrior, it was now on her chosen male to step up and commit to his duties. You see, most of the women in the village were warriors and hunters. It is expected that they would put their lives on the line to protect their home and loved ones. As such, they often travel across endless fields and deep valleys, over treacherous mountains and harrowing ravines. Miles upon miles of ceaseless toil that will punish their bodies and bring their mind and souls to their absolute breaking point, all while their men remain at home as builders, farmers, and craftsmen.

And one other thing.

Huffing and puffing, the kobold warrior glanced down at her feet with a satisfied grunt. Her wide soles were red and sweaty from repeated stomps and grinding movements. The air above them swayed from the sheer heat of the fiction inflicted upon them. One foot twitched from a building cramp, forcing her to flex her toes with a muffled whimper. Your heart broke seeing her in such pain. Her efforts had left her body so broken and ragged.

But…you knew that was the point.

Literal hours of abuse had been hammered into her bare feet without break or respite.

Leaving them appropriately aching and sore, as the final test for the man who will spend the rest of his life tending to them. For that is the ultimate duty of the tribesman she chooses to love. To soothe her pain and exhaustion. To be her comfort and inspiration. To give her reason to survive in the cruel world beyond their small village. And to be the guiding soul she would fight tooth and nail to return to.

Her life partner.

You’re startled when you realize that no one from the crowd has approached her yet. Had she been rejected by her chosen spouse?

That’s when you notice the village Elder grinning at you.

And the other kobold tribesman staring at you with an almost conspiratorial glee.

Oh.

Your heart skipped a beat when the weary kobold warrior turned to stare directly at you. Her shimmering ruby eyes met yours for what felt like an eternity. And then she smiled expectantly.