The chosen of Helios
Solmara
Pray the music never stops.
The happiest nation on the sea has never missed a festival date. Ask why.
Volcanic land turned to gardens, golden temples, a festival calendar that never breaks. A free nation, and the Conclave is lying about why it stays free.
Solmara looks like joy from the water. Terraced gardens on old lava, golden temples above the harbors, and a festival calendar so full that visitors assume the people never work. They work. They finish before sunset, because sunset is when the drums start.
The Solar Conclave runs the calendar and the calendar is the government. Festivals have not been missed in living memory, not for war, not for famine, not for a death in the ruling house. Attendance is counted. A family that stays home twice gets a visit from a priest, and the visit is not friendly.
These lands are free. Britannia has never sent a fleet, Arcadia has never sent a missionary, and nobody in the Conclave will say what deal keeps it that way. The one time in the old records that two festivals were skipped, three volcanoes went off in the same week.
A younger priest of the Golden Temple has started asking, quietly, what happens if the drums stop on purpose. Whatever sits in the heart of the temple, the dancing keeps it calm.
- Posture
- Festive