The sky was filled with fire, raining down upon the darkened earth. Scorched ground black with ash the turned to dust kissed by the wind of the ancient Viking who once held court upon this mound.
Naked they dance among the flames, their skin wet with sweat and dark with stain. The fire doesn't touch them, the ground doesn't burn them as their feet lightly dance upon the crisp ashes of those that had come before.
Round and round in an circle they flow, to a rhyme only they know. Upon the trees the flames tongue licks, the lust of the heat matches the best as feet stomp around looking for that one little sound …
The earth opens upon the great mound, a voice is heard, as ancient and as weary as time. Rising from his sleep the Old Father speaks, words of wisdom words of foley words of mystery. They listen in kind as the words sing out, a maiden steps forth with a cup topped with froth. The offering is taken with much ass slapping and glee.
The fire is out, the mead is heady and strong, the sex is dirty, among the ashes of those names from the old songs.
The morning bird song brings it all to an end, into the mist they all disappear, the mound is green, the grass grows fresh and new, the blessings of the Old Father, have been renewed.
Far away in tree that still simmers, a nest still burns within a pile of ashes. The song of the Old Father still spins slowly around. Magic and lightening and mystery combine, the ashes glow bright in the growing daylight. The crow watches from the branch above, knowing that soon, a FireStar will burst forth, spread its wings and fly as high as the evening star.

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