Hear the beat of the drums. They meld with your pulse urging you to action. War drums.
The dust on the road billows orange in the August sun. The scent of hay fills your lungs as you approach the field. The rattle bang of carts toting the implements of battle ring in your ears.
As the heat of the day starts to meld into place, warriors gather by the hundreds, thousands, ready. They smile as they pass friends and foes. At the ready, you wait.
The canon blast shakes the air and screaming, fighters pour onto the field.
It's a good day to die.
It's a good day to die two, three, perhaps half a dozen times...
Spark. As the sun disappears and a blanket of stars replaces her, the heat of battle is replaced with the crackle of fire.
Hear the beat of the drums. Feel them in your feet, urging you out from your shade tents, out from your shelters. Night has come. The tinkling of coin, and jingle of bells join with the drums in a call to all corners — come out and play.
A bright menagerie colors swirl around the flames, as feet work the clay in a way that hands never could. Feel your feet connect with the earth. Feel the pull of the music. Time and cultures meld in the flames.
Here there is no judgment, no insecurity. There's just you and the fire. And the drums...
Gather around now.
The cool of night draws you toward the fire. Words have power here. Time stands still. Tales of adventures of long ago fill your ears. Drink them in. Songs of heroic gestures, beautiful maidens and journeys to far off lands long since gone. Jesters of a sort bring forth lyrics to amuse, while more serious bards talk of Gods of old. Leave this place for awhile. See the grand viking halls where the Jarl sits with his people holding feast. See the market place and vast palaces of India. See the Russian snows, deep and vast. See the great dragons upon the stoney cliffs turn to butterflies in the summer fields...
As you drift to sleep, warm in the comfort of your bed, distant drums beat a lullaby.
