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It was raining.

It was cold.

You shivered beneath the folds of your cloak, hunkering down miserably
against the stone building's wall. It was too wet to create a fire,
but the inside was crowded with people in masks who reeked of humidity
and armor stench... too many people for your tastes. It was strange
to even see some of them don masks at first, for who was it that said
that 'All men had a false face they put forward as their best'?

Did that exclude the women?

Did you fear Death this year?

As you pondered that in the wet, your eyes peer out into the woods.
It had been hot enough recently to make you think that perhaps the
calendar was false, and there was no true Equinox of Autumn that took
place. Most of the leaves were still green, although a few here and
there were yellow. Not exactly the harvest look you're sure your host
was going for. Such was Life.

Such *is* Life? you wondered.

Did you fear Life this year?

Thoughts disquieted, you push off from the building with your foot,
and trod across the sodden fields towards the wood line. Senseless to
go alone without a light spell, but you were seasoned enough to know
that you weren't going *that* far, plus the stuffiness of the pomp and
circumstance inside was more unbearable than the weather outside.

And that's when you see it, in a small ring of light: a table dressed
in black and white, with a white contraption... a box, perhaps?
sitting upon it. And although the rain was pouring down as hard as
arrow-fall in a battle, the quill and parchment there none-the-less
were dry to the touch.

Something familiar here. Old. Your hand glides across the parchment
as smooth as linen, as your eyes note a holly spring attached to a red

Your hand goes to write, but for what? What reason? To whom are you writing?

You pause, and wonder that if you *don't* do it, you might never get
another chance. But it was here last year, or at least you heard tale
of it, of this. Right?

...did you fear to Wish this year?

Did your Fear override your Hope?

Does it?

The rain changes over to snow, but you stand there, quill in hand...
You awaken to the very soft sound of tinkling bells, but there is
naught different about the place you slept in. The bells' noises fade
as soon as they were heard.
Created by Janna Oakfellow-Pushee at 10-05-11 02:23 PM
Last Modified by Janna Oakfellow-Pushee at 10-05-11 02:23 PM