The sun was gleefully scorching what green survived in the swampland through the days. Soon the green will fade to yellow and succumb to the hard, choking embrace of her—paving the way to newer, sprouting green buds. The entire land, how far the eyes can see is uneven. Seen from the bird’s view, the pocked surface and small watery pools glittered like a bed of newly cut diamonds. The air is humid, soaked with vaporized water and it shimmered endlessly, making it very hard to see distant mountains and clouds. But the residents of the swampland did not need eyes to see very far. Every motion vibrated like earthquakes and every sound rang like ancient church bells in this imposing desolation. They can feel those with the entirety of their being.
Not that they wanted to forage with high spirits under the sun—some nasty crimson plants constantly released reddish fumes as long as the sun was up there and the air was heavy with it — making it hard to breathe and potentially dangerous.

A little baby beaver popped his head from a bush. His mother hushed him back in.
“It’s still too bright.” She warned him. “You’ll burn your eyes.”

The baby was not to be easily put down. A moment later he whispered, "When will they come, mother?”

“Soon,” She whispered back. “Once there’s darkness and the great fire goes to sleep.” She seemed distracted. There was no food in their modest, yet well maintained abode. She will have to go looking for it late at night.

There’s not much to do in the daytime. All the fauna were out of the sight, biding their time as best as they can, waiting.
Soon, this landscape will change. Soon, The Rally will march.

In the late afternoon when the fiery eyes of the giant fireball started to doze into slumber, a bullfrog croaked — joy and anticipation in it's voice. The birds started to chirp. Slowly at first, picking up the pace once more and more joined in. A few species of plants started to bloom. Darkness slowly spread its wings far and wide. Then the first of The Rally appeared.

The figure was semi-transparent, glowing, radiating a bluish tint. It moved elegantly — hovering over the ground. Perhaps, once it was a badger. The next one appeared with similar features, only this one was a lynx. The third one was a coypu. More became visible one after another and they all marched, navigating through the hard land of the swamp in a single line, forming a long chain. Some of them had bowls hanging from their hands and claws. White mist was pouring out of those, clearing the fumes in the air. They say, the mist is blessed by the swamp goddess herself.
Not all these figures belonged to their swamp, some even came from far far away, the residents knew. But they welcomed all spirits of The Rally.

The swamp residents started to come out of their sanctuaries. That little baby beaver was running up and down now, alongside The Rally. His mother kept a careful yet permissive eye on him.
The monkeys of the rally started chanting in a low humming voice. The little beaver marveled at them in awe! He wondered whether he can be one of the rally, when it's his time.

Eels were creating sparks in the water, flashing every now and then. Crocs were opening and shutting their jaws in a regular rhythm, making a continuous thumping sound. Soon the whole thing will turn into a festival, a carnival of blue mist. The spirits will cleanse the land. The birds will sing. Frogs will croak. The night will rejoice life. Once again.

And then, everyone will go back to their sanctuaries. The crimson plants will welcome the new sun and her budding fury — fuming the land. Once again.

Until then, it's night. And the night is embraced by the carnival of mist.