Birth of the Einar

The old man stood in front of the fire. The flickering blaze gave the old face an other-worldly appearance, magnifying the wrinkles that marred the weathered features and lengthening the shadows under his serpentine eyes. His hair, now gray, was shaved close except for a length of hair down the middle of his head that was tightly braided, as was the custom of the men of his people. His gray-blue eyes, which have seen over a century of this world, peered out to those that sat surrounding him and the fire. His people, his heart swelled at the thought, HIS people that stared, watched, waited for a story to be told. A tale that they all had heard before. A legend that never got old. The old man cleared his throat; a reverent silence fell overall. The old man’s voice, strong and loud, sounded from his barreled chest as the story, their story, their beginning, their truth, began. The fire snapped, the audience’s gaze shifted to stare into the fire as the forms began to take shape. The story plays out in the smoke and flames of the crackling fire.

“Our people didn’t know it yet, but it was year 1. Our people were barely surviving. They were pushed from land to land, following the food, foraging what they could. No matter how they worshiped, they prayed, they begged, they offered -- the hearts and eyes of the gods of old had turned from us.” The old man’s voice rose and fell as he told the story. One he had told every year at the Spring Equinox since he became the Chieftain. His hands moved, directing the fire to tell the story. The flames danced and popped, forming figures within its heart. The smoke swirled forming a gloomy atmosphere, the shadows danced amongst the audience as if they mocked the starving people the fire had formed. The old man’s voice softened into sadness, his head shook from side to side

“Cast aside by the gods, our people had dwindled to a mere fifty-four in number. With no other choice, they left their ancestral home, the land of the forsaken gods, and went in search of new land, a new life, and new gods. They traveled north towards the Serpent Mountains. They traveled far; one cycle of the moon turned to two, then three, and still our ancestors traveled on. They passed over fields and through forests; they traveled through rain, and shine, and snow. Their feet bled; they turned gaunt. They were attacked by bandits and wild animals. Along the way, they buried those that perished in unmarked graves, for they had nothing in which to mark them.”

The old man waved his hand and the fire went still. The silence fell over them all like a heavy burden. All eyes stared at the glowing flames of the fire. Tears sparkled on the cheeks of every man, woman, and child as they grieved and re-lived this memory of their ancestors. When the Chieftain’s voice broke the gloomy silence, the fire danced, and once again the pictures revealed themselves from within the heart of the flames, “On the one hundred third evening, what was left of our people awoke from their slumber by a fearful cry. A cry of pain, of anguish, of fear, ripped through the darkness. Without a moment’s hesitation, the remainder of our people: every man and woman, some barely holding onto life, raced toward the sound of a great battle. They took nothing with them except their meager weapons and their courage! They entered a green clearing, cast in the silver light of the full moon where a great dragon, its wings ripped, ruined, and stained with blood, unable to take flight, fought valiantly against a horde of marauders.” The fire rose in height and ferocity. It snapped wildly, throwing sparks high into the blackened sky. The glow of the intense fire illuminated the listeners. Faces glowed orange, men and women alike enthralled in their story stood as one and raised their hands to the sky, and as one yelled a war cry that would freeze the heart of even the boldest of warriors. They began to stomp upon the ground in unison. The sound of their stomping shook the ground on which they stood. With each stomp of their boots upon the earth, a deep “hurrah” would sound from their lips. Their voices seemed to take flight, filling the mountain peaks with a deafening, terrifying growl that sent even the griffin into hiding. The old man watched as his people responded to their story and smiled with pride at the sheer strength that they possessed. His voice rose, intertwining with the great cries of the audience.

“Our ancestors rushed into the throes of battle. With their swords flashing in the silver light, they attacked the marauders with the hearts of warriors!” The old man’s voice boomed like thunder, piercing through the cry of his people. “The arrival of new forces bolstered the strength of the injured dragon. The snapping of jaws intermingled with the clanging of swords and whistling of arrows. Bodies littered the clearing, blood stained the ground on which they fought blackening the earth. Our people fought with valor, with courage, with fearlessness, and one by one the bandits fell to the blades and arrows and teeth of their foes.”

The old man’s voice trailed off, at the same time the audience gave one more guttural roar and stood still. Silence settled over the mountains, over the audience, like a blanket. The old man smiled at them, his blue-grey eyes glistening with pride and respect for his people. For a long moment, no one and nothing moved as if the world stopped in reverent silence for the mountain people. Then the voice of the Chieftain rose above the blanket of silence in a clear, majestic tone. The fire jumped and danced to the old man’s cadence.

“As the golden sun of the morning stroked the battlefield with its awakening fingers, it was our ancestors that were left standing amongst the vestiges of battle. Strewn across the battleground were the bodies of the marauders. However, as they looked across the field, they noticed some of the lifeless faces upon the disheveled ground were those of our own that gave the ultimate sacrifice…” The fire rose to a great height and formed into the faces of those ancestors that died during that first battle. The audience, still standing, held up their swords, then turned them and buried the blade into the earth in a sign of respect for those that lost their lives. When the last of their ancestor's faces showed amongst the flames, the group in unison knelt on one knee and bowed their head in reverent silence.

The old man’s voice continued after a short pause, and the fire kicked back up forming the shape of the dragon, its body was broken and bleeding, one wing torn off and lying beside him, the other wing mangled, flapping in the breeze like so many flags. The storyteller’s voice rose with immense devotion, “Our ancestors went to the dragon’s side to aid him, but the dragon instead raised one bloody hand to tell them to stop. The great dragon then turned his claws to his own chest, reached inside, and pulled out what seemed to be a glowing red crystal that pulsed with white light. The dragon held it out and the leader of our ancestors…” Within the fire, Reeves Windcaller, the first Chieftain, stepped forward and placed his palm against the offered object. The only light the fire created was that in the center of the crystal. As Reeves touched the crystal his hand glowed, the light seemed to travel up his arm to his elbow.

“When Chieftain Windcaller touched the stone he could hear the dragon speak to him; he could understand the dragon language.” The storyteller’s voice became deeper, “‘My friends, who came to my assistance when I needed you the most, I am not long for this world. I offer you this gift,’ and the dragon pressed the crystal into the chieftain’s hand.” Within the dancing flames, Reeve took the offering and turned his hand, so he could look into the depths of the glowing crystal, his face shown radiant in the red light it emitted. The storyteller continued in the voice of the dragon, “‘I go now,’ said the dragon, ‘I am the last of my kind. My people die with me, but we will live on through you. Consume the heart of the dragon that pulses within your palm. Do not grieve this as an ending, but rather celebrate this as a new beginning. Then, climb the mountain pass into the Serpent Mountains. There you will find the home of the dragons and you will make it your own.’”A hush settled over the audience, all eyes glued to the pictures within the flames as the great dragon smiled upon his new people and breathed his last breath.

After a small pause, the old man continued the tale, “Upon the death of the dragon, Reeve’s raised the crystal above his head and hurled it at the bloodied earth. The crystal shattered, the light that was captured within it burst out in steams that swirled in brilliant colors encircling those that aided the dragon. The light grew in brightness, it permeated into the men and women that had fought so gallantly by the dragon’s side. The force of the light lifted the people off of the ground, suspended them for a moment before setting them gently down. As their feet touched the earth, the light went out and our first people were left standing in a meadow of red poppies, no sign of those that had perished was left.” At this, the fire that had been showing the tale to the audience went out and left them standing in the darkness of the spring evening with only the full moon for light.

The old man smiled upon his people, “That is how we became the Einar. Our men are the strongest, most feared warriors this world has ever known! Our women, given the gift of dragon shifters, are the most beautiful and magical of creatures. Today, during the first day of Ostara, we make our ancestors and our dragon kin proud!” As the voice of the old Chieftan died down, the cheer of his people sounded throughout the mountain peaks. The celebration of spring, of renewal, of the birth of their people, began.