Chapter 1 -- Methandar Rise

The Mother Star had sunk deep beyond the grassy hills long before Danerah noticed that there was any stirring of life atop the highest mound. The grouping of monument stones on the hill stretched dark and tall above a growing gathering of people. The founders that had originally raised the pylons above the valley, were not so different from those gathering in this night's gloom centuries later. This place where they assembled was the very place where their kind had been condemned and barred from the right to assemble more than five-hundred years earlier.

It was not a matter of simply frightening away valley dwellers. Living up to all the superstitions they could think of would drain the gathering's energy needlessly. An effort to keep animals from approaching the circle was achieved simply with a mental shield that pulsed in hi-sonics. The denial of basic comforts, which was easily understood by the valley dwellers, was perhaps the one thing the Magick castes accepted as being held in common with the plainly mortal dwellers of this world. Each group's long-suffering was mainly disregarded by the other, but each day of life was due celebration and happily regarded by all. Now, the Magick-users brought themselves out in the open--but the valley dwellers did not know why.

Ceremonial cloaks were worn, as if for simple fashion, yet their need was developing in the stormy skies above. It was unfortunate these were not being brought out into sight for a joyous occassion, Danerah thought as she straggled along the path. As she looked up to the activity at the end of the mound path, she turned away suddenly, unsure if she could so casually join the evening's rites. She bowed her head reverently to avoid the stares of the path followers who were forced to stop directly behind her. A group comprised of an elder, two bondsmates, and four young ones moved past her, when she could allow. No one else was on the path behind her, after these ones passed. The young ones obviously were slowing this last group's ascent, being far too young to be initiates, yet making their way without complaint. Perhaps it was the excitment of being dressed in their finest cloaks, and led, unexpectantly, out into the cold evening. The sight of the babes, still sparked no emotional interest from Danerah, aside from witnessing their dedication and fine clothing.

The royal reds and solemn greens gilt with gold braid, and some which flashed with semi-precious stones set at the hood clasps, were seemingly meant for greater affairs than this evening's. Each that attended, scholar and initiate alike, wondered at the choice to wear the regalia that would most distinguish them. Some suspected it would bring more eyes upon their actions. The procession, which slowly circled the great mound, was easily discernable as some were made to carry standing torch staffs. Though powerful eyes might have been following in the dark, those most at risk knew they were paying a high form of respect to the night's honored one.

The courtesy of rites to the dead had been beneath the "Hidden Ones" before. Catastrophe and chaos had often scourged the Lands of Methandar, but the involvement of the magic-kin, what one might call magic-users, had always remained absent in the past. Some in the villages now certainly wondered at the sight this evening. Had these manipulators of the Magicks, who considered themselves able to transcend mortality, suddenly found that the loss of a Master Kin meant more than they had believed?

Danerah knelt where she had stopped on the path, tucking her strong legs neatly underneath her. She started a meditation, hoping both to ground herself in the familiar surroundings, however accentuated by the unusual circumstances, and to gather strength. When emotional strength wavered greatly, she knew her connection with the Magicks was not complete. Her focus was disrupted by the strangely active night. Despite the late hour, a great deal of attention was focused on this location.

The beginning of the ceremony, which could easily be regarded from the valley villages below, utilized an overemphasis on the non-Order beliefs. Someone had obviously not thought it necessary to confer the primadimensional rite on the man, who in recent years had amounted to the planet's only royalty. A blending of rites was being performed which, for the most part, obscured the less common practices. The headdress and mask that was carved most delicately from an obsidian-dark sandstone had been set upon the head of the body which was laid conspicuously in death with arms folded. The wounds upon the corpse were not tended--this body had no need for beauty now--just moments from the flames. Unctious, and mostly fragrant preparations poured upon the flesh were in place in order to spare those gathered of a stench. Stoic faces remained on those who passed by the body, eventhough a far too hearty blend of masking aroma was notable in the reactions of some who filed by closely. As from some tradition, those who attended to form the power ring, first filed passed this once-man, Death's visitor, halting quickly with a just word or a motion. The formation, when it appeared complete, encircled the whole hilltop mound.

The Elders made the opening chant a howl of fever and resonance. Four cloaked figures were sent forward into the axis where they dropped the torches they bore into the briar-filled pit below the corpse's platform. The assemblage roared together in recognition of the enveloping fire. As the flames proceeded up the lattice-work of the pyre, the active movement in the circle softened and a slow chant was begun. Individuals stepped forward and called out names of the, now, interdimensional beings the members knew had recently made this journey as well. They then sought those from the celestial pantheon who would be guides.

Of all guides at the bequest of those powering the circle, the rearing of the Deathshead horse and its goddess rider, Margwynn, was carefully avoided--they had already lost contact with one Master, a teacher among them, to her wiles, and along with him, the powerful ally whom they honored on this night. Death could sometimes be honored here, among these people, but they were wise to not invite the beast to gloat this victory. Death's mistress would have faced the vengeful fury of one present. One who would not make herself part of this circle now because of her disjointed thoughts. It seemed that this young one, in all her abilities, still denied the power of Death. Foolish, for Death was understood by even the peasants in the valley below.