A being of cascading sheepskins, crowned by three pairs of livestock horns and made mountainous by concealed stilts, turned in the firelight in an ominous dance. The wooden visage was carved roughly with a chisel and hammer, and resembled neither man or animal but rather a mix of the two. Positively monstrous, and yet thrillingly mysterious as for its silence that concealed all identifiers of whoever hid within.
The guardian, of forest and field both, was not to speak, for no voice or language of mortals befit the part. As it moved around in the darkening eve, sometimes in group with more of its kin, a mere clatter of cowbells announced its presence. The skins were black, grey and brown, lending ease to blending in and out of shadows. It wasn’t meant to be frightening nor villanous, but that didn’t stop some from using it as a device to urge their children from straying to the forest at night. Or keep best behaviour, lest they be taken by a spirit.
A touch transfixed by the folk creature, Oliver took a swig of his drink. He’d come to help tend the myriad of fires that would keep the entire settlement enveloped in a warm glow through the night, not so much for the harvest feast as for pure nostalgia. Or was it some comfort, allowing one reminisce the past and things that no longer were, perhaps let them be replaced by new experience. Something brighter and cheerful, perhaps.
That’d be all well and good in his book, even if the event was as much for celebration as it was for mourning and remembrance. The latter had been for yesterday, wherein tables had been set overnight for the dead and people had left their houses so whom had passed on could dine in peace, alongside the many household guardians. To great contrast, tonight was for laughter and the living, marking the end of a summer’s toil in the fields that’d been generously rewarded by a bountiful yield.
Some of that barley had been distilled into liquor, plenty enough that he imagined the night might well get rowdy. There was not a worry in the world, save that the master of ceremony not get too drunk, as them passing out foretold a bad year ahead. It was ultimately out of his hands, naturally, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out regardless.
Had he the time alongside his tasks, that was. He’d come with Kaarle, who harboured much the same reasons for joining in as he did, but the man had since disappeared from his company. He didn’t much mind it, as his fellow knight was allowed to go as he pleased, but Oliver wasn’t so far gone he couldn’t appreciate the convenience of magic. He glanced at the bundle of kindling at his feet, lips twisting in thought.
It’d be fine. He’d done it all in his lonesome before.
The liquor burned his throat as he slinged his head back, draining the cup.
The guardian, of forest and field both, was not to speak, for no voice or language of mortals befit the part. As it moved around in the darkening eve, sometimes in group with more of its kin, a mere clatter of cowbells announced its presence. The skins were black, grey and brown, lending ease to blending in and out of shadows. It wasn’t meant to be frightening nor villanous, but that didn’t stop some from using it as a device to urge their children from straying to the forest at night. Or keep best behaviour, lest they be taken by a spirit.
A touch transfixed by the folk creature, Oliver took a swig of his drink. He’d come to help tend the myriad of fires that would keep the entire settlement enveloped in a warm glow through the night, not so much for the harvest feast as for pure nostalgia. Or was it some comfort, allowing one reminisce the past and things that no longer were, perhaps let them be replaced by new experience. Something brighter and cheerful, perhaps.
That’d be all well and good in his book, even if the event was as much for celebration as it was for mourning and remembrance. The latter had been for yesterday, wherein tables had been set overnight for the dead and people had left their houses so whom had passed on could dine in peace, alongside the many household guardians. To great contrast, tonight was for laughter and the living, marking the end of a summer’s toil in the fields that’d been generously rewarded by a bountiful yield.
Some of that barley had been distilled into liquor, plenty enough that he imagined the night might well get rowdy. There was not a worry in the world, save that the master of ceremony not get too drunk, as them passing out foretold a bad year ahead. It was ultimately out of his hands, naturally, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out regardless.
Had he the time alongside his tasks, that was. He’d come with Kaarle, who harboured much the same reasons for joining in as he did, but the man had since disappeared from his company. He didn’t much mind it, as his fellow knight was allowed to go as he pleased, but Oliver wasn’t so far gone he couldn’t appreciate the convenience of magic. He glanced at the bundle of kindling at his feet, lips twisting in thought.
It’d be fine. He’d done it all in his lonesome before.
The liquor burned his throat as he slinged his head back, draining the cup.
Last edited: