It has been many years since the rites were observed and the great spirits appeased. Some only heard of the rite from their parents or the elders before them, but they feel it in their hearts, that it is just to give back to the earth which provides the means of their survival.
As the small group huddles around a fire a figure approaches. He walks at a steady stride, 9 paces at a time, stopping for a time it’d take him to take another three, before taking another 9. The figure wears heavy robes of leather, covered with tatters of many beast pelts. His head is covered by an eagle’s head hood, fashioned out of many feathers, painstakingly gathered over the seasons, a massive beak resting over his brow. His shoulders are covered by a cloak of similar make. On his person are multiple fetishes, pouches, small incense burners and a single brass dagger, curved and jagged.
No words are spoken as of yet, the shaman gestures and the group follows to a place of reverence, where spirits dance and gather to observe the rite. A shaman approaches first, a small burner on a chain, burning brightly with incenses, leaving a trail of smoke behind him, the gathered folk following in an organised que. No instructions were needed, all sense the importance of such a ritual, so they all follow as they best see fit. A lone bull is led with the group, laden heavily with sheaves of grain, bounties of the fields and of the wilds.
A shaman walks forth, to a flat stone slab by the river bed and a bull, led by an elder of the community is brought forth before the stone. Grain sheaves and other bounty is placed around the flat stone, as the folks lay out bundles of twigs, creating a large pyre upon a stony altar.
The folk form a circle around a shaman brandishing a brass knife, an elder and a held bull. The bull had been calmed with balm and salve, and would feel no terror or pain tonight, his death will be quick. The flicker of torches on the wind is accompanied by a feint hum. A few of the folk still recall the old songs, but are afraid to sing them aloud. They are not alone anymore though, thus a hum turns into a silent murmur which in turn becomes a song that carries the word of an offering to the winds.
A burner bellows its smoke high, as the winds swirl, sending a stream of smoke in a circle around the crowd, surely a sign of blessing. The act is accompanied by words, spoken softly, yet loudly and with conviction behind them by the shaman;
Actions speak louder than words. We do not offer words today, but bounty taken from the land. We give it back in thanks as tradition demands it.
The shaman spreads his arms to the sky, brandishing a knife and with a strong voice he chants his rite.
Earthmother bless us! Send your servants onto us and see them make the land fertile and bear a harvest that the land’s not seen in an age! Send your pack to safeguard us from the Dreadwinter and spare us the harshest cold, let us defy the Frostmaiden! Form a pact between us! We show that we respect the old ways and that we honour the land. We give when giving is due and we reap what we sow!
With a fluid strike, the shaman sliced the throat of the sacrificial bull, holding up the mighty beast’s head, so that the blood could flow onto the presented offerings. The animal stands and doesn’t struggle besides the muscles twitching as it grows weaker by the moment. It closes its eyes, and the shaman places a wooden bowl under the stream to catch the last few drops of the blood before the mighty bull falls onto the stone slab.
The shaman opens a small pouch on his belt and mixes its contents with the offered blood, adding a few drops of grain to it before stirring it into a thick red paste. With the bowl in one hand, he indicates to the Elder. The old man offers a firm nod, with a grim, weather-beaten demeanour, takes a torch and lowers it to the pyre, as it almost instantly catches fire. It is a good sign. The spirits are appeased and approve of the rite, for the offerings are burned with an unnatural swiftness to the sound of a shaman’s loud chants.
“The offering is accepted and found to be adequate!” he said with a loud tone. “Rejoice! Sing and Dance! Mark this Midwinter’s day as the one upon which we need not fear coming night!” With those words the shaman marks his face with the red paste, drawing long lines over the forehead and the cheeks, finishing with a curved line covering the chin. He turned to the elder first, marking his forehead with a single line of red, moving on and doing the same for all the gathered. He encouraged them with a warm smile and kind words. “This is a time of rejoicing as the next harvest will be bountiful and the year will be good. The rite was accepted and the land is appeased!”
The local are gladdened by the news and sing their praises to the land, to Chauntea, to Ilmater and the Triad, to names they use for the local spirits, to their long dead ancestors and to each other. All are met with a smile from the shaman and all are to be encouraged. The rite is as much for all of those as it was for the local dwellers, spirit or men. Cheer spreads as loud chants and songs carry over the night as the bonfire burns its course.
With the rite complete, there is only celebration left, and the shaman did what he never did before. He paid for a large feast out his pocket, brought food and drink a plenty upon long tables placed under the night’s sky in the farmlands. All are welcome to come and share in the bounty of the past year, for the next one will surely be more prosperous now with the Earthmother’s blessings at hand.
