The old man told me that these lights used to lead the way to the Dancing Grounds. A sacred place, where a festival was held once every ten years. The trader clans would gather there to dance, and sing, and tell stories, before going their separate ways for another decade. Fifty years ago, a kingdom to the south heard of this place, and in a petty effort to gain a greater share of trade they brought an army to the Dancing Grounds. There has not been a festival since. I can almost hear them singing, over the wind.