Can you feel it

There they stood. Tall as great oaks with their feet rooted to the ground with similar authority. The wind whipped and howled, trying to tear them down but they didnt waver. Ancient things, they lived in tales older than the palace walls and the ruins they were built from. for centuries they stood unmoving, silent reminders of what lies beyond their shadow, what terrible things lurk in the beyond. Tonight is their festival. A time to celebrate their existence and their eternal protection. The feasting started in the midday with offerings of wheat and corn and meat brought to their feet. As the sun slid behind the mountains to west, the fires began to crackle and dance. The crowds, freshly woken from a post feast nap, gathered and moved with renewed vigor. They danced in circles around the fire. Their faces gleamed with sweat and the flicker of orange flame painted their faces and gleamed brightly in lusty eyes. The dancing decayed from ritualistic swaying and counted steps to intermingling of men in women in moves of obvious courtship. This was a night of sin, a show for the guardians whos hearts still beat with hot blood. 

The sounds of joining souls could be heard just out of the reach of the fires. More and more people, drenched in sweat and smelling of spiced liquor, would peel or be peeled away from the dancing firelight. It was a time of tradition, a time of lust, a time of sacrifice. Between the moans and cries of pleasure the steady and slow drum beat of the bearers could be heard coming from the darkness. Their tempo was slow, steady, and infectious. The dancing bodies moved in time. As the steady beats grew closer a new sound could be heard. Bells. The bells of the offering jingled and rang in time with the beat. As the bells got closer and louder the number of those still on their feet by the fire dwindled faster to retreat into the darkess to join with another. 

The drummers could be seen now. Their white cloaks glowed pale in the dark as they approached the flames that never seemed to dwindle. Like ghosts they slipped from shadow and into the light, their faces hidden behind wooden masks painted white with the prayers etched into them. The drums were simply constructed but were painted with ornate symbols, the words of the gods. They came in twos, the drummers, and split to either sides of the fire still beating the same tempo. The bells, and their players, were next. Women and men dressed in white cloth draped over their naked bodies somberly came from shadow. Like wraiths, their approach was terrifying and mystical. Their faces were uncovered, showing the tears that streamed down their cheeks in great rivers. They did not weep or sob though, the only sounds they made were the bells that decorated the leather straps that bound their arms behind their backs. 

The drummers began to pick up the pace as the wraiths approached large piles of dead grass and dried wood. Four pyres were readied, two for the women and two for the men. The tempo quickened as volunteers helped the the offerings onto their individual platforms, the bells on their straps rang as they tied the straps tightly across timbers erected in the middle of the pyres. The drumming quickened more and more with syncopated patterns making themselves heard. Primal and raw the moans in the dark matched the new rhythm.