The Isles are alive, this we know to be true. And there are times that they shake and shudder, and the young ones gasp and squeal and ask their mothers why this might be. Perhaps you have felt the same, and asked, and heard many different reasons. But listen closely! We who have lived many seasons feel the earth shake and we smile and laugh aloud, to think of the gods who dance unseen beneath our feet.

In the days of gods and spirits, when the doors to the lands below were still flung wide, there was a great revel that wandered over the face of the Isles. There thronged small gods and many spirits, who danced and tumbled and played many games, and shouted and sang song and feasted all the days long. The scents of sweet fruit and flowers wafted on the breeze, and petals soared and danced all about the whirling folk. As the First Moon followed the Sun into the sea each evening they would collapse into heaps and piles, sleeping where they fell only to rise with the dawn to continue their festivals. Such was their joyous singing and dancing that the ground itself shook, and never so much as when their leader appeared in their midst; the great spirit Ambrus, his fur smelling of honey and rich fermentation. Loud was his laugh, and so energetic his dancing that the land joined in, ringing from the mountain peaks to the deep valleys.

Deep, deep below the earth, where silence spread its wings and the underworld lay in gloomy grandeur, where bats fluttered and lights flickered, the revelry far above sent rocks tumbling, and lights and shadows flickered and danced. Stirrings and grumblings were heard from the spirits of the underworld, until it reached the lords of that place upon their tall seats of basalt. When they could ignore it no longer, they called to Yarroth, who sat above them all. “This uproar must cease!” they said. “How dare this revel continue on so, in such an obnoxious manner, without even inviting us!”

Yarroth agreed, his face somber and serious. “This is what I shall do,” he replied, and called for his sister the Spirit of Decay to come forth and attend him. “Go now to the Spirit of Revels, sister, and summon him here to us to answer for his carrying on!”

Bowing, she nodded and departed, traveling by her own paths that stretched from the depths up to the light of the world above. As she left, Yarroth turned back to the other lords of the underworld, and said, “Come, let us decide how best to greet my nephew, and what shall be done.”

At that moment Ambrus was dancing, and singing in his loud, clear voice a song in praise of his father when before him sprouted up suddenly a ring of mushrooms pale as old bone. Creatures and spirits hushed as before them arose Decay, tall and wrapped in lichen and mushrom veils and her wide hat casting her face into deep shadow. Spores arose from her like smoke, blown about as Ambrus clapped his hands. “Auntie!” he cried, “long has it been since you have joined us! Come and feast, and join in our dancing and goings on!”

But Decay merely shook her head, and without a word stepped forward to stand besides Ambrus. Fungus burst from the ground all about them, and before Ambrus could so much as blink they both stood in the great hall of Yarroth, where above them sat all the lords of the dark in thrones which towered up into the shadows. At their head sat Yarroth, his head resting gently on one upturned paw, while the others cried out all at once in a great clamor of complaining. Ambrus merely stared in wonderment, until at last Yarroth silenced them all with a snort.

“Reveler, do you know why you have been brought here?” Ambrus shook his head, and Yarroth’s face grew stern. “Your dancing and carrying on reaches us even here; stones fall, bones rattle. It is of great concern to us, your ceaseless festival. You have been summoned to account for it, and to have judgment passed upon you.”

“Oh Great Lord Sleep,” intoned Ambrus, and though he bowed low his eyes twinkled with merriment. “I know your words for truth, for never have I seen a place that could more use my merry touch! Surely you have brought me here to demonstrate, uncle?”

At this the lords whispered and grumbled amongst themselves, and Yarroth boomed over it all. “This place is not for your wanton foolery! You shall face a trial of our devising, with great solemnity and presence of decorum! Go now and prepare as you will; for if you cannot pass, you will be put to death, and peaceful silence soothe us.”

And with that he dismissed his nephew, who was taken to separate chambers so he could bathe and prepare. He was taken to chambers of black pools by attending spirits of the underworld, their eyes glowing and fangs spilling from their jaws. Frightful nightmares crept along the hallways, hoping for a glimpse of the god of revelry. Ambrus glittered and gleamed as he pranced through the hallways of the underworld, a glimmering coal out of place. Attendants brought him to a place of deep, black pools; into these he plunged with a shout, and the water boiled and steamed at his touch. “All those who wish to join me may!” he laughed.

So it was that when the lords sent their attendants to summon him, they found Ambrus cavorting in the pitch black water, attended by nightmares and underfolk of every shape and description. “You must stop!” they cried, pulling Ambrus from the pool, “for you must dress for the ball!”

“A ball?” Ambrus said, eyes sparkling. “Oh, I knew that Uncle was playing at his seriousness! And so shall I!” And in a twinkling he was dressed in clothes of dark and somber tones, such that none of the lords would find one thing to complain about; but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as the attendants brought him forth and announced him one more before the halls of Yarroth.

There once more sat all of the lords of the underworld in their finery, bejeweled and shining beneath the pale light of shining crystals and mushroom glow. Yarroth sat before them all, and raised his arms once more as Ambrus entered the hall. “Nephew, now we shall hold a ball to honor your coming death! For you are not of the world beneath, and you do not know us; and such will be your trial.” At once, more attendants came forth, carrying gleaming masks of silver and jet, covered in paint and onyx and pale white bone. Each of the lords had a mask placed upon their face, and as one they turned to Ambrus and smiled thinly. “Any who removes their mask will be killed swiftly. We shall dance until the third chiming of crystal bells. Then nephew, you will be asked to call each of us forth by name!”

“A simple enough task, and a dance is reward in itself!” said Ambrus, and his grin lit the hall even more brightly than the lamps. “But I suppose there is some supposed downside, if I lose.”

“If you cannot,” continued Yarroth, glaring at the interruption, “then we shall steal your face, and use it to walk the surface world while your bones lie in the deep. Such is the trial we lay before you.”

Ambrus merely laughed at that as a black mask was lifted onto his face, plainer by far than those given to the lords of the dark. Yarroth clapped once more, and music began, the lords sweeping forward form their thrones even as swarms of bats carried them away, and more swirled through the air as all those below came together in sweeping lines, bowing low. Limb grasped limb and then they swung away, crossing and crashing and receding like dark waves beneath the stone. The dances grew more complex, each dancer threading between others to first form stars, circles, and then more complex shapes. Flowers burst and decayed, skulls yawned and fell back into the dark swirl of the moving lords and their partners.

Through it all soared Ambrus’s mask, the simple design easily picked out against the others. Yarroth’s eye caught on it as it mingled through the crowd, switching from partner to partner, constantly in motion. All in vain, thought Yarroth, for each twist and turn of the dance was done in absolute silence. The music echoed against the stone, the tramp and scrape of feet rattled like dried bones, but not a word or whisper was uttered. Such was the way of the lords of the underworld, and Yarroth grinned beneath his mask. There was no hope for his nephew, he knew.

The crystals chimed, and chimed once more; the dancers swept across the polished onyx floor, and the music swelled. Ambrus’s mask gleamed in the pale light, tossed from one side of the hall to the other. The lords encircled it like hunting animals, chasing it this way and that until in a final crashing crescendo they fell upon the mask from all sides, until it was drowned in black. The crystals chimed, the music stopped, and the lords pulled away in a circle, leaving a single figure laid bare in the middle of the hall. Yarroth stepped forward, and silence reigned.

“Nephew,” Yarroth spoke, lifting a finger to point at the figure, “you now sha-“

“No!” The figure fell to its knees and wailed. “No Lord Yarroth, please, I did not know…”

The lords shuffled, looking askance at each other, and Yarroth grimaced. “Nephew, this is most unbecoming…”

“Please! I’m not- I’m not him! I’m not the lord of the revel!” The figure fell to the floor at Yarroth’s feet. “I cannot… he switched our masks, my lord! All of us!”

There was a gasp as all the lords glanced about once more, each suddenly aware that the mask they wore was not the one they had started the dance with. Voices clamored, and above it all could be heard a sound, growing and growing until it was unmistakeable. Great, barking peels of laughter fell from a corner of the room, and all there turned to behold Ambrus collapsed in mirth, pounding the floor and eyes streaming behind the mask of none other than Yarroth himself.

“Ahahaha, Uncle! What a charming time you have shown me so far!” Ambrus laughed all the harder as Yarroth glared down at him, teeth grinding loud enough to be heard.

“Nephew,” Yarroth’s tone was icy cold and crystalline. “You may have enjoyed this game, but the trial still stands! You are challenged to name us all in turn, or else your life and face are forfeit!”

“Oh Uncle, you know, in all of the cavorting and floating about you all did, I barely had time to play my little game.” Ambrus smile, his teeth flashing warm as sunshine in the gloom of the hall, and stepped forward before the assembly. “But if you could be so kind as to introduce me now, I would be happy to learn all of your names! If you would…?”

Yarroth opened his mouth to retort, pointing at the first of the spirits present, but then paused. The moment stretched thinner and thinner, all present seeing the trap that Ambrus had sprung, for even Lord Yarroth himself now had no way to tell which of his retinue was who, beneath the masks that stared up at him. Silence fell.

“Enough! You are the one here to stand before us in judgement, nephew, and if you cannot do as we have asked, then you shall suffer the consequence. Sister!” And stepping up to Ambrus’s shoulder was once again the Spirit of Decay, and before the Reveler could utter another word her touch fell upon him. Mushrooms sprouted forth from his body, white veins coiling up and through and into his flesh, and with a puff of spores it withered away to nothing, and his bones clattered loudly to the floor.

Yarroth sighed, settling back into his great chair. “And with that, we may continue. Music!” But the crystalline silence of the hall remained, as the other lords of the underworld glanced about warily. Yarroth called once more, but the only sound was the clearing of throats, the shuffling of feet. One of the many spirits of the hall bowed low. “Great Uncle, we cannot continue. For with revelry gone, how could we?”

“Indeed, Uncle! You know I would never miss a party!”

All there turned as one as the bones of Ambrus spun and tapped and rose once more, until the spirit of Revelry stood before them in naught but his bones. Deep, warm light flared in the sockets of his skull, and his grinning teeth shone once more. “Good thing that I hid my face away back in the rooms you so graciously provided me, or else how would all of your guests know what to do with themselves? But come, now that our debts are settled Uncle, let us enjoy ourselves!” Ambrus laughed gaily then, plucking the bones from his own limbs to drum upon his ribs. There was a great cheer, and the nightmares and spirits of that place leapt up with the rhythm, music pouring forth to fill the hall as the bats and shadows flitted about. “Here is my challenge to you, Lord Uncle! For I believe myself the very best dancer in this world or below it!”

Yarroth rose to his feet, staring down as Ambrus capered and spun before him. Two steps forward, striding down to the floor, and he lifted his arms. Ambrus retreated, granting his uncle the floor, and the moment stretched once more. Stretched and hung until Yarroth’s somber face cracked into a jagged, toothy grin. “Nephew. I accept!” And with a snap of his fingers, the lords of the underworld swirling in behind, Yarroth spread wide his grand cloak. He leapt and spun, sweeping across the hall as the thronging spirits of the place cheered and capered, and above it all Ambrus laughed and sang, and his bones rang out like bells.

So when we feel the Isles shake and shudder, we know it is Ambrus and Yarroth there below, still dancing endlessly in the underworld. Each tries to prove to the other that their dancing is the best, and each in turn draws more and more to the eternal party, until the mountains and sea feel their own roots begin to shuffle, and fungus blooms above glowing with the warm light of Ambrus’s laughter. And we celebrate in turn, as each and every creature is at last invited to join in the dance beneath.

Such is the way of it!