The scaled boy and his otter walk along familiar and cobbled streets, pleased to be back in the land of entertainers and bards once more. A lifetime ago, he had been in this place – he had met the queen and her dragon, listened to her stories and walked the halls of her palace. He’d witnessed terrible things here too – war and sadness, and like the queen who’d sailed away, Pan had left this place for a time too – lost to the magic of the strange island that swallowed him whole. Now though, he was back, and happier than ever to be celebrating the birth of summer as he walked along the gaily-lit streets and danced to the music in the air.
Drunk off the allure of the festival, he stumbled with flushed cheeks from tents which offered pastries and grog, hiccupping as the warm punch settled in his belly and a foolish grin settled on his face. Past the dancers he wandered, and past the merchants too, until he found himself under a banner-strewn arch staring down a gap toothed carnie who handed him a scrap of paper with a crudely written clue.
Blinking as he wondered about the puzzle, the boy is off on an adventure once more, flicking a glance at another to his left, unable to make out their form completely in the darkness. Hello? the boy questioned to the stranger, Do you want to play too? Oliver and I were just about to go look for the treasure… you’re welcome to join us – the more the merrier! He smiles warmly as he waits to begin his scavenger hunt, welcoming the help of another in the spirit of camaraderie and sharing. After all, festivals were the perfect place to make new friends (or reunite with old), and the boy was starving for companionship after his many months in isolation.
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
August was not quite three sheets to the wind, but he was at least on two, and gaining.
It was harder than he’d thought, being back. Too much had changed, and none of the right things, and the palomino felt like an exile come home. Of course, other than the Court’s new Regent, nobody had said anything to him about his near yearlong absence, and August suspected that most of the criticism he felt came from within his own mind. But the guilt felt strangely good - he felt he deserved some punishment for leaving - and so he let himself wallow it in, and helped it along with copious amounts of ale and barley wine.
Everything was pleasantly fuzzy by the time he’d wandered from one end of the festival grounds to the other, and the flickering firelight only increased the sensation of everything being just a little off-kilter. He’d just had a brief but ardent (on his side, anyway) conversation with Talan the baker-boy (though in truth a boy no longer) and was ambling down the causeway when a stranger called out to him.
It took August a moment to realize the boy was talking to him, and then he smiled amiably and stepped closer, blinking at the pale colt and his Oliver. It took him a moment to decipher that the dark, sleek creature was an otter, and he might have admired him for a moment longer if his mind hadn’t just made sense of that the boy was asking him.
Treasure - the last time he’d been on a treasure hunt had been the god-cursed island, and the thought of the Relic could still conjure nightmares. But now he squinted down at the scrap of paper with the clue, never mind that he was too drunk to make out the letters. “Hmmmm,” he said, and grinned down at the boy. “I’d love to play. But you’d, ah, better tell me what it says.” The stallion’s eyes drifted closed, then immediately open again once the world tilted threateningly. Oof, he was worse off than he thought. “Name’s August. What d’you think, Oliver?”
The scrap of paper is haphazardly ripped at the edges, as if one larger piece had been torn to make many smaller ones. It crinkles and curls in at the corners, and even in the slightest breeze seems as though it might disappear, never to be found again.
Scrawled on it in a lightweight script is a riddle, waiting to be deciphered.
"Come to me,
Verdant sea,
Dancing in the windy rush.
Bright and blue,
The perfect hue,
A canvas for an artist’s brush."
A playful warmth spread over the boy as he stood trying to decipher the first clue, staring hard at the tattered paper. His companion hiccupped nearby, and he turns to offer August a wide grin, reading the clues aloud. Under normal circumstances, perhaps his mind would work a bit clearer… but tonight, everything is pleasantly fuzzy. I’m Pan, not Oliver… he corrects with a chortle. Oliver is my significant otter… Pan releases a belly-laugh at the pun, obviously pleased with his terrible joke as the otter groaned and squeaked indignantly, fishing back into the satchel for more pastries to snack on.
So… whaduyou reckon? His words are slurred together as he puzzles back over the clue. I think there’s a lake around here… water’s blue… and I’ve seen some paintings of lakes before…? He didn’t sound overly confident in his answer, but maybe the golden stallion had a better idea. After all, August called Denocte home, so he was bound to know more about this place than a mere passer-by.
Pan reaches to scratch at an itch on his haunch, one leg twitching like a dog as he finds the spot and grins foolishly in the lantern-light. Why do they call you August? Isn’t that a month? Pan had heard weirder names, he supposed… maybe he was born in August? Or maybe his mom and dad had met in August? Names were a peculiar thing. He didn’t know why he was called Pan, come to think of it… maybe it was rude to even ask.
Gathering up his satchel, he pulled out a broken compass, staring at it as its needle flopped around uselessly. Which way to the lake? He turned to the left, then to the right, and then he simply decided to sit down and let August figure out where to go, unable to determine up from down.
Gotta love festivals, the boy decided, excitement warring with confusion in his muddled mind.
the great object of life is sensation - to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
He listened with his eyes closed, brow furrowed in concentration, as the boy read the clue aloud. August was just sober enough to be grateful that the lines were short and simple (and rhyming); anything more involved and he might have walked away then. This felt, if not manageable, then at least attemptable.
Not until Pan corrected him did he open his eyes again, and joined the boy in laughing as he looked between the two. A few passers-by gave them a wide berth and a long look, but August couldn’t be bothered to care, not when he was seized with hilarity at the look on the otter’s face at the pun.
“Hmmmmmm,” he said when he found his breath again. “Verdant means green or grassy, and the wind’s always making waves in the prairie. And the skyscapes there are-” he sought for and couldn’t find the word unparalleled“just really something.” Considering a moment more, August wrinkled his nose. “Besides, I uh. Am not sure I’m up to walking all the way to the lake right now.”
At the boy’s question he grinned, though truthfully August didn’t know why he’d gotten his name, and could hardly ask. “It was a name before it was a month,” he said, only slurring a little. Curious, August leaned in as the boy pulled out a compass, a look of mild consternation crossing his face as the needle spun without settling. He might have fallen hypnotized had Pan not spoken again, at which he lifted his head with a jolt.
“Ah, yes. The lake is that way-” he gestured north, toward the mountains. “And so, as it happens, is the prairie. Only a lot closer. Let’s go, Pan-and-Oliver.” He laughed at the boy, then nudged his shoulder and began to walk.
