The trolls danced into the night and ate the sweet meats of sacrificed animals. Cups ran full with fermented juices and magical concoctions of which Papa assured Mooshki were safe to drink. The drums thundered through the Vale keeping a lively even pace. The bonfire roared rising high into the night sky as the flames were fed.
Every few hours another sacrifice was laid on the altar and bled to the loa of the land, spirits that Papa claimed to see gathering in the trolls revelry.
The drummers changed every few hours, and the worn and tired villagers took small naps here and there only to awaken and rejoin the revelry that continued for days.
Papa laughed and danced eating and drinking his fill. The dancing continued after the final sacrifice was given passing into the morning of the third day. When the hour came that another sacrifice would be laid Papa approached the altar once more.
“An finally now wid all deh loa ah deh land gat’ered at our feast, ah give ah final offerin’ not just as energy as we ‘ave given while dancing but ah blood, freely given.” Standing just over the altar Papa, with the drums rolling, pulled the sharp ritual blade down the length of each forearm and let the blood spill over the stone altar. He pumped his fist causing the blood to flow faster and drip down as an offering to be devoured by the loa. The flow slowed as natural healing caused the two wounds to clot.
He pulled away and raised his arms to the crowed, a little left over blood trickled down back his elbow. A few other trolls approached the altar after the witch doctor and also spilled blood from their wrists. The drums picked back up as Papa wandered from the altar toward the Priestess’ hut.