Browtober

Out on the edge of town, a riot of colorful tents and lanterns pops up overnight with the coming of the new season. The lanterns come in soft autumnal yellows and oranges and odd eerie violets that reflect off the early fall snow, because it’s almost always snowing here. That’s the danger of living in White Rye--there aren’t really seasons, just times of the year where it snows less. The spring thaw has come and gone, and the dry summer cold has given way again to crystalline fall precipitation. 

Laz hadn’t wanted to come out and face the bitter cold, but her sibling had insisted it would be good for them to stop pencil pushing for just a minute. Myrtle treks ahead of her now, their head on a swivel as they take in the sights that the fairgrounds have to offer. It’s the same every year, so Laz doesn’t know why they bother. 

Every tent and stand is manned by a bundled up carnie whose breath plumes in the air. Laz even recognizes some of them from previous years - the caramel apple vendor, the unlucky but extremely enthusiastic apple bobbing guide who continuously heats the water with a bit of fire magic so that it doesn’t freeze over. The old shrieky Zipper, a ride that spins rapidly in circles and bobs back and forth so quickly that those with weak stomachs had best avoid it. The carousel plays loud funhouse music as it spins round and round, its steel mounts galloping away. 

“Let’s get some cider,” Myrtle declares cheerfully, lifting their head to blink at Lazuli with their enormous orange eyes. 

Laz can’t say no to that, because a hot drink sounds simply delicious, so she just shrugs her shoulders and gestures for them to lead the way. The stand selling cider is overwhelmed with a swarm of people who all had the same thought, though the vendors are handling it admirably. One is pouring endless cups from a large vat of hot cider and setting them up on the counter, and the other is taking stargold with a friendly, if slightly harried smile. 

They wait through the line, Myrtle making casual small talk with someone who recognizes them as the head of White Rye’s Courier’s Guild. Unlike Laz, who hates recognition, Myrtle flourishes under the spotlight, and his tail thumps on the ground as he’s commemorated for stepping up. He smiles, showing off all his sharp white teeth, and says something like, “Oh, it was nothing. Just the right thing to do.” Lazuli rolls her eyes and doesn’t say a word. Eventually the line winds down and they manage to get some delicious hot apple cider.

Laz carries both cups to a nearby sitting area so that Myrtle can slink along, and the two of them sit down to enjoy the carnival’s atmosphere. It’s boisterous, and not as cold as it could be for all the people packed into the fairgrounds. The crowd is chatting around them, laughing and enjoying games. There’s no festival like a White Rye festival. 

“Let me guess,” Laz says, low and amused, “You want to go play ring toss.” 

“How’d you know?” Myrtle tilts his head, equally amused, and takes a long sip of his cider. It always goes the same way. They get something warm to fill their bellies and then they go and play enough cheap carnival games to score some prizes, despite the rigged nature of the game. Myrtle’s lucky that Laz is intimidating enough to spook the carnies into letting them win. 

“Just a gut feeling,” she smirks. “What kind of plushie are you thinking of this year?”

“Hmmm…” Myrtle taps their chin. “You know what I don’t have yet? A sharden.” 

“...They’re made of rocks.”

“The plushies aren’t!” They grin brightly, their eyes glittering. “I bet we can find one.” 

Lazuli sighs, but that’s just how Myrtle is. They like their soft and fluffy plushies, their cute things, their collections. They like to gather things up and keep them nice and organized. Maybe it’s a kitbull thing. “Alright. Sure.” 

They uncoil from their seat in response, their long body unspooling like yarn, and knock. back the rest of their cider. When they get to their feet so that they might move along, Laz follows suit, though she’d like to stay seated for a while longer. A long plume of aura trails from between her teeth, cold and dripping azure particulate, and fades into the air behind her as she follows Myrtle. They have games to win.