As the trio arrives, the clearing is bathed in the light of both the setting sun and, to a lesser extent, the rising moon, the pale light filtering through the sparse canopy overhead. The air carries the scent of earth, sage, and distant woodsmoke. Beyond the ring of trees, the sounds of the fairgrounds fade.
Tony stands at the center, circled by others who he has gathered for the rite. Their faces are illuminated by flickering torchlight, the flames casting long, shifting shadows. Some among them gleam with the unmistakable presence of Nunnehi glamour, their features seeming to blur between the seen and unseen, while others, though mortal, seem to carry the weight of heritage in their blood. The group is diverse—two elders wrapped in woven blankets, the light too dim for Thistle to make out the patterns - a young man and woman standing tall, and two children watching with solemn, wide eyes.
A steady drumbeat begins, low and deep. The firelight flickers in time with the rhythm.
Makota stands at the center, framed by firelight. He gestures for them to enter the ring.