Mother had made his favorite meal: deer stew. A rarity, as his Tribe almost never took the life of so noble a creature. Great respect was paid to Nature's child, as is proper of the People. It's the least they can do, to thank the creature for providing them with sustenance and materials. The Outsiders did not share such sentiments. All they ever did was take, and take, until there was nothing left to gain. And then they wonder why there isn't more to conquer. Faolan thought to himself in disgust.
"Liten räv, you've hardly touched your stew, is something the matter?" The lilting voice of his mother caused his ears to perk up subtly. He had been poking through his stew with the wooden spoon absentmindedly.
"Hm? Oh, it's nothing." He shrugged, but his mother knew better than to believe that. She gave a pointed look, raising one graceful brow. Faolan sighed.
"I'm just a little nervous, I think. It'll pass before the ceremony."
His mother smiled reassuringly. "It is a lot to place on you, yes." She began, and her son looked up. "The expectations of the Elders." She elaborated, and Faolan looked away, slightly embarrassed.
The female arctic fox laughed, "It is nothing to be ashamed of, my son. It is only natural." It was true, there were a lot of expectations placed on his shoulders by the Tribe Elders. There were the obvious benefits of pairing the young fox with a member of Nobility. There was hope, too, that the Treatise, now centuries old, could be seen as outdated and obsolete. The magic was strong not only among the Nobility, but among the common folk as well. To require a candidate from each tribe of Ísey each Winter for the Season simply because of an old piece of parchment? It was akin to blackmail at this point. Surely, a few centuries worth of greed has been assuaged. Perhaps.
But then again, perhaps not.
To the Outsiders' strange hierarchal concepts, Faolan would be called Prince, due to his father being the leader of his Tribe. But the People did not believe in one person having a higher station than the other based on title alone. No, station was based on respect and experience. Both of which were accumulated by age. The Elders, or the Äldste, as they were referred to, were simply their guides, revered for their sage counsel that saw the People through many a trial. But yes. He thought. Who wouldn't want to marry their daughter off to a young Wyld Mage to make the magic in their "Noble" line just that little bit stronger? He snorted, finally beginning to eat his stew. His mother, on the hand, took that snort as a response to her attempts at reassuring him.
She frowned sadly, "I know it's been hard without your father, but trust me when I say that he would be proud of you. Of the Vuxen you've become. You've come this far, my son." With a sigh, she finished, and began to eat as well.
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The young fox sat lost in thought as mother and son ate in silence.
Now finished, Faolan thanked his mother for the meal and assisted her in cleaning up the small wooden table they ate at, along with the kitchen, before they both headed to the village proper.
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The pounding of drums accompanied his every step as they approached the main village, weighting them, it seems, with apprehension. Each step tolled a new doubt. Would he survive the few weeks at sea? Would he do his people proud? Would he court well enough to the Outsiders' standards? Yet, each doubt faded as he remembered: This is MY time. This ceremony was all for him.
His mother, dressed simply in a dress of ethereal white and snug black leather boots, nudged him in the side with an elbow, her tail moving side to side gracefully as she walked. "Listen and smile, liten räv, and know that you are loved." She flashed a grin at her son as they fell in tempo with the drums, walking with the steady beat. He took the arm that was offered, escorting her down the path marked by flat stones as they passed the empty houses of the outer edges of the village. Everyone would be attending around the Släktträd -- the Family Tree.
It was a while before they came within listening range of the festivities. Theirs was a vast and sprawling community that spanned miles of forest. Nature was as much their shelter as their homestead. Faolan grinned as he saw some younger kitlings run past, chasing a squirrel for fun while their parents were distracted. Though, upon seeing the Wyld Mage and his mother, they stopped dead in their tracks before running off in the opposite direction. He was not worried for them. Why would he be?
"You've scared them off with those sharp teeth of yours, my son. Ha!"
Faolan's grin only widened.
After a few more minutes of walking down the forest path, there was a moment of rest in the drums' beat. Ansli and Faolan halted with it. The village center was within sight; it would take only a minute or two of walking to enter.
"Are you ready?"
The young arctic fox hesitated. Was he ready? At 19 years of age, this is what he had been raised for. To honor the Treatise with the Outsiders by marrying into their Nobility, and to carry the legacy of the People's magic. He had done everything right. He learned their ways, their mannerisms. How to act in their presence, and what to say in most situations. He carried the heritage of his Tribe within his blood and his magic. Yet still he was nervous about failing his People, and by extension, his family.
He took a deep breath.
Steeled his nerves and his resolve.
Exhaled.
"I'm ready."
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The three Elders stood in front of the Släktträd, waiting for Faolan and Ansli Voss to arrive. The drummers had halted their beating and slowly, silence found its home among the gathered crowd of assorted tribe members -- all of different species. Foxes, wolves and other canids of all types comingled with bated breath as the silence became deafening. A silence that was then pierced by a siren's call, so pure and powerful it instilled awe in the listeners, sending shivers down their spines. Fur rustled as the people shifted their heads in anticipation to get a better look at the forest path that led to this place.
The Kula had begun.