The Purple Stone Tribe was alive with warmth and light.
At the center of the village, a massive bonfire burned brightly against the darkness of the night sky, its flames reaching toward the stars as if trying to join the Ancestors who watched from above. The fire crackled and roared with a voice of its own, fed by logs that had been carefully selected and arranged by those who understood that a good fire was not just heat and light.
It was a gathering point and really, the heart of the Tribe.
Around it, Tribesmen were situated in clusters and circles, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames as they ate from stone trays piled high with food.
Laughter mixed with conversation. Children ran between groups while their parents called after them with warnings that held no real threat. The smell of roasted meat and cooked grains filled the air with an aroma that made stomachs growl and mouths water.
It was a feast and celebration.
