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.