Open Honey and Dust

[UmbraSight]

‘We call to you Lord of Dusk
as we of need certainly must
beneath the grinding wheel all is bare
make to rights in your care

O’ Lady Dawn your brother’s said
the world turns rotten while we’re abed
pray we wake in wistful light
to all things same and right

We beg mercy from gods unseason
as coals fade and rivers turn to dust
all things must have their reason
though winter’s ire has turned plows to rust.’

Tonight the first cask of the year shall be tapped, and each and all shall be given a taste of the honeyed cream, for now is the time to be merry. The fields have been cleared, the last of the golden stalks tied with fine silk for the one who dances the most sweetly to take away. It’s a beautiful ribbon, fine lustrous purple spun from silken spiders, and wouldn’t it look so lovely between your curls? Entertainment has arrived from afar as well, yesterday or was it the day before? Why, you remember sitting for a puppet show, no doubt, so perhaps they arrived early yesterday and were simply eager to display their craft. Best to hear the stories first, lest you be spoiled before the final night.

There’s no rush, of course, you’ve a week to sample all the festival’s finery, to watch the lanterns take to the stars at night or greet an unfamiliar face over a cup of spiced wine. Why every year this festival of lanterns always feels like an endless thing that is over far too quick. Wish for a moment’s respite during the festivities? Then why not head to the northern district where clear springs feed the tubs of fragrant bathhouses or to the edge of the woods where the old trees stand crooked and fat. Winter’s nip is well in the air, but the flames flick high and the smell of roasting meat and vegetables is enough to keep one warm.

And if a man goes missing? If a body is found cold and still in a disused alleyway? Well, perhaps tomorrow will bring a touch of better luck.

So, come, come it’s the Festival of Twilight and all are welcome. So greet your neighbors, greet your strangers, welcome all to the winding streets of Arachridge.
—————

CS
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Occupation:
What Do You Remember:
Where Are You Going:
Appearance:

 

[illirica]

Name: Corryn Wesfeld

Age: 19

Gender: Male

Occupation: Arachridge city militia - Corryn didn't grow up in town, but on a farm some twenty miles out. The farm mostly exported wheat and hay and children too old to keep at home any longer. He worked the farm as a boy, like all his siblings, but only one of them can inherit, so there's a time when the younger ones have to make their own way in the world. Corryn joined the militia two years back after the harvest season, and with two years experience can now generally be trusted to hold his sword by the end that isn't pointy and to keep his eyes on what he's guarding and to keep his mouth shut about things he oughtn't have seen.

What Do You Remember: Quite a bit. The officers always have a lot of questions, don't they? Corryn pays attention. He doesn't always say what he knows - actually, he doesn't always say much at all - but he does take note of things, when he sees them, and tries to remember what they were about. That sort of thing's important, if he's going to be called in to do something.

Where Are You Going: To the town square to patrol there and make sure no one's trying to nick apples.

Appearance: Perhaps a bit taller than average, with the sort of build a man gets from growing up a boy with a hoe in his hand and an expectation that he'll use it properly. His hair is reddish-brown in the winter and fairer in the summer, and wants to curl no matter how close he crops it. He's given up at this point and let it grow out an inch or two, though it's hard to tell with the curls. His eyes are blue and his uniform is immaculate - he takes care of it well, not so much because of pride in his position, but because a uniform was the first piece of clothing he'd ever owned that hadn't been passed down through siblings and cousins, and there's something to be said for that. He carries a short sword, standard issue.

 

[annasiel]

Name: Ainsley Brooke

Age: 21

Gender: Female, usually, but doesn't mind much either or any.

Occupation: A storyteller by trade, a hedge mage by training, and a scoundrel by nature. Skilled in theatrics and the puppetry of paper alike, Ainsley makes her living traveling from place to place and putting on shows of lore and legends for any who come by to watch. Paper dragons o'er paper knights, confetti breath tickling around their folded shields -

And while children and parents alike sit rapt, she might make a habit of dipping into a pocket or two among the crowd. After all, she's owed a healthy fee for bringing wonderment back to the masses, is she not? And folks seldom tip as well as they truly should.

What Do You Remember: Many things. Stories of old heroes and terrible monsters, of vengeful gods and epic quests. She remembers many things people don't. There's so much out there that's been forgotten, but a story only truly dies when it leaves its last teller's lips. Of course, she doesn't have much thought or care to the modern world bereft of tales, but it isn't a very interesting world, so why would she?

Where Are You Going: Hither and thither. She doesn't have much in way of final destination, and Arachridge is only the next stop in a line of many.

Appearance: Tall and gangly thin, with a toothy grin and a dark twinkle in her eyes. Her hair is a bit of an unkempt, tawny mess, but she keeps it managed well enough beneath a wide-brimmed hat that often - for the sake of self-made intrigue - casts much of her face in shadow. She wears an oversized patchwork jacket that dangles from her wrists and hangs to her ankles, the insides filled with pockets for books, paper, quills, and pilfered trinkets. Her fingertips are stained black with soot from mixing ink, hands oft covered with fingerless gloves. Beneath her hat and mess of hair, she has a pair of nubby horns that were there from birth.

 

[UmbraSight]

CS
Name:
Spring Darkwater

Age:
Three hundred and six

Or — no that’s not right, is it? I was only eighteen when I left with my father and when I look into a mirror I don’t look much older.

Gender:
Female

Occupation:
A traveler, the daughter of a merchant.

What Do You Remember:
The roads between here and there, as they wend themselves across the Two Snakes river or down into Valley Nadir where the last of the old River Lords holds court and track deeper still into the old forests which still grow wild with root and branch. No matter how far, we’ve always made it back to Arachridge in time for the Festival, so we can watch leaves of the ironwood turn vibrant in the harvest’s final breath. Though, it can’t be more than once or twice I made this trip with him before we were separated. He taught me well, and I know the bend of the roads as well as I know the trace of the veins within my wrist.

Where Are You Going:
First to the stall that serves peaches preserved in honey, then to the merchants to restock my cart. After that, home, I think. I feel like I’ve been away all my life.

Appearance:
Tall, with a well polished air about her. Her features are sharp, her ears long, pointed, and decorated with a chain of gold. Her hair is long and well kept, a glittering golden-yellow in the light and tied back with a ribbon that had once been a lovely purple but had paled in its years of use. Her eyes are the same sharp blue they had been the day she was born, tinged with a flicker of green. She’s not well fit, none would mistake her for one who works the fields or makes her coin washing clothes. There are times when she seems far more tired than she should be — and her gaze far more cutting.

 

[Katpride]

Name: Daisy Lázaro
Age: Appears to be middle-aged, perhaps somewhere in her late 30’s, 40’s, or 50’s - no one’s been rude enough to ask outright
Gender: Female (she/her)

Occupation: A spinster who sells her garden-grown fruits and vegetables at the market each week. She does other odd jobs whenever she’s able to, and is often seen around town, be it patching clothes with the seamstress, washing them with the washwomen, holding ladders and tools for the handyman, or keeping an eye on the small, roving gangs of children while their parents are off working.

What Do You Remember: An ever-growing list of loose shingles and stray cobblestones, noted for later adjustment. A mostly stagnant list of faces that have passed through the town, and a very rarely changing array of those that have stayed. The latest gossip, as the washwomen are always good for passing along a scandal or two.

Where Are You Going: Here and there, but never too far. The only way she’s leaving this town is in a hearse, as she likes to say.

Appearance: Daisy is a short, plump, middle-aged woman with skin the color of baked clay and a smile just as warm. Her eyes are a brown so dark it borders on black and her hair is much the same, though it’s streaked with more than a few strands bleached in varying degrees by the sun and the passage of time. She has the callused hands and broad shoulders of a laborer, and the easy disposition and open generosity of someone quietly confident in the state of their rainy-day savings.