The red lanterns shine gently, mending the shadows, but not warding them off.
People have dressed in fine but comfortable clothing; here, too, the shades of red are playing the majority of the colour scheme.
It is the night of Burning Fire and Golden Bird.
The night of the Newyear in lynianian calender.
Around two weeks from this night the cold rains will start and the winter shall come; world shall fall in deep slumber in the grey sleep.
But for now, everything is still warm and cosy; like a cup of warm tea and golden honey.
Like an ember.
Although the Nowhere officially uses different, twelve month system, the streets near the river are painted red by the lights and the masses of people.
Majority of the crowd is of Kiresian blood who live in the gentle waves of the muddy river on their boathouses. The river, which shadows are now contrasted with red in the both shores, lights reaching far; letting just the smallest line of dark, muddy water between.
But there are people of other ethnics too, not just the Kiresian; lynianian calender is old, after all; and the old habits need more than sixtyone years of corrupted rules to die.
This is the night the ancestors of the people here have celebrated, and so, they will too.
It is in their blood, after all.
Blood as red as the lanterns swingign in the gentle wind.
Air is heavy of the burning incenses; of spices and perfumes. Burn cinnamon, nutmeg, oranges, ginger.
The merchants sell their goods in small booths fast mounted near the river shores; they offer food and jewellry and incenses.
The ones closer the shadows of deep alleys sell things more exotic and potentially dangerous, but facinating nonetheless. The shadows are not good place to be for the tourist; it is better to keep close to the red lanterns.
Of course it is not all about red; there are flashes of amber, sunset orange and gold everywhere to be seen. Even green and royal violet.
The gold is the majoríty among them; colour of jewellry and the small bells tied on the hair and clothes, and so the world of sounds is filled with tingling and clittering; the moving crowd adding it's own living music to the sounds of the drums heard behind everything, when young people dance on the wooden decks of the Kiresian boathouses; tallying and competeing eachother in the skill of dancing.
The most skilled dancer appears only once that night, along with the sound of lonely flute; sound of great beauty and of great sorrow; like the instrument was crying for the lost love.
Perhaps, it is the feeling of the mucician; breathed in life through ivory and old wood.; given a form with skilled, delicate fingers.
People gathering around, but keeping the respectful distance as the dancer, dressed in amber and burning orange and yellow and carmine, steps at the deck of one of the boathouses.
Their hands and feet and ancles and wrists covered in golden jevelry, glittering in the light of the red lanterns, silently jiggling to the gentle steps the dancer takes.
Their face hidden behind golden mask; a mass of fiery red feathers as their hair; a picture of Golden bird.
Unlike the fast dances the young ones have shown; this dance is slow and sensual; drums have gone guiet, and the only sounds beside the crying flute are the steps of the dancer's bare feet on the wooden deck and the jiggling of the jewellry.
The dancer moves; delicate and vulnerable.
Every step, every gesture bears the meaning beyond the obvious.
The funeral song of the Golden bird.
The dance ends in the fire; red veil suddenly gathering around the dancer; the flute crying one sound above everything, and then the dancer is gone.
The funeral pyre of the Golden bird; a night of Burning Fire.
The spell woven over the people is gone; the dance has come to an end, and they all return to their celebration.
Sweet and spicy foods are bought from the small shops, gifts are given, and fast dances start again along the living music of the crowd and the drums.
When the dawn draws near, people return to their families; to spend time with loved ones; with friends; to enjoy feast together.
But underneath this everything there lies the promise; the Bird has died, but will be reborn due the morning light.
The time will flow foward.
Life will go on.
