Open Before the embers die

[Vyn]

[This thread opens on a circle of people over a dying campfire, trading stories. We establish the posting order by the passing of the token between the speakers. Maybe you're an Elum. Maybe you're visiting. Maybe you just snuck in for free stew. Friend or foe. Stranger or kin. Everyone has a voice. All are welcome!]​

The storyteller pulled closer to the fire, his voice dropping to a whisper. A practiced pause and the grand reveal:

„... and when she reached into her bag, thinking it held coin...
she found only teeth.
Still warm.
And from the next room.

Her brother began to scream.“

Fire snapped, almost licking his face.

Tiny gasps from the little ones in the back.

Then laughter too quick and proud to be genuine.

The younglings scattered. One tripped. Another suddenly needed to check on the goats. The youngest had „already heard that one before“ and ran out quickly.

The few that remained were doing all in their power to appear bigger. Sitting on their heels, back straight. A little too interested in the fire. Refusing to look around.

The storyteller was great at his craft, but he had yet to learn about reading the room.

She accepted his token, a piece of colored string, firelight betraying the pattern of red and yellow.

She took the string and named it Fear. And fear was powerless once known. The silent death was unceremoniously followed by a toss of log in the flames.

She took the moment for the smoke to adjust and began.

Gentle.

„This one's for fire, not the fear. It's an old Elum tale. Too short some say, but true far as we can tell.“ Voice soft and measured. She eyed the previous speaker carefully.

„A man lived by the river. Alone. Each morning he'd cast his net. Each evening, he'd cook what he caught. Never too much. Never too little.

One day, the river gave him a giant fish“ her arms spread out as far as they could go. „Some say as big as his leg. Others say he had very long legs.“ She allowed the laughter to run its course.

„So he took it and ate. Fed his neighbors. And promised:

One per day was, no more, no less.

But the next morning he took two.

Then three. Then four.

By week's end, his house was full of fish. Stacked in the corners. Hung from the rafters. His neighbors stopped coming. The fish started to rot. The man sat alone, chewed, and wondered why nothing tasted right.

The next morning, river had left him too.“

She let the silence be long enough for the little ones to image the river packing up and walking away in a huff. Maybe on a Wagon even.

„That's it, that's the story.“

What was left of the fire still gave heat and light enough for them to pretend the night was long. She fished for her own token. An old feather she found in a chicken coop many years ago, flying with her ever since.

She extended it to the next person in the circle.

„We have fire enough for a few more.“

An Elum invitation.

Token waiting.

The next tale is yours.

 

[Roki]

Roki looked to the feather, how its reddish brown barbs caught the flicker of the fire's light across each fiber that formed its vane. How the downy barbs danced and tickled his fingers, pinched about the nib of its spine. How each little wisp of white moved with the flux of fire's heat mixed with the night's cool air.

Such a small thing, and yet...

"Your turn now, Roki-boy," Syr Lefelen said quiet between them. His cool blue complexion a warm grey in the fire's glow.

A blink of large golden eyes, and Roki sucked in his surprised breath. Looked to the Knight of Dusk, and then back to the story teller who had told a tale he found most frightening. Though he could not right say why. Not yet.

"A story then," the squire said to himself, his eyes came back to the feather in his hand, and he recalled all the stories he had heard, and all those he had told.

The fire's warm pop, its friendly hiss, the embers that danced up with the shimmer of its heat, all reminded him he had an audience waiting.

"Once around a fire, much like this one, there crackled and hissed a warm spirit who slept in the ashes of a family's hearth.

Sleep and sleep he would, till they came about and stirred him to wake. Fed them fresh tinder and dry logs, so that his little hands could take hold, and his hundred tongues could take taste," Roki wiggled his fingers to the crowd, and waggled his tongue there after. Some of the kids laughed, and he smiled wide and tusky at that. Nod, and found his rhythm with the fire's next pop.

"He would help them cook , he would help them keep warm, and all through the winter, on those darkest of nights, he would burn all the brighter as they gathered around, and told tales of color, tales of warmth, tales of fear, and tales of hope.

Spirit that he was, he crackled and hissed, popped and burped, happy to see each turn of the log, and each prod of his coals. Glad for the family, and the home he kept warm, until one day, he roused from his ashes, with no family to warm," he stared wide eyed at the crowd.

Felt that, while the traditions of the Monastery allowed for longer tales, a bit of brevity was appreciated here. So, on that somber not, he would pocket his feather, and pull from his bag a little brass bell. It chimed, warm and bright, as he handed it to the next teller of tales.

"Your turn," he said with a sure grin and a wink.

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

What luck, that they had stumbled across the wagon-fires of the Elum, and not some other nastier sort. After a full day of food and news and trade, the only ordeal was being ambushed by the aunties. The older deva women poked Vilen's cheeks and said things like, 'doesn't she look just like so-and-so?', and 'why, with those jewel eyes, you could be from such-and-such line''. He'd had to slip away, before they found him a wagon to marry into.

So he sat by the fire, and let the children weave things into his hair, and listened.

The game was familiar to him, but not the stories told. The cantor was a little different than how his troupe had done it. Still, he knew what to do with the token when it was passed to him. The brass bell dangled from a short red string. Vilen wrapped it round his middle finger, and let the chime of the bell sing against his palm.

"In a kingdom now long gone, there was a wicked King. In the King's forests, an Archer hunted." With another ring of the bell, Vilen sprung up into a crouch atop the log he'd been sitting on. His tail swung back and forth, and he looked to the fire so that his pupils would narrow and his eyes glint. "He brought back deer to feed his troupe, and fox pelts to keep them warm. The King found out, and ordered his men after the Archer."

Dipping his head down beneath his shoulders like a cat mid-crouch, Vilen moved closer to the fire with cautious steps. He flared his claws out, and looked back a couple times, as if someone was following him. The bell rang out the smallest alarm of danger.

"With hounds and horses, the King himself chased the Archer through forest and field. The King caught him, and ordered him blinded for his crimes against the crown. Many years passed. Then one day, at a grand ball, nobles and courtesans gathered round the King. They drank wine, sang and danced, and bragged of victories past."

As he stepped round the fire, Vilen became many people at once. A young debutante finding her laugh, the gentleman telling his joke. A couple dancing. Finally, the King, old and proud, the fire reflecting only cruelty in his red eyes.

"The King had the greatest boast. He ordered his old enemy to be brought up from the dungeons, and a target set at one end of the hall. A bow was placed in the blind man's shackled hands and the King said:

​

'No more forgiving a king there is than I​

I will set you free, dear Archer,​

If you hit that target through its eye,'​

​

The bell rang again as Vilen raised his arms. His muscles strained in an arc, sweeping into the bend and line of a drawn bow, ready to shoot off into the distance. Fingers trembling against his cheeks, creating the tension of a string not there. Then, Vilen turned round smoothly on his heels.

He pointed his invisible bow at another sitting round the fire, and let loose.

"From the crowd came a great commotion. For the Archer had struck his target true."

One of the children looked up with big, puzzled eyes. 'I don't get it,' she said. The older sibling next to her elbowed her and whispered, annoyed, 'He stuck the king instead, Marcy.'

A huff escaped Vilen, and his tail flicked once. "Hold on, I didn't think the exit through." Resuming his regular posture, he strode over to his pack and fished around. His fingers closed round something, but he hesitated to pull it out. That one was special to him. There was nothing else that would work, though. To give a bad token was inviting bad luck to settle between one's horns. That's what his nan would have said, anyway.

All at once Vilen tugged the token out and pressed it into the next person's hands.

"Here," he said, and sat down just as brusquely.

It was a deer figurine carved of some dark wood. Walnut, maybe.

 

[Cooberry Coobird]

In the trees, Cooberry listened to the stories told by the fire's warmth. The night sky was bright, as it often was, and the Mother gleamed within his amber eyes. He was quiet as he listened, learning new words, ideas, and stories. He liked the last one, though he could not picture it in his head. But soon he would, as he knew, Kings were two-legged with crowns, and archers liked to wear large capes wrapped around them. He shook his feathered head and ruffled some of his feathers.

A dark piece of wood, a border of warm orange around its edges. Cooberry was transfixed, feeling a pull to the wooden deer. He flew off the small branch, leaving a small feather in his wake, and came low to the fire. He snagged the wooden figurine by its antlers.

"Oh me, oh my, it's heavy— can I still fly?" He cooed, words a bit garbled at being so unused. He circled around the dying fire, pleasantly surprised by its heat, and thought himself clever to fly around it so everyone could hear his wonderful story.

"I've got a story, too! Once there were friends, two friends. Orange fox and black cat. Orange fox was clever, black cat was clever, too. They were friends because they liked chickens, not the feathers and bones, but the meat and eggs." Cooberry's eyes widened. It was cruel to prey on eggs, all the poor babies, never knowing the sun on their feathers. He wouldn't tell his audience such a thing; that would be in poor taste.

"One day, orange fox said to his friend something like... 'Hey, I can get more chickens than you.' And black cat meowed a 'let's make a bet.'" There was a moment of Cooberry cooing a melodious soliloquy before pausing, seeing a child with a confused face. "Sorry, I forgot to talk like two-legs. They went to a farm and fox stole two chickens! Twooooo chickens! All the ruckus had the two-leg come out of the wood box, big stick in hand. Black cat chased off fox who left a chicken behind but alive, and the two-leg was much happy. It took the cat to live with them and gave it chicken every night.

"Many moons later, orange fox and black cat met under a bright night-- like tonight!" Feathers, this piece of wood was getting heavy. Cooberry hadn't realized it, but it was very close to the ground now. Maybe talking and flying wasn't the best idea? "Orange fox told black cat 'I have taken a chicken every few days. I win.' And the black cat purred and said, 'Well, I get chicken every day by scaring you away once or maybe twice. So I win, hah.' Fox did more work, but the cat was lazy. Ha! Ha ha ha.... Winner, winner, chicken dinner!" The deer figurine was dragged into the earth near the flames, the tired pigeon dipping over and laying on the ground, cooing softly beneath its beak. Hard work was overrated.

A rich blue-violet down feather, softer than a cloud at twilight, would find its way to another's hand.

 

[Vyn]

One of the kids jumped up and into the circle next. Grabbed the pigeon's feather and stood there wide-eyed. Unsure what to do next.

„C'mon Marcy!“ one of the others cheered on.

„So... my grandfather had a story. It goes...“ More heads leaned in. Fire down to coals and embers. Its energy mirroring the heavy lidded children.

„So there was, am, bridge. Over a river. And under the bridge lived a frog. No! No! Wait. On the bridge lived a soldier. Soldier had a chicken. No not a chicken. An evil chicken. A goose!“ Laugh spread in a burst.

Then a long pause. Someone coughed.

„The goose was special, because it had eggs. One egg. Every hundred years. And the King, uh, wanted it. But the soldier didn't want to. To give it. Because of...reasons. I think love. Or maybe his brother. Yes, it was his brother's goose.“ Then she looked real focused for a second. „No, it was cursed?“

She looked at the token in her hand in panic and quickly looked for the pigeon, trying to pluck the feather back in. „I'm sorry!“

A small silence. A bit of panic. And a yawn from a baby well beyond its bedtime.

„Perfect story!“ someone called out brightly. „Nothing like an evil chicken to set the mood!“ a few more laughs. A couple claps.

Vyn stood up sharply, severing the long moment. „Come now! Let's show our guests something truly cursed.“ And then she'd mimic the first storyteller. Her voice low and creepy. „Jem's coat!“ she pointed at an oversized patchwork monstrosity folded over a nearby crate. Its bulk resembling a sleeping animal.

Another voice came from somewhere behind a Wagon. „You think the goose was strange? You haven't seen Gallen's ghost!“ A couple fingers went for the clothesline where a faded tunic danced in the wind. Could've been a waltz, if Gallen had any rhythm. Someone handed the last storyteller a snack. One of the aunties tapped her shoulder with a gentle squeeze. „Don't worry. I once told a story backwards. And everyone thought it was experimental. You're one of us!“

And just like that, the night remembered how to breathe again.

 

[Roki]

All laugh and cheer, Roki clapped double true for the young storyteller. Rocking back on his bum with little kicks off the ground with his feet folded neatly beneath him.

Lefelen nod, clear smile upon his face, his large hands slow clapped for all who had performed.

The night of stories had come to an end, but there was much and more to do amidst the wagons of Elum, and with that in mind, Roki popped up from his seat and stretched his limbs with a groan, hands up as high as they would go over his head, and legs to full extend whilst joints popped and sinew pulled about as far as it would go. With a spring, he snapped back down to the ground in squat, then a hop, and a little two step.

"Easy now," Lefelen warned in jest. "You'll have them think yourself a clown, looking for recruitment,"

Roki turned and gave the Sworn Knight a tusked grin. Mischief there in the gold of his eyes. "Who's to say that is not the entire point, my dear Syr?" he twist at the hip one way, once, twice, arms up like the cocked wings of a strange bird.

"Then I would be the one needs tell your sister of this unpredictable predictability, and would very much rather not," he laughed as he picked up his pack, sword there with it and all the other things he carried "Come on," he nod as he bade the young man to follow. "I think I smelled soup being cooked up in one of these wagons?"

"Soupe?" Roki asked as he hurried to snatch up his own pack, and the staff that was his tool. "What kind, you think?" a few long steps caught him up. He smiled, wide eyed with excitement.

"Cheese and onion, I think," he said, flicked his nose twice with pointer finger.

 

[Vilen Blackhart]

Vilen's precious totem was being dragged through the dirt, and by what? An over-grown pigeon! Tail twisted itself in knots behind him, as he narrowed his eyes at the creature. Not even the adorably unsteady cantor of the child's story, or the grownups who soothed her with practiced hand, could pull Vilen out of his indignation at the slight.

Nor, even, the sweet and salty smell of caramelizing onions.

"What are you doing, you over-puffed poultry!" Vilen growled out. He leapt from his seat, and when he landed it was on four paws. The silhouette his primordial form made against the firelight was far from intimidating. He stood only a little taller than a house cat, fur long and snowy and eyes so round not even their red shade could make up for their lack of menace. All the same, he was full of wrath as he lunged again, aiming to pounce right on top of the talking bird.

Luckily, he was mindful enough to keep his claws in.

 

[Dove]

Hearing the words 'over-puffed poultry', the healer was only walking buy when she grew indignant. Excuse me? The healer walked around, the sides of her face, the crest of feathers in her hair puffed, her face put into a scowl. She did not notice the small pidgeon on the ground. And then, to hear Vyn- of all people- talking about evil chickens. Again?! Had no one in this wagon a lick of common sense?

You never mess with the healer- she will definitely remember these things and she will make sure that your medicine tasted like horse shit.

So, Dove turned to face the crowd, but was a little.. unnerved by the sight. Erm. Perhaps she should just keep walking. And not being perceived.

She will still remember though.