(( This is open to all Anhai wicks and newcomers, but I will encourage the Ethia to show up, as it's really a part of your culture Newcomers, too! ))

Near the abandoned Mud Huts, a small group was gathering. The sun had tipped beyond the lip of the valley, and the space was in the eerie latter stages of twilight. Several men and women dressed in grey woolen capes were lighting candles and placing them in clusters about the ruins.

There was a clear space between the huts where the storytellers would sit, as well as these caped men and women who would aid the telling. Their audience would be seated in the grass before them, facing the old mud structures. A few people had already arrived, taking their seats as close as they could to the storyteller.

Elder Tsiran was a man of many years. Each year had claimed a line in his face, a spot on his hands. His wisp of hair glinted silver in the candlelight. So old and frail was he, it was understood that this might be the last candlelit night he might attend. He sat in the center of the clearing, a child helping him drink clear water from a clay cup. He swallowed and nodded his thanks to the child, who went and sat in his mother's lap in the front row. Tsiran now sat, head bowed, until the time came for him to begin.

Crickets were beginning to chirrup, and piikii beginning to quiet. Somewhere in the distance an elpha let out one last cry.

It was nearly time.

Glynn was giddy a with excitement. This was one of his favorite times of the year. It happened about every three months, so he was feeling story deprived. His usual shirtless self had decided to cover his torso up with some type of fabric. It was actually just a tattered cape, but at least he wasn't shirtless.

Glynn decided to sit right in the front row, it had the best view of the elder. He thought Elder Tsiran was one of the greatest elders of the Ethia tribe. He told stories as if he was there, ironically Glynn used to jest around and say he actually was there.

The time for jest was over though. It was time to listen and enjoy.

(( Well, I suppose no one else is joining just now. Feel free to hop in anytime, guys! ))

Tsiran's head rose and the assembly hushed. There was a small flutter of motion as the remaining caped aides finished and took their places.

There was a moment of silence.

"Once, we were not as we are," Tsiran began in deep tek. His voice was like a dusty sheet of paper in the breeze; if scrolls or carvings could talk, one could be sure this was how they would sound. "Once we were a hounded people, roaming a land that loved us not. Our carts carried us where we would, and we were a people to ourselves. We made no enemies and made no allies. But our existence was an affront to the greater sorcerers of Bruanhald. Our being was enough to cause offense, and war with Bruanhald chased us, beat us, tore us apart..."

A low sound began, almost imperceptibly, as the caped men began to hum softly. The sound added danger to the old man's words.

"Forced us to flee a might we could not challenge. Our carts and kensers brought us deep through the jungles and into a valley largely unseen and unknown. Bruanhald gave chase but was yet driven back by a force greater than we."

The caped women began a high, eerie keen of further danger and mystery.

The older woman sat close to the front of the growing crowd on the outskirts. As the candles were lit, so was a sense of nostalgia ignited in her. She had been in this spot many times before, as a child, young adult, and now well into her mid-age. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth while she fiddled with one of her beaded bracelets. She hadn't always been listening--especially in her late teens when certain other things were far more interesting to her--but the stories were part of her, part of her people.

The crowd hushed at the Elder's unspoken command and immediately wrapped their attention around the great old storyteller's ever word. The first story was a familiar one, as was tradition. The most important stories had to be told over and over so each generation would remember them for the future generations. Reading in the caves was all well and good, but hearing the stories just made them live so much more, especially when the teller was skilled.

As the assistants added their voices to the atmosphere, fond memories of a time when she had also done so caused her smile to deepen. Yes, it was good to sit betwixt the mud huts once again and listen to their history beneath the fading light.

"For, you see, the hatchers surrounded the valley, flanked on every side. This double edged blade was both blessing and bane. For though it drove away our enemies, we were trapped."

The caped members thrummed and then uttered a sighing hush. The silence was profound.

"In the mud of the rivulets and marshlands, the carts stuck fast. The kensers could pull no more. The horses gave out. We could flee no further, and neither was there a place in which to hide. Our carts, our moving homes, were no longer the safe haven the had seemed. We were alone, with danger on all sides."

The aides uttered small buildups of sound, warming the cold sensation that had been left in their silence.

"So we built. Taking the mud from under our very feet, we built. Small and withered though they were, they became our homes. Our shelters. Our fortresses."

The men and women raised their candles high above their heads, illuminating the Huts to the audience.

"But though we slept beneath roofs, the mists-- and hatchers-- did not recede."

Sabu silently sneaked into the Huts, mindful that he was late. A mandrake root was swinging at his side, his newest find from the forests and he nursed some bad scratches from the cougar cub that he found by it. Luckily, he didn't see the mother.

He settled in the back and listened with his ears open. These were the stories of his people, and they were stories that he loved.

"Hopes began to fade," Tsiran's voice seemed tinged in the despair of centuries.

Those caped began blowing out the candles, one by one, like fireflies blinking out in the night.

"Night by night, fears grew. The mists drew close. The hatchers ever closer," More candles were going out. The darkness drew in, "There was great fear every night that that night might be their last."

The last candle went out. The group was ushered into darkness. The tension was palpable.

The caped assistants began a chorus-- high keening, eerie thrumming, and animalistic noises rising in a frightening ensemble. One of the children in the front began crying.

When the noise seemed at its highest, they went into a sudden hush as the elder lit his single candle.

"But fear not the darkness and what lies within and behind it. For so long as a candle still burns in Anhau, neither hatcher nor force of Bruanhald shall overtake thee."

There was a sigh of relief through the audience when the candle was lit. Tsiran shakily reached out to pass his candle to one of the young assistants to light the other candles. But a breeze arose suddenly in the still air, snuffing it.

There was a frantic commotion and the clicking of flint as the young man tried to re-light the candle. The audience began whispering amongst themselves in terrified tones.

"That's never happened before."
"What's going on?"
"The candle's gone out! It's out!"
"I don't understand! That's not supposed to happen."

And most of all, they asked, "What does it mean?"

The candle was finally re-lit, and it was used carefully to revive the others and surround them once again with light.

But the damage had been done. The single candle symbolized their salvation from the darkness. If it had been snuffed, what did that mean?