So this Critsmas became even busier than usual. On top of it we ended up with some major projects at the begining of this year that took up a lot of time and energy. However I was able to make it to some of my writing group meetings and one of the prompts we did was for imagining a christmas or solstice type event and how your characters would be celebrating in their own world. I came up with a new idea for a character and story based off this idea and here is the opening to that idea which takes place on their solstice and said celebration.

Shera knelt on the edge of the circle, the light from the roaring bonfire painting her knees a dull orange.  It was as close to the fire and the circle of the celebrating tribe as she would go.  She kept her face cloaked in shadow, wishing that the rest of her could also disappear into the night.  She did not want to be here. The tribe did not want her to be here.  But she must attend the Night Watch.  The magic of the shaman’s demanded her presence, for no one from the tribe must be absent, no matter how small, old, worn, or hated.  

Voices singing rose on the wind, stirring whatever bits of dry ground were not already frozen.  They were chanting the old songs.  The song of sorrow and fear for the long nights of winter.  Flutes called out the melody while drums kept a steady beat. The dancers kept pace as the music rose and fell.  Clothed in masks of the animals and demons that prowled  the darkness they twisted and turned around the fire.  A mass of rage for the people who would dare live in the forgotten lands. 

As the song rose to greater heights the magic unwound from the dancers to flit in and out of the rest of the tribe.  Darkness rose from the people, the magic gathering all the fear and hate from them.  All the worries that burdened their shoulders and the pain that caused heads to hang heavy.  It gathered above the fire and descended, smothering the bright flames and threatening to put the grand blaze out.  And just as it appeared that the fire would succumb a clear voice rose above the others.  A pure note of hope.  Illia, the chief’s daughter, stepped forward, beginning the song of renewal.  

 For the night had just passed the mark of deepest darkness.  The tribe had survived one more year and now it was time to celebrate.  Time to rejoice in the end of the longest night and to welcome the new year and the journey out of winter and the vision of spring to come.  Slowly the players changed their tune.  The singers picked up the new chant and the drums beat shifted.  New dancers joined the circle.  They wove in and out of demons and monsters until slowly they began to change.  Light replaced dark and hideousness gave way to beauty.

Shera knew that the change in the dancers was really just a change in outfits.  Not real magic.  Not like the shaman held or the magic she saw woven from the dancers and the music.  But in the wavering light of the fire and the skill of the dancers it appeared just as real.  She remembered her mother, showing her how she sowed the costumes.  Made them with little flaps and double sides so that they could be easily manipulated into a different shape and color at the changing point.  Yet the wonder of the skill needed to achieve the change still amazed Shera, even as an adult.  

Finally, everything came to a final crescendo and silence fell as the dancers backed away from the fire and knelt, heads low.  A short man strode forward.  He may have seemed unimposing, old and overweight, with barely any hair left on his head.  Yet he was the most dangerous man in the tribe.  The Shaman, the only one who wielded true magic.  The one who gave power to the ritual dances and took their pain and gave them the tools they needed to survive this cursed land.  

He began to speak but Shera tuned him out.  She wished she could leave.  Everyone else hung on the word’s of the Shaman but she did not.  They hated each other.  Why he hated her she did not know.  But she did not miss how the magic never touched her.  How when everyone else had their pain and burdens eased she was left to linger on the edge of the light, hurting and alone.  Shera hated his cruelty and the power he held over the entire tribe, power beyond even that of the chief or the warriors.  Power to decide whether they lived or died by his word alone. 

The dance was over and she wanted to be gone, yet she must remain until the end.  So she sat quietly, head bowed, until finally she heard the chant.  Then she looked up to see the Shaman as he tossed a fine powder over the fire.  It seemed like such a measly handful of whatever would do nothing and yet the fire roared to new heights.  It burned upwards towards the sky and the heat was so great that everyone had to lean away and turn their faces.  Even Shera felt the heat wash over her as the light finally reached her face.

Then as abruptly as it had flared the fire died to a low simmer.  Smoke and tendrils of light rose into the air.  Each alight with a glow that made each strand easy to see despite the darkness.  Slowly many different strands danced together, in and out, and around each other until a symbol slowly revealed itself.  A great black beast with wings and claws and fangs loomed over the people.  Its mouth was pulled back in a snarl, one hand rested on an orb that glowed with a blue light and the other clutched at a circle that glowed gold.

As the omen settled over the people a great unease fell over the circle and a storm of whispers erupted all around.  No one could make out what this meant.  No one had seen it before.  Finally one of the warriors called out to the Shaman.  “What is this omen Shaman?  What does it mean?”  Shera thought it sounded like Ruben.

The Shaman did not reply, not at first.  He stood staring up at the strange beast until it began to fade and drift off into smoke.  Finally, shaking himself, the Shaman looked back at the people.  “It is the dragon.”

Now true noise erupted from the people.  The dragon.  None had ever seen, none had ever thought to see it.  It was the true calamity, the one that brought the end of the people.  “How could this happen?” one lady close to Shera cried out.  “Impossible,” an older man shouted.  “What do we do?” a teenager wailed.  On and on, similar thoughts and feelings began to pour forth and chaos overtook the once joyful celebration. 

Shaking her head, Shera slipped away into the darkness.  There was no more point to being here.  No one would turn to her for comfort or answers. There would likely be no answer.  At least not amongst the people.  But Shera did want answers and the best place to get those were from the chief and Shaman.  And the best way to do that was to go to her hiding spot.  The one that was the crack in the cliff face where the chief liked to pitch his tent that was just close enough to hear what was being said inside.  So Shera hurried away so that she could be well hidden before the true talk would happen.