A Midsummer Eve.
Posted: Tue Jun 21, 2011 6:19 pm
The flames leaped high into the dusky sky, causing a whirlwind of elusive shadow and light to play against the faces of the celebrants. There were few this long days' night. Few who remained of this chosen sect, their numbers whittled away by time. But those who remained still remembered their tasks. Their rites. The traditions that were theirs to keep and hold no matter the sway of the flame and shadow and damnation.
Four and thirty there were, clad in garments natural to their surroundings. Oh, not twigs and branch or leaf, but leather tanned and worn to smoothness from time and cloth that was bright and fanciful as any Gypsy cloth. Fair faces were cast into flashing light and waning darkness. Some with golden hair bound into ornate braids and bound by silver or copper. Others allowed auburn tresses to dance upon the heat-born breeze, swaying in time to their ritual gyrations.
Soft soled slippers, studded boots, bare feet. Each of these traced a pattern that was at once random, yet at the same precise. Particular to the one who stepped that part of the ritual. Male and female they were, the women slightly out numbering the men, hands slipping forward to touch against face. Fingers to trace against the brow or the cheek. The men murmured softly, a chant that rumbled softly against a backdrop of crackling timber. Pristine voices, from the women, came in counterpoint. The same words, sung as a paean to the Gods above them.
To the memory of beings of light that once walked amongst them. That raised the Sect up and gifted them with their immortality and talents. The chance to truly live life to the fullest and experience all of the wonderment there was to be had. To know the sun as it rises upon the grassy plain. To feel the kiss of wind as it winds through the branches and trees. The taste of grit on the long stretches of desert. Salt, upon the lips, from the spray of the living seas. The Firstborn remembered.
To know the loss of a wife to cruel chance. To see the blood of a companion upon the blade of the foe. The change of the world by fire and blood and catastrophe. To never again know the feel of a newborn babes' embrace. The Firstborn survived.
It was theirs to pass on the knowledge of their race. To find worthy successors to their science and their art. To train others in metalworking and alchemy. Guide newcomers to the paths of the forest. Yet it was a task the Liania had failed at. For theirs was also the arrogance of certainty. The hubris of the long lived.
They were four and thirty, clad in garments true to their natures, and they danced to push back the coming of their twilight.
The Firstborn remembered. And the march of ages continued.
Four and thirty there were, clad in garments natural to their surroundings. Oh, not twigs and branch or leaf, but leather tanned and worn to smoothness from time and cloth that was bright and fanciful as any Gypsy cloth. Fair faces were cast into flashing light and waning darkness. Some with golden hair bound into ornate braids and bound by silver or copper. Others allowed auburn tresses to dance upon the heat-born breeze, swaying in time to their ritual gyrations.
Soft soled slippers, studded boots, bare feet. Each of these traced a pattern that was at once random, yet at the same precise. Particular to the one who stepped that part of the ritual. Male and female they were, the women slightly out numbering the men, hands slipping forward to touch against face. Fingers to trace against the brow or the cheek. The men murmured softly, a chant that rumbled softly against a backdrop of crackling timber. Pristine voices, from the women, came in counterpoint. The same words, sung as a paean to the Gods above them.
To the memory of beings of light that once walked amongst them. That raised the Sect up and gifted them with their immortality and talents. The chance to truly live life to the fullest and experience all of the wonderment there was to be had. To know the sun as it rises upon the grassy plain. To feel the kiss of wind as it winds through the branches and trees. The taste of grit on the long stretches of desert. Salt, upon the lips, from the spray of the living seas. The Firstborn remembered.
To know the loss of a wife to cruel chance. To see the blood of a companion upon the blade of the foe. The change of the world by fire and blood and catastrophe. To never again know the feel of a newborn babes' embrace. The Firstborn survived.
It was theirs to pass on the knowledge of their race. To find worthy successors to their science and their art. To train others in metalworking and alchemy. Guide newcomers to the paths of the forest. Yet it was a task the Liania had failed at. For theirs was also the arrogance of certainty. The hubris of the long lived.
They were four and thirty, clad in garments true to their natures, and they danced to push back the coming of their twilight.
The Firstborn remembered. And the march of ages continued.