Snippet #1775405

Chewing on a sugar cane stick to eliminate the bitterness in his mouth, Wundsten was hungry again, after having to expel his breakfast from his once-again empty stomach. He was going to save the sweet treat for later, however, so he bit off a chunk with a snap and tucked the remainder into a pocket of his trousers. He decided that he should grab a meal at the Magnarta festival being held at Jiender; besides, he's already keeping a friend waiting for three days now. Gathering his tools and other possessions, he put them away in a bark-woven bag and slung it over his shoulder, the contents clanking against each other.

As he began to cross the sparkling stream, he noticed, in the corner of his grey eye, a young Hyma man in colorful attire who was standing, down the waterway on the other side. The red-headed Hyma kept glancing from a wooden prop, to something behind it, and back at it while poking the prop with a small utensil.

Realizing what is really going on, the Ferner whispered in astonishment, "A painter..." He has seen many paintings before, visiting the many homes and inns of Enche Lanche, but he has never actually seen how someone could place something from real life onto a piece of cloth.

Curious, he crossed the stream and walked in a circle-like fashion to see what was on the canvas. His steps were loud, probably enough to alert the entranced artist. Trying to not look hostile, he casually approached until he could make out what the young man was painting. On the white canvas, there were huge blots of blue and green that were shapeless; they're probably for the sky and the stream with its mossy rocks. There were also spots of orange and red scattered around the bottom; those seem to be fallen leaves and patches of the Magnarta-colored grass. But, the most distinguishable figures of the painting so far were the fiery, golden trees that stood tall on the other side of the stream. Looking back at the same trees that are actually standing there, Wundsten was simply amazed of the fine details captured by the painter and carefully replaced where it should be on the white space.

A rumble in his stomach broke the Ferner's attention and reminded him to hurry on to the village. He rubbed his belly and, before leaving, decided he should leave the Hyma his word of recognition and said, "Incredible work." With that, he whipped around and headed towards the crossroad village.





An old man in a mahogany coat sat against the oak tree in front of his yard, retying kite strings for his neighbors' children. His hands were shaking, but they did not hinder his abilities to fix up the kite. "Now," he began to recite as he was winding up the string, "the wind's what flies your kite. You have ta be patient and let that wind lift it up from your hands; don't try to force your kite to fly by dragging it." The Hymas and Nymphs had been listening to his advice for a good while, but they were raring to get on with flying. "I can see you're all just itchin' ta get out there," he wheezed with amusement.

Finishing his work with ease, he handed the last child, a little green Met Nymph, her orange kite, which was decorated to resemble a fish. The girl brushed her fingers on the kite strings and on the blue paper eyes, then smiled as she squeaked, "Thank you, Bey Hareck." The old Bey of Jiender returned the smile with a quivering nod, letting the Nymph pat his antennae.

Before sending the children off to play, he said one more thing, "A good thing about today, children, is that many strong winds a' brewing as we speak. Off with you all, your kites would be as jittery as yourselves if they could jitter."

Hareck watched the children go off, passing by all the stalls and tables set up for the festival. He noticed how lively the village has already gotten after a few moments past. Everyone had already finished their share of work and were already indulging themselves in festive activities. Most of the fairgoers were having their early feasts while a good many were busy with the entertainment. The rustic melodies of Jeph of Strings gathered an audience, and others became enchanted by Whimsy the Great's magical tricks. Other children delighted themselves with the festival games, and men and women took on fun challenges bestowed upon them by local contests. Everyone of Jiender and their festive spirits were all in harmony with the blessings of St. Magnarta; all were carefree and enjoying life to the fullest.

All the while joyous laughter filled the air, the old man still couldn't take his mind off that dark and ominous cloud. Through all the smiles, the music, and the golden spirit of Magnarta, he still was thinking about that cloud. That hideous blot up above that left him with a bad omen. It took one second to deliver its message, and the rain drops scorched marks into his head. The cloud has already been dispersed, having no need to remind the man of misfortune.

"Papa," a soft voice broke up his thoughts, "Papa Hareck, you sleeping with yer eyes open 'gain?" Hareck turned around and saw his daughter, Feriha, holding two plates of grilled vegetables. She placed one of the plates on his lap and handed him a wooden fork. "Betcha gettin' bored of seeing the same things every year."

Taking this chance to avoid thinking about despair, he joked back, "Nonsense! Seventy-seven times I've been in this festival, and I'm still going to catch myself a silverfish. Right now, I'm just arguing with my body about standing up."