The Lang was christened in a chaotic ceremony involving a freshly killed river reptile and copious wine. He became Morn and the man he honoured became Old Morn.
Wild men and women performed acrobatics between branches over the waterfall and fires were floated into the lake beyond. All the while, gifts of equipment and advice were piled upon Morn. As the pile grew, Old Morn took him aside. “You have met my children?”
“You seem to have a lot of them.” Old Morn was father to all the strays that found their way this far up stream.
“The twins.” They were organising the gifts, tall, dark Plains folk. “I am a little concerned for them.”
“They seem healthy enough.”
“Physically, and in brain power, yes. But, I fear, emotionally….. Their parents fled to the forest, seasons before the invasion. A political matter over leadership. They were tracked down, but they had hidden the children. The twins had to rely on each other for many seasons before I found them. They are close. I fear they are too close. It would not be healthy.”
“No, it would not. But what can I do about it?”
“I shall gift you my boat. It needs a crew of two, and either of them would be a fine First. I think Marra will be most interested. She is the more mature of the pair, and she is the one who goes to the high points and stares out at the Plains. Perhaps you can talk to her about it.”
“What about the boy? Will he not be upset by this development?”
“Almost as much as I. But then he will have strong claim to my place when the time comes. It will be for the best all round.”
“Very well. Make your gift known and I shall talk with her about my crewing requirements.”