The Burying of the Palm
The Burying of the Palm
A seasonal rite performed at the start of the planting season. It was meant to bless the soil with strength, ensure a bountiful harvest, and honor the sacrifice of labor. Symbolically, the ritual "plants" the strength of the people into the earth—calling on Thalor to remember them. (See Thalor, the verdant might)
Held in a cleared field, or atop a stone altar embedded in soil.
The community gathers in a circle before sunrise.
A single clay basin filled with rich soil, river water, and ashpine bark shavings is set at the center.
The Offering of the Hand:
Each able-bodied member of the community places their right palm in the soil basin, then marks their handprint on a plank of wood or stone using ash-mixed pigment.
This is called the “Palm of Oath”, representing their labor to come.
The Breaking of Bread:
A shared loaf, made from last season’s grain, is broken and eaten by all. It is symbolic of gratitude and shared toil.
The first and last pieces are buried in the soil as offerings.
The Chant of Strength:
The community hums or chants together a verse called Thalor’s Breath, said to awaken the spirit of endurance in the soil itself.
“Stone and seed, sweat and root, Bury the will beneath our boot. Rise, O strength, in furrowed earth, And give the grain its honest birth.”
The Planting of the Oath:
The marked plank of wood with everyone’s handprints is buried beneath the first row of seeds—said to be “fed by the promise of the living.”
Ash Smoke & Closing Blessing:
Ashpine bark is burned at the end. The smoke is walked through and inhaled deeply—it’s said to bring clarity, and briefly show one a fleeting glimpse of the harvest to come.
The ritual isn’t just spiritual—it binds the community through shared hardship.
It’s believed that a bad harvest means someone broke their oath or failed to honor their labor.
Though no longer practiced by most or forgotten in many regions, some villages still perform it, claiming it keeps the soil “awake.”
(Passage from the main story.)
The library breathed like an old animal—wood creaked, paper sighed, and the cold stone floor kissed her bare feet with each step. Nyssara moved like a shadow, her lantern dimmed beneath the folds of her sleeve, casting faint glimmers on ancient bindings.
She had no intention of sleep tonight. Not after what she’d seen in Hollowgate.
Lucin, curious as ever, trailed behind her. “You said the gods of strength were gone,” he whispered, eyeing the shelves around them. “Burned, like the rest.”
Nyssara didn’t answer. Not yet.
Her fingers trailed over spines—withered leather, bark-stitched tomes, and one that felt strangely warm to the touch. She pulled it free, revealing a cover engraved with a plow carved in silver, crossed with a blackened handprint.
The Testament of Thalor, Verdant Might Volume IV: Rites and Reapings
She opened the book and knelt beside a low table, the glow of the lantern catching the dust that swirled like memory.
“This one…” she murmured. “I’ve only heard scraps. Fragments in hymns. But here—this is whole.”
Lucin sat beside her, cross-legged and wide-eyed, as Nyssara began to read aloud:
"At the breaking of the ground, let the strong lay down their pride and mark their hands with the ash of last season's flame."
"One by one, they press their palms into the soil, so the earth may know their strength and their sorrow."
"Then shall the bread of the old harvest be broken, its first bite buried, its last burned, and its middle shared, so all may remember who they labor for."
"Let ash rise. Let breath mingle. Let sweat become seed."
"So commands the Rootfather, he who gave blood to furrow and muscle to sun."
Lucin was silent for a long moment.
“That’s… beautiful. But it sounds more like a prayer than a planting.”
Nyssara smiled softly, fingers still resting on the open page.
“Because it is both. Back then, they didn’t separate the two.”
She looked up, green eyes reflecting candlelight.
“Faith was something you put into the earth. Into each other. Not just into gods.”
Lucin stared at the open page, then whispered, “Do you think he’s really gone? Thalor?”
Nyssara closed the book gently, the air around them growing still.
“If he is… the land remembers him. That’s enough.”
A seasonal rite performed at the start of the planting season. It was meant to bless the soil with strength, ensure a bountiful harvest, and honor the sacrifice of labor. Symbolically, the ritual "plants" the strength of the people into the earth—calling on Thalor to remember them. (See Thalor, the verdant might)
Held in a cleared field, or atop a stone altar embedded in soil.
The community gathers in a circle before sunrise.
A single clay basin filled with rich soil, river water, and ashpine bark shavings is set at the center.
The Offering of the Hand:
Each able-bodied member of the community places their right palm in the soil basin, then marks their handprint on a plank of wood or stone using ash-mixed pigment.
This is called the “Palm of Oath”, representing their labor to come.
The Breaking of Bread:
A shared loaf, made from last season’s grain, is broken and eaten by all. It is symbolic of gratitude and shared toil.
The first and last pieces are buried in the soil as offerings.
The Chant of Strength:
The community hums or chants together a verse called Thalor’s Breath, said to awaken the spirit of endurance in the soil itself.
“Stone and seed, sweat and root, Bury the will beneath our boot. Rise, O strength, in furrowed earth, And give the grain its honest birth.”
The Planting of the Oath:
The marked plank of wood with everyone’s handprints is buried beneath the first row of seeds—said to be “fed by the promise of the living.”
Ash Smoke & Closing Blessing:
Ashpine bark is burned at the end. The smoke is walked through and inhaled deeply—it’s said to bring clarity, and briefly show one a fleeting glimpse of the harvest to come.
The ritual isn’t just spiritual—it binds the community through shared hardship.
It’s believed that a bad harvest means someone broke their oath or failed to honor their labor.
Though no longer practiced by most or forgotten in many regions, some villages still perform it, claiming it keeps the soil “awake.”
(Passage from the main story.)
The library breathed like an old animal—wood creaked, paper sighed, and the cold stone floor kissed her bare feet with each step. Nyssara moved like a shadow, her lantern dimmed beneath the folds of her sleeve, casting faint glimmers on ancient bindings.
She had no intention of sleep tonight. Not after what she’d seen in Hollowgate.
Lucin, curious as ever, trailed behind her. “You said the gods of strength were gone,” he whispered, eyeing the shelves around them. “Burned, like the rest.”
Nyssara didn’t answer. Not yet.
Her fingers trailed over spines—withered leather, bark-stitched tomes, and one that felt strangely warm to the touch. She pulled it free, revealing a cover engraved with a plow carved in silver, crossed with a blackened handprint.
The Testament of Thalor, Verdant Might Volume IV: Rites and Reapings
She opened the book and knelt beside a low table, the glow of the lantern catching the dust that swirled like memory.
“This one…” she murmured. “I’ve only heard scraps. Fragments in hymns. But here—this is whole.”
Lucin sat beside her, cross-legged and wide-eyed, as Nyssara began to read aloud:
"At the breaking of the ground, let the strong lay down their pride and mark their hands with the ash of last season's flame."
"One by one, they press their palms into the soil, so the earth may know their strength and their sorrow."
"Then shall the bread of the old harvest be broken, its first bite buried, its last burned, and its middle shared, so all may remember who they labor for."
"Let ash rise. Let breath mingle. Let sweat become seed."
"So commands the Rootfather, he who gave blood to furrow and muscle to sun."
Lucin was silent for a long moment.
“That’s… beautiful. But it sounds more like a prayer than a planting.”
Nyssara smiled softly, fingers still resting on the open page.
“Because it is both. Back then, they didn’t separate the two.”
She looked up, green eyes reflecting candlelight.
“Faith was something you put into the earth. Into each other. Not just into gods.”
Lucin stared at the open page, then whispered, “Do you think he’s really gone? Thalor?”
Nyssara closed the book gently, the air around them growing still.
“If he is… the land remembers him. That’s enough.”
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