01-23-2010, 10:22 PM
[html]
Anyone! No, this is not marihuana, just tobacco. This is in the village, by the ceremonial ground. It is evening/night'ish Word Count: 1117 - SoSuWriMo He sat in silence, just on the edge of the cold paved stone of the square ceremonial area. He had created this, for their ceremonies throughout the year. It was a place that should not be used outside of spiritual purposes, but his reason was justified enough. A small fire was lit in front of him, just outside the sacred ground. The fire was not on the stone, but he was. He was not so without respect that he lit a fire on the paved stones. He was not completely out of his mind. Small sparks flow from them and he watched them dance for a moment where he sat, legs crossed as if in a semi-lotus position. As if he knew what that kind of a position was anyways. He was wearing his leather coat, a ceremonial outfit, both for the purpose and for the cold. Strings of leather lined the back of his arms, and colorful buttons and ornaments kept it together along the front. His wife had made it, and now that she was dead he maintained it himself. One hand reached inside of it and took a small, wrapped bundle from a knot along the stomach-area of the garment. Carefully unwrapping it, he revealed to the world a small, simple pipe, and some leaves of a dark, almost black color. To some, what he was doing might seem folly, but it was not. Dawali sought the effects of this sacred plant, to help him think and find a solution to the problems he knew could not be avoided. Quickly, effortlessly, experienced hands stuffed and lit the pipe via the little fire. Then he spun, to sit facing the rest of the paved stone ground, his back against the fire. Soon, the smoke of the burning herb spun around him and created patterns and messages he could not understand. He had discovered there was a war to the north. He had discovered that he had much in common with the mother of the leader of Inferni, one of the parties. He had wanted an agreement of peace between his tribe and them, but this was not the time. Then there was the other part — Dahlia de Mai. Not only was Cwmfen not there anymore, but he had had no contact with that place whatsoever since the death of Brennt. He had no foot, not even a little finger or a whisker on the insides of their borders, and had no clue whath their position was about. The Chief did not fear them, really, for they were too far away to reach him. If they wished to find him, either of the fighting parties, they would have to pass by his allies first — yes, it was a very nice arrangement, now that he looked back, that he had created for them. He felt protected, but he also felt the need to do something about this. He could not sit here idly and take no stand — or could he? Either way, he should specify to his tribe's members what was happening, and what he knew, and what he bade them not to do about it. He would ask them not to get involved, and if they must, to be clear on how they did so on an individual basis, not on behalf of this tribe. Dawali was torn. On one hand, he needed to keep his tribe safe at all costs, and though it was unlikely that they would get involved, he simply had to be overly protective, to maintain absolute control of this situation from his own point of view. But again, he had an urge, an itch in him to venture north. To speak with Kaena and see what was really the cause of this conflict. The clan of coyotes were small, and he feared they did not have the supplies they might need. He had much — should he not share with his friends? But this would be gambling with the safety of all of them, for no matter how hard he specified that he was there as an individual, everyone would see him and draw the wrong conclusion. There were not many who could be mistaken for him in this place; his looks were quite unique. His lips worked furiously around the tip of his pipe, closing around it as his muscles pulled the smoke through it and into his mouth. Sometimes not inhaling, sometimes pulling the smoke in along with the air around him. Cold, winter air mixing with this thick and aromatic smoke made him cough sometimes; he did not smoke it often. Not because it was so sacred that he could not; in fact, it was quite common in the old tribe to do this regularly for the sake of doing it. But Dawali had never quite liked the taste of it, though he understood its use. He relaxed better when he held this ornamented pipe in his hand and took in the scents of the herbs. The smoke danced around him and he took one break from his line of thought to watch them, searchign for clues as to what to do. He had asked Gvihita, but he knew what she would say before he asked her; the safe version. The leave-yourself-out-of-it-way. The do-not-meet-with-anyone-from-either-pack way. The boring way. He needed to help, and she knew that, but she just did not care. Finally, when she had become bored enough with his stubbornness, she had taken off. Just as well, for she could be quite the annoying bird from time to time. He did not enjoy conversations when the one side had only the same thing to offer at every bend. Chilled wind took gentle hold of his feathers as it passed him, and the little fire behind him was slowly dying. The large ceremonial fire, however, did not, and it would never do so, either. It lit up the evening, penetrated the darkness and flew right over to paint him, despite how the darkness was very dense this night, and despite how it was merely a flame. A big flame, but still a flame. Dawali's red furs seemed redder than usual, but this was the only color that stood out. The blues and greens and yellows that flowed through his mane were all pale compared to this red color that came from the ceremonial fire and made an aura around him. Every so often, the tip of the pipe gained heat, glowed in oranges and blacks and reds, before dying again. He sat silently, turning his dilemma this way and that. But, he had already made up his mind. He just had to work a little to understand it. |