The sun slants down into the sheltered grove, where grows as old, immense and majestic oak. Its broad leaves shiver in the wind, which seems to whisper a welcome. In the distance, a waterfall thunders, and birds sweep and call. Together these sounds create a music that makes the butterflies dance on the wild flowers.
Spirits whirl in, some blithe, some melancholy, in anticipation of the revels to come.
Assembled they join hands and circle the oak, as torches flare and incense sends sleepy spirals toward the twilit sky. Their company increases, and song and laughter fill the air as they break their bread and cups clash in honor of the Old Ways. And the old oak rustles his approval as the moon rises with a smile.