Post by Fenix on Dec 20, 2014 23:22:13 GMT -5
Secluded among the dark boughs and creaking branches of the Hullack forest, buried within the rustled brush and untamed wilds, a circle of trees settles in its comfortable slumber. Within this barrier of wooden grace, a lowered plateau of grass makes its home, with a pillar of stone settled in the center. Before the stone, a small plate and a modest altar lies, a depiction of a flourishing oak carved at its center upon the stone work.
A man treads softly into the solemn confines of the shrine, the decorative scales of the draconic plating donned upon his thin framed build glimmer modestly as the sunlight streaks against it through the forest canopy. The scales rattle and clink together as he moves. As he approaches, he lowers his hood to his shoulders, gazing around from behind mismatched eyes of a soft blue and somber green. He walks in a very relaxed manner, moving about the shrine with a keen familiarity to its humble presence. He bends quietly, tending to some of the scattered buddings and flowerings that have begun to sprout across the shrine's floor in various areas.
Finally, he approaches the altar. A bag of coin is lain into the tithe plate, an exorbitant amount resting within the bag's grasp. The man kneels before the altar of the shrine, his head bowed before him as he grasps a small symbol to match the inscription on the stonework that hangs around his neck. He sits in a modest silence for a great length, speaking not a single word, nor making a single movement. His appearance is almost statue-esque, seeming to just simply find a peace within the shrine, at one with the lands around him. His silence lingers unerringly long, before his lips finally part with a calm motion. His words begin to flow in the Sylvan tongue, a natural flow to his speech keeping his words moving about in freedom. The tone of voice suggest a prayer, though the length comes about endlessly.
The man drones on in his speech, the tone of prayer falling away to simply the sound of one sided conversation. His head bowed low, a mess of long black hair fallen around his face, shaping it gruffly. He continues to speak, the words of his tongue akin to a song with his manner of speech. Finally, however, he leans back, tilting his head up to the sky. His eyes trace along the canopy of the trees above him for a moment, stealing glances of the evening sky above to savor in the quiet ambiance. His feet draw from beneath him, causing him to rise up to a stance once more. He turns, stepping away from the altar a few feet, before settling against the stone pillar at the center of the shrine. A patch is cleared before him, leaving a simple dirt patch in front of him. Stones are procured from his pack and set around the dirt patch, shaping a circle out of the area before him.
He lays out small twigs and leaves within the stone circle, sparking a small flame at its center. He nourishes the flame, letting it build into a small roar before him. He then waits patiently before it. He sits, settled in front of it until nightfall. He never once moves, not even to eat, from before the small fire. He feeds it, letting it flourish and burn free, a smoke trail drifting up into the air above it.
As night falls upon the man, he strips away his armoring, instead donning a set of black and white, thin fabric clothing. He knees down in front of the small fire, pulling out various herbs and grasses from inside of his pack, setting them out before him. Finally, he once more speaks. His tongue in common, and seemingly to none in particular, but he speaks aloud to the fire.
"In my home, we had few customs that were truly considered a tradition that we could represent ourselves by. With so many variant faces, and diverse backgrounds, nobody really knew just how well to personify ourselves as a community. Because of that, I was left with very little in the way of a real example of what home traditions were like. With an early end to childhood, I never was given that chance to learn of any of them, either. For no better words, I was an orphan so far as my culture goes. To this day, I yet remember so little of my roots. Who truly am I? What am I? So many questions will follow that to the end, too. But above that, I could look forward to my life. When I spoke, I spoke of the day I took life. The day I took my own life, and thus took my life into my own hands. The day I was given rebirth, and a chance to discover what way I wanted to live my own life. My home may have provided me no great homage to culture and tradition, but my travels have introduced me to the world, the people, and the experiences throughout."
He adjusts his seating, straightening his back a small bit. He begins to crush some of the herbs he procured in a pestle and mortar, working it into a fine powder.
"I spoke to you of two, of Aylannah and Verkren. They died before my eyes those few days after my answer was given, but they died for a just reason. They died because they were standing firm for their beliefs, knowing the consequences of the initiative they took. They taught me the possibility of new paths being opened to us, that no choice was simply laid out for us with one decision or the other. They taught me the meaning of my oaths, and my beliefs, even before I had cast those upon myself. But they also taught me about home, tradition, family, and culture."
His hands continue to work the herbs into a powder, setting down the bowl to pick up the grasses instead. His fingers work quickly and delicately, weaving the grasses together into a small patchwork.
"In those times I spent with them, I was blessed. I was given tradition, and an opportunity to feel a bond between people that I had simply never quite experienced before. They were not my parents, they were my mentors. But more than that, they were my family."
He lays the powder into the patchwork of grass, pulling the corners of the patchwork up and tying it off with a length of twine.
"In our family, it was a custom for us to show remembrance for those we valued, and those departed. Whether it were separation by death, or by our parting of ways, the message was a uniform respect and reverence for those no longer by our sides. This tradition was granted for only those considered of our closest kinship, and thus performed special for each."
He lifts the small grass bag, inspecting it a small bit.
"Memoria, representing our times together, the memories we shared, and the bonds forged between. Spaghnum Moss, to staunch the pain and soften the blow of departure. Ground into a fine powder, so that the two may dance, representative of the close relationship shared between friends or family. Then we pour it into a patchwork of choice, binding the top with a binding of choice. These represent the comfort from presence, and the unbreakable ties that unify our lives. In this case, I chose simple materials. Grass, for the natural bonds of the land that we spoke of, and our reverence of its bounties. Twine, for the simplistic nature of our friendship. Truthful speeches and direct communication, which is so seldom shared in such lighthearted tones."
He draws out a small flask of water, murmuring a few words over the container quietly. As he uncorks the flask, he sets it upon the flame. The water drifts about, swirling from the neck as it rises from the bottle. As it meets with the air, it begins to dissipate quickly, turning into a small mist that floats about the area. He brings the bag over the fire, letting it hang from the extra length of twine. He lets it sway gently above the firepit, the mist swirling about with it in a slow and twisting motion.
"A mist of water represents the vastness of the world around us, swirling and changing as the times will allow."
He then lowers the pouch into the fire, the embers grasping hungrily at the pouch and contents within, absorbing it quickly. It burns, the sweet scent of the herbs drifting into the air around him as the flames devour the pouch over the course of a minute. As the fire reaches the top of the pouch, it begins to trace up the remaining twine, before snapping away. The dust within sparks and crackles in the flame, some of the remains drifting away with the soft night breeze. He places one hand over his heart, then bows deeply to the burnt offering, holding the position for a moment.
"And the burning of this offering completes that very ritual. The fire is the heat of companionship, the flames that burn within each of us. A reminder of the warm feeling gathered from your friendships. Whether in this life, or the next, we will always meet again. That fire will continue to burn eternally, as the bonds that tie us each together continue to hold as strong."
He sits before the fire for a long while after that, simply settled in silence with his legs crossed. His hands are folded in his lap, sitting upright with his eyes closed. As the night moves onward, the fire burns out to a snuff, leaving only a trail of smoke to drift into the night sky. He rises as the smoke does, gathering his pack with him and turning back toward the entrance of the shrine.
"May you find peace where you walk, and may your path be graced wherever you find yourself. May you walk ever in the shade of the Tree Father."
"Oilmaamaacc."
With a final word, he departs the shrine to wander, drifting out of the forest to places beyond.
A man treads softly into the solemn confines of the shrine, the decorative scales of the draconic plating donned upon his thin framed build glimmer modestly as the sunlight streaks against it through the forest canopy. The scales rattle and clink together as he moves. As he approaches, he lowers his hood to his shoulders, gazing around from behind mismatched eyes of a soft blue and somber green. He walks in a very relaxed manner, moving about the shrine with a keen familiarity to its humble presence. He bends quietly, tending to some of the scattered buddings and flowerings that have begun to sprout across the shrine's floor in various areas.
Finally, he approaches the altar. A bag of coin is lain into the tithe plate, an exorbitant amount resting within the bag's grasp. The man kneels before the altar of the shrine, his head bowed before him as he grasps a small symbol to match the inscription on the stonework that hangs around his neck. He sits in a modest silence for a great length, speaking not a single word, nor making a single movement. His appearance is almost statue-esque, seeming to just simply find a peace within the shrine, at one with the lands around him. His silence lingers unerringly long, before his lips finally part with a calm motion. His words begin to flow in the Sylvan tongue, a natural flow to his speech keeping his words moving about in freedom. The tone of voice suggest a prayer, though the length comes about endlessly.
The man drones on in his speech, the tone of prayer falling away to simply the sound of one sided conversation. His head bowed low, a mess of long black hair fallen around his face, shaping it gruffly. He continues to speak, the words of his tongue akin to a song with his manner of speech. Finally, however, he leans back, tilting his head up to the sky. His eyes trace along the canopy of the trees above him for a moment, stealing glances of the evening sky above to savor in the quiet ambiance. His feet draw from beneath him, causing him to rise up to a stance once more. He turns, stepping away from the altar a few feet, before settling against the stone pillar at the center of the shrine. A patch is cleared before him, leaving a simple dirt patch in front of him. Stones are procured from his pack and set around the dirt patch, shaping a circle out of the area before him.
He lays out small twigs and leaves within the stone circle, sparking a small flame at its center. He nourishes the flame, letting it build into a small roar before him. He then waits patiently before it. He sits, settled in front of it until nightfall. He never once moves, not even to eat, from before the small fire. He feeds it, letting it flourish and burn free, a smoke trail drifting up into the air above it.
As night falls upon the man, he strips away his armoring, instead donning a set of black and white, thin fabric clothing. He knees down in front of the small fire, pulling out various herbs and grasses from inside of his pack, setting them out before him. Finally, he once more speaks. His tongue in common, and seemingly to none in particular, but he speaks aloud to the fire.
"In my home, we had few customs that were truly considered a tradition that we could represent ourselves by. With so many variant faces, and diverse backgrounds, nobody really knew just how well to personify ourselves as a community. Because of that, I was left with very little in the way of a real example of what home traditions were like. With an early end to childhood, I never was given that chance to learn of any of them, either. For no better words, I was an orphan so far as my culture goes. To this day, I yet remember so little of my roots. Who truly am I? What am I? So many questions will follow that to the end, too. But above that, I could look forward to my life. When I spoke, I spoke of the day I took life. The day I took my own life, and thus took my life into my own hands. The day I was given rebirth, and a chance to discover what way I wanted to live my own life. My home may have provided me no great homage to culture and tradition, but my travels have introduced me to the world, the people, and the experiences throughout."
He adjusts his seating, straightening his back a small bit. He begins to crush some of the herbs he procured in a pestle and mortar, working it into a fine powder.
"I spoke to you of two, of Aylannah and Verkren. They died before my eyes those few days after my answer was given, but they died for a just reason. They died because they were standing firm for their beliefs, knowing the consequences of the initiative they took. They taught me the possibility of new paths being opened to us, that no choice was simply laid out for us with one decision or the other. They taught me the meaning of my oaths, and my beliefs, even before I had cast those upon myself. But they also taught me about home, tradition, family, and culture."
His hands continue to work the herbs into a powder, setting down the bowl to pick up the grasses instead. His fingers work quickly and delicately, weaving the grasses together into a small patchwork.
"In those times I spent with them, I was blessed. I was given tradition, and an opportunity to feel a bond between people that I had simply never quite experienced before. They were not my parents, they were my mentors. But more than that, they were my family."
He lays the powder into the patchwork of grass, pulling the corners of the patchwork up and tying it off with a length of twine.
"In our family, it was a custom for us to show remembrance for those we valued, and those departed. Whether it were separation by death, or by our parting of ways, the message was a uniform respect and reverence for those no longer by our sides. This tradition was granted for only those considered of our closest kinship, and thus performed special for each."
He lifts the small grass bag, inspecting it a small bit.
"Memoria, representing our times together, the memories we shared, and the bonds forged between. Spaghnum Moss, to staunch the pain and soften the blow of departure. Ground into a fine powder, so that the two may dance, representative of the close relationship shared between friends or family. Then we pour it into a patchwork of choice, binding the top with a binding of choice. These represent the comfort from presence, and the unbreakable ties that unify our lives. In this case, I chose simple materials. Grass, for the natural bonds of the land that we spoke of, and our reverence of its bounties. Twine, for the simplistic nature of our friendship. Truthful speeches and direct communication, which is so seldom shared in such lighthearted tones."
He draws out a small flask of water, murmuring a few words over the container quietly. As he uncorks the flask, he sets it upon the flame. The water drifts about, swirling from the neck as it rises from the bottle. As it meets with the air, it begins to dissipate quickly, turning into a small mist that floats about the area. He brings the bag over the fire, letting it hang from the extra length of twine. He lets it sway gently above the firepit, the mist swirling about with it in a slow and twisting motion.
"A mist of water represents the vastness of the world around us, swirling and changing as the times will allow."
He then lowers the pouch into the fire, the embers grasping hungrily at the pouch and contents within, absorbing it quickly. It burns, the sweet scent of the herbs drifting into the air around him as the flames devour the pouch over the course of a minute. As the fire reaches the top of the pouch, it begins to trace up the remaining twine, before snapping away. The dust within sparks and crackles in the flame, some of the remains drifting away with the soft night breeze. He places one hand over his heart, then bows deeply to the burnt offering, holding the position for a moment.
"And the burning of this offering completes that very ritual. The fire is the heat of companionship, the flames that burn within each of us. A reminder of the warm feeling gathered from your friendships. Whether in this life, or the next, we will always meet again. That fire will continue to burn eternally, as the bonds that tie us each together continue to hold as strong."
He sits before the fire for a long while after that, simply settled in silence with his legs crossed. His hands are folded in his lap, sitting upright with his eyes closed. As the night moves onward, the fire burns out to a snuff, leaving only a trail of smoke to drift into the night sky. He rises as the smoke does, gathering his pack with him and turning back toward the entrance of the shrine.
"May you find peace where you walk, and may your path be graced wherever you find yourself. May you walk ever in the shade of the Tree Father."
"Oilmaamaacc."
With a final word, he departs the shrine to wander, drifting out of the forest to places beyond.