Throughout history, Spring has always been a harbinger of change and growth, it was no exception that a new founded festival was equally promising of prosperity and progress. All four courts – Solterra of Day, Terrastella of Dusk, Denocte of Night, and their host Delumine of Dawn – would gather together in hopes of kindling lifelong and healthy relationships with citizens of every walk of life.
Thomasin was surprised she managed to send her rsvp card, as she was a wreck at social events.
It was so hard to grab anyone’s attention, not because Thomasin wasn’t any less interesting than any of the passerby’s, but because she had grown so talented at invisibility; she was just a wallflower, a paper butterfly, a scholar of camouflage. This songbird had viewed the entirety of her life behind a cage, and with sudden freedom, she often found herself yearning to be back behind bars.
Life was easier there, where daydreams reigned supreme, where monsters are just shadows in the corner of a dark room and are effortlessly chased away by daylight.
The lamb was learning that outside the safety of her boundaries, monsters walked both at day and night.
Yet, she had also learned that monsters weren’t always wicked.
There were gentle monsters.
With a soft shake of her head, all thoughts and whims of monsters and maidens were dispelled, her attention returned to the finishing touches of her pastry stall. No banners or tapestry hung from the framework, for swaying linens were a fire hazard, and in the back sat a brick, pit-style oven. A few racks across a bed of coals, very simple tables up front with ornate tin trays that had been thrifted from the Night Markets. Thomasin had forgotten about a sign to advertise, or even a jar to collect donations, for she had been too carried away making sure she had stocked enough flour and sugar to get her through the length of the festival. The only décor was a glassware vase filled with nettle and wildflowers – ready for candying – and a plate with butter, honey, and a spreading knife.
“Cakes – “she’d offer, her voice a mere shiver in the wind, cold colored eyes clouded by heavy downturn lids. “Savory or sweet.”
Occasionally, she’d catch the attention of a foal, who would come over wide-eyed and wet-mouthed, and Thomasin’s heart would ache with a longing she was unfamiliar with. A warm smile on her pink lips as she hands them one of each, encouraging to eat them while warm, and watching as they bound off with fuller bellies and enlarging grins.
With a swat of her lion’s tail, she’d sit, enjoying the quiet tune of a lyre while watching the festival goers indulge in all the kingdoms had to offer.
"talking."
tagged: welcome to anyone!
