The Breath of Ma'danhir

The sweating huts of Ma'danhir are ancient, softly glowing embers at the mires edge , their timbers worn with age. Here, generations of youths have taken "the Breath" , the final step into adulthood, returning changed forever. They slip silently through the low, earthen doorways, where bog-moss embers smolder, releasing a thick, sweet smoke that mingles with the mire's sharp, damp air.
As the air thickens, wafting curtains of rolling smoke and shadows that warp the senses, they inhale deeply, seeking to take a glimpse beyond the curtain, to see what futures lie still hidden. Twisted shadows dance upon the mud-daubed walls, whispering fragmented tales that echo in the stillness of their own labored breathing and from within the haze, images flicker unbidden:

a serpent, coiled around a crumbling stone

, a face in stagnant water

, a path through mist-veiled trees

Voices, not of the living, but drowned spirits, murmuring cryptic truths

A tapestry of dreams and fears

, the veil between world torn open, a ragged wound.

When they emerge from the hut, adults now, eyes wide and faces pale, they bear the weight of their visions, some speaking of glory and triumph, others of darkness and despair, yet none of them will ever be able to forget what befell them.