(Written by T, posted in Discord)
Whispering to themselves, they spark a fire and breathe into the flames as the kindling ignites.
Pitch, sap, kindling, and carefully feathered sticks are bound together at their feet, nestled nearly into a small cairn of dirt and ash. As the flame takes, Elk looks up to the moon, half full, and utters a shudder.
The cold will be upon them soon…one hopes this fire is enough to survive the beginning bitter cold, whose icy dampness cuts through many furs to the bare skin beneath.
With a flame prepared and their belly full, evening’s ritual can begin. Elk begins to arrange stones and bones in curious shapes to the side of the fiercely burning, peculiar campfire.
They reach into their pack, pulling out with their left hand a small cloth, folded nearly & tied. Dismantling the precious bundle, a rare, precious sap appears in dried chunks, brown, and of warm, sweet scent. Elk takes in their paws a small morsel of this particular ingredient, smashes it between two stones, before collecting the dust and adding it to the fire.
At the moment of introduction, this sweet treeblood’s offering creates a shift in the wind and a power change in presence. The air is thick, hungry, and full of unseen shapes, only stepping out out of the shadows for long enough to be glimpsed in smoke.
Elk’s eyes close and look within, following the spirit maps arranged so carefully before them. The air stills and a shape begins to speak within the murky in-between.