Timbur Deep is a city of legends and myth. This is an account of the Ancestor Spirits, as told by bards in the Slums, for the wealthy have no concern for ghosts.
The Ancestor Spirits of the Heartlands
On the darkest nights,
When the moon sleeps,
Or hides behind clouds,
Look to the ridges,
Do you see?
The lights of their torches,
One by one they come,
Over the bare stone,
Beneath the branches,
Do you see?
They are not gods,
Oh no, no no no,
They are the spirits of our ancestors,
Warriors whose time has passed,
Warriors who have forgotten,
That the battles ever ended,
Do you see?
First the lights,
Torches burning bright,
Slowly move along the ridge,
A distant drum fills the silence,
The rhythm of their marching,
Do you hear them?
They are coming.
They walk the ancient paths,
Toward battles long forgotten,
Toward oaths kept sacred,
Toward the living,
Be warned!
To look on them is death,
To stand in their way is death,
They seek the clear path,
And where they find it…
The bard paused, closing his fingers into a fist.
Taken!
The elders knew,
The door was the way,
To ward off the spirits,
Do you see?
Look around!
No home was safe,
No fortress secure,
If the way was clear,
The Ancestor Spirits would come.
Friends!
To this day no builder aligns doors,
No path remains clear,
From front to back,
Do you see?