SOMA Ritual – Georgia 2026

The Gathered Bvlls:

Agnitor, Taurmenos, Medhuvir, Druvor, Ræðorius, Kelator, Meignar

The sun rose across the northeastern sky of the Hudson Valley. Bvlls Medhuvir and Kelator had commenced their long journey to reach the fabled swamplands of rural Georgia. Morning dew cascading off their iron chariot as the caravan made it’s way towards it’s next destination – to retrieve fire priest Taurmenos.

Hours spent in deep discussion and wizardly plotting – we arrived in this lands capital city. Navigating through the filth, corruption and moral decay. It had become clear we were engaging in a rescue operation. Our fellow bvll required extraction before the putrid corruption spread into his mind and his heart.

Through the decrepit cityscape, across rolling hills of cement and debris we traveled ever onward. Taking no rest or respite until the last traces of petrification were but a mere memory. The caravan sped relentless, nose firmly pointed southbound. Wheels ablaze in orange light. We were riding a great metallic eagle of ash and flame. Our path secured, intentions clear. All who cross our path shall know us. We are the Northeast Ascendants.

Minutes became hours, Hours bled into one another. The sun completing it’s journey across the sky and golden hour soon approached. Yet, darkness came too sudden. Sky turned to black and green lightning shot from the clouds. Roaring thunder overtook our senses. A great storm of ravaging winds, walls of rain and deafening thunder descended upon us. Our plans to sleep beneath the open sky was quickly thwarted and required us to seek shelter.

We found refuge at an inn within the town of lumber in the northern district of Carolina. We sampled the local cuisine which consisted of seared animal flesh and a local libation of steeped tea leaves infused with a generous portion of sugar. It is not our northern custom to consume this drink – yet we opted for courtesy and respect of the local ways and thanked the hosts. Satiated and exhausted the bvlls retired for the evening and to set off the following daybreak.

Day broke gray and damp over the lumber town, and the caravan rose with it. The road south stretched long and unkind. Monsoon rains fell in walls, lightning splitting the sky in jagged white seams, thunder following close behind like something hunting. The metallic eagle pressed on through it, undeterred, southbound still, carrying its cargo of bvlls through the deluge.
By the time the swamplands of rural Georgia opened around them, the storm had passed and left the air thick and green. The bvlls were gathered there at last. Stories were exchanged across the fire of memory and miles. Hours passed in conversation that ran deep, the kind that only comes after a long road has been shared, and a meal was taken together before the company turned to rest.

Day three belonged to the ritual.

The morning was given to preparation. Side by sides cut across the two thousand acres of the property, scouting the land for the place that would hold the rite, the bvlls reading the terrain the way their fathers read the stars. A spot was chosen. The axis was set, and the Circle of Dreams was drawn into the earth. Trees were felled and split for wood, the bvlls working with the knowledge that the night ahead would be dark and stormy, and that Agni would need fuel enough to answer it.
Each man carried his task. Taurmenos turned to the fire of the kitchen as he would later turn to the fire of the ritual, preparing a ceremonial feast that stood as proof of his mastery.

The ritual began at golden hour. At the moment the first torch was lit, the sky broke open above them. The gods of wind, rain, and lightning arrived uninvited and stayed. The First Men stood in the open, over the First Fire, over every fire that had ever burned before it, and gave themselves to the forces of the storm the way their fathers and their fathers’ fathers had done before them. Blood sang with triumph and with the old stubborn perseverance that asks for nothing but the chance to finish what was started. Nothing in the storm was strong enough to stop the Invocation. They drank the rain. They turned lightning into flame. The world began again.

When the Holy Round had passed, Taurmenos rose and spoke of Soma, and of how its truth resonates in every man who hears it spoken plainly. New Sacred Names were given that night to Kelator and to Meignar. Mead brewed by the hand of wise Ræðorius was poured, and the company toasted beneath the clearing sky.

Fire Watch was assigned, and those not standing it found their comfort in food and drink around the feast Taurmenos had laid. His seared, spiced beef kebabs returned, and nothing had tasted so divine in what felt like weeks of ordinary meals.

Night gave way to morning, and the sun rose to reclaim its seat in the heavens as it always has. So too the caravan rose, turning its nose northward once more, hearts full of song, drink, and purpose. The Ascendants ride on, counting the months until the next Alignment calls them home again.

Iove Fulgente.

~ Medhuvir