Sol stood in the shadow of the totem, his back pressed against the rough, carved wood. The square was filling up rapidly, transforming into a sea of painted skin, furs, and stone weapons. The air vibrated with a low, guttural chanting that seemed to rise from the earth itself, syncing with the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the great ceremonial drums.
He scanned the crowd, his Ash Gray senses filtering through the noise.
It was a spectacle of primitive power. The participants… about thirty of the tribe's youth… were a mix of nervous energy and aggressive posturing. Some were pacing, muttering prayers to their ancestors. Others, the sons and daughters of hunters, were laughing loudly, sharpening their spear tips with theatrical scrapes to hide their fear.
Sol kept his head down, but his eyes were sharp. Unlike others, who haven't gone out alone yet, he had already sneaked out a few times, so there was less of nervousness and more of anticipation.
