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Hammers steel the wooden pillars on Thean’s stalls where darters would aim at the fruits in gaining points. Their tickets held by baskets on the side—on the muddy ground. Giza’s stalls populate with those games regarding with throwing pebbles, taking pebbles, or becoming pebbles, Rumen’s are interested with collecting body parts instead of tickets, and Sol’s are only the entrance stalls—where you buy the tickets and exit stalls—a garbage site. Every traveler and noble who has come to visit wear their beautiful and fruity head wears, matching with the theme of Mayfairy spring and cover their sorry scalps from the frowning drizzle of rain and snow.
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The giant campfire being their only warmth, with some of the visitors complaining why and the soldiers simply make an excuse that bandits or barbarians would steal their torches and firestands. An absurd reasoning deserving with batted eyes. But not many complains as the games themselves are thrilling enough that they feel like their lives are on the line. The stall owners—who are High Princess loyalists, will threaten those who do not play well after the tickets are in the baskets.
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“Come, come now ladies and gentlemen, fill in your fun by High Princess’s Giza’s stalls” one says, gesturing people to come over while another copies the same words and replaces with the princess’s name. Stall owners yelling out for the visitors like vendors in an open street market. Which many are unimpressed, mostly the children who wants to see Nature’s people. To which a Giza loyalist says to them, “High Princess Giza has them all locked up for the final performance!” Crazy glint in his eyes, “So you better pay in your tickets that way you can see them.”
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But in truth, the lord magister who stands alone and in front of the flickering campfire, find the stalls and bleak atmosphere with only people around being “vastly off from history”. None brought their fruits and seeds. No sprites, spirits nor entities can be seen roaming around. Nothing to help the laborers ease their struggling groans and yelps in setting up the entire sets.
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And he simply, stands there. Listening around for the drizzle to strike the mud, the snow whispering for him to go home. None of Nature’s people are around. None excepts the people whom he invited, whom he placed his trust on the leaders whose Advisers would have hopefully---Ober, sighs out his thoughts, shaking his wet bald head before hearing a man yelling out from the stage--the laborers blooded their hands with.
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"People for the Mægfæge, Lord Jenskin I, hear me” His booming voice echoes through the bleak festival grounds, drawing the attention of the weary attendees. Standing tall on the hastily constructed stage, his vibrant robes a stark contrast to the muted colors of the festival. "I see the heaviness in your hearts, the gloom that hangs over this once joyous occasion. But I implore you that once our princesses come, we will all feel the spirit of Mægfæge!"
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The crowd murmurs, their eyes fixed on the charismatic lord. Jenskin's gaze sweeps over the sea of faces, his eyes alight with determination. "For now, Mægfæge asks for us our seeds of time. Any seeds of fruits will do. And together, we shall plant and watch as the great nature nurtures them throughout the May spring. I am sure, that we all remember how the Mægfæge starts in the written stories, by planting seeds and merry, for our smiles brings them joy and call on the pixie!”
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Ober, watches with brows furrowed in contemplation. The foreigners approach the stage, their hands clutching in their pockets or plastic bags they have brought. Jenskin only accepts Stralls---money for land the people buys and patch in their seeds. Receiving with a grateful smile, his words of encouragement igniting a spark of optimism in their hearts. Disgusting,
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As the last seed is placed in Jenskin's hands, a sudden commotion erupts from behind the stage that rush for the revelers. Colorful figures burst forth, their costumes adorned with intricate designs and shimmering fabrics. “Welcome everyone! O’ Welcome the spirits!”
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Jumping, skipping, prancing around like wild deer. Their low-drunken laughter and joyful antics bringing a false wonder to some of the children's faces. Especially with one asking why all the spirits are taller than them. Where there should be some that are as tiny as ants and as large as a tower.
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Nonetheless, the spirits dance and twirl, their movements fluid and mesmerizing. The children giggle and clap, their earlier disappointment forgotten in the face of such enchantment. Even the adults find themselves smiling, the weight of their worries momentarily lifted. Disgusting,
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Ober leaves the campfire warmth disgustingly in his walk of heavy beated steps. ‘That Lord Jenskin looks like he was only after the money’ he thinks and see that the sullen sky continues to give them icy drops, no mercy for a bit of sunlight. As if, the Gods are giving him the cold shoulder. Construction is fairly well, and the smiles are growing on the celebrators. Yet he cannot help the sunken feeling in his chest guttering down to his abdomen. Shoulders hunched forward as he leans more against his staff.
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Rain and snow harmonizingly beautiful yet depressing. It should have been pixie dusts and embers, with Nature’s people helping the laborers. Nigh, there is nigh of them around. Not a single bit of these Hemrean faces is whom he wanted to see.
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But then, over around Fogsight fort, behind the structure where the undergrowth has seeped in, and the smell of blood reeks fresh—a genuine sprite, shaped like a fuzzy ball with one teary eye. “Little one…” Ober slowly reaches out but the fuzz ball bounces off, its tail leaving a trail of glowing dust that blooms the dead mosses to life. A trait that Ober’s silver eyes recognize, glinting his irises to follow. “Wait up…”
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Skipping on the leafy foliage, sometimes fearing to proceed for a direction where Ober sees a dead body ahead. But it continues to hop, skipping while huffing out the word “puff” in every leafy lift off. “Where is it going” He mutters with hurrying steps, “Come back! Come back to the Mægfæge!” But the fuzzy ball starts to quicken its hopping. The trees watching over them with dark shades, dark enough for a volkin to ambush the lord magister.
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A staff in hand to block the claws, before “I have no time for you!” thrusting his staff in blasting the monster away. “Puff…” he runs back to where he thinks it has gone. But it is gone. “O’ sprite… O’ spirit” His voice shakes and lonely in the forest. “…O’ entities, please do not leave me…”
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Three more volkins appear in the darkness, and Ober’s sprint knows to step into a clearing, where at least the gloomy light can shine on him. “You all should have stayed hidden” Threatening the pouncing monsters and once again blasting them away in close combat. Pulsing light and mini shockwaves with every close contact. But more monsters start to appear—three gargoyles, countless volkins along with their ridiculous humanoid half arachnid pets. “And here I thought you were all individualists.”
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“Mother still lives” the volkins hiss, “Still around for us, still hungers”
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“Even if she is, her worst enemies are here and willing to crash the party.” Ober hisses back, “I did not expect them to come so easily too you know, I could not even think of having tea with them…”
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“Lord Magister…” A half arachnid speaks, “… you sound afraid” and all the monsters smile, baring their bloody fangs.
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“Hah! Afraid, says the creatures who acts with fear.” Grip tightening on his staff with the approaching monsters,
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“Do you want to know why the nature people are avoiding your Mægfæge?” They charge, claws, talons and fangs at their disposal
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While the lord magister lets go of his staff, putting his faith on the two who has always been with him. “I already know” He utters to their question before calling the names, “Merry, Bell” And the two daemons rush out of their mark on his palms, beheading for a bloody rain.
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“…What is up with you livestocks making contracts with daemons!?” Screeching and fleeing in panic as the Lord Magister uses them like extended arms, whipping the daemons straight at their faces. Beheading every monster or gutting the abdomen for their organs and meal to spill out.
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Eventually, the entire clearing becomes a pool of a bloody monster massacre. Merry and Bell return themselves back on the wrinkly palms as the old man lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. The rain dipping to a heavy downpour, snow along with it. While the blood of the monsters are warm against his slippers and toes.
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“Puff?” comes the fuzzy ball watching from a tree branch
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And Ober opens his eyes, asking if he is hearing or seeing things again but no, the fuzzy ball is on a tree branch, hanging with its tail. The lord magister comes up to it saying softly, “Hey, little one…”
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“Little one!?” awakens the tree which the fuzz ball is hanging on. Surprising the lord magister to stumble backwards. Its bark slicing for two dark slits to open and rain drops to fall from its disturbed leaves. Green glowing embers flare from its dark slits, forming a face. “Ohhh dear…it is raining. My poor roots. “
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“G—great entity…” the lord magister bows fully, head on the blood-stained grass and staff by his side. “I am pleased to finally meet you great entity…”
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“Am honored and all…but” speaking slow and rhythmic to the creaking and swaying of its bark. “Who might you be? Are you lost? And…what in Erriya happened to my clearing?”
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“Great entity…I am the lord magister of Cyndoryll and I come to invite you for Mægfæge”
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“The Mægfæge? Ah…I suppose it is May Spring. But…I do not sense anybody. Have you, consulted with the great elder, Lord Magister?”
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“That---” Ober is tongue tied, “I had thought of consulting with the great elder…” Even before he returned to Kinguin or met with Princess Sol.
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“And…?”
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Then, the fuzz ball sprite squeaks. The great entity tree nodding and humming with it.
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“Why have you all not come?” Ober still asks, “The Mægfæge is already starting yet none of you are there.”
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“We need the word of the great elder---”
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“But in the past, you never had nor liked the idea of ruling.”
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“Mmm, truly. But…the great elder resides in the valley of Unyan. And we nature people are not allowed to do anything without his word.”
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“Heresy!” Ober stands, “You lot never should be following anyone. The Mægfæge is your celebration and I doubt that the great elder knows about it!”
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“Truly so…”
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“If you so need that word, then why are you awake?” Ober asks, rudely by how the fuzz ball jumps off and hops onto someone’s shoulder.
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The old man glances and cannot glance away.
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“Well…” The great entity shakes its leaves, with its branches making sure to let a few droplets fall on the giantess striking bear with a slave’s collar around her neck, “My majesty has returned.”
ns 15.158.61.54da2
