#elsewhere

Takoda - Tony - regards Gwen with an easy smile, his dark eyes warm. “You are Iroquois, and you are Cherokee. You are both, fully. And you are of the Troll tribe, fully. One does not take from the other.” He gestures to himself with a small chuckle. “I am Lakota and Cherokee. I pointed out Cherokee because that is what we share.”

He inclines his head at her mention of the Nunnehi, thoughtful. “I am of the Nanehi tribe of the Nunnehi. We are guides and protectors, watchers in the deep places. And yes, I have heard of boggans. Good folk, good hearts.”

At the mention of the moonflower belt, he furrows his brow, considering. “That, though… I do not know. Perhaps the storytellers will have more to say. If such a thing exists, the old tales may hold the truth of it.”

She breaks into a gentle smile, "Tony you... thank you. Whatever happens, thank you for being such a warm and understanding welcome. The Nanehi... are protectors too? Well, then you understand me better than I hoped." She nods "It is difficult... what we've learned on our end" She tells him of what they've learned as a group "The linguistics are... a challenge."

Tony listens attentively, nodding along as Gwen speaks of the challenges they have faced so far. “When my heart is in the Summer Camp, I follow the paths of the spirits—that of guidance, where I may,” he says, his voice steady. "You have found me with my heart in summer, and I will gladly aid this quest."

His expression shifts when Gwen mentions the Countess of Raven’s Rest (as she must, to share what Art has found). A shadow crosses his face, his warm demeanor cooling slightly. "She walks with respect, perhaps, but she is still Sidhe," he says evenly. "And she took what was ours. The body she wears—its soul once belonged to our people. That is not so easily forgiven."

He exhales, setting the thought aside before offering Gwen another smile. "But that is an old wound I will not pick at, now at a time of celebration. Come, let us listen to the storytellers. Do you wish to find the others of your band, or do they follow their own trails for a time?"

"I shouldn't have mentioned her perhaps, for I was told of some tension" She had not meant to, it just came out, "I will say she betrayed no guest rights. But I came here with my friends apart from her so I would not be seen as OF her hold."

At his invitation, she rises "My old band searches on their own for the moment, though if we see them I will gladly introduce them." A troubled look though if only for a moment

Then she says "Onto the story tellers and, again, thank you"

Tony offers Gwen a reassuring nod but does not press her about the brief flicker of trouble in her expression. Instead, he gestures ahead and leads her toward the storytellers' circle.

The gathering of elders is a rich tapestry of voices and wisdom, spread across several smaller circles rather than one singular assembly. Each circle represents a different nation or community, with storytellers sharing in their own traditions, though there is fluidity between them. Listeners move between groups, drawn by familiar words or compelling tales, and at times, the circles merge as stories intertwine.

In one group, an elder speaks of creation and the celestial bodies, of the stars as ancestors watching from above. Another tells of heroes and tricksters, weaving lessons into the telling. Some stories are historical, recounting struggles and triumphs, while others are myths meant to teach, entertain, or both.

The scent of burning sage lingers in the air, mingling with woodsmoke. Children sit cross-legged in the dirt, eyes wide as they listen, while older attendees nod in recognition at well-known tales or chuckle at a clever turn of phrase.

As Gwen observes the storytellers, she notices the divisions within the circle. The elders speak with passion and wisdom, their voices carrying the weight of tradition, but not everyone listens.

The crowd here is noticeably smaller than at the vendor stalls or the food area, or the Powwow where Tony danced, and others dance yet. Some sit in quiet reverence, others come and go, their attention divided. Some younger people linger at the edges, rolling their eyes or half-listening with disinterest, their attention flickering toward their phones or whispered conversations. Others prefer the livelier pull of the vendor stalls or food stands where modern indulgences offer easier gratification.

Among the audience are tourists, some genuinely interested, others treating the stories as little more than background noise to their visit. A few snap pictures or record videos, missing the essence of the moment in their pursuit of "Likes". Others whisper questions to one another, trying to parse unfamiliar words or references.

Gwen is glad she dressed with some traditional flare. It feels right to honor her heritage. And it behooves her to show respect . Unlike some her age, SHE is riveted by the stories she hears. No phone is pulled out, rather she takes a seat with Tony,assumes an attentive position and... kind of forgets the world of the now to bask in the wisdom of legends and history.

The circle of storytellers is alive with a tapestry of voices, each sharing tales passed down through the ages.

To one side, a Cherokee woman, her feathers bright and her expression fierce, recounts the tale of a hunter who sought the blessings of the Great Bear. Her words are rhythmic, echoing the flow of the river that has shaped the land, as she describes the trials the hunter must face to earn the spirit’s favor.

A Blackfeet woman tells the tale of the Earth’s Heart—an ancient rock formation said to be the meeting place of the spirits. The tale describes how the first people, led by a mighty woman who could call on the winds, came to the Heart of the Earth to seek wisdom. The story tells of how she, upon her arrival, was gifted the power to communicate with all living things—plants, animals, and the very stones beneath their feet.

Across the fire, an elderly Lakota man speaks slowly, his voice soft but heavy with wisdom. His eyes are nearly closed as he begins the tale of a mystical bloom that grew only under the light of the full moon. According to the story, the flower’s healing properties could cure even the deepest wounds. The tale seems to fade into the quiet of the night, the elder’s voice growing softer as the crowd’s attention drifts elsewhere.

Nearby, an Iroquois man, strong and proud of stature, tells the ancient tale of the Sky Woman, the one who fell from the heavens. He describes how she landed in the waters of the earth, and from there grew the Great Tree, its roots digging deep into the world below, its branches stretching up to the stars. His voice swells with passion as he recounts the generations that followed, each one connected to the tree’s energy and strength. The tale stirs the air around them, and the listeners draw closer, their attention fixed on his every word.

(Perc + Kenning!)

/roll 6

All of the tales stir Gwen, evoking poignant memories of days long past, other stories told around similar fires when she was small. However, to her Kithain senses, the Iroquois man stands out as a master storyteller. His tale creates glamour in the telling, fleeting but powerful, stirring the hearts of those who listen. Had she the time and inclination, he would be a powerful Dreamer.

The Lakota man’s story is compelling in its own way. While it is not quite the same as the tale of the Moonflower Belt, it hits several of the same notes told in the story in the Book that sparked their quest.

As Gwen listens, she feels magic stir in her spear, like whispers on the wind just beyond her hearing. It is a warmth and a comforting feeling, the spear an old friend.

She smiles at it, but does not make motion with it. No hostile body language even by accident

Gwen listens to all of them, but hopes for more clues from the Lakota

As one tale winds down, another begins, with fresh voices rising to share their stories.

A Seneca woman in a vivid red and black dress embroidered with geometric patterns has her hair cut and dyed to match, and adorned with silver clips. Thistle would love her outfit, even if she doesn't understand the abstract tale of spirits the woman weaves.

A pair of storytellers of the Haudenosaunee people weave a tale in tandem, about the Great Tree of Peace.

An Osage man who reminds Gwen, perhaps unpleasantly, of Countess Blackfeather wears ornate beadwork and shells, as he tells about the great Elk Spirit.

Tony whispers to her, "The stories will go on all night." The sun has started towards setting, early evening, as the tales went on and rapt her attention. "Have you heard anything that helps?"

"When does your mother come on?" She whispers "I could listen to this all night, make no mistake"

And she says "the closest is the Lakota man, but that maybe tribal simularity"

The Lakota storyteller has dozed off in the warmth of the fire, though he stirs as a younger tribe member offers him a cup, grinning, and the old man sips, a few remaining teeth showing in his smile.
Tony responds, "Soon."

Not long after, Bernice Chasesky comes into the circle, and other storytellers hush in deference to one of the key speakers for the gathering. Her posture still strong despite her age, with more gray than Gwen remembers. She begins her tale of Iktomi, the trickster spider, with a steady and powerful voice. As she speaks, her hands move expressively, punctuating the words with gestures that seem to bring Iktomi’s antics to life.

Her tale is full of humor, her voice rising and falling with the rhythm of Iktomi's deceptions and mischief. She mimics his voice with exaggerated tones, making the crowd laugh, especially when she impersonates his cunning plans turning into disaster. Gwen remembers this as one of her favorite tales, perhaps from the subject, or the telling, or the humor, but it's a good one.

As the tale winds to a close, there is a break, and Gwen finds that she may now choose to approach any of the storytellers as they rest between sessions.

A wide grin, she always enjoyed the trickster stories. She is torn between the elder man and Bernice, but she told Bernice she'd be here and so goes to her.

Bernice greets her son first with a traditional Lakota greeting, her voice warm and steady despite her years. Though their faces may appear stern to outsiders, the crinkles in their eyes belie love and warmth between mother and son. Then, turning to Gwen, her lined face creases into a welcoming smile in recognition.

"Wašté," she says warmly, her voice cracking a bit from the weight of many stories told. "You came, just as you said you would." Approval in her tone. "I remember the bright-eyed little one who listened to every tale." She chuckles, glancing up. "You are not so small anymore—now I must look up at you!"

"And yet I still look up to you, even when you sit down. Your stories give you flight, thank you for carrying us along" A smile

She is trying not to gush. She doessn't think of herself as a fan girl and yet she's in danger of that

Bernice listens, beaming, clearly not annoyed but flattered by the attention. After they chat for a few moments, Tony offers, "Gwen was interested in Grandfather's tale." He nods toward the elderly Lakota man. "She seeks knowledge of the healing flowers—woven in a wreath or a belt."

"Ah, an old tale. Not exciting like the adventures of Red Bear's trials, amusing as Iktomi's comeuppance or popular as the White Buffalo spirits. Come, he will enjoy a listener who cares for the old ways, and I am willing to share." Bernice smiles and guides Gwen over.

The elder, who both Bernice and Tony greet as Grandfather, is gently roused with a few quiet words. He blinks awake, his gaze sharpening as he listens. Gwen realizes that he is also a Nunnehi, though well into what she would call his Grump years.

"She would listen? No, no... No one listens. My words are empty promises on the wind. This will be my last Gathering." He says, forlornly.

Gwen follows over, then inclines her head to the man, "Please, Grandfather, give me a chance? Your wisdom is cherished by more than you know. I am called Gwen by most but some call me Gladiola. Any flower needs rains of wisdom to truly bloom even if it arrogantly plays in the sun."

He squints, not out of suspicion but to see her through rheumy eyes and the smoke of the fire. There is a flicker of recognition—of what, she cannot say. "You walk paths that are not ours, but they are not opposed. Your blood and spirit... we have shared blood, though our people have not always walked the same trails."

Bernice murmurs to Gwen that the man's mind wanders these days… but to Gwen, he seems sharp as a tack.

After a moment, he begins to speak, his voice like rustling grass, weaving memories into words, quietly, the tale not for the crowd this time.

He speaks of the old ways, of a place where such flowers grew in abundance, a land where the spirits tended to the wounded and weary. "Beyond the rolling black hills, where the river follows the stars - along the spirit road, the ghost road... there is a place they called the Valley of Whispering Blooms. It is said the wind carries the voices of those who walked before, guiding the worthy who seek healing."

Tony sits up straighter, his expression sharpening with recognition. He says nothing yet, but Gwen notices the shift.

"If Wíȟaŋbla Owíŋža," Grandfather says, using the Lakota name for the Belt, the same name from the Book, "Yet exists, there it would be found."

Where that mind wanders might be worth following She listens intently, "How might one be worthy, Grandfather?"

The old man sharpens for a moment, his gaze clear and piercing. "That is for the Spirits to judge," he says simply. Then adds, "You would do well to have one on your side."

Then, just as quickly, the moment passes—his focus drifts, and he glances around, seeming smaller than before. "Now, where is your boy, young sky-chaser? Off at the sweets tent again? That little rascal, it's past his bedtime."

Bernice chats with Grandfather in their tongue for a few moments longer. "I apologize, he visits the past more often these days."

"Nothing to apologize, his past is long and has a strong grasp upon him. Thank you, Grandfather" She eyes Tony for a moment, tempted to ask something "Know any friendly spirits?" She finally says at him feeling a fool.

Tony leads her aside, lowering his voice. "All Nunnehi follow a totem spirit. If my connection to Dogwood can aid you, then I will help. It seems I have been guided to you so that I may guide you further."

He glances toward the elder before continuing, "Grandfather speaks not only of the past, but of the Spirit Lands. If your will is strong and your resolve pure, I can take you there, though it is not for the faint of heart, and comes with many dangers."

A pause—then, he smiles, his gaze flicking to her spear. "You already have some spirit on your side. I can feel the strong Medicine of their presence within your Spear." He gestures toward the weapon, Gwen's Treasure from her Chrysalis many years ago.

She smiles "The spear is my link to the spirit, yes. " Then more soberly "But I worry. I don't want you in trouble for helping a non nunehi. Will you be?"

Tony’s eyes sparkle as she mentions the spear. "A link to the spirit? That’s one way to put it."

But at her concern, he shakes his head. "I choose my own path. And you are no stranger—you carry Native blood and belong to these lands." His tone is firm, reassuring.

Still, his expression turns more serious. "But I must warn you again—this is no journey for the faint of heart. We will have to cross Rock Giant lands, where my influence may mean little."

"I'm something of a rock giant myself" She answers, then ponders "But I should also talk to my friends. There is a schism of sorts in my heart with one of them, but to save my mother I would dance with a skinwalker so I can swallow my pride a bit more to get a friend's help. They are not of the blood. Would you take them as well if they were willing?"

Tony considers carefully. "Perhaps a vow to honor the spirits, though such things are not given lightly. A deed, or an exchange… but these take time, as any true treaty does." He folds his arms, weighing the thought before continuing. "Or they may call upon a totem to guide them on this journey, even if only for its duration. It would show humility—an understanding that they walk as guests in a land not their own."

His gaze sharpens slightly. "But they must be prepared. The Spirit Lands do not welcome outsiders with open arms. If they go, they will be seen and tested. Are they ready for that?"

"My friends are ready for just about anything" She says with some pride in them "They are.. very creative and smart. And not without their own sense of the sacred. LEt me warn them, and then ask?"

He nods. "Go, speak with your people. And enjoy the Gathering while it lasts. Even our ancestors would feast and dance before a great challenge. This is a time for celebration as much as preparation."

A nod "You are right. And, thank you , for everything" She blushes "You... you're very kind and brave. " And she kisses him on the cheek, before darting off