Bran works his tribe’s ancient rites of harvest so that next year’s fields will be rich and that pestilence be spared them. Some frown and furrow their brows, but the elders of the local communities see a familiar Chauntean ritual, be it cast with a foreign wording to it.
Spirits of wind, carry the seed.
Spirits of earth, bless the dirt.
Spirits of fire, spare thy flame.
Spirits of water, soak the ground.
We offer of our yesteryears harvest and of our own herd so that you may hear our pleas and bless our harvest for the coming turns of the moon.
The offerings are consumed in a burst of fire as a warm pillar of smoke carries them to the sky.
The farmers now know the words and remember the rite. No fee is charged but that of a warm meal for the shaman and a stiff drink to warm the body. The old ways are not lost to this land.