Harvest Fest has come and gone, and this author has recovered enough to hold a pen, which is more than can be said for half the town. While this author was several tankards in, she witnessed Týn singing a song at the talent show about how Harvest Fest is the one thing that never changes, and this author, who has watched this town do many things, was moved by the truth of the piece. What follows is the proof.
Let us begin where the festival did, with Liotru’s procession. What set out as a stately parade arrived at the bonfire as a pub crawl, having walked in what several witnesses describe as “circles.” I am told that the delay was intentional and the bonfire was not ready; this author is also told that Otto was seen sprinting through the woods ahead of the procession throwing firewood off the path, and would like to commend him for doing so. Liotru: the speech afterward was lovely, darling. The route was a crime against drinking.
Liotru also spent a portion of the festival at war with Pythagoras over the nature of shapes while folding lanterns. This writer has been told the shape was a kite. She has also been told it was a wedge, a pie slice, a three-cornered shape, and possibly a personal attack. The dispute grew heated enough that another resident was overheard advising him not to get his titties in a twist. The shape, a triangle, remains very normal, and Liotru “remains very normal about it.”
And while this author has Liotru’s attention, a word about your outfit. Opal complimented it this weekend, and this author would like it on the record that Opal was completely right about your calves. Whatever tailor you have found for that ensemble has done the town a service and should be given a plaque. This author has covered festivals for four years and has never once devoted a paragraph to a man’s lower leg, and is doing so now with a clear conscience. Liotru, please send the name of your tailor and your personal trainer along immediately.
Enzo cleared the field before the Flyting competition began and, by every account, murdered Cormac in front of a live audience. This author is told the fatal line concerned his eye and a mirror and will not repeat it because Cormac has suffered enough, and also because he spent part of the weekend explaining to strangers that he follows squirrels through the woods to steal their acorns, and this author does not think Enzo needs the help.
The fighters’ tournament was, on paper, about honor. Commander Tiny took possession of a drum, and by the semifinals he had turned the bracket into a matchmaking service with a red-flag screening process, at some point taking time to explain to the crowd the difference between honor and misogyny. This author was not present for the explanation and cannot confirm anyone learned anything, but her own position is that honor buys the drinks afterward.
Rytiss arrived at the festival with a new haircut, a new outfit, and no armor whatsoever, and was later caught doing a dance by the bonfire when he thought nobody was looking. Somebody is always looking, Rytiss, and in this case it was Liotru, who watched the entire dance from across the fire with an expression this author can only describe as “puppy dog enraptured.” This author would also note, purely as an observation, that nobody has ever seen Rytiss and the sun in the same place, and a man who dances that well in the dark has explaining to do.
The Curators of the Curious have been acquiring curiosities at a pace this author finds alarming. Sílor received an original work from a famous artist, Nissriel received 100 coin, and Lottie has more feet than she knows what to do with. Vindicta, meanwhile, has a bag of teeth, which this author has decided not to think about any further.
And finally, our own editor-in-chief has returned to town and has been perfectly pleasant all weekend, which this author finds suspicious. Penelope Marianus does not apologize, does not print corrections, and does not backtrack; during Harvest Fest she was seen doing it in person, to faces, with feeling. At least one reader has asked whether she’d been replaced. While this author cannot confirm a doppelganger, she reminds readers that their saliva heals wounds and invites anyone with a paper cut to go to the Steamy Ink offices to test the theory.
Harvest Fest never changes. I’m less sure about all of you.
Yours Truly,
Madam Mapleleaf