The night air is alive with the jubilant cries, its heart beating to the rhythm of drums and the melody of pipes singing of old tales and new beginnings. Noche de las Almas Pasadas, a night woven from the threads of remembrance and the vibrant tapestry of life, has unfolded beneath the watchful gaze of the stars, each twinkle a silent homage to the souls remembered.
In the village’s central square, life overflowed, and cobblestones have disappeared beneath the feet of dancers telling tales of joy interwoven with sorrow—an eternal dance between the living and the spirits.
The bonfires, mighty sentinels of flame, are crackling with fervor, casting shadows that are dancing alongside their mortal kin. Around these pillars of light, the living gathered, their laughter rising to mingle with the smoke reaching towards the sky, an offering to those now dwelling in the heavens, brimming with joy and memories.
Cheerful songs fill the air, carried on the breeze that is sweeping through the square, lifting spirits and drawing even the most reticent into the fold. The musicians, masters of their craft, are playing with a fervor that belies the solemnity of the occasion, their tunes a melodious bridge from the revered past to the promising future.
The aromas of roasted meats, sweet pastries, and piquant spices are wafting through the square, a testament to the bounty that the valley has reaped under the Celestials' benevolent gaze. Cooks and bakers, their hands deft and sure, offer up the fruits of their labor to all who pass, ensuring that no soul will end the night wanting.
Yet, amidst this splendor, it was Raquel’s dance that became the most precious gift to those present and to the heavens themselves. She commands the gaze of all, her body telling tales of loss and defiance with captivating grace, each of her movements a mesmerizing fusion of sorrow and sensuality. The mug she carries, barely noticed, is sloshing with her movements, a mere accessory to her allure. In the firelight, her form lures onlookers, casting seductive shadows that echo her dance, her unyielding spirit and sensuality evoking unwavering desires.
On the fringes of this carnival of life and death, Baruch has found solace in the tranquility that envelops the fringes of the festivities. Here, with his son nestled close, he could watch the festival unfold, a silent observer to the vibrant tapestry of existence that is playing out before him. The blanket beneath them, a kindness from a fellow mourner, insulated them from the cold stones, a small island of peace in the midst of the storm of joy.
‘Perhaps a bit of noise is not that bad sometimes,’ Baruch mused, his gaze drifting across the sea of faces. In their laughter, their dances, and their songs, he saw not just a people but a promise of resilience, a vow that despite the darkness that had once touched their lives, the light of hope, however dim, would never be extinguished.
Amidst the echoing joy and the intricate ballet of light and shadow, Baruch's peaceful corner was interrupted by the arrival of a hearty meal, delivered by hands both youthful and weathered. María, a young woman whose figure reflected the valley's bounty, approached with arms burdened by the cauldron's weight, humbly bowing first to the druid and then to his little son. Rigel stood beside her, her smile radiating brilliance that rivaled the stars above.
“Maestro Baruch, this is for you. I hope you like it!” María's voice, slightly trembling not just from the weight she carried but from her deep respect for the man before her, rang clear and bright through the night’s revelry. Baruch swiftly relieved the young woman of the cauldron's weight, and the rich aroma of pumpkin soup filled the air around him. "I'm sincerely grateful, María. Todah," he said, his smile as warm as the soup she brought, nodding to her in gratitude.
Rigel, her youth a stark contrast to the aged wisdom that Baruch wore like a cloak, placed the plates and glasses with a care that belied her twelve, her movements a dance of their own amid the greater ballet of the festival. With the burden of the cauldron lifted from her shoulders, María bowed respectfully and turned, offering a bright wave to Miguel, the son of Carlos, who stood across the square. Yet the young man's visage betrayed no hint of return for her affections, leaving the air between them charged with unspoken words. ‘Youth,’ mused Baruch, his mind awash with echoes of his distant youth.
Rigel, her task of arranging the plates completed, exchanged a sly grin with Daniel, their smiles a silent language of shared secrets and innocent conspiracies. She caught Baruch’s eye, signaling her intent to excuse herself from their company.
Noticing a hint of disappointment flicker across Daniel's face, Baruch swiftly called out to Rigel before she could leave. "Would you please join us?" The sincerity in his voice caught Rigel off guard for a brief moment, but her acceptance was swift, her youthful eagerness shining brightly. She approached with light steps and sat across from Daniel, her cheerful smile brightening the air as children's chatter buzzed around them. Seeing his son's pleased expression, Baruch silently exhaled, relieved. Noticing the contented expression on his son's face, he let out a soft breath, feeling the tension slowly melt away.
The aroma of soup from the freshly brought cauldron, meanwhile, filled Baruch's lungs, and the hunger that had built up over days of relentless work suddenly sharpened. Quickly, he served his son, then Rigel, and finally himself, before eagerly filling the void in his stomach.
Carlos's boasts, often taken with the good-natured skepticism, were in this moment vindicated. María's soup, a simple concoction by the look of it, was transformed in their bowls into a feast fit for the Celestials themselves. "Carlos wasn't just bragging," Baruch mused aloud. The little druid affirmed not in words but with a satisfied slurp. The soup, its steam a gentle caress against the chill of the evening, was a balm to his soul as much as it was a healing elixir for his exhausted body. Baruch felt the weight of his years and duty lighten. However, his peace was soon disturbed by a woman, young and reckless in the eyes of Baruch's age and vast life experience.
Raquel, emerging from the mist of laughers and songs with her characteristic untamed spirit, settled herself uninvited yet wholly welcome beside Rigel, her eyes alight with a mix of mirth and mischief. "The old fool wasn't just boasting too," she declared, her voice carrying over the festival's din, challenging Baruch with a playful glint in her eye. "The drink is good, en realidad," she proclaimed, her words both an invitation and a dare.
Daniel, ever the innocent amid the world of adults, eyed the mug with a mixture of curiosity and excitement as he ventured, "May I?"
Raquel’s response was swift, yet not unkind, "No, Leaf, this fiery drink is for adults only. Sorry, mi pequeña hoja," she said, a gentle admonishment in her tone, though her eyes danced with the secret joy of adult privileges. Turning to Baruch, her challenge was renewed, "Do you want some too, señor Maestro?" she asked, her tone weaving curiosity and taunt into a single thread.
Baruch’s response was a quiet refusal, a testament to the deep discipline of his druidic life. "You know we can't," he said, his voice the calm amid the storm of festivity around them. Raquel, undeterred, probed deeper, "Druids have very strict rules. Isn't that boring?" Raquel's mock dissolved within Baruch's profound reflection. It was a question as old as the divide between their cultures, yet in it lay the eternal dance of difference and understanding.
In times past, when the Ancient Forest had been his sanctum and druidic rites his only creed, Baruch had regarded the human world from a distance, a spectator to their fleeting dramas. Humanity, to him, had seemed an aberration, sparks flaring briefly against the eternal tranquility of nature. His disdain, unvoiced but potent, had erected barriers as real and formidable as the Ashen Gorge that cleaves between humankind and the Ardag tribes to the North.
But years among those he once viewed with quiet superiority had softened the edges of his judgment. The resilience of the human spirit, their capacity for joy in the face of life’s ephemerality, had, over time, woven itself into the fabric of his being. Having shared in their laughter and borne the weight of their sorrows, Baruch acknowledged the legitimacy of humanity's existence.
"There's nothing wrong with enjoying life," Baruch admitted, his gaze sweeping over the faces alight with mirth around him. "But for a Yoshvey ha’Yarot, there's no greater happiness than following the creed and fulfilling one's duty," Baruch continued, his voice carried the weight of over a century's experience. Raquel nodded, her gesture a silent acknowledgment of the depth of his conviction.
Baruch's gaze drifted back to the soup, but his anticipation of a warm meal was overshadowed this time by Rigel's question, her voice laced with concern, "Tío Baruch, Tabitha hasn’t come yet. Aren't you worried?"
Baruch responded with a laugh that rippled warmly through the chill of the night. "My wife is one of the most powerful beings in the world, second only to the Celestials. If there's something that can harm her, it would signal the end of the world," he declared, his mirth scattering the shadows of Rigel's anxiety.
As laughers filled the air, Baruch observed the spark of joy in his son's demeanor and felt a surge of gratitude toward Raquel and Rigel, who were seated before him. Their journey over the past two years had taken them across the entirety of The Golden Valley, a realm under the watchful protection of Tabitha. They had ventured from kingdom to city, from remote settlements to untouched wildlands, seldom pausing for breath. Amidst those ceaseless travels, the boy had scarcely found the opportunity to cultivate friendships; solitude had become his unwelcome companion, rendering him introspective.
Yet, Raquel and Rigel had were the dawn after a long night, dispersing the shadows of loneliness with their vivacity and laughter, igniting anew the sparkle in his son’s gaze—a glimmer Baruch had feared was dimming. As he watched his son, now animated and full of life, a gentle warmth eased the fatigue that had become Baruch's constant shadow. Here, in the embrace of the festival, surrounded by the comfort of hearty meals and the familiar presence of friends, only one absence lay heavy on his heart—the absence of his wife. Her presence alone could have transformed this beautiful night into something transcendent, a healing balm for the weary soul of a traveler long away from home.
As Baruch's mind was lingered with thought of his wife, the lively chatter and laughter that had filled the air began to taper off. The vibrant hum of conversations and the clinking of mugs gradually subsided as the first actors appeared, stepping into the flickering light of the torches that encircled the makeshift stage. The sudden change in the atmosphere was palpable; the once boisterous crowd fell into a respectful silence, their attention riveted by the presence of the performers. It was as if the very air held its breath, waiting for the tale to unfold under the watchful gaze of the moon.
The Golden Valley, with its hardy farmers and playful children, materialized before the audience’s eyes, transporting them into a world both familiar and enchanted. "In the heart of a world torn by strife," Miguel's voice, rising from behind the screen, filled the square with a solemnity that held the crowd's focus. "Lay a valley untouched by war's cruel rife. Blessed with verdure and rivers that weave, a paradise, it was hard to believe."
As María gracefully emerged on stage, adorned in Aelithra's iconic, ethereal robe, a ripple of admiration swept through the crowd. Rigel, unable to contain her excitement, tapped her mother's hand, her eyes wide with awe. "Look! ¡Mira, mamá! María plays her majesty Aelithra!” She whispered, her voice a blend of wonder and delight. Raquel, her gaze fixed on the young actress, nodded silently, her eyes betraying a flicker of envy for María's radiant poise.
Stepping into the spotlight, María embodied Aelithra's tranquility, her presence calming the square. "Under my shadow, this valley shall thrive," she intoned, her voice casting a spell over the assembled, "No blight, no famine, just beauty alive." With a flourish gesture, she highlighted the stage, now ablaze with the simulated splendor of their realm.
"But shadows crept over fields of gold," Miguel intoned, his voice heavy with the looming threat as shadows began to encroach upon the scene. "Cold whispers of murk, uncontrolled," he cried, his face shadowed with grim foreboding. Aelithra, portrayed by María, faced this growing darkness, her determination unwavering. "For this valley, my heart beats," she proclaimed, a beacon against the gathering dark, "Against this darkness, I shall not retreat."
The scene grew darker still, the collective breath of the audience held in suspense. "Alas, even stars must heed the night's call," whispered Carlos’s son, his voice barely above a murmur, "Aelithra, the golden, was not immune to the fall." María's dance became a battle, her movements growing sluggish, her strength waning, until, with a heartrending gasp, she succumbed, her collapse sending ripples of sorrow through the crowd.
As María lay still, portraying death's still embrace, Miguel, now adorned in Diurnix's attire, emerged from behind the scene, stepping into the dim glow of the torch-lit stage as a new guardian. "With Aelithra's ascent to the stars, behold the dawn of a new face. I am Diurnix, her heir, with her wisdom my guide, her vision my chase."
He extended his arms wide, as if to embrace the valley itself, "I’ll protect this land, forever by your side. No darkness shall linger, nor despair reside." Approaching María’s still form, the new celestial guide knelt, gently laying a golden flower beside her.
"Fear not her absence, for in the stars she still glides, and whispers to us on each breeze that abides," he proclaimed. María, rising anew, accepted the flower with a grace born of countless rehearsals. Moving silently offstage and into the crowd, she danced, her steps a spectral echo of Aelithra's enduring legacy. "Through me, her essence flows, in every field, every heart it sows." he assured with a smile, watching María’s ethereal grace weave through the gathering.
"Fifteen years have passed since my sister's sleep," his sorrowful yet solemn voice resonated deeply. "Yet in our songs and hearts, her memory we keep."
"From her stars, she watches with those departed soon, all look down from heavens, beneath the same moon," Miguel continued, his voice binding the heavens and earth, "From the heavens, she watches with pride. In each grain of harvest, her blessings abide."
He paused, bowing his head in reverence. "Aelithra, my blood, among the stars you roam, yet the Golden Valley will always be your home."
The square fell into a brief, excited silence before erupting in applause. Miguel's satisfied gaze flickered to an embarrassed smile as he scanned the crowd. His eyes soon found Maria, and a flicker of admiration and guilt crossed his face.
Baruch’s applause was subdued, a soft echo in the lively square as his gaze fall upon Raquel. Her hands clapped with a restraint stark against the uninhibited enthusiasm of the children nearby, her face shadowed by quiet melancholy.
The subtle sag of her lips and the far-off look in her eyes mirrored profound sorrows—sorrows stemming from events that Baruch, then residing in the Ancient Forest, couldn't witness but of which he was deeply aware.
Rigel, gazing up at her mother with wide-eyed innocence, whispered, “Wasn't it beautiful? We are so lucky tío Diurnix protects us!" Raquel managed a warm smile and nodded. “Yes, mi amor. You’re right,” she said, gently kissing Rigel on the forehead. Her touch was tender, yet her eyes held a lingering trace of sadness.
"But why isn't tío Diurnix here yet? He missed the spectacle…" Rigel's voice carried a hint of disappointment and concern. Sensing her daughter's growing unease, Raquel squeezed her palm gently. "He’ll be here soon, amor," she soothed, her voice a calm balm. "Diurnix has never broken a promise."
Rigel, her gaze alight with youthful innocence and concern, turn to Baruch. "Tío Diurnix... Will he one day die just like her majesty Aelithra?" Her words hung between them, a tender inquiry into an inevitable fate even Celestials may not be able to fool.
Baruch's laughter, a warm, hearty sound, cut through the heavy air. "Adon Diurnix? Oh, my yakar, not in our lifetimes, and likely many more to come." Rigel’s eyes sparkled as if Baruch’s assurances could eternally anchor Diurnix to the world of the living and to herself.
"Gevirti Aelithra, whom Adon Diurnix so generously succeeded, is the only Celestial known to have departed from our realm in centuries," Baruch added, his tone imbued with respect for the names he uttered. Raquel, sharp as ever, raised an eyebrow in playful doubt. " And you speak as if you've seen everything with your own eyes, Baruch," she teased, half in jest, half in awe.
The Druid's smile was gentle, a serene acceptance of the roles history had cast for his kind. " We, Yoshvey ha’Yarot, may live through the span of several human lifetimes, cherishing our history, preserving it within the sanctity of chronicles,” his voice, steady and soothing, drew the gathering in closer, their eagerness tempering the festival’s noise into subdued murmurs. “And yet, the very earth beneath our feet serves as the greatest testament to those tales. Our forebears, long returned to the soil, were witnesses to the Celestials' arrival," he claimed. Raquel listened intently, a spark of intrigue flickering within her. Despite the many stories she'd heard from Tabitha and Baruch, this revelation unveiled a previously hidden chapter.
Baruch's gaze drifted into the distance, as if peering back through the veils of time. "This story, has been passed down from my grandfather's grandfather," druid said, invoking the reverence of ancestral wisdom.
Baruch continued, his voice weaving the past into the present: " The world before the Celestials' grace was a tapestry of turmoil. It was a time unknown to peace as we understand it today." The listeners nodded in unison, holding their breath.
"Yet, on the day when Celestials descended, fear gripped the hearts of those, who held swords from the very childhood. What mortal could stand against such might? Arrows and spears, the pride of our warriors, were as naught before them. Yet, they bore us no ill will.” His hands moved as if to paint the picture in the air before him. "With smiles of benevolence, the Celestials walked among us, mending the scars of our lands and healing the wounds of our ancestors. It took many years, but animosity gave way to tikvah, to belief and a yearning for their guidance."
Rigel's imagination danced with visions of those ancient days, a world transformed under the gentle gaze of Diurnix and other Celestials. "Did the wars stop then?" she asked, her voice a mix of hope and youthful innocence.
Baruch shook his head, his features marked by the deep lines of memory. "No, it didn't bring an end to all wars. Humans and the Isvandrare, among others, still found causes for conflict, though far less often. Stories of greed and barbarity passed down through generations like cautionary whispers. We Yoshvey ha’Yarot, immune to the curses of memory, instilled yirah, a profound fear, in our children with tales of humans who would burn forests as easily as one breathes air."
He paused, the corners of his lips curling wistfully as his eyes filled with a bittersweet joy. “My father, who lived for over a century, walked these realms with the Celestials. But his life was cruelly claimed by a human blade when I was a child. The wars of old did more than scar the landscape—they left deep wounds across our souls.” His voice, laden with solemn reverence, echoed the profound scars that history had woven into their lineage.
"Those were the trials of yesteryears, and we bear no fault for the actions of our forebears," he reassured, shaking his broad hand as if to brush away the guilt mirrored on Rigel and Raquel's faces.
Yet Baruch's tale grew darker, like shadows stirring from a night deeper than the one cloaking them. "That's how the world had been until the day an immense threat emerged—a beast so vile it became the core of every agada... all legends in the world! It had many names across the world: known to us as Okhel HaShamayim and to the Isvandrare as Jötun Himins, 'giant of the Heavens,' for its vast size, but all know this one name: Twilight Tyrant. Seven decades ago, when I was a youth much like Raquel, the terror of the Twilight Tyrant sent shivers down even the bravest spines. Its shadow, cast from the heavens, darkened our days as if night had fallen. Its wings, spanning a thousand of your steps, knew no loyalty but its thirst for destruction."
Baruch, pausing, clasped his wrist, a gesture to steady the chill that the name 'Twilight Tyrant' still invoked within him. "It razed everything—our settlements, human kingdoms, Ardag tribes—leaving nothing but ash in its wake."
Silence, thick and oppressive, fell over them, the festive ambiance of their surroundings doing little to dispel the chill that Baruch's narrative had woven into the night. Rigel, her voice a beacon in the gloom, broke the silence. "Did the Celestials not protect you?"
Baruch's response was laden with sorrow. "No," he admitted, the word heavy with unfulfilled hope. "All the kingdoms stood powerless against this creature, but the Celestials, to everyone's astonishment, refused to stop the Twilight Tyrant.” Rigel's frown spoke volumes of her disillusionment, her youthful idealism clashing with the harsh reality of Baruch's tale.
“However, they gave us something greater: a drop of their power, to two representatives from each race. None of these heroes could defeat the creature alone. So they united, and together these fourteen champions, embodiments of their races' pinnacle, forged a unity, unseen before. United, they quelled the terror of the Twilight Tyrant. For the first time in the history of the Unia, representatives of all seven races stood as one."
Daniel's eyes sparkled with hope as he inquired, "Was mother one of those heroes?" Baruch's laughter, a rare and rich sound from deep within, echoed softly around them. "Patience, son. Your mother had not yet been a prophetess back then," he replied tenderly, his smile broadening as he took in Daniel's eager expression.
Baruch placed a comforting hand on his son's head, affectionately ruffling his hair, then continued. "The Celestials bestowed such immense power upon those who stopped the Twilight Tyrant that each of them could elevate entire kingdoms from despair to prosperity. Yet with great power comes great responsibility, which was the downfall of many. In their arrogance, the races failed to respect the sacred trust given to them. Disheartened, the Celestials withdrew their gifts from all but two of Yoshvey ha’Yarot’s champions who, in their humility, relinquished their powers immediately after defeating the Twilight Tyrant. Only Yoshvey ha’Yarot, whose hearts are unburdened by greed and pride, are worthy to wield such power. From that moment on, the Celestials entrusted a portion of their might to the best among us, tasked with safeguarding the world and upholding peace. These nevi'im… these protectors, you call prophets," Baruch explained, his gaze softening as he looked at Daniel, "just like your mother, my boy." Pride flickered in Daniel’s eyes, a reflection of the noble lineage he inherited.
“Maybe I should rethink my love of ale if it could earn the favor of the Celestials,” Raquel quipped, finishing the last drops of her drink. Her jest drew a rare, hearty laugh from Baruch, a brief glimmer of joy brightening the otherwise solemn conversation. However, the serenity proved ephemeral. An eerie chill swept through the square, a silent harbinger of unease. This spectral disquiet whispered through the festivity, sharply contrasting the previous joy that permeated the air.
A tangible shiver coursed through the assembled crowd, marking the sudden embrace of cold. Revelers drew their cloaks tighter, their puzzled glances darting about in search of the source of this unexpected chill. The vibrant collage of laughter and melody that had painted the night now seemed muted, overshadowed by an unseen force encroaching from the shadows.
The world itself appeared to pause; the wind ceased its playful cavorting, leaving the flames of torches and bonfires eerily still. The once vibrant banter and tunes were now muted, replaced by a palpable tension that hinted at a lurking storm.
"Is that… Twilight Tyrant?" Baruch's voice, laden with dread, shattered the silence. His gaze was irresistibly drawn upwards, not to the once-dancing stars, but to a colossal figure looming ominously above. This monstrous silhouette, sprawling across the expanse of the night sky, seemed poised to devour the heavens themselves—a grim prelude to the nightmare that haunted Baruch’s darkest fears.
ns 172.71.254.34da2