Theadoria glowered hands on hips at the hand cart sitting askew, one wheel nestled comfortably in a previously unseen pothole. The bloody thing was too heavy to pull free fully loaded so with a sigh she set about hefting a few casks onto the ground and freeing the cart from it’s hole.
While reloading the cart Fiddle Dyley approached from the direction she had been going. It was clear he was returning from the Temple where Theadoria was headed, judging by his own cart, likely leaving his family’s offering for the harvest festival.
“Need a hand?” the boy asked, his voice cracking. He coughed as his cheeks reddened from embarrassment. Despite being over twenty years old his people, the Floriens, seemed to age a little slower than Humans. So the more embarrassing stage of growing up took a little longer and started a bit later.
“You needn’t trouble yourself on my account Fiddle, nearly done here.” the young man's face turned a deeper shade of red and Theadoria sighed inwardly. She wasn’t sure quite when it started but for nearly a year now Fiddle had become quite infatuated with her and her brogue. Most of the villagers paid her speech no mind but to a young man who grew up here all his life it certainly seemed exotic and alluring. Fiddle was nice enough but younger than her, barely half her height, and about as interesting as a boiled potato.
“No trouble at all to help a… ahh… a… “ the boy answered in a falsely deepend tone that trailed to his normal voice as he began to fumble.
“Damsel in distress?” she finished for him while dropping the last cask back into the cart. With folded arms she leaned on the cargo and gave a smile to Fiddle. His embarrassment threatened to boil over and he quickly averted his gaze while still trying to juggle a coherent sentence in his mouth. Taking the opportunity Theadoria quickly picked up the handles and began pulling her cart down the road.
From behind her Fiddle finally shouted “Will I see you at the Festival?” She snorted at that. Brehill had barely a hundred people in it and they would all be at the festival. She wouldn’t be hard to find. Not to mention Fiddle knew full well she worked at the tavern and Lance would need her help slinging drinks all day long.
“Gods only know Fiddle, Gods only know” she shouted back without turning round. It was several seconds more before she heard the rumble of his cart. It was hard to say if he was just watching her, or if he needed the time to decipher what she had said.
______________________________________________________
Grund felt something snap beneath his fist, satisfied with the result he stood over his victim and stared at the rest of his clan. Thin and sickly the lot of them. They had been promised fresh meat and whatever loot they could carry. But that was months ago. The others were beginning to question if the Chief had made the right decision sending them here. Having been declared Spear Bearer of this mission they were under his command, and if they started questioning the Chief it wouldn’t be long until they started questioning Grund’s authority as well.
He had felled the dissenter with a decisive blow and following him to the ground continued savaging him to make a point. The display had made the others cower and chuff in deference. For now.
It would not be much longer. Two more days if he was to believe the armoured sow. Grund winced and rubbed the scar in his midriff. She had taught him not to call her that and left him with a reminder in case he forgot. She had earned his respect by using proper teaching methods. But he still felt that sows did not belong on the battlefield. It was not the way of things. It was hard to argue with results however as he felt the three inch seam in his flesh.
He sneered at his brethren. They were his people but it still disgusted him how afraid they had become. A few months of hard living and they become nearly… human. Revolting just to think of those squishy fangless cowards.
“Eat” he commanded, stepping away from the body. He watched them tear into their fallen former comrade with some small satisfaction. At least they still ate like true Yotnar. Tusk, fang, and claw rending grey hide to taste still warm flesh. His nostrils flared at the scent of fresh blood. This was the freshest meat they had eaten since coming here. It took all his self control to keep from forcing his way back into the feast. But they needed it more than he. Grund would stay hungry.
___________________________________________________________
Erevandrel could hear the voices outside from his position kneeling before the shrine to Heclarod. More offerings for the festival. He peered to the alcove across the way where Scalendi’s shrine was chocked full of offerings. Bundles of grain, baskets of produce, wreaths of herbs and flowers. All of it would be used to cook or stored with the rest for winter on the day of the festival of course, Scalendi did not abide wasting her bountiful gifts by just leaving them out to rot.
“Can I help ya with somethin Andrel?” he snapped back from his thoughts to find himself staring at the barmaid from the Broken turtle. She was rolling a cask along the floor and had paused between Erevandrel and Scalendi’s shrine without his noticing. From her perspective she likely looked up to find him staring at her. He continued to stare a moment longer at her long red curls and wondered briefly which side of her lineage those came from. “No… just thinking.” he answered after pausing far too long. He returned his gaze to the shrine before him. Each of the shrines would hold gifts this time of year though the focus was thanking Scalendi for a kind harvest. The casks were likely being rolled to Dynessar who should never be slighted just before a party. Erevandrel looked down at the meager offerings before Heclarod. A roll of parchment with an old story, an inkwell, and a stylized carving of the goddesses symbol in a clay tablet. All things he had brought he thought to himself as he traced the symbol with a finger. A circle flanked on either side by crescents facing away from each other. Symbolic of the phases of the moon from waxing to full to waning representing the stages of life as well.
He stood, it was getting late he should return home before it became too dark. He turned and walked toward the door and immediately bumped into Helmund, the temple priest. Instinctively he reached out to steady the man and apologised profusely.
“No, no entirely my fault lad, you needn’t worry one bit.” Helmund often called him lad or boy. It was often hard for humans to remember that most Elves were likely far older than they were or ever would be. But Erevandrel didn’t mind. The priest had always been very kind to him. Kindred souls in a way they both felt a bit like outsiders from the world. Helmund had a terrible hunchback and while the town had learned to love the man they still often gave him looks of condolences which were almost worse than the stares from travelers passing through. Erevandrel had never treated the priest any differently from anyone else and Helmund seemed grateful for that.
“I’m afraid I need to get going but I will return tomorrow.” he explained, though it required no explaining. The two saw each other nearly every day.
“Wonderful, you can help me lay the final offerings tomorrow evening. And then a wonderful Festival after that!” Erevandrel nodded in reply and left. He never was sure how to feel about festivals. The food would be good and the music would be nice. But he never did feel quite as comfortable in large groups as he did alone.
He let his mind wander as his feet carried him along the familiar path he had walked a hundred times before now. A few folk greeted him along the way returning to their own homes. A sense of giddiness pervaded as excitement rose for the coming festival.
At the outskirts of the village he took the winding path up the cliffside. He was the only one in the village who lived up here. He couldn’t fathom why, the view was breathtaking. But he wasn’t about to invite neighbors if no one wanted to. At the top he crossed a short bridge that spanned the river which fell as a waterfall back down to Brehill and made way to his hut.
Night had fallen during his journey and he peered up at the night sky and it’s myriad of stars. In his long life he had taken the time to study them as best he could and liked to note the movements of the constellations. He saw that Erabor’s Arrow was nearly set to pierce the Manticore's heart, the Trebuchet was aligned nicely, and… had it truly been five years already? The Nine Lanterns were close to forming their ring. It wasn’t quite there yet, perhaps the day of the festival or even the day after that. He nodded to himself at the pleasant omen as he went inside. Maybe the festival would be fun after all.
