To the crafter’s cavern the wench had wandered, her giggles in tow. Though, certainly, a festival was not the average locale to find her, neither was a herd, really, and she had found that it served her well enough, in the end. Such a life had afforded her the comforts of an easy life, sheltered by the bodies of others, though she too, allegedly, was due to sacrifice herself in their name, if she was so beckoned; she would not come, of course, but that which she had here was no so easily thrown away, because she was false.
The pendant upon her chest is cool and bounces with her step, a reminder of how much greater she was than these small mortals, who did not see the greatness of the God rising in the Marsh as she did. Pausing in the shadow of the cave, she sets to tossing reams and yards of cloth across her back, myriad furs and other things that, to Beloved, anyway, might be useful, and made of fabric or something cushiony.
So she appears, a multi-toned mummy swathed in so many layers of cloth that her bouncy trot seems to make it seem a sentient rag pile as she approaches the cleared area. With a feminine grunt she tosses her load to the earth, drawing a puff of dust up from the grassless earth.
The old one is here, smelling the mushrooms used for lights. With a guffaw, she prances towards him, her sugary sweet voice lilting though the empty space.
“You, old one, do not eat that which the storm deer has gathered. The Boy King says they are for lights,” says the mistress, having snatched up a sizable sheet of gauzy, semitransparent fabric from her half-hazard deposited pile of furs and cloth; of course, the golden prat had left no instructions, but, thankfully for him, Beloved was simply mad, not stupid. Ripping a swath lose from the majority of the piece with her teeth and hoof, the mare then flattens this roughly torn bit of fabric on the ground, carefully depositing the mushrooms within. Entirely oblivious as to their psychedelic effects (you usually had to eat them, of course, but constant physical contact with porous membranes surely would have some effect), the mare uses her lips upon their dusty surfaces liberally and without worry; besides, it may not be that different from being her, on any other day. “Perhaps bundle them, like so.”
Tying the ends so that an overhanging, knot made handle of sorts now exists, the mare casts the ruddy man a most insane smile, before continuing her work.
“Or pillows, pillows for story time,” she mutters as she works, occasionally humming a peculiar, high note among her giggles and murmurs, “the weary sleepers along the shore…”
[ OOC: There you go Albrecht. Your favorite is here to offer tips on what to do! ;) ]
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[O] time honored traditions [FESTIVAL PREP II]
