Of Skies and Storms; and the Rite of Open Blossoms
When a Vixen comes of age, she must choose what life she will lead, and what rite she will take to show the world that she is now an adult, and open to the life that leads...
**Of Skies and Storms, and the Rite of Orchids
Young eyes gazed into burning embers, and took deep a breath of the coming day. Young eyes, no younger than fifteen summers, stared upon the crackling hearth and rose a smile upon her lips. The fire warmed a metal pot, within the tea leaf stirred and bubbled with the thick honey water that steamed up with anticipation of being drunk. Delicate fingers held a white chalice, silver one etched with fine work, depicting moments of the great history of the people of the city of Caddin. Young eyes held the water and honey mix, poured into a cup and lifted, to which she kissed the rim with a gentle flick of her tongue. The steam was potent, the herbs mixed making her head light for a moment, then flush with a hint of bliss. The drink was a long held recipe of her clan and family, and she was honored to be allowed to make it, for this sacred day. Sheer, her robes flowed about her pale furred figure, the silvery material revealing without showing, and as light as the still air around her. Made of the gossamer silks of the rare eclipse moths, the craft felt like nothing and flowed without wind, ever moving around the nubile body beneath it. She stepped forward and her bare feet brushed old wood, and her toes gave a small rapping click-click-click as she walked down the glow-lit path. Swirls of light hung above her, formless shades that cast shadow upon the ground, and barely lit her nervous ears, but was never quite dark enough to hide in. So was the wondrous mysticism of the people of Caddin, so was the city of the Maeyrel. Both tails flickered nervously, as she lifted a hand, and rapped upon the chamber door, which held her father's study, and his private room. She knocked thrice, and perked her ears up high in anticipation - his breathing was light behind, but not enough for sleep. The lights of the city were beginning to flicker up, showing that it was time to awaken, but the populace of several hundred thousand would awaken only when they felt ready. It was a sacred day, after all - and the rules were able to be slightly bent. "Come in, Meheerah." The voice of her sire was that of an older male - rich with the esteemed power of his state, and right as head of the family. Imperious, the silver and black furred fox sat at a desk facing the door, a quill hovering above a page, and his fingers curled around a scepter, one of the old artifacts of the time before the birth of Caddin. His fingers delicately stroked the fine scepter of black wood, which held five gems in a pentagram and a cloud-diamond in the center, a focal point for the eldritch might of a Maeyrel Weaver. "Good morning, Father. I have brought the Dolshmeir tea. Stirred three times and mixed with honey, a touch of Nung-leaf, and just a touch of my lips." She smiled, and set the chalice down, which steamed and flickered against the thin barrier erected about the scepter. "I pray you like it." Silent, for a moment, the six tailed male rose himself up and set his hip to the desk, while lifting the chalice to his lips, and breathing in the tea. Such a fine flavor, heavy of the air and earth, and just a whisper of the bitter leaf. It coursed through his senses, as he took a sip, and sighed, blissfully. It was well made - she had studied the recipe well. He nodded, and lowered the chalice. "Today is your day of ascension - your second tail and first rites." Yonmei Ki-Yahma murmured, the silver snout twitching as he caught the scent of her in the air. A hint of jasmine mixed with the dry whisper of hot sand. Her mother had the same jasmine scent - wherever it was that she had trotted off to today - and the mixture of tea and musk brought a smile to his face. "Have you decided what you will perform?" "Yes, father." She breathed, looking up into his eyes. Hers were a rich pink - like staring into the sky when the twin suns of the Earth Plane rose up together. A rare, but far from unique shade - it was more common amongst the higher born clans, he noted with a brief smile. "And I have chosen my apprenticeship as well." "I see." He gazed up upon the red tapestries - long histories of the clan and the people - the battle against the Kcor Empire foremost - with the gryphon empress diving and facing one of the mightiest sorcerers of the Maeyrel line. Such a battle - the priestess-empress of set divine strength against the hot blooded learning of the god-slaying folk. Their fight had lasted days, until both withdrew from the field. What a battle - even now the Empress Shayana ruled, watchful and patient. He took his eyes away from the glitter of the small stones which had been set to emphasize the portrait of the two. "And what will it be?" "I wish to join the rites of the Bard, and carry the music of the ages as your great-grand-dame did. With permission. I will study the song of rain and storms, and learn the melodies of wind and sky, as befits the line of Ki-Yahma." She spoke, confident, despite her youth and paltry two tails. By rites, it was the decision of the eldest where one went - but her heart was set, and he felt no reason to dash her hopes. And, in truth, the Ki-Yahma line was always known for being rebellious. "Is your heart set upon this, daughter?" He asked, eyes flickering down her form - her breasts were small, but firm, her body lithe - athletic. She had a love of running and playing, of sword fighting and listening to the stories of the speakers. She would wander when her time was done, like her mother - and she would travel beyond the safe gates, into the place of empires, dragons, and gods. She would bring in the new knowledge and secrets, and leave with the rebellious nature of the young. His eyes lingered on her hips. She would survive if she used what she had learned. "Yes, father. It is my dream." She spoke softly, and raised her white muzzle up, a hint of black darkening the tip. Her soft lips held a stern look - but not one of anger. Her heart was set. "Would you defy the council, if they said no?" He met her gaze, his eyes a darker pink verging on red, with the weight of centuries of power behind him. He gazed down, the silver and black snout lifted in the imperious manner of one of the high mages. It was inborn, ther was little that he could do - after so many centuries of training in the elder arts. After a moment, her head turned, and she gazed into the fireplace, which burned azure. The scented smoke gave off a sweet cherry blossom scent, and she turned, walking to stir the flames with a silver poker. "Yes, Father. I would defy them, to meet this goal. I will be a bard." She looked up, setting the poker back, and warming her toes at the red stone at her feet. It crackled, the fire did, and ghosts of images formed in the flames. Nothing distinct, nothing unfamiliar. He approached her, his pads brushing the woven carpet, and stepping onto the red stone near her. "And the High Elder?" "I would defy the Nine Tails, to meet this goal. I will be a Bard, Father." She turned, steeling herself, and found him but a foot away, his lips pulled, curiously, into a questioning expression. His ears were perked up, wanting to hear her thoughts. The garments he wore complimented the lean, sleek physique of his long and healthy life. His garments had more substance, but only a little. "Would you defy your house? Your clan? Your blood?" He asked, lifting a hand to touch her chin. "If I said no, would you defy me, daughter?" She gave a nod. He snorted - but, his expression was a curious one. He looked strangely satisfied at her answer. She did not ask him, but respected that he would have his reasons to ask her this. Outside, a multi-colored bird called out - it was the start of the day.
Rain, upon a day of rites. Such was it ominous, depending upon what one chose to follow as a path in life. The young pyromancers would frown and shield their heads from the chilled rain, while those who walked the water would laugh with glee - a blessing if nothing else. To those of many paths, it was a different sign, and to a young bard, who held an instrument beneath her chin and played a dirge, it was a sign that her path was right, and her drive and dedication would see her to fortune, to joy, to a life well lived. Beneath a terrace, Meheerah played, the red wood giving off the whispering hum of a dirge, and the gryphon-gut strings weeping with melody. Of instruments, she favored the violin, though a second close was the sitar of the college. Holding the instrument to her chest, her bosom warm and shifting, she played her melody amidst the green and blue garden, and let her toes dig into the green and well trimmed grasses. Her bare feet wiggled, long toes refreshed by the hint of a chill. It was a beautiful place, crafted to emphasize the mystery of nature, and the hand of those who could shepard plants. An eclipse moth sat and watched the young vixen play, its four antennae quivering to the ringing tone that set it to interest. A beautiful, sweet melody, if sad. The insect watched, listening in its own manner. "My lady?" Soft, the voice of one of the servants broke the melodic silence after the last note finished it's reverberation off of the old, fine etched stonework. Leaning against it, the fine crimson scales of the reptile gleamed in the humid air, water trickling the crest at his brow. He held a silver tray in his claw tips, and watched with a content patience. "Yes, Zan?" She asked, lowering the instrument, and gazing at the earth between his feet. He held a simple smile - as best the rigid snout scales permitted anyway, and looked upon her with curious contemplation. They were a very contemplative lot, the Sissihiri. And yet, they were always loyal to their employers. He was paid a small sum, but garnered more in the education in the arts of the low-born Ssrathsa - the magic of the earth. "Your drink and tome. Are you serious about the rites you have chosen?" He asked. He had been a loyal companion for her fifteen years of life, and always stood at her side, to serve her, and to guard her. His time had given him a darkening of the crest and scale, and a loss of gleam to his scales, but he was a vigorous sort, always prepared to work. "I am, Zan." She took her wine and sipped at the clear liquid - a certain spice had been added, per the instructions of the rite. It gave a bitter tingle on the back of her tongue, but she swallowed it, and took the tome from its silver tray, and opened it to a carefully ribbon-marked page. The runes inscribed were old - but she knew the secret to reading them. Literacy was hardly a secret in this great city. "Will your Father react well?" He asked, turning and settling down beside her feet, his legs kicked forward, and toes splaying wide, curling to wiggle against the rain. He rather enjoyed being wet - his passions were simple in compare to a Maeyrel. A good meal, good work, and a good swim were all he truly cared to do in a day. "I took liberty, forgive me, and read the full ritual. I worry that Master Ki-Yahma will respond negatively to it." "If he does, beloved Zan, he does." She placed a hand on his shoulder, and gave the solid muscle a firm stroke with the tips of her fingers. Diligently, she ran her touch up and caressed the base of his scalp, kneading at the smooth scale that hid thick, solid bone. His strength always impressed her, and his size was considerable, a head and shoulder above even the tallest of the Maeyrel, he nearly two meters in height. The dark scales flushed in his pleasure. "But I would be amiss to not honor the ancestors and tradition. Bards, no, we Ki-Yahma are known to always shock and challenge things - and it would be amiss, and a shame, not to start off my career with, as it is said, a bang." Zan gave an amused smile, and tipped his head forward. His fingers lifted and stroked the top of her foot, grooming the dark fur of her toes out, and massaging the tired muscle of her feet. She did a lot of walking, and it always amazed him to the efforts that she went to keep herself in ready shape for this career she chose. He would stand beside her, and follow her, to guard, to protect, to love her as his own companion and daughter, if need be. "Why this rite, though? There are others, the Dance of Orchids, and the Calling of Rain, for example. To be given your garments and bathed and purified, instead of the Rite of Open Blossoms." "Because, dearest Zan - it harkens to the oldest times, and it calls upon the memories, when it was not safe, and not secure, and it was dangerous for us. When we were struggling to survive, and make ourselves live after the night of seven Dragons." She stroked along his crest, then tilted his head back to lay between her thighs. She gazed down, into his golden eyes, and smiled. "When there were few of us, and we had to do evverything to make more. It evokes when the great winter passed, and the spring came, when orchids were made to bloom, and all could frolic with glee instead of fear of the night. It was the rite honored by the great bards of that age - and carried in myth and legend. Who would I be, to deny the past when I look forward, to the future?" "You would not be my Meheerah, or a scion of the clan." Zan murmured, and lifted his hand to touch her own, and to kiss her wrist with the softness of his tongue. She smiled, and gave a nod. "I have set about mixing the herbs in the oil, and set the brazers to give off smoke - and the masks are ready as well, touched with your scent." "And the altar?" She asked then, looking from her book to his face again. "Readied?" "Yes, dear one, I have polished it myself. You will find it in accordance of the rites. The wine has already been given a touch of Rowan sap and mixed in, then set to cool in a spell for a few hours. It should be ready for this afternoon. The servants will clear out and go enjoy the evening away from the gardens." He smiled. "I will say a prayer for you." "Indeed." She smiled, and touched his face. "You honor me, Zan. You are a good friend." He smiled. Without the music to entertain it, the moth quietly fluttered away, into the cool afternoon.
Pink. The sun set against the backdrop of clouds and lingering rains - an overcast of pink awash against the soft subtleties of silver cloud. Heavy, the air was stilled with a lingering charge, as though thunder would strike at any moment. Here, at a balcony, the eyes of a vixen stared down at the coiling smoke from six lit braziers, the wispy vapors rising and dancing together like dragons cavorting together in play. Her heartbeat in her breast, and her sheer gown felt too thin to ward off the chill - though that was only her nerves. It was a risk to call upon such a rite, ancient though it may be. It was a risk - that others would refuse, but doubt stilled in her mind. She would succeed. She had no cause for failure. Drums beat, though not by mortal hands. Drums beat to announce that guests were summoned to the garden, and the vixen stepped to the balcony edge, and hopped forward - falling the distance to land in a nimble crouch. Acrobatic since a young age, such a fall left her tails stiff for a moment, but she rose, and turned to rest herself against the polished granite of the altar stone. It was old, older than the valley, and it carried potent magics inside. It had only seen rare use in the centuries, but she trusted it well. Her heart beat a steady rhythm to the drums in the garden, and she took a hurried swallow of the last of her wine, filtered through to give her a faint haze through the ritual - one that would allow her to never forget the ritual, or the moments, even if she tried. She set the chalice down behind the altar to hide it, and rested her flanks against the warm stone. The magic agreed with her. And she waited, as twelve masked figures entered the garden - each holding a gift, and a glass of the same wine. One was a nine-tail elder, one of the honorable and powerful lords of their society. He was once a bard and now a grand-magister, his magic of voice enough to make the very sky and earth answer to the softest of his whispers. A master of the craft, he could make a dragon weep for his song - and yet, was the most humble of the honored elders. Of deference, he walked in first and lay the token of his gift upon a specially prepared table - a small ring of glass and gemstone. Another was a longtime family friend, his fur greyed and tails five, less than her father but more than some. He lay a gift of a simple dagger - his was the gift of metalwork, and his finery was in demand. The blade gleamed, made of the rare and special star-metals. It would never dull, or lose its edge. She knew that much personally. Others followed, Eleven in all, not least was her father, who carried the case containing her violin, an heirloom of the family which had been long passed down, from one to another in the line. She smiled, and thanked him with a chaste kiss upon his cheek. The gifts were small tokens, most certainly - signs of faith in the one being honored than anything else. It was amongst the gathered that she turned, letting the sheer cloth shimmer with the enchantments that swirled through the air around her, talking, speaking soft words, and welcoming them each. "I have to thank each of you for showing here, to accept me in my coming of age. You each have been asked to join for this special time - and as your wives and mates are entertained, you will each participate with me in this." She murmured, walking a circle amongst the eleven. Eleven circled her in a ring - a polite way to do things. She looked each in the eye, behind the mask that hid them. She knew, of course, but the anonymity was as much a gift as it was a blessing. She smiled, and found smiles in return. "It is an old one - but one researched well, and studied. One which will honor the path I will take, and remember those from before. It will shock those who hear of it, and titillate, and make people wonder and think things they would not ordinarily. Is it not the path of the Bard, to challenge society?" She moved, her steps becoming looser, more graceful. She balanced upon her toes and moved with a drift of her flanks, letting her tails drift and sway, her pale flanks moving with the whisper of the thin gossamer cloth hiding very little. She felt liberated and excited, making music in her steps. The Nine-tail smiled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Power radiated, he was a sun and they the stars - and yet, such was the kindness. He had never lost the streak of being a rogue, and she could tell he knew - and he approved. His scent said as much - a raw hunger. The mere drink would not affect him - no, the suggestion, the thrill, the dance - she alone made him hunger. He knew. And he was glad. "It was laid down upon the first years of our exodus to this place, and I will honor those who come before. Join me, I ask each of you, in honoring the rite." The smoke parted, and different from the others, red scales showed upon a barbaric body. Clad in cloth and with spear, not with the finery of silk and metals, Zan joined, a mask of paint crudely drawn and etched onto his face, to close the circle and join his alien power with theirs. Twelve was the number - and each mask painted a different maker and god. His was painted to honor the sun, the mother of life - and a topaz gem touched his brow. He bowed his head to her, in acceptance, and she touched his cheek in a gentle gift. He nodded to her, the paint sticky to her touch. Their eyes held a linger for a moment or more, then she stepped past, her tail brushing his belly, the tautness sending a thrill through her that she had not expected. Truly, it was a good sign. She finished her circle, and touched the cheek of her father, whose ears had pinned back, as though in fear of the next words she said. "In honor of the Gods, to whom my life will be thrust - in honor of their works, though we worship them no longer - in honor of the ancestors who came before, and who will descend from my loins and yours - I beseech you to join me in this sacred dance, and that you honor me, by performing with me the eldest of our rituals." She looked to her father, to his eyes so handsome, and leaned in to kiss him upon his lips. "As a Bard, I proclaim my choice of ascension, and I choose The Rite of Open Blossoms." A breath, a gasp, was taken by a few - but only a few. "Daughter..." Whispered Yonmei, who touched where she had kissed. "The Rite of Open.. You must not. You are my Daughter..." She smiled, a pain in her pink eyes, but she shook her head softly, and stepped back, her fingers lifting to rest on the hem of her garments, but not pulling it off. No, she stood, her hips drifting from side to side, in a beat that stirred hearts, herbs, and more. "I am your daughter, father, and you may forbid it. But I am a Ki-Yahma, and a Bard - and I must do what I feel is best. And this would be the best way, my sire." "And if I forbid it, as affront to our ways and our city and our people?" Challenged from behind her - the Nine Tail, whose garments had grown to glow, and fade from his form, leaving him bathed only in a golden glow of his sun-kissed fur. Blonde, he was handsome, statuesque, and well built. "Would you Defy me?" She whirled and faced him, her tail, pale as snow fallen and virgin, stroked across the shocked figure of her sire. And she stood, tall, and head high, ears forward and perked. "I would defy the council, and you, honored one. For I am a Bard, and I am of my house - stripped of all I have, my name, my clothing, my honor, I am still Ki-Yahma, and I am still the Bard that I was born to be. Yes, Honored Elder, I will have this rite and this path." The ground shook, and his tails blazed with power - nine flames glowing, to each element and honor of the powers that they drew from. He rose, imbibing the ambient magic and smoke, and showed the rawness of what he felt and was - a master of the arts. But she did not quiver and shake - even as he drew his power to his hand, and wove life and death in his touch. He stared upon her, as the rains fell and thunder echoed, as the smoke spluttered, but did not go out. He stared, as he called upon the earth, and it answered, to show her what he could do. But she did not waver before the Nine Tail. She stood tall, and showed her face to the grand master himself. And to this, he smiled, and let dissipate the power, the shadows fading from his figure, and his face - leaving him looking on her curiously. And even here, his smile did not leave. "About time a Bard had courage." He snorted, and took another taste of his wine. It was rather good. "You have my blessing." She took a breath, and faced each of them, their heads bowing in consent, each one allowing her to have her will and place. She gazed, one to another, then rose her eyes back up to her father, to kiss him. She drew to the altar stone, and rested her hands upon it, her back displayed. She there stood, and waited, eyes forward into the smoke - as the braziers slowly burned. She stood, and awaited an answer. And hands rose to rest upon her shoulders, and a breath came of his voice. A shiver, painful, ran her ears to her toes and belied the quiver of her heart. She may have had courage, but she still felt fear - fear that he would reject her, that he would deny her this, this statement, this chance to show that she would do what a bard was required - change and challenge. Hands fell and stroked her shoulders, and she did not look back - as hands pulled down the garments at her shoulders, and slid it down, revealing the fine back, now adorned with her long, pale hair. The garments fell, along her back and the curve of her flanks, her tails pulled to the side, to display the soft cleft, and softness of an arched rump. She stood, as her suitor stepped back, and let her body be displayed for the twelve. "As the Gods created the world - so did they give their gifts. And upon the world they put themselves, and gave their seed - that the world would grow fertile and heavy with life, and that the world would forever know that it was loved by her makers. And so I ask each of you, please, honor them, honor me, thank them, and let me be your world, if only for a night." The hands rose up, and rest upon her shoulders. Her body was in a shudder as a familiar scent of old wood and flickering flames. His weight rested against her back, and she felt hands roam her belly, on up to her breasts, then down, to the curve of her hips and flanks. His breathing was difficult, but he did not refuse her, as he touched his lips to the back of her neck. "Daughter." He whispered to her, for her only to hear. She bent forward when he pushed, and his hips lifted, to settle, very softly, his hips against her own. He had dropped his robe and pressed forward, his sheath swollen, and pressing against her flanks. He was large, and the tea and wine had done it's job. "Are you sure?" She gave but a nod. "So be it, my beloved. No longer a child, I claim you as an adult, and offer you to the world." He spoke. Softly, he bent her against the altar, and stepped in - brushing the tip of his turgid member against the softness of her sex, and rubbed, sliding the sticky flesh against her sacred place. Her breath caught, but she did not struggle. No, she whimpered, then moaned, as her body was opened, and his hips lifted, pressing in, and slowly parting her. She whimpered and moaned louder, her toes curling against the grass beneath her feet, and she pushed back and arched up into his slow stride, until he brushed her barrier, and held there. A breath. Two. Three. Her heart trembled, and she shivered, waiting. A pinch, a spark, a rush of pain. He slid into her, until his hips met her flanks. He held her down against the altar, father and daughter united into one being for the briefest of moments. His grunt was loud, and his flesh was caressed with the butterfly twitches of her sex. His teeth clenched as he gazed down, watching her writhe and hold onto the altar as she was bred for the first time. She felt good, she felt tight. He savored each twitch against his penis, and caught his breath before pulling back. In again, she gave a guttural moan - eliciting the quiet pleasure of those who watched. Each push sent her into another groan - one to the other in the midst of this gentle mating. THe hands of the elder vulpine slid across chest and belly, squeezing at a rounded bosom here and the soft tummy there. Each push sent her body into a spiral of shudders and quakes, and her rump ground against his lap whenever he met her all the way. "Daughter." He whispered into her neck, and her ears lifted high. Her face contorted in a shaking expression, and she gave a soft yip, then another, louder. Her yips fell into crying moans, and her tails arched up, as she spasmed and clenched around his flesh - his fingers curling to grip her pelvis and hold her while she shook through her first proper orgasm. "Mine." Faster now, he kissed her shoulder and bit her nape - rolling himself into her flesh through the endless pace - his speed growing quicker and harder and needier. He had forgotten how good it felt, a nubile vixen, a willing companion to his pleasure. He had forgotten how wonderful it could be - and he intended to never forget again. His shaft swelled and his knot pushed against her - but he did not tie it to her, even as he wanted. No, there would be time for that later. For now, he held her down and grunted, as his balls rose. He gripped himself at the root and cupped behind his knot - and one more clench from her was all he needed. His mind exploded into sparks, and his genitals jumped, clenched, and spat fresh, hot seed deep into a once virgin passage. He growled heavily and rolled his head back with a savage hiss, and let the fire course through him - the touch of nature and the wild creeping into him while he surrendered himself to instinct. It was not his daughter - it was a female who needed to be fucked in front of him. And he gave of himself, fully, until nothing was left, but to drip from her sex when he, eventually, pulled out. Gentle applause met his ears, the sight of the watchers drawing him back. He gazed down at the quivering pale form of his daughter, and down, to his dark shaft spreading her softness. He pulled slowly back from her, a dribble of his semen keeping them connected for the briefest of moments. He pulled back, and sat heavily, panting. A rush. He felt weak. He felt alive. Her body shook, as he slowly crawled forward and gave her thighs a kiss, then lifted his hands up and spread them, letting fingers widen the lips of her sex. He recovered as best he could, and gazed up towards the gathered males, and nodded. "She has been opened. May the next male take his place." Nine Tails flicked in unison, and blonde hands stroked the curve of pale flanks - and the next took his place. He smiled down to his boon friend and once apprentice, and touched his fingers to his cheek with a nod. He stepped up, and with the confidence of a male who knew by rote what to do. His arousal brushed the fingers of Yonmei, then slid along the cleft of her buttocks and down. "And may she take many more." Nine Tails murmured, and slid deep into her once opened sex, and joined into the dance, in a rhythm older than the gods themselves. And he savored every last moment. Smoke swirled and lights changed, and in the beating of hips to flanks, the lights changed, turning a darker red as the night wore on, a shade for each male, until it was a blistering crimson by the time the last one stood behind her - and held her, his scaled hands running along her quivering shape. And at the last, his hips surged, and the reptile quivered, letting his seed mix with that of so many others. He held her, and kissed her, and let her lay upon the altar when he withdrew. The plants had changed and the rain fell heavily - the wards could not keep out nature, and nature was pleased. THe garden had lost it's control and plants wrapped the house - squeezing upon it and yet not damaging the stone beneath. THe lights themselves were organic, the eyes of a god upon them as the ritual carried its way to climax. Wet, and shivering, but hardly cold, the vixen lay limp on the altar and gazed up at the heavens.
And she smiled.
It would be a great deal of time before she had mastered even the simplest song of Storms, but it was not without help, or without a Master Bard to teach her. And even as she sat, working the rhythm upon her violin, she would smile - knowing that the ritual had been blessed, and many had talked about that night, having seen the change overtake the garden and grip the house. It was talk that would last for generations, and inspire others to read upon the ritual. It had caused chaos and opened minds, exactly as a Bard was meant to. And as she played, smiling at her window, with the warm tea served by Zan still steaming, she looked down at her stomach, and watched the small curve, a firmness there that had not been when the ritual had been done, many months ago. And to this, she smiled.**