Nova Peak Niende Dag

@Skorpa @Lorcan @Vhagar @Elowen Aeloria @Anoré @Silatuyok @Ravens Call Nowke @Mitoge Kaldros @Chipeta Kürsat @Aspa Jamukha Ātoztli (?) @Sobeille Ulfric @Moon Runner

Guest lodgings within Winsook have been prepped for the evening! All are welcome to make a reaction post to the ceremony, then break out into individual celebration threads at the after party! Be sure to mark your threads with [nd] for tracking <3

The Ceremony

For nine days the new children of Winsook had drawn breath, and in each of their nights the moon had shone full above the whispering mountain peaks. The old women in Ayovi’s natal pack would have called it a sign. The ancestors of her northern husband called it Niende Dag: Ninth Day. And so the mother rose from her whelping hides and in the company of all those held dear climbed the stonebacks— those ridges like the spines of a god that strike up tall and fearless beneath a canvas of starlight.
By midnight a great circle is formed in the snow— a ring of hides, bones, feathers and flowers. Tribesmen, friends and neighbors alike were invited to paint their cheeks with elk blood and bear witness to the emergence of new life.
At the center stand the Ekawotsa; a slain ox calf packed with fragrant herbs between them. Upon a thick hide Ayovi lays with her three newborns, inviting forward the fourth, Kaldros, and his mother into the central throng. With calf-blood the shaman take turns anointing the crowns of each child, then both Ayovi and Elowen; the life bringers. Lastly, the father’s lips are marked with the slain oxen’s blood, marking Skorpa and Lorcan as the life sowers.
A low, guttural sound breathes up from the stone; a song learned long ago from the lips of Ashēeran grandmothers. Onlookers are encouraged to beat their paws against the earth in a thunderous rhythm, mimicking the heart of a child’s first cry.
“Nowkē. Mitogē. Chipeta. Kaldros. Let the spirit of puha hear these children and know them.”
To the sky all are directed to look now, for the reception of spirits hidden among the stars. There is no reply; there never is. But in rising twists of brilliant color shapes seem to form: a bear rearing high. A hawk mid-flight. A snake winding.
At length the huntress watches with tears of primordial awe in her eyes.

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The Reception

After, when the children are tucked away safely into den furs with their caregivers, Winsook sings, their notes rising like smoke into the sky, thick with laughter and levity. From every den and longhouse comes an abundance of meats in great quantities to share: salmon, oxen, and pheasant. Fermented chokeberries and plums in dangerously high piles. Streamwater flavored with honey and fresh mint. A grand feast.
There are some hides and trinkets readied for exchange, and Ayovi has brought her own little stoles down to be traded; mink furs and glittering fish scales she’d cleaned while on her healing bed.
Wetted powdery ochres and sky-bold blue colors lay out in colorful piles for visitors to paint their arms. Beside them, fragrant florals for women to perfume their furs– all in invitation to lay down their blades for the night and celebrate life.
The ground shakes with dancing; colored powders lifting, snow melting. Ayovi hopes that everyone eats. She hopes that everyone dances.

There are no enemies at a feast this important. Only kin; near and distant, living and remembered.