#verse fic

Note: I don't really have a title for this, so it'll probably be called something like WIP:DV for a while until I go through and figure out a name.  It'll also probably get more detailed as we go on, that's just how it goes.   Also, probably more of a note to myself than anything, search the tags for "Dresden-verse" and it should be a good way to track things.  

Wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the scents of the boreal forest in various stages of decay and the sharpness of winter.  It was almost midnight on the longest night of the year, and Alaska was in full form in all her wild beauty.  Bright firelight reflected upon the crisp snow, shadows dancing erratically around the blazing bonfire and playing across the planes of camp tents across the clearing.  

A large group of people gathered by the firelight, twenty bodies bundled in heavy winter coats and insulated snow-pants to keep warm against the freezing wind.  An easy chatter filled the night as they awaited the ritual, some sitting in camping chairs of varying condition, while two figures stood on the edge of the light, watching the night sky. 

"It's almost like the moon is swimming up there, huh?  In the sky, with the clouds," a young girl observed from beneath the fox-furred rim of her parka, her breath streaming like dragon's fire before them.  She lifted her mittens, a thick caribou hide heavy with frost, and gestured toward the heavens.  "Somedays I wish I could run with the lights up there, to watch us from above, to swim with the moon and the clouds." 

Her companion chuckled and turned toward her, a smile barely evident in the brightness around them.  "To think that you, Shana, heir to this ragtag group of misfits, would think of swimming!  No matter where it is - sky, lake, river, or sea - my feet belong firmly on the ground."  He whistled slightly, the slight breeze taking the sound over the valley from their vantage point on the hill.  "Sweet, solid earth, my home."

"You're just afraid the spirits would think you smell too much like reindeer and throw you back.  Saving your machismo is no excuse for being afraid!"  she shot back. Her friend laughed outright at her remark, the light sound interrupted by the sharp bark of a drum behind them.  "The drum calls her people, let's answer!"  she yelled loudly. Shana turned toward the warm invitation of the bonfire as people stood and cleared the chairs from around the fire.  

A chorus of drumming started, the instruments pulled from beneath the protective layers of coats and parkas alike, pounding in unison to a rhythmic time.  The women of the group, nine figures, took their places around the fire, their bodies swaying and bending in the night air.  The men soon filled in the circle, deftly entering the dance with nary a misstep among them.  At three points around the circle stood the drummers, pounding the taut hides as the others danced, their voices calling out through the night.  Shana closed her eyes, waiting for her moment to join the celebration, her friend having already entered the circle.  

The drumming pattern shifted, growing quicker, the dancers moving across the circle faster.  She felt the night draw close around them as they sang, as if the air around them listened to their song.  The final chorus echoed within her as she swayed outside the circle.  "The spirits of the land and sky, we welcome you to our prayers.  Hear us praise the Ones who raise us, hear our drums in the night inviting you."  While she was not a fluent speaker of their mother tongue, the words flowed through her as surely as the blood of her elders coursed through her veins.  The drums gave a short, three-noted staccato burst, and everything fell silent.  The woman opened her eyes. 

An old woman stood at the north of the circle, holding her drum overhead.  "The spirits are welcome here at this fire, to join us in the long night," she shouted into the silence.  The woman brought her hands down before her and spoke happily to the odd congregation there.  "We welcome the long night, this deep winter, as our mothers and fathers have done for eons.  Welcome!"  In unison, the three drummers beat out four swift, even beats, while the people whooped and cried into the night.  The old woman spoke to the group around them as they quieted down.  "Welcome to our drummers, Paul -" she gestured with her drum beater to the east of the circle, "- and Thomas," she pointed across the fire to the southern quarter.  Her voice thick with emotion, she addressed the western part of the circle.  "Welcome, also, to dear Grass Girl, my daughter Shana Altman, to her place as drummer and as wise woman to the circle on this day of her fourteenth birthday.  May the drums help you to hear the sacred songs of our people." The woman stepped from her position to slowly come to Shana's side, stooping along the way to retrieve an oblong bundle from a chair outside the group.  Shana took the package with reverence, slowly pulling the drum from within its hide case.  

A ptarmigan in the tundra grasses was painted on in black ink, the fire casting golden light over the straight planes of the moose skin.  Her fingers slipped deftly between the laces that stretched the skin so tightly across the circular birch wood frame, while the beater - a polished piece of birch - fit snugly in her hand, the striking end blanketed in more moose hide.  Shana carefully hugged the woman, the two arranging their drum-laden hands with practiced ease.  "Thank you, mother," she whispered, the smaller woman's head nestling neatly under her chin, and received a squeeze in response.  They disengaged and the older woman returned to her position at the north of the fire.

"Welcome, to Katy Altman, leader of our song," Shana called to the group. She held her drum before her, allowing the fire to light the illustration for the gathered people to observe the design.  "I give thanks to the great Spirits of our people, and welcome them to our celebration.  Usher in the long night, my friends, and let us greet another winter together."  She punctuated her proclamation with the first beat of her drum, a deep bass note that reverberated through her chest and belly.  Together, the drummers began a new song, the women pulling colorful scarves from coat pockets to dance with, while the men bent and stooped toward the ground in time with the rhythm. Their voices lent music to the beat and they sang - songs of the deep cold of winter, prayers to the caribou and moose that traveled the lands, hymns of thanksgiving to the spirits of their surroundings, and songs that held the promises of spring and the return of warmth.  

The singing went on for hours, though no one reported going hoarse or complained of the cold.  People added fuel to the fire without breaking their dances, and the drums barked out ever shifting beats until the waxing moon slipped over the jagged peaks of the Alaska Range.  Eventually exhaustion overtook the group, tired laughter taking place of joyous song, and slowly the dancers took to their tents.