That night they sat around the Old Mother and waited for her to decide. She was not their leader, but when she spoke they listened.
That night they decorated their rune-scarred skin with a palette of bright pigments and braided long white feathers in their hair. They shaped a single breath into a long note of melancholy and despair. All around the village these notes fused into a constant complex and perplexing song. To the slavers it sounded sweet, deaf as they were to its defiance.
After that night, their song was never heard again. But they were finally free.
That night they decorated their rune-scarred skin with a palette of bright pigments and braided long white feathers in their hair. They shaped a single breath into a long note of melancholy and despair. All around the village these notes fused into a constant complex and perplexing song. To the slavers it sounded sweet, deaf as they were to its defiance.
After that night, their song was never heard again. But they were finally free.
