[November Prompt] The Harvest Masquerade

4. They do not wear one.

The town felt busier that day, a buzz of excitement seeming to flow through the Mead's bustling streets. I walked down the middle of the road, noting the accumulation of crowds in front of bars or around the opened windows of beer stalls. The cozy scent of firewood smoke hung in the air, alongside the warm smell of roasting meats. I could almost practically taste the mulled wine in the air as a passed on a particularly crowded cart; had I had a few more coins after paying for my room that day, I might have stopped for a cup of it. Though I could feel my mouth watering at the sight of the steam ruby-red liquid being ladled into a glass, I walked on, not allowing myself to stop a moment longer to stare, or else I might waste what little money I had left on a mug of it.

The Harvest Masquerade came yearly, and yet, I never seemed to anticipate its arrival. I knew generally that it came with the ends of fall, when the last of the amber leaves on trees turned brown and fell, and the last of the farmer's harvest was ready to be gathered. Yet, it had managed to catch me by surprise yet again—or, at least, that's what I told myself. Each year I'd see someone reveling in a beautifully intricate costume and think that next year I would finally take the time to craft a mask myself, but each year the thought of doing so seemed to fall from my mind until the day of the festival. It didn't matter much. I wasn't much for the crowds or the alcohol anyways; I was far too self-conscious to dance around in the streets with strangers and down mugs of beer into the night.

Besides, I reminded myself, it wasn't as though I had played a hand in the harvest this year. If anything, it was a miracle one had occurred so long as I was in town. Mead was a large enough town that the farmers tended to place their fields far from the main squares and city streets; it was why I had chosen this place during such a sensitive time of the year. My magic –my presence—was a threat to the very harvest celebrated tonight. Even with complete focus, I could never fully suppress the spores of fungal growth that dusted off of my crimson antlers and took root in my path. The hyphae grew rapidly in my presence; in the time it took me to purchase a dinner of roasted meat from a vendor, the earth was already tinged red beneath my feet; I stomped the growth into the mud as a left.

Now was a sensitive time of year, when the cold weather suppressed the growth of the plants but was more than accommodating to the hardy fungus that inhabited my body. The dried fields just waiting to be harvested could easily be overtaken by the red spores; my magic would choke off the crops and immediately cause them to rot. A farmers field or a healthy orchard would be decimated within a matter of days; hitting me with a pang of guilt at the thought of my parents' prized trees withering away by my then-new magic, destroying in one move both their only source of income and a decades worth of careful farming. If I strayed too close to the crops before they were harvested, my magic would threaten the plants, and potentially leave another without food or income. No, I cooped myself up inside rented rooms and avoided the farmers' fields as though I was the plague. I suppose, in some ways, I was.

Emotionally, the Harvest Masquerade was difficult for me. I have fond memories of celebrating with my town as a child; running around the streets with my friends in my own crudely crafted costume. However, since my magic found me, I had avoided the celebrations. On one hand, it was a bit silly: it wasn't as though my magic would affect the town's celebration, aside from maybe the slight stench of rot that seemed to cling to my antlers. However, I just never felt like I should be invited. No one barred me from attending except my own guilt and fear, and yet, I found myself unable to revel in the festivities all the same. Sighing, I tucked my dinner under my arm and followed the winding, busy streets back towards the inn where I was staying. It would be a lonelier night in than usual, but at least I had managed to secure a comfortable enough room.

I crossed the threshold of the cozy in, taking in a long breath of the fireplace-warmed air. The innkeeper –a kindly but tough older woman of grey hair and muscles strong from keeping the tavern—regarded me with some confusion. "No costume?" she asked asI passed the counter. I hesitated, my boots catching on the plush carpet.

"Not this year." I managed to reply after a slight pause, pushing down the sudden urge to explain myself. The innkeeper, though friendly, did not need to know my excuses nor my life story. I was paying her well for her room, and it hardly mattered to her if I wanted to stay cooped up inside rather than attend the event.

Instinctively, I pulled my fingers loosely through my hair, trying to calm myself. The question hadn't been an attack, or even a judgement—merely a question. And here I was, jumping right to the defensive. I focused on relaxing my shoulders, and shifted my weight slightly to appear less like I had been caught off-guard doing something wrong. "The crowds are a bit much for me here in Mead, though I'm sure I'm missing a wonderful celebration."

If the innkeeper was offput by my jumpiness, she didn't show it. "Aye, I can understand that," she remarked as she resumed tidying up her counterspace. "You're welcome to join in even without a costume, you know—who knows, you might enjoy yourself. Visitors are always invited to the celebrations here."

I nodded slightly, though was already turning to continue on my way. "I appreciate it. Maybe I'll check it out later," I lied, knowing I would do nothing of the sort. With a perfunctory wave, I continued to my quiet room at the end of the hall.