Editing Icelus (section)

==The Nightmother's Breath==

An ashstorm blows against the sides of the thick leather yurt, its crevices sealed with a jelly made of chemical byproducts to keep out the fine sand and ash particles. The constant rushing and slithering of the dust against the yurt wraps itself intimately around the old man's story, his arms hugging two small children tight to his sides as they stare at their family's history etched into the cured leather walls.

"Long ago, before the Star King closed the Veil of heaven to us, our people lived in great cities open to the sweet air with the ancestors of the Hive Born. We lived together in peace; trading and farming outside the great walls. 

But the Star King saw fit to draw closed the Veil of Heaven, and our peoples fell into despair. Lamenting our fate, we blamed each other, and after much strife, we, the Children of the Plains, struck out from the great cities, through the withering forests, into the dead plains. The Walldwellers closed themselves in, and became hostile, attacking us when we came close, startled at our lean and ferocious appearance. We skirmished for years unending as our great world died of our sorrow, her lakes and oceans disappearing as the Night Mother cried to the stars.

The Walldwellers became angry with our ways and our fighting, believing it was us who departed from tradition and killed the old ways. They set out to destroy us, and left their walls in our pursuit. Though we were valorous, they were many, and our people suffered greatly. After one and a thousand years, the Night Mother's eyes were dry from weeping, and she looked with clarity upon her Earthbound Children. Seeing us flee into the Ash Plains with only our lives, she breathed deep and in exhaling, brewed great storms all across the surface, obscuring us from our pursuers. Baffled and blinded by the dust stinging their eyes, The Walldwellers retreated to their cities and hid; built themselves in as to shelter themselves from the Nightmother's Breath.

That is why we do not fear the ashstorms, young ones; they are the Nightmother's kind blessing. We thank her for her veil, and for our lives."

The old man lifts a small metal bowl with a close-fitting top. Ornate etchings cover its surface, and a small hole is drilled in the top to allow incense smoke to pour forth. It is much like the one atop their yurt, wafting smoky supplication to the Nightmother.