Only three times in history have the Goliaths made war upon the low lands. Each time there was no great unifier, no ecstatic warrior priestess, no high king. They came down from the mountains like a fell wind, drums and boots and sonorous voices shaking earth and sky, seemingly at the direction of the earth itself.
They came with bow and spear and axe and hammer and the power of storms, with wolves and upon great stags taller than the largest horses of the lowlands. They came with a purpose, and when they’d achieved it they returned to their mountains. They broke a great nation each time, and each time they spared those who did not fight, honored those who fought bravely, and left night but rubble of the grand palaces and monumental walls of the cities they came to destroy.
Neither those who went to war, nor their children, nor their children’s children, ever spoke of the war thereafter, nor offered any explanation.
-Nocturne Aurelian, Historian, from A Wind From The Demon’s Peak, a Collection of Oral Histories Regarding the Creatures and Peoples of the Mountains of Albarona.
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To be given the Third Watch of the night is a great honor for a young hunter, and Thumi was justifiably proud. She and her watch partner, the handsome crafter-apprentice Vathi, would sound the horns that would begin the loit to wake the sun, and call the dawn. The clan is high in the Elder Sister, and Thumi’s eyes are keen. She is confident that she will sound the first horn upon the Mountain this dawn, and Clan Genatavi would be the first to greet the sun. She hears the melody of Vathi’s bone flute, marking the hour. There is a respectful note in his trilling signal that was not here before, and Thumi blushes uncomfortably.
“Stormstalker.” He’d greeted her at the beginning of their watch. “It is a pleasure to keep watch with a great hero.” His words had been serious, but his tone was playful. She’d grunted in reply. “Vathi. Mother Merin told me that you crafted the bow I carried into the storm to retrieve our people.” A compliment. Her deeds were being praised, but she in turn praised his skill in craft. He grinned, and quoted the obvious old adage, “But who sewed your boots?” She’d laughed then, quietly in the dark, and nodded to him.
She nearly misses the first glimmer of light, as the sun stirred in its slumber. She grins from ear to ear, and then blows her arm-length horn into the cold, dark, mountain air. As she holds the final note of greeting, she can hear Vathi singing the Call to Dawn. He has a pleasant voice.
The song is such a part of them that the clan’s voice reverberates throughout the Mountian within minutes. Soon the children who are too young for chores join her and Vathi outside the camp, and then the camp is broken down and and the clan is reading to move on.
-A Song to call the dawn, from the Journal of Thumi Stormstalker
Also this makes me think of Goliaths and their funeral songs.
