anOldShu

Journey to the Lesser circle of Fire and the Vetr Mountains.

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Our journey commenced in earnest when the well-trodden stone roads of the Argies yielded to the remote dirt paths and treacherous snow-laden northeastern extremities. Here, the countryside bears a sparsity that stretches across white expanses, intermingled with densely clustered pines. The occasional presence of modest cabins, logging camps, and small trade posts punctuate an otherwise unchanging landscape.
I’m not entirely unfamiliar with the wild, despite living most of my life in cities and university campuses. When I was a child my father would take me deep into the Wicker Wood, before, when we were still on good terms with the Daoine, and camped for weeks at a time. I always found the countryside relaxing.
I wish I could say the same now, about this journey. But something’s different. Perhaps it’s because I’m traveling for work, or more likely, it’s this damned caravan containing at least enough people to fill out a small town. Either way, I feel taken out of the experience, removed from it, like I’m part of an invasion force thrusting our city-dwelling ways deep into places they don’t belong. And that, we’re moving at a much slower pace than I could’ve done otherwise. We’re so slow that it feels silly to have brought a horse at all.
Despite the unhurried pace, the monotonous surroundings, and the biting cold that gnaws at my resolve, I am, and ever have been since the undertaking of my task, consumed by an overwhelming sense of exhilaration. My mind burgeons with anticipation, at the thought of seeing the fire ritual with my own eyes, regardless of its disfavorable reputation.
Although practitioners of fire magics face common disdain, if not outright prejudice, our caravan trails for some distance filled with those drawn to the lesser circle and their excitement only intensifies nearer the Vetr mountains. Among my traveling companions, most of whom are merchants seeking to capitalize on the ritual goers fervor, exist a select few who are adorned in the red robes. Given the secrecy one must keep in following the lesser circle in the Argies, I am surprised by such an open display of their religion merely at the borders of the heartland. All the past weariness seems to have faded away the further we travel and the more they intermingle with the common folk—the same people who would jeer at their public execution back in their home villages.
Unfortunately, I am, by my station and affiliation with the RAU, firmly secured in a position near the front, alongside the wealthiest merchants, members of the lesser nobility, and the esteemed caravan master’s entourage. However, I find myself easily distanced from the conversations that transpires within this illustrious company. The merchants continuously prattle on about matters of wealth, the nobles about their bloodlines each trying to one-up each other I suspect, and the caravan crew only talk about the most prudent of matters. Using every moment possible to delay our journey, quibbling over the most mundane decisions. In this milieu, I am rather detached from the rest. My convictions are driven only by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. I long to walk with those who not only dedicate their life to the flame but march through the cold barefoot to reach it.