The Tale of the Ivory Tinderbox...

A violent blizzard howled and blew in the winter-besieged lands of Sumarak. In the valley of Mali Potok, a small hut sat high on a flat amidst the sloping terrain. Two Coquillites settled in to wait out the raging storm. The tortoise-like beasts were bundled in thick blankets in front of the comforting glow of the fireplace. The elder Coquillite, Sharlie Ezuchion, stood up and stirred the bubbling soup in a dingy black pot sitting over the fire. The other Coquillite, his grandson Gadgel, had just arrived after a long trek through the blizzard to visit on the eve of Ember’s Light. Gadgel shivered under the blankets, doing his best to rid the cold from his bones. “’Twere foolish of ya to come visit in this blasted blizzard,” scolded Sharlie, glancing over his spectacles. “’Twould take a bigger storm than this ta keep me from celebratin’ Ember’s Night with ya,” replied Gadgel, snuggling deeper into the comfortable chair. The young lad blew on his tea before taking a sip of the warming liquid. “Can ya tell me the story of how Ember’s Night came ta be again?” The elder Coquillite chucked, his long wisps of gray beard trembling from the laughter, and set the soup ladle aside as he sat down in the opposite armchair. “Oh, I suppose I could while the soup’s simmerin’.” Sharlie cleared his throat and began his tale. “Long ago, when the land were still young from hatchin’ from its egg, all the Coquillites only knew summer. All were warm, and the harvest came and went every month. But the Lady of the Winds, ha controls the warm winds and power over the storms, became displeased, for the Coquillites, in their comfort, forgot she gave them their harvest. Her heart...