Symbolic cleansing with fire and smoke, a type of communal ritual seen in many cultures around the world. It's one made popular by dramatic visuals and typically some sort of trial, either real or contrived, the completion of which brings a sense of worth and belonging, feelings often sorely missed after months trapped in winter's frigid isolation.
This one has the added gimmick of being labeled a race, though Willfur can see that the track is winding and often obscured by smog or clever nuances of light and color. He knows a riddle when he sees one, but far from discouraging the heavy mule (as an unadorned test of speed might), he's all the more intrigued for it and so, steps forward, though far off to one side of the main lineup.
Judging from the look of grim determination and deeply flexed joints of the tallest and lithest contestants, he imagines the majority will leap forward at breakneck speed as soon as the call is made and since he has no intention of slowing them down, politely leaves room for the stampede to pass. In contrast, he stands quiet, long ears tipping forward and back as he both listens for the start and peers into the haze of unknown ahead.
Spectators have gathered around the fringes, faces stretched tight with excitement, and the din of voices slowly quiets until he can hear a faint melody playing, inviting and disarming. He lets his mind wander with the gentle music, enjoying the pleasant warmth of the fires against his skin, seeping into muscle and bone, and the smoke bringing sweet scents of jasmine and honeysuckle and the dry, bright taste of wood burning to his nose and mouth, all of it made even sweeter by the acrid tang of anticipation building among the crowd.
Unperturbed, Willfur lets himself be lulled and if he's not left behind because of the lapse, he's at least left farther behind because of it. The sign is given, whatever it might have been, he misses it in his inattention, and the line of competitors surges forward, startling the mule and sending him off in a rushed trot, embarrassment and laughter grinning across his lips.
here is expectation hanging heavy in the air, as you take your place among the other horses lined up at the start of the race. Your heart hammers inside of your chest, nearly in time with the drums that begin to beat out the time remaining to the start of the race. On either side the bonfires dance along to its rhythm, waves of colored light flickering along the backs of the people who have gathered close by.
And through it all the song keeps weaving, in lilting tones that rise and fall with the flames. It’s captivating — and as you stare into the flames a thousand colors begin to leap within them. Reds and golds, violets and greens, blues and silvers, all of them twist together like plaits of a many-stranded braid. The air is thick with the smoke and incense curling around you, drawing you in deeper and deeper. As the tempo speeds up, you see a figure parting the smoke like waves.
The horse that stands in front of those who have lined up to start the race is the color of soot, with eyes that burn as brightly as the fires. Strange runes are painted (or are they scarred?) down their sides, shimmering as the light falls upon them. The stranger does not smile, nor speak — they only stare at you with their fiery eyes. There is nothing gentle about the look they give you, or about the way they seem to look through you instead of at you.
With a curt nod of his head, the music abruptly stops. The bonfires shiver in golden tones on either side, and the line of horses readies themselves.
A single cry marks the start of the race.
Every horse leaps forward as one through the smoke, and you with them.
The beginning of the race is a flat stretch, with each struggling to gain the lead. A row of fires lights the way, but perhaps the way they close in around you and block your path is cause for alarm. Or maybe you are one of those vying for first position, and do not notice the way the smoke grows thicker, and darker, and heavier, like something more than wood is burning, going into the first turn.
And yet directly ahead of you a new fire waits, like a hedge of flames waiting to be jumped. The fires reach hungrily for the air, for you, and something — perhaps it is instinct, or fear — tells you it will not be so simple. On either side of the fire is a path leading around, a slender space big enough for one to pass through at a time. Against the brightness of the fires, the darkness of the path on the right makes it impossible to see what lies in wait.
But to the left, there is a spark glowing red and hot.
To continue the race, you must reply to this thread with your character's choice. There is no word limit, and you can be as creative with the prompt as you'd like! The first obstacle features a fiery hedge that your character must decide to jump through or run around. The race splits here, and their decision here will influence the rest of the event for them.
Choices: run through the fire, take the right path, or take the left path.
@willfur
He can't help but stare at the soot-tinged figure as he passes, his massive head twisting around in an attempt to examine the roughly lettered symbols - painted? carved? branded? - across its ashen skin, but as the crowd surges forward and he's swept up with them, his view is obstructed by shoulders and hips and a cloud of dust thrown up in their passing.
The fleetest of the group easily leave Willfur behind, but rather than despairing, he uses the widening gap to better watch where he's going, avoiding hoof-holes and uneven ground wherever possible. He splits his attention between what lies immediately beneath his nose and what lies farther ahead, trying to anticipate what comes next, or at least to give himself a moments preparation, and so it doesn't come as such an abrupt surprise to the mule as it does to some others when he meets the first fork in the road.
Jumping is out of the question. He might as well just close his eyes and walk straight through the flames for all his vertical leap prowess affords, so it's either to the right or to the left. Glancing right tells him nothing, as the flames and the smog completely shroud anything beyond from his vision, but to the left he catches a glimmer of something, a spark of light and color that stands alone and draws his attention even amidst the inferno.
That's that, then.
His mind made up, the mule pricks his long, long ears and ducks toward the glowing ember, hoping that either he's well behind and out of the way of any other contestants, or that his momentum and sheer body mass will win him the narrow passage.
erhaps you've chosen this path because it appears to be the brightest. Lit not only by the fire, but a mysterious red glow. Maybe it seemed to be the safest choice rather than running through fire or the darkness.
Soon, you feel like you're being watched.
It starts as a slow creep up your spine, like a chill, and maybe you can't help but look over your shoulder. Is it someone in the race trying to play a prank on you? Or have you steered too far off the path that you've gotten yourself in the middle of something?
Within moments, it's revealed that the glowing red sparks were not sparks at all from the fires but eyes. You can see them blinking now and it hurts to stare too long into their gaze. Quickly the path becomes darkened and is only illuminated by the eyes that surround you now. It's unclear if there is a body attached (or several bodies) or if they're just floating in the shadows. Perhaps it's a hallucination, but it's as if they have engulfed the scene of the race in the meadows and now you're disoriented.
It's clear that you have limited options if you wish to finish the race and come out the winner. Since the eyes appear to float and have not done anything to harm you, it seems possible to run right through the illusion. Perhaps it'll fade away like smoke and you can continue along the path before anyone else. Though, you can feel it in your gut as the eyes press in, almost cornering you and looking at you with a judging gaze. Maybe you're better off getting far away from them and not interacting. Who knows what kind of magic this is or what the consequences could be.
To continue the race, you must reply to this thread with your character's choice. There is no word limit, and you can be as creative with the prompt as you'd like! The glowing light has turned into dozens of glowing red eyes surrounding your character in the darkness of the smoke. Perhaps you can hear voices, or animalistic sounds, or growls, or warnings; perhaps you feel only a growing sense of danger that tempts you to find a new way. Or sre you brave enough to face whatever unknown faces the eyes belong to?
Choices: run straight through the glowing eyes, or try to find another way around
@willfur
At first the glow of light and color seems to engulf him, like stepping into a hazy, rose tinted cloud, but as he continues forward the glimmer starts to solidify and shrink away, tightening in on itself until it implodes, shattering into clusters of glaring red sparks - no, pairs of them - that glint like otherworldly eyes peering out of the darkness at him. It's unnerving, to say the least, and the mule makes no attempt to hide his apprehension. Slowing, he swings his head from side to side and swivels his long ears to confirm that they are eyes - eyes that stare and blink and follow him as he moves - disembodied as far as he can tell, and all focused squarely on him.
"Hello?" He calls, but the gazes following his progress remain unchanged, their intensity pushing back against him like a physical force, slowing his steps until he breaks to a reluctant trot, neck bowed low, trying unsuccessfully to meet any one pair of eyes for more than a second or two at a time. "What do you want?" He asks, "What am I meant to do?" But there's no reply.
Halting, eyes all around him now and stacked in front like a wall, challenging, blocking his way, Willfur stares back as best he can, from the corners of his own eyes and with slightly unfocused regard. The red eyes stare back, unrelenting. He waits for something to happen, for forms to materialize from behind the eyes, for sound or sensation, but again there's no response and the lingering silence begins to bolster the stallion rather than shake him, confirming a hunch he's had since the announcement of the 'race.' He thinks he has an idea of what's going on here and with the barest hint of a smile shaping the corners of his lips, he posits, "I think you're only meant to frighten me."
He begins to move again as he speaks, gently pressing forward and against the perceived boundary of the red eyes. "Had I chosen differently, I would have had to leap through fire, or plunge myself into darkness." The mule closes his eyes now, squeezing his eyelids tightly together to block out as much of the red glow as he can and deliberately placing one hoof in front of the other, muzzle stretching blindly out in front of him, whiskers puckered. "I think the point is that we can't know what's on the other side, to see if we balk or push forward anyway, accepting what comes, but -" Confidence building with each word, each step, he picks up a canter, letting the natural pattern of 1-2-3, 1-2-3, lift and carry him on his way. "I don't think there's any obstacle at all. It's only psychological."
ou've decided to brace whatever might come and run through the glowing eyes gathering around you. Their gazes burn even more into your skin and it feels as if they used the fire to brand you (and maybe they have). The illusion does not dissipate like fog, which you may have been hoping for. Instead, there is growling and chattering. The eyes glow brighter and the noise gets louder.
And then there is the flapping of wings.
The red eyes move and reveal themselves to be dozens of bats. Although the creatures are typically harmless to horses, these are different. They fly around you in a swarm, screeching almost as loud as a banshee. They are disturbed and angry. Perhaps they want you dead.
What little light had been left from the fires or moon's glow seems to be gone now. All you can see are the small bodies of the bats and their wings as they fly frantically. Some dive bomb for your head and pull at your hair. Others might be dangerously close to biting you. If one thing's for sure, you are forced to slow down from the race and need to escape somehow. Is winning still important to you? If so, you may still have a chance...
To continue the race, you must reply to this thread with your character's choice. There is no word limit, and you can be as To conclude the race, you must post a closer. There is no word limit, and you can be as creative with the prompt as you'd like! The eyes were not merely a trick of the light or errant embers from the flames: as the smoke grows thicker a swarm of bats descend on you, obscuring your vision, attacking anywhere they can reach. You are free to determine the level of the attack, and your character's response to it!
You are free to write your character crossing the finish line in this post, or you can simply write them reacting to the bats swarming them. Once all the race threads are completed, a dice will be rolled to determine the winner and the results will be posted in each race thread.
Thank you for your participation, and good luck! We hope you enjoyed the event!
The sting of a hundred shrill, screeching cries assaulting his sensitive ears is almost as sharp as the accompanying razor teeth against his skin, and equally shocking. "Ow! Ouch!" He gasps, tail tucking tight to his rump as he crouches beneath the onslaught, eyes wide and rolling white at the edges.
"I'm sorry!" He cries, "I was wrong!" But the bats take no heed, continuing to swarm and chatter angrily at the intrusion, circling and swooping down to yank at his mane and forelock, swiping at withers and ears and whatever other unprotected parts of him they can grasp with tooth or claw.
Flinching and dodging away as best he can, it occurs to the mule that this is probably a well deserved lesson in humility, but he has little time to appreciate the irony. The bats are only becoming more and more agitated, indignation heightening to frenzy in just a few short moments, and whether there are more choices to be made or not, the only one Willfur can see through squinted eyes is - stay and suffer the agony of a thousand cuts, or run.
Willfur runs.
"I'm going! I'm going!" He shouts, head bowed low and ears folded flat against his neck. There's nothing more he can do to protect himself, so he puts all his energy into sprinting blindly ahead, a clay colored torpedo of flesh and bone barreling down the path, or, he hopes he's still on the path. He also hopes he's far enough behind the others that he doesn't trample anyone as he thunders through the pillars marking the finish line, too rattled by the attack and mortified by his own hubris to stop and celebrate the announcement of a winner. He'd rather find a quiet place to think and lick his wounds, both mental and physical.
They had said there was a message waiting in the flames, for those who looked closely enough. Perhaps you are finding that message now, as the flames pressing against your sides reach out to kiss your skin instead of nip at it.
Many of the horses around you are beginning to crackle apart, one by one, like logs splitting in the flames. And perhaps only now do you realize that it was not the other race participants running beside you — it was the fire. The smoke washes over you in waves of cinnamon and frankincense, it wraps around you like a shield. Perhaps, just perhaps, you begin to understand the whispers of protection that had swam through the crowds all night.
These visions will stay with you for some time to come. You might dream of the things you saw in the flames, or maybe it will come to you during times of quiet reflection. An aura will seem to settle over you like a halo, like there was magic after all in the flames that is slow to wear off. All around you can see the way the flames flash on their own like they’re trying to tell you something, reaching out like they cannot bear to be apart.
And you —
you are not the first to cross the finish line, but all the meadow, all the fires, all the dancing flames seem to sing your praises when still you stand a victor of the fire race.
Aspara has won the race, and it is up to you to decide how your character finishes/whether the effects from any of these REs stays with them! This is just a final RE to tie up the last of the races. ♡ Again thank you so much for your participation, and we hope you enjoyed this event!
