Shaman Class Hall Entrance Novels & Stories

The common room was jammed and noisy because there was a party in full swing, Joy peered slowly around it, saying excuse me, pushing her way into their room followed by Sunshine. She accessed the door and walked in only to find that these round-shaped intangible shields were formed as a result of blood-marking with spells, row after row, they were like the traditional Mongolian herdsman’s yurts. Joy went to her little base, it was scalable and just looked like her bedroom at home, the same closet, stuttered window, and beautiful table lamp equipped with two aluminum zip-fasteners. From her bedroom window she looked out on a crowded vista of hills and a roof garden, this was where she felt sa

I knocked on the wooden door, which creaked open slowly. ‌ "Ah, Alpha,” the shaman greeted with a knowing look. "I sensed your presence. Come in, my Precious Leader.” ‌ The interior of the hut was dimly lit by the flickering flame of a single candle. Various mystical artifacts adorned the shelves, attesting to the shaman's deep connection with the spiritual realm. I hesitated for a moment before entering, the gravity of my predicament weighing on me. ‌ "I seek your guidance, wise one," I spoke, my voice filled with a mix of determination and desperation.

“Also, you will need to remove your slippers.” Rolho and Retta helped the travelers cover their heads and then led them to the entrance to the temple where they were asked to remove their slippers. “Now what?” asked Casser. “You go in,” said Rolho, waving towards the entrance. Retta smiled at the travelers and said. “I hope the Orchid Queen grants you permission to talk to her.” “Just one word of advice,” Rolho said with a serious tone. “Hold on to your truth.” Rolho and Retta then stepped to the side of the entrance and allowed the travelers to enter one at a time.

The crowd then also began to disperse, murmuring how the Roar was softer than they thought. “Thank you, mister. I thought I would be a goner,” she said and sighed in relief. “You’re welcome,” Ryder replied and was about to turn away when the woman grabbed his sleeve. “By the way, please accept this,” she said with a smile. It was a card. It had gold letterings which said: Sheehan, the Shaman of the Shore Ryder arched his brows in curiosity. “And this is?” “A pass,” she said. “It’s a special card allowing you to enter a shrine. Have you never heard of it?”

“She is going to cause trouble later, Dane.” “My people are already on a lookout for her. She won’t go far away!” With a deep exhale, I climbed the stairs of the podium with him and faced the crowd. Dave came to stand next to me. The pack's Shaman, an aged wolf with a wrinkled face and wise gray eyes, offered a bow to us. He had already prepared for the ceremony. Dane wanted the entire pack to witness the ceremony, so he insisted on hosting it in the pack house instead of the temple.

At last the cliffs opened, and the Hall rose before them. It was not a castle, not in the human sense. It was something older, carved directly into the mountain, its arches sharp as fangs, its walls etched with runes that pulsed faintly as though alive. Twin statues of wolves guarded the entrance—massive, snarling beasts hewn from obsidian, their eyes set with rubies that glowed like fresh blood. The envoy turned, his crimson cloak pooling like spilled wine. “Enter. The Council is waiting.”

Only the whispers of the trees and the distant calls of night creatures. After what felt like an eternity, they reached a small clearing. At the center of the clearing stood a modest hut, its walls constructed from rough-hewn logs and covered in ivy. Smoke drifted from a chimney, signaling the presence of warmth inside. The air here felt charged, as if the very earth beneath their feet was alive with ancient energy. This was where the shaman resided.

Inside… The entrance hall was breathtaking. Towering marble columns. A glass ceiling revealing the stormy sky above. Water flowed through narrow channels carved into the floor. Ancient olive trees grew inside the building. Everything felt alive. Not like a bunker. Like a home. At the center of the hall stood a life-sized bronze statue. Damien Quinn. One hand resting on the shoulder of a little girl. Elara. She approached slowly. At the statue’s base… A simple inscription. “Leave this place kinder than you entered it.”

The blood welling from the obsidian table smelled of stagnant water and copper. It dripped over the edges, hissing as it touched the stone floor. Kaelen didn't drop Derek. His grip tightened, his knuckles whitening against the boy’s throat, but his head snapped toward the door. The High Shaman stepped into the room, his white robes dragging through the dark liquid spreading across the floor. The bone charms on his staff rattled with a dry, hollow click.

The clock of my life was already counting down. “Are you sure she's not going to die?" Dante asked, using his hand to wipe the blood on my forehead as I kept my eyes shut, pretending to be unconscious so as to buy myself sometime or to delay their plan. “She will definitely be fine,” the Shaman said, waving her hand dismissively. “The attack will only knock her out until we are able to get the items for the ritual together.” She said this in a voice that betrayed compassion and pity for humanity, walking towards Dante and pulling him away from my side. Shamanism is a religion that has to do with the worship of the earth, instead of the Moon goddess.