It would come to us like primal longing, a whisper, a dream, as it had every year since the dawn of our birth.  By gossamer strings we were bound to it, entwined until the fading respire of our last waning breaths.  We could not object the siren's song as it beckons, pulling us closer and closer to the warm plains of the Brushvield.  Why were we drawn here?  Whose voice called from the shadows, a guide in the otherwise dark of this instinctual march?  Few knew the answers and yet we gathered still year after year.  Even now I could not help but venture towards the location where I knew the countless faces of the summoned would welcome me.  This year, however, I would not come as the apprentice but - rather - as the lead doe of a crumbling herd that had barely survived the year's turmoils. 


The doe would loft her head at the barren clearing that had, years before, been littered with the jovial laughter of young does and the hum of their gossip.  Which buck claimed you?  Are you with fawn?  Their bashful retorts to such an invasive interrogation would elicit laughter from the elder does wise beyond their years.  The clash of antlers would resound as the bucks tested their mettle and the tilled earth flew beneath the hooves of the racing does.  This year, however, when Shyvnierri approached the clearing, it seemed empty.  Was she early?

Guarded gaze remained upon the growing vista as the young doe approached the depths of the Brushvield.  The brittle, frost laden grass would give way to her location as it snapped beneath the weight of her hooves.  Her movements were languid, almost methodical as she sought anyone that had also received the Brushvields call. It would not be long before their silhouettes began to manifest in the distance and with a renewed step, she'd approach the gathering.

Brittle is winter's approach. The air growing colder and the skies looking grimmer. It was one of the few times in which herds gathered together, and a seemingly peaceful confrontation emerged. His first Festival of Elkmire. Though as he approached and broke through the borders of Brushvield, there was no one to be found. The sun was still lingering at the horizon as it settled. The stars blinking faddily as they began to grow strength to glow stronger for the night. A snort fell from the buck's nostrils as he tilted his head slightly to the side. All the stories he was told, and this was it? 

Aolis. One day when you are chased from us, beginning your own journey, the days of Elkmire will quickly fall upon you. It is a beautiful and magical experience. An experience that will be etched into your mind forever. Each year will be different as the stars will grant wishes of new during this time. Be well to the stars, for this is their time to shine. And when the time comes and you are called to the fields of Brushvield, it will be your time as well. The stars favor us, our herd, our lineage. Your antlers will glow more brightly than ever as the stars burn in the sky to song and dance. 

It was still early apparently though. His ears flicked as he remained still, searching for any life that may appear. A doe stood walking towards the gathering spot. As others too now begun to poke through into the open space. A breath of relief exhaled from his lungs as he grew a faint smile. With the sun setting quickly and the star began to glow brighter, so did his antlers begin to glow ever so softly. Dim, for now, they would soon glow brighter as the night and the stars grew on. He kept his distance from the does. He knew they would most likely not be interested in him. He lowered his head as he took a taste of the dying grass. 

"Talking text."