Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-26288702-20180310221203/@comment-28358106-20180602164713

"We were once such a people.  Once, but no more."

Tirush takes her hand and begins smoothing parts of the stone idly, as if she were an artist working a hunk of clay.

"The old way was our sight, our link to the Great Flame.  In our tongue, it is called the Pah Miiraad.  It is the voice that cries out in our bodies, that burns in our blood.  It is the thuúm that makes us one with the Great Flame.  Those of us who were the greatest, whose Miraad was in all ways pure, were called the Firebearers.  We taught the young, we protected those under our wing.  We would guide our people to the Temple of our ancestors, that they might there be one with the Flame, and learn when they, too would be Firebearers."

She dusts her hands off and sighs. "But the old ways are no more.  My people have been slain, or made the slaves of powerful humans.  The rest of them now fight for glittering things, gold and silver and cold jewels.  I can hear their flame's voices no longer, their songs have since died.  They care for things, and not the ways, and have grown fat, and cold, or dead.  I am the last of our people, until my daughter becomes of age."