The Breathhold
Far from the warm winds of the Hartspire, nestled in the jagged spine of a pale, glacial mountain range, lies the Breathhold, a singular and sacred refuge that has sustained the nomadic tribes of this ice-planet for generations. The journey to reach it is a solemn, month-long migration along ancestral paths, timed with the waning of the Soft Time and the encroaching threat of the Hard Time - the season of total freeze, where even the planet’s adapted wildlife vanish into hibernation.
To the tribes, the Breathhold is a divine mystery.
Its stone corridors bloom and shift, its inner caverns swell or contract depending on the needs of those who arrive. No two seasons within its walls are ever quite the same. Whole chambers seem to breathe into being when more families arrive. Pools of heated mineral water rise through the cracks to meet them. Vents of geothermal warmth lace the walls and floors, offering survival and a luxury to these people with enough warmth to keep flesh from frostbite and children from perishing. There is always just enough room.
The people do not question how. The formation is believed to be a living gift and an act of grace from the land-spirits, or perhaps a remnant echo of those who came before.
During the Soft Time, the mountain sleeps. Its entrances narrow, and there is no room for the tribes to remain; otherwise, they would stay in this area year round. This reduction coincides with The Soft Time, and forces the tribe to migrate to Hartspire.
Some remain behind to harvest and hunt resources to stock the Breathhold for the following Hard Time, but most depart to the Hartspire,are narrow, and there is no room for the tribes to remain; otherwise, they would stay in this area year- where more temperate winds can be found. The tribes live in rhythm with the magical, god-given formation.
To the tribes, the Breathhold is a divine mystery.
Its stone corridors bloom and shift, its inner caverns swell or contract depending on the needs of those who arrive. No two seasons within its walls are ever quite the same. Whole chambers seem to breathe into being when more families arrive. Pools of heated mineral water rise through the cracks to meet them. Vents of geothermal warmth lace the walls and floors, offering survival and a luxury to these people with enough warmth to keep flesh from frostbite and children from perishing. There is always just enough room.
The people do not question how. The formation is believed to be a living gift and an act of grace from the land-spirits, or perhaps a remnant echo of those who came before.
During the Soft Time, the mountain sleeps. Its entrances narrow, and there is no room for the tribes to remain; otherwise, they would stay in this area year round. This reduction coincides with The Soft Time, and forces the tribe to migrate to Hartspire.
Some remain behind to harvest and hunt resources to stock the Breathhold for the following Hard Time, but most depart to the Hartspire,are narrow, and there is no room for the tribes to remain; otherwise, they would stay in this area year- where more temperate winds can be found. The tribes live in rhythm with the magical, god-given formation.
“Some say it’s a god asleep beneath the ice. I say it’s our ancestor, dreaming us shelter.”
