A Solstice.

A Solstice.

Postby Vanidor » Thu Dec 24, 2015 10:24 pm

A Solstice evening. The night has a chill to it that soaks through everything. Leather. Skins. Fur. There is a dampness to the air that coalesces upon flesh and alights upon hair. Broken strands of fabric lay still upon stretched lengths of leather. A single elf was perched on a strand of wood amidst the bio-luminescent glow of the lanterns. Alone and poised, he stood there looking over the place were so many of his brethren had once danced out the seasons of life. Where they had celebrated the continuance of the seasons, over and over, as long as the many years had gone by.

The elf was not the last of his Kin, he knew that. There were others, spread out in the lands beyond the Woods of Myrken. They were there, he imagined, in a similar place as he. Standing there, waiting for the moment to come when it was time to dance the ritual that was the changing of the season. With a sideways glance to the stones and trees that stood silent sentinel over the glade, Vanidor would sigh and step into the ring.

It was a thing of ancient grace, that well worn circle of stone and grass. Once over a hundred of his Kin had stepped through the paces with him, all of them a glow and with joyous hope for the years to come. Now, however, he was alone. There was naught by the slow drizzle of flake and snow upon his crown to accompany the elder Elf in his dance for the seasons. Not that he was on time, come to think of it, but he was here.

His sword was wrapped in his cloak; Bound and tied and set upon a stone in a sort of offering. Boots were shod and piled a top breeks and an old tunic. The elf was clad in nothing but the skin he was born with. With one last glance upwards to the sky, Vanidor would start to step out the ritual that he had observed for millenia.

Step. Drag. Drag. Step. Step. Slow spin. A pause that would have been in place for another. Step. Step. He would pace through the ritual as if it was all that was left to him, here in this sad and lonely place in the Sanctuary he had led during the long years of his vigil. Step and twirl, an airless thing as he moved to honour the breath of the Lady that he held above almost all. That the Goddess he worshipped would bring about a spring that saw a good and green harvest come spring.

He stepped through the ritual, flakes of snow clinging to naked flesh, in honour of a memory. No matter the change of tide or of rule, Vanidor would be here. Hands raised in a paean to the Gods, but Elven and Human, for the betterment of those who lived in the civilised worlds around him.

Step.

Step.

Step.
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Re: A Solstice.

Postby Serrus » Mon Dec 28, 2015 12:58 am

Step-step.

Step-step.

Step-step.

The blue roan had a pace of its own along the winding path of white and grey, where white caps and drifts piled upon many of the great pines before their black trunks rose above to enshroud the path in near darkness. But the rouncey knew this path all too well, and needed not the sight but the smell to guide it, and the trust of its rider to let it lead the way. Each hoofbeat moved in time, a musical meander, a snort and flick of the tail like the rattle of a kettle drum or the clash of tiny cymbals. But there is no ritual of note that come from the sounds from horse and rider, only the deep breathing of the stallion’s chest, and the man’s harsh cold breath of his own, two pale mists in the dark night.

There were many things in Myrken's forests that made tales of woe and misery, and many other things far worse. But it was known that men were generally left to their devices in these parts provided they did not stray beyond the path into the woods beyond. Beyond the trees lay darkness, darkness that hid many eyes of terror ready to main or devour.

The cold only served to remind the sellsword of warmer places, such as the crackling flames of a hearth with hot soup, or a whore’s thighs under a sheepskin blanket. They were thoughts that kept him to task, helped him forget the numbing fingers under his gloves that he could barely feel touch the reins before him.

Something was up, however. There was always something with his horse, some piquing curiosity he cared little for, and when it slowed he tried to hurry it along with a kick of his boots, only to have it protest with a snort and dig its hooves into the snow with a sudden halt. The dark eyes of the rider narrowed towards the blue roan before him, his thick woollen cloak dusted with snow.

“T’ fuck is it now?” he hissed quietly through gnashed teeth, for only dead men made noise within the forest at night. “S’ a mile to town. Both our balls’ll be frozen over ‘fore long, we don’t get a move on.”

The rouncey’s nostrils flared, ears swivelling to sounds far beyond the man’s own hearing, and it belched a quiet nicker. Some might call such a distracted animal undisciplined or stubborn, though the sellsword oft found use of its quiet alarms or distractions, and he leaned forward in his saddle to follow the stallion's gaze.

Nothing, at first. Nothing but the whisper of wind through trees that brought the biting cold of solstice. But he looked for a while longer, perhaps longer than some would feel prudent, until the faint sign of a blue glow drew his attention to a gap betwixt the far trees, and the light that came from within. Fae folk, were his first thoughts, and his stomach churned. Creatures speaking in riddles, tricking the unwary with their devilry. Dark gloves slid down the long pommel of his sheathed kriegsmesser, fingers numb from the cold. But then a figure could be faintly seen among the blue light, if only briefly -- either a dark shadow or passing trick of the light, or there was indeed another among the trees.

Leave it be, he calmed himself. There’s nowt but devilry here.

But there was something about the light, something about the way in which the shadows danced in the trees that seemed familiar to him, a thought just within his grasp that constantly slipped through the fingers.

And thus upon his saddle did the sellsword watch the elf from afar.
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