[Heimdalic_Dreams]

In the forests of Meranthe, locked behind walls of thick bramble branches and red painted totems, lays a colony of Na'hrem far removed from the traditions of the cavern city Nyt'hjem. Gathered around a campfire, casting shadows upon the massive canopy housings where so many of their kind now lived, a group of children surround an elderly woman in a headdress of bioluminescent fronds, needles and leaves, whose smile could not be hidden behind the many wrinkles upon her face. The woman speaks with the same gravity she had always injected within her words this time of the month, hands spread as she waxed poetic of their past. Small solidified paper etched with dried crimson would spread themselves before her with but a flick of her mana, tools to help her tell the tale. How many years, she levied, how many generational gaps had left them away from the Shadowlands, from the City of the Nyt, and from the eyes of the Moons Chosen...? Cast aside by the will of the precious few who were not as maddened by the Moon Worship so many of their kind were inclined towards? Of course, she spoke, they certainly had some... Proclivities. But what family doesn't? At this, the children would laugh, moving closer to the heat of the flame, closer to each other in anticipation. This was where the story really began...

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It was by the grace of Aschea, holy mother of the Teraphim, that their perspectives and prospects changed on a pivot from the perversions offered by the masses. No longer could they bare the weight of accepting the darkness trapped within the egg that orbits their world, the ancient demon locked inside by the Light it reflected - A light of Love, crystalized in chains of beams, wrapped around the fiend who would destroy everything with but a chance if it hatched, so it is said. The children gasp, their little wings flapping with excitement as the tale is told just as it always was, and the Matriarch continued on. The elder woman would continue to speak of the old faith even as she teasingly prolonged the showing of the next stage, her shivering bangles dangling over the dirt. A turned card, outlined with a kindred iron smell would reveal handcrafted pieces of art, showing Camazots, displaying Metstona, her pairing with Ilhicamina, of a Crystal. And from there, the cards would shift, turning first of the Moonfall War so very long ago, and then next of a forest, of caves. One by one, they would flip and tell a story, before a pale woman of golden hair and a matching halo would be shown; Aschea, for all to see. Depictions which illustrated when Aschea gifted her last blessings to the Moonfallen, moving then to the images of people of pale-though-cascading colored skin, brimming with grace and beauty. Teraphim. And from the Teraphim... A human. And from that human, eventually, and after many changing of the cards, a young Bat winged beauty, with familiar bangles upon her wrists.

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The woman spoke then of balance, and all the ways it might lean, abstract as they were; the tales she wove were old, of course, and the children had heard them so many times before. Yet still they whooped and cheered and sighed and frowned with the retelling of the stories and important tenants that leaked from the sharp-toothed mouth of the ancient. Till finally, she spoke of the Change - How the truths they had gained with knees dirtied and hands bloodied were forcefully denied or shifted or rebuttalled over time by those who thought their ways superior. The fleeing of the Shadow Lands, relatively recently, around fifty years ago. Her shaking old hands unfolding cards with fleeting figures once filled with magic and wonder, yet now dirtied. Lead by Malvesta, they tore through the gaping maws of demons, the shattered claws of the Dark, till they founded the City beneath the Earth. The Dark. The City of the Nyt... Nyt'jhem. There they found sanctuary from the Light and its pains, the blinding sun, it was sure - But found fellowship with the Dark in trade, whose pleasant dimness were far easier on their eyes. Believing themselves continuing the old ways, yet stepping on the softest soils that could drop without the slightest hint of a shift, the Na'hrem with would slowly wonder away by the fox fires of power, will-o-whisps of temptation, leaving the city filled with mostly non-magi and the precious few who truly cared.

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Alas, the woman said, it was inevitable; their love of the dark blinded them to the light, and in many ways, the soulless and occultic horrors made their way into the veins of the sanctuary within, without the leaders knowing or caring. She spoke, then, of the Adaira, of their clan. Just as many of their kind in the caves had their tenants and oaths, as did the Adaira. A most matriarchy society, where Blood is the Truth, and Bone is the cradle of Life, they fought to truly straddle the line between the horizon and the moon by worshiping something a little closer to home. The Ichor of Life, that ebbs with the tides, a crimson liquid ruby that made the light of the moon shine a most pleasing color, and how it cascaded, necessitated the birth and life of the next generation to continue the flow. The magic of Blood, of Bio, of Nature. Of Poison, sometimes, even, the toxins of the body made manifest in the most creative of ways. This was done on purpose, both by the nurture of their family, and the nature, the secret of their own blood, as noted by the slight pointing of their ears. But most of all, it was the Intent behind the founding of their people. They were to remain separate as best as they could, withdrawn to watch from afar, judge on the heights of trees. Keeping to themselves as their elders demanded while furthering their understanding of Balance. To do evil with a strike of the palm, and yet good in the same gesture.

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The cards then flipped to another, one of the last. That of the Blood Moon, rising behind the city. There, the woman explained - That it was by the grace of Mother Aschea, of her Teraphim, that they could still feel the love they do today. And it is by simple tenants that they might continue to do these things; to beware the pull of the Dark. Reject the wishes of forces beyond oneself, and keep your soul your own. Beware witches, for they are less themselves than they might think. To take, but also to use, for these things were meant for Us. To Hunt for the ichor in anothers' neck, so that one could become More than whom they were before. Waste little, give more. Care for the Dead, and the memories they leave behind. Tend to their graves as if it were the last bastion of their souls. But most importantly, to keep their kind alive, no matter the cost. Thus the title adorn by one worthy of doing just that, in the times where things were unease. Blood Moon Rising; the old crone would speak of the Light of the Moon, and how sometimes, only the bathing of blood could change the arc of where it descended. Which, of course, is where the Adaira get their proclivities...

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Within the circle of children, a single youth would stare through the flames, his yellow eyes glowing with ambition. He had soaked in all the information she offered, just as he did every month, more so excited for the upcoming 'game' they would all play. To begin the very moment the woman put her bobbles away and flew back to her perch in the middle of their city of trees. And indeed, after several more minutes of loving retellings, she would do exactly that, stopping only to nod at a tall man cloaked with fur. With her permission, he smiles wide, displaying two large pointed teeth glimmering in the fire below, the telltale inheritance of the Adaira. As the children gathered together, they would hear the beacons being lit behind them. Let the Night Hunt Begin!, the tall man bellowed with a jolly knowing gleam, opening up the hidden gates with a pull of hemp rope - Gates to a town far below, where Blood would be offered to those who were gifted enough to draw it. How else would they become closer to their ancestors if not by giving all they had to hunt stronger beings, and siphon their blood for their own? How else could they grow in the strength they needed if one was chosen to become a Blood Moon Rising, if they could not learn to contain anothers' might for their own? The children would scream once merrily before the silent of the night reverberated through the land, each of their eyes lidded by the passion of their indoctrinated hunger.

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The Hidden Blood Woods
Circa Age
2048c