You do not know music until you have heard the voice of the Leisia.
You do not know poetry until they sing it.Forget your idle, pitiful attempts to great words, or heroic odes. For it is the Leisia alone that can wrest a man's heart from his chest with the songs of heroism and courage. No man with a shred of honor can fail to be moved by their songs. When the snows recede, and the grasses green, in the hazy distance, you may hear the jingle of bells and see the puffs of dust. The Leisia have come. Soon their cleverly painted wagon houses appear, pulled by sturdy ponies and trailed by assorted chickens and goats with young and old striding alongside the men on horseback. The caravan may consist of a few families, or an entire clan. Their presence is both joy and despair to those who have crossed paths with them before. There is an ache deep in the soul that awakens to the bells on the harnesses, remembering what it was like the last time. One can push it down, ignore, and even forget it for months or years, only to be pained anew with the memories. For the Leisia sing. No mere tavern minstrel warbling for a few coins, a free meal and a spot to sleep in the common room are they. They are the voice of the gods, the voice of long-silenced heroes, the tellers of the ponderous and deep truths of the earth. They torment and inspire in equal measure. Their camp is quickly established near, but outside the environs of the town. The wagons are pulled into a circle, the rear of the wagons facing inward and a large central fire pit is constructed. They may stay for a day, a week, a month - none the but the Leisia know how long. Each night they sing. No invitations go out, no one from the camp encourages attendance, but none are turned away should they come. From logs around the fire, or seated on small stools, the Lesia begin to sing. The men begin, and the women may stomp, or strike the logs to bring forth a deep thunder, not loud, but a sound, a vibration that is felt in the bones. Their voices and their songs will come. Regardless of the words sung, there is always a depth to the performance. Each song tells a story, each listener feels they are a part of the tale. For the Leisia have a curse, the power to live each event as it is sung and to take the listeners with them. You know you are hearing a song, but you are equally sure you are not, that you are in the tale. The farmer fresh from his plowed now swings a mighty sword to defend his king - he is the last of the guardians left standing, and his king is lost if he falls. The women sing and the goodwife has left her loom and now prepares a feast for the gods themselves, ambrosia, and honeysuckle wine and the flesh of the sacred kine. The child runs through the woodlands, playing hide-and-seek with the fay children and laughing with delight. But the songs end, and the world returns to the field and loom and the dusty streets. Soon the Leisia will be gone, vanishing in the night. The grief is real but so is the courage, the blessing and the joy.
Culture and cultural heritage
The Leisia are the soul of the people. They bring courage to the fainthearted, comfort to the bereaved, and hope to all. They are wanderers, with golden voices and primal power to sway hearts.