Fire

The nights are spent around the circle of stones. Arranged in a chaotic time, the stones were arranged in an age that few remember.

The stones serve a purpose. Every night the dead and dried carcasses of old bloodied trees are sacrificed to the flames. The tribe warms themselves by the pyre, using the rising tongues of flame to cook their meals.

The circle of stones serves as a hub, the center—where the beating heart of the tribe lies—pulsing. The heat staves off cold nights, it provides protection from stalking creatures, it cooks and purifies their food, and its light fends out the encroaching dark.

The glow that this circle of stones exudes is mystical, especially to those who have not yet experienced its magic. The comforts provided change the lives of those near enough to feel its warmth.

Before the circle was built, the night was something to fear. It was a dangerous beast, taking lives seemingly at random. A few were cautious and strong. These people lived to see many nights, some even becoming comfortable in the darkness. There was no community when night fell. You protected yourself, maybe the people nearby.

We taste this former fear whenever the flames die. This occurs every couple of moons. Storms soak the circle, floods tear the stones away, the lookout falls asleep and forgets to feed the flames. When the light leaves the stones, someone must travel out into the dark alone. Keeping vigil in the mountains to harvest more from the fury of the next storm.

These nights without the magic are long. The empty circle a reminder of what they once had. A lasting symbol of hope for what they could have again. When the light returns there is joyous celebration. Followed quickly by a hyper-vigilance, a high-strung fear of future loss.