Wriva’s hair glistened as the first rays of dawn trickled through her window. Stray strands were sent flying and soared out the window as she quickly combed through her hair, burs in the wind. When she finished, she tore her most used purple tunic from its hanger and trotted downstairs. Her face pulled into a concerned frown when she realized the kitchen was already lit.
After hearing several muffled coughs, she called out, “Dad?”
Anfer jumped slightly in his chair. “Oh, Wriva,” he said as he put on his best smile, though his eyes betrayed his weariness. “This is early for you.”
“We had to start early today Da,” she tutted at him as she went around packing food for the day, “Prepping for the festival and all.”
“Oh,” he hummed, taking slightly too long to pass her the paper she was holding her hand out for.
“Did ya sleep at all?”
“Hm…oh yes, Wriva. I woke up early to do some preparation of my own; we always need tonics at this thing,” he beamed at her, rolling his eyes, shooing away her concerns all the while.
“Mhm,” she tsked at him, before tying up her bag for the day. “I’ll be back late, Vafi wants to go to the festival, and she won't go without me." She paused. "Rest today,” she said as firmly as she could.
Wriva could hear him chuckle as she bounded out the door. Her father should be able to take care of himself; if only he would do it. The wind wafted slowly through the trees, and made Wriva’s tunic softly swish against her golden legs. In the forest, the sunlight broke through little–but illuminated patches of bright sprite grass, colorful mushrooms, and animal tracks when it did. Wriva slowed as she approached the path that led to the fields, and flung her pack on an old stump. She leaned against a sturdy tree, sighing softly, content in waiting as she watched the dust settle in the golden rays of sunlight. The forest was waking up, and among the singing birds, chirping frogs, and low buzz of the last insects of the year hanging in the air, Wriva could hear soft but determined footsteps headed toward her.
Through the hazy morning sunlight, Wriva could make out Vafi’s form. “Wriva!” She called.”Are you excited?”
Wriva grinned widely, “So excited!” They high fived each other as they met at the crossroads. “Today should be fun,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Hah!” Vafi scoffed, launching into a tirade about the festival, the inevitable amount of cleanup they’d have to do, before and after–not to mention the weather forecast. Wriva grinned and nodded along, both humoring and mocking her at the same time. Vafi whacked her on her arm. “I’m right, you know.” They both laughed at each other, then paused when they heard Axel calling for them.
“Shit,” Vafi said.
“We’re late!” Wriva spat out as they both bolted to the farm.
—
Axel was not amused by their tardiness this morning; that much was obvious as they trudged out to the festival grounds with palette after palette of festival decor. His eyes had squinted as he gruffly greeted them, “My second in command and my best hand, and this is what I get?” He let out a disappointed grunt before gesturing to the party decorations. “Delivered last night, take it to the grounds and set it up, you know how it’s done by now.”
They groaned as they drug the seemingly endless fall harvest decor out to the festival grounds. Truthfully, they both would much rather work a normal day, and leave this drudgery to the greener stable hands. Ah, to turn out the harts into their fields, to clean water buckets, to muck stalls! Anything other than spending hours setting up decor just for the village nitpicks to tear apart. These parties were the same every year, and yet somehow they were supposed to be more interesting. Every. Year.
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Truly, Wriva thought, we were right not to do it last year. I don’t care what Axel says about the first years ruining the History of the Stables play!
The grove where the village festivals were held was large, but also largely covered, nestled into the hollowed out space that used to be the perimeter of a massive tree. Wicker chairs lined the back walls of the stage underneath a leafy overhang the fauns had cultivated to keep the stage and chairs safe from the elements. The girls worked at moving the chairs to the wooden tables, laying out the tablecloths, and placing hart statues absolutely everywhere. Paintings from the fields went up, alongside scribes from the past year's harvests. Vafi sauntered over to the centerpiece area where Wriva stood, mildly distressed.
“Sooooo…” she grimaced, “what do we have.”
Wriva put on a confident smile, “I have a hart statue!”
“There’s…there’s hart statues everywhere Wriva.”
“But they’re all made by the craftsmen!” She protested. “If this festival is going to be about the fields, we should have something made by the field hands.”
“Where…where is it?” Vafi questioned hesitantly.
“Here!” Wriva beamed, pulling out a bundle of crudely made wicker statues that somewhat resembled harts–and were dreadfully small.
Vafi walked over to the entrance harts, smacking them, close to losing what little sanity she had on this, the most terrible of days, “These. Are. Hart. Statues.”
“Yeah, I mean they’re good,” she responded, wiggling her hands. “But I think these capture the essence of who we are out there in the fields.”
Vafi shook her head slowly, using both hands to pull back on her hair as she let out a frustrated sound, “Wriva that’s…no,” she sighed. “How…why.”
Wriva frowned and shot her a glare, “Listen I did my best–” which prompted another burst of laughter from Vafi.
“If this…is your best–” she wheezed.
“Shaddap,” she said as she gently placed the harts in the middle of the centerpiece. “You know I didn’t want to do it. Axel knows I didn’t want to do it. So here we are,” she shrugged.
“You're his second in command, Wriva,” Vafi said, a bit more seriously. “He wants you to take over when he retires.”
She paused, “I can just make someone else do this when I’m in charge; that’s why it’s called being in charge.” She forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
“I mean it,” Vafi said somberly. “It would mean a lot to him.”
“Aw man,” Wriva groaned. “Fine.”
—
As the sun started to dip into the treeline, Axel came to check on their work. He found them sprawled out on the stage, arms draped dramatically on their faces. He looked around skeptically.
“Pity us,” Wriva begged.
“I hate this every year,” Vafi sighed, exasperated.
His eyes moved slowly around the grounds, then drifted back to them. “I suppose,” he grunted.
“Oh, spare me, dad,” Vafi scoffed.
“It’ll do fine, even without a proper centerpiece. With you two running it it should be better than last year,” he said, his low and somber voice not hiding his jest.
“Someone in your family tell me what a proper centerpiece looks like then,” Wriva protested.
“Not this again, I swear to all of the gods–” Vafi complained, voice starting at a mumble then rising to a yell, when a rustling in the woods distracted her.
“Squirrel,” Wriva said pointedly, barely raising her head off the stage.
“No,” Axel grunted, tensing up, “there’s something else–”
Something came careening at them from the woods. It looked like a deer, but its eyes were sunken in and black, its fur falling off in clumps, trailing sticky black goo as it bolted by them. A strange purple ooze dripped from its mouth, stuck open and slack jawed. It seemed out of control, and slammed into a tree blindly. It paused, turning back to face them. It swayed a little, then staggered, trying to steady its head to look at them. Suddenly, it lunged forward, mouth agape, towards Vafi.