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The Story of the First Cothmas

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Cothmas was always my favorite time of year. Something about the cold and the snow made everyone get a little closer. I don't know, it always felt that way to me. I loved playing with the snakes when I was a boy, I'd laugh when they'd roll around the living room with me, or play fight me with their fangs still retracted. As the night drew on, just before they'd vanish back to god, my parents and my grandfather and I would just sit with the snakes for a while in front of the tree, with all its many colored fires, and eat our Cothmas candy and just be for a few minutes. Be together. Be at peace. I didn't mind it when I was a kid, but I really get it now that I have kids of my own. 

Once the snakes went back to god, though, that was when my favorite part of Cothmas would begin. I'd kiss my parents good night, gather up all the silly presents I'd gotten and meet grandpa in my room. He was always waiting there, seated beside my bed, storybook in hand. Cothmas was a time for family, I knew, but now I think he rode the Bullet Train all the way from Temple City into Coth's station just to make sure I heard the story of the first Cothmas every year. He's one of the few people from my childhood whose face I remember exactly. Sharp eyes. That big bushy mustache, and those eyebrows, and the wild swept back hair in a tangle of smoky grey and white . The man had never seen a brush, I imagined. That's wizards for you. 

I'd vault in to bed, pull the covers up and give him a solemn nod. Nothing more needed to be said, and he'd crack the book open beside me and begin,

"Cothmas is god's day." he would always start, "In the very beginning, when god was still new and Coth was a tiny little village unknown to the rest of the world, Cothmas became as we know it today. Constans and god's Chosen Scrivener Ioreth tell the story thusly:"

The story of Cothmas is steeped in the deepest solemnity and devotion to god. The tale is one of great triumphs over wild forces, and the binding together of a holy family of friendship. It contains strange creatures, great conflicts, and heroic efforts acted out by not only we two writers, but by some of our dearest and most faithful friends and servants of god. 

Originally, Cothmas had begun as Coth's Mass, an invitation to all faithful people to pilgrimage to Coth and together as one single faith fall to our knees before god and thank him for finding us and for saving us. Yet near the time the special ceremony was scheduled, indeed the very night before, god placed before his most devout servants something of a test of character. The travails of this night inspired so many of the Cothmas traditions we know today that Lady Ioreth and I have come to believe it is worthy of a proper retelling, to set the matter straight and educate all Cothites as to why they enjoy some of the strange and miraculous things we've come to expect from Cothmas. 

The story of Cothmas begins when I was praying in the cellar of the Church, on my knees thanking god...


"Ioreth." Constans moaned, "Where do you get this stuff?" 

He took another huge gulp of the honey-wine. He was in the elf's new parlor. 

"This is the best thing I have ever tasted." he said, holding it up by his shoulder. The snake around his neck piqued up at the glass, nosed at it some, and dunked its head in, lapping twice at the sweet wine before resuming its place asleep upon its master. 

Constans was sitting on a creaky rocking chair, his sleeves pulled up and his cloak thrown over the backrest. His tan boots were at the door, which left him looking a bit plant-like in his green doublet and brown leathers. He had been the first to arrive for the very informal celebration before tomorrow's ceremony. A little socializing, a toast to success tomorrow, and an early night seemed to Constans the picture of a good Coth's Mass eve. It would be a nice tradition to carry into the future.

Ioreth was right, everything he did was so public. He deserved to enjoy a relaxing night with his friends. 

"Not to make a big deal out of it tonight, but there are some people coming in the next week or two, dignitaries from a place called Temple City, up north. They say they want to hear about our god." if he sounded skeptical, he was. He'd heard tell that the green sun had been seen much farther away than the borders of Coth, but even still newcomers inquiring about god so soon were either hucksters or, more hopefully, divinely guided. 

"I just wanted to make sure you'd be around. They claim to be a order of knights." he said, helping himself to another mouthful of wine. It was so sweet he could barely taste the alcohol at all, which made it very easy to drink!



@KittyvonCupcake @Spooky Mittens @Better Than Gore @LikelyMissFortune @Fennis Ursai

Edited by Vansin

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 “Ioreth. Where do you get the stuff?”

 The flicker of a knowing smile answered his question first. “Here, there, and everywhere.”

 A retrievalist never reveals her sources.

 While Constans had claimed the rocking chair, Ioreth reclined on a battered loveseat retrieved from Draug’s first bookstore in Blairville. Though there were a few puckering wounds in the deep green upholstery from wayward cigarette ash and an occasional snagged animal’s claw, it added an informal touch to the main room.

 What began as a monkish space---with its bare wooden walls and clean oak floors---constructed closer to the forest than the village itself now faced its transition into a nomad’s first home. She had yet no treasures to hang on the walls, apart from the creeping buds of newly seeded bioluminescent vines. A plush maroon rug, opulent and rescued from the remains of Book|Ends, spread across the floor by the fire as if it had been tossed in that location and not thought of again. A table and four chairs, crafted by one of the capable Cothite carpenters, stood in a corner. It supported a full bouquet of flowers, the rich smell of winter roses mingling with lit bergamot candles and honey-wine, and a spread of roasted boar (freshly butchered meats often materialized atop her doorstep in the morning and they rarely went to waste). Vegetables from the harvest, potatoes, and pies declared the remaining surface of the table as their own, leaving her chipped collection of plates and mismatched utensils to brood in a neatly stacked pile atop a column of thick tomes. There were two other rooms: a bedroom with enough space for a copper tub, and a study that also functioned as a workshop. Each door remained shut.

 A basket of apples, a rack of antlers above the mantle, fur throws and a towering pile of books, a friend’s pair of boots at the door---all signs of a domestic life, indications that she settle in here.

 As Constans spoke of the messages he received from Temple City, she put her head to the side and blinked, still bright eyed despite the wine she sipped, pupils slit like a content cat. Her bare feet were tucked beneath the folds of her silken blue robe. “Knights?” she echoed. “They tend to be a faithful sort. Do you think they searching for something?” Her gaze drifted over the drowsing snake wrapped around his shoulders. “Answers, perhaps? Or maybe a purpose. Or…” She took another mouthful of wine and grinned. “They could be like the rest of us and just want a good drink.”

 For reasons that could only elucidated by the chaotic electrical pathways of her mind, the thought of a good drink forcefully collided with the image of the priest’s gift that sat wrapped in multicolored paper atop her wardrobe and simmered with the sensation that she failed to remember something Constans said before she invited him over to her cabin. She was forgetting his gift! While this made her suddenly swing to her feet, it did little to assuage the feeling that something else receded from the grasp of her memory. There was something, but what?

 “I found a gift for you,” she exclaimed, the lilting chirp of her voice covering the mental current what was it? what was it? what was it? “And one for Nyra, as well, when she comes back. Let me fetch it.”

 There was an imp in Ioreth’s room that slumbered on the corner of her bed, his potbelly hidden beneath a black cloak that he used as a blanket. Despite Ioreth and a washerwoman’s combined efforts, the scent of imp had thoroughly overtaken her cloak, rendering it unbearable to wear. He slept on, blissfully ignorant of the elf tiptoeing in and out of her own bedroom to retrieve a pair of gifts for a priest and his werebear daughter.

 With a crinkle of gaudy golden paper, Ioreth thrust Constans’ gift into his hands and pounced upon her perch on the sofa. “I saw it in Blairville,” she said, shifting into a breathless stream of Duendaic, “in the central marketplace by the alchemist guild. It reminded me of you. Go on!” Her hands fluttered like sweeping birds. “Open it.

 Wrapped inside the package was a mechanical lantern. At first glance, the copper contraption appeared mundane. While the metal was twisted and shaped into lattice-like whorls and spirals, it lacked a candle or any noticeable way to add a form of captured light to its glass belly. That was until one “tapped it on the head”, as Ioreth stated. After its head was tapped, a pair of stilt like copper legs akin to a heron bounced out from the bottom and allowed the lantern to stand at approximately knee height. A tentative light blinked out from its glass belly, casting a flickering glow on Constans’ shin.

 There was also a small scarf knitted in green for his snake, in case it got cold during the winter months. Nyra's gift remained by her side, the paper around its awkward shape tied with an excessive amount of red ribbon.

  "Was it only Nyra visiting tonight?" she asked, the hasty gulp of wine contradicting any cultivated calm that existed within her question.

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Somewhere, out in the forests of Coth, a lone elf rested his weary eyes beneath the gentle rustling of pines and branches.  A light snowfall blanketed the wilderness in a white film which stifled all the worldly noises.  This was definitely one of Tirkas' most favorite seasons because it was so very easy for him to just relax and let himself drift off into a trance for hours on end.  Cool winter nights while the snow fluttered about were as peaceful as the grave.

He sat beneath a great conifer, taking refuge in the needles around its trunk.  His armor and weapons were left in the small cottage he called home these days, so he wore little more than a thick winter cloak over his ceremonial robes.  He sat in a meditative position with his eyes closed and his ears wide open, absorbing all of the subtleties of the forest around him.  He listened intently to the great emptiness of the wind and slowly sank into his trance.  He let the word fall around him, melting into the background until he was left with only himself and the cool sensation against his face.  Eventually, even that would fade, leaving Tirkas a singularity in the universe, basking in the void as his subconscious mind took control.

He opened his eyes, but he did not see the world as he knew it now.  He was in a dream and laid out before him was a warped facsimile of reality.  The colors were much more vibrant, and present even in the absence of light.  He found himself in a great garden stretching out as far as the eye could see with no perceivable end.  The world rolled in upon itself at its edges, forming a dome of land that stretched all the way into the sky, and if one looked straight up they could see the very same garden.  Though it was cold to the touch, this garden was lively and vibrant.

Tirkas felt himself wandering about the mazelike flowerbeds and hedges, admiring all of the wondrous plants that his mind had conjured until he came upon a specific section.  This section was so stark, because unlike the rest of the dream this section was dark, blanketed in snow.  In the middle of this plot stood a single balsam fir with a gentle dusting of white.  It stood no taller than six feet high, and its colors were darkened and muted as if the sun was not shining here.  Tirkas approached with apprehension at first.  He feared that if he touched this dark tree, then perhaps his brilliant dream would turn into a terrifying nightmare.  He could sense that this was an omen even in his restful trance, and in his sleepful state, he could feel his heart breaking faster by the second.

He reached his hand out to touch the tree, eyes wide and afraid, and as his fingers tickled the evergreen needles, a creature slithered from within the tree.  An emerald green snake, tall as a man and as thick as the tree trunk it wrapped itself around.  It's head leveled with Tirkas' own, slotted yellow eyes piercing the Elf body and soul.  It said nothing, and yet somehow Tirkas knew what it was thinking, he knew what was coming, and even as the snake opened its jaws to bite his arm, Tirkas did not flinch.  The pain was stark.

He awoke with a shout, eyes bolt open and glowing dimly in the night.  The world came back to him, the cool dirt beneath his legs, the gentle breeze that made the snow flutter.  He assessed his position and witnessed that the roots of the tree he sat beneath had risen from the ground and found their way into Tirkas' arms, like the fangs of a snake.  The tree drank of his blood, and on this night god performed a miracle through this sacrifice.  As Tirkas turned his head to look he finally noticed that the tree above him had sprung to life with a vibrant green glow, as though a fire burned behind the veil of what was real and imagined.

"Holy shit."

He said aloud, and a voice in the back of his mind answered with Yes, my child, indeed.  He gazed upon the surroundings, maybe by instinct or by some unseen deific hand, and saw that all of the small balsam fir's in the area started to glow like this gigantic one that Tirkas napped under.  Dozens of trees were glowing as bright as any torch, and immediately Tirkas knew what he was meant to do here.  He bolted to his feet and ran to the first six foot tree he could find and set to work chopping it down, using his druidic magic to hack at the soft trunk.  It would still take him several minutes to get through, but when it was done he hoisted the tree over his shoulder and saw that it was still aglow.

"I have to show the Father!"

Tirkas shouted to himself with holiday glee as he started to sprint across the fields back towards the town.

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It had been some time after she had first approached the Elvin lady, and, today, Odille had figured out what her name was: Ioreth. She had something to do with books and scrolls, transcribing onto parchment and immortalizing deeds in a code she hadn't quite deciphered yet. At least, now, she knew how to read simple bulletins and signs such as 'garment', 'tavern', 'brewery' and 'bakery'. 

Still, despite her new found literacy- and the burning urge to just barrage a certain tattoo'd elf with questions, Odille simply couldn't find the courage to do so. For one, she is almost always accompanied by the leader of the Church, or some citizen or another. The only moment she could think where a private conversation could be viable was when Ioreth was at her house; but, even then, there was still a chance of interruption by the bursting of that damned priest.

That must've been some sort of blasphemy.

Still, Odille found it odd that the priest spent so much time with the Elf Lady.

Surely, if he liked Elves, there were plenty to be found. There was Odille herself, a couple of others were also seen smiling in and out of the tavern; including that extremely odd one, she had heard him being referred to as 'Tirkas', though his name wasn't exactly clear. She has heard being referred to in many colorful words, for all she knew 'Tirkas' was just another one of them. That one scared her.

Well, the dark scared Odille. She wasn't a very courageous Elf, subsisting on the kindness of a tavern owner in exchange for her voice. But, tonight, was far less raucous than usual- only a hand full of patrons littering the smoky common room, these days there has been less and less people in the tavern, it worried her even though the buxom owner waved it off with a laugh. One of those that did come, was the very human Son of the Tavern owner, brown haired and blue eye'd he always hung around the room until she stopped performing; though he gave up trying to get her to speak after the first three weeks. He just sat, smiled and stared now. And spoke at her, he never waited on a reply.

"Odille, you look troubled, is anything wrong?" He spoke, and she realized that the song she had been singing had died on her lips. Color rising to her cheeks, she nodded, eyes averted from his insistent stare. 

"It's nothing to worry over," He sighed, leaning against the bar she sat on, cross legged. "Winter Solstice is a time where most people go home to their families, we're prepared for it you stupid Elf." He found this extremely amusing it seemed, for her laughed- Odille just frowned at him.

"Don't you have family?" 

Odille shook her head, aimlessly strumming her lute.

"Really, where'd you come from, then? A Star? I knew your voice was celestial." He burst into laughter once more, this time, some of the patrons joining in.

Odille felt chagrined, tears prick her eyes. She bounded off of the bar and stormed upstairs, so absorbed, she had been by her escape and avoiding people from her Village, she had forgotten about the Solstice. 

It was a night to be courageous.

And strong, and not let a priest stop her from doing what she must.

So, stomping up to her rickety attic room, Odille plucked a warm woolen stocking from her cupboard- slamming the drawer as hard as she could. Then, she marched right back downstairs- and snatched the bowl of honeycombs and honeyed plums on the bar. 

"Hey, Hey! Odille, hey, are you upset? I didn't mean to upset you?" The boy hollered, with just enough sincerity to make her stop- he seemed as though he was sorry, but Odille couldn't waste any time.

"Are you going outside-- what's with the sock?" He sounded really desperate now, jumping over the counter as she stalked towards the door.  "It's freezing outside! For the Green God's sake don't go outside, you stupid Elf!" 

That was it.

Turning around, teeth grit, eyebrows knotted- she turned towards the boy and stuck her tongue at him. And then she ran.

And now, she wished she had listened to that stupid boy. Halfway through, her boots were completely sodden- and so was her hair, and clothes and she sorely wished she had  worn her sock. Not, have it slung over her shoulder like a sack.

Either way, now she was at an impasse- standing outside the Elf Lady's door, not quite sure to knock or not to knock, Odille sought shelter under her porch. 

Truly, Odille was a stupid Elf, allowing herself to be cold, across town, in a damned forest, and, in front of a stranger's door with a sock full of sweets. There was no way, absolutely no way, the night could get any more absurd.

So, planting her feet firmly on the ground, she cleared her throat and began to sing.

"Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright"

Edited by LikelyMissFortune

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For months they toiled; hunting and gathering food for the upcoming winter, for the first snowfall meant the season had ended. Through trial and error, they came to the conclusion that their prey did the exact same. Certainly, there had been a select few animals that hadn't followed this ritual, but the weather made it seemingly impossible for them to productively track. Snow blanketed the forest more often than not and covered whatever tracks had been left. It was a fool's errand and sometimes cost them the lives of good hunters, whether that was to the wrath of mother nature, a rival tribe, or worse the very creatures they aimed to hunt.

Each family was held to a certain standard based on the capabilities of their kinfolk to contribute food for the tribe, that food was then rationed out to every family equally to survive the upcoming frigidness of winter. If a family hadn't met said standard, they were cast out and forced to fend for themselves until the season passed. An unfortunate family lost a Father to an opposing tribe during a raid attempt, leaving behind a beautiful wife and an overly eager daughter.

On a night much like this, that daughter set off on a noble cause, sneaking out in the middle of the night in an attempt to pick up the slack and save both herself and her Mother from starvation. She was naive; but never left her Father's side, she watched him like a hawk. Studied him. Mimicked him. Over the years she had become quite adept at spearfishing, archery, and the most sought-after skill of all. Tracking.  With spear in hand, she trenched through the snow and bared the cold to the best of her ability. Her burning determination inevitably paid off, as she came across the biggest paw prints she had ever seen. Fresh too, as the details had yet to be masked by the snow. From her Father's knowledge, she identified them as that of a bear, but they were far too large to be any species of bear that roamed her woods. Judging by the size, this kill would yield enough food to feed not only her family but any family that shared their fate. Following the tracks, she soon realized that they were gradually getting smaller, only to become a footprint much like her own. Granted larger, but definitely of human nature. There was no evidence of a kill, no blood, certainly no signs of a struggle imprinted in the snow. Puzzled she trekked onward, stopping only once she reached what appeared to be an encampment. A fire roared and heat licked at her face. "H-hello?" Her voice was muffled by the crackling of the fire.

Then came a roar. A roar so ferocious and powerful that the fire itself was smothered by it. Fire whisked away into nothingness, leaving smoke billowing from charred logs. Fight or flight instinctively kicked in. Run. But it was far too late, the beast was upon her. A monster, something one only saw in their nightmares charged her. Forcing her to back peddle and fall into the snow. Raising her spear defensively as she did so, hoping to impale the creature as it mauled her. Wishful thinking at its finest. The creatures massive paw swatted the spear away with ease, as the other carved into her chest. It loomed over her, panting heavily, seemingly pausing from its onslaught. She took this opportunity to flee, rolling onto her stomach only to crawl helplessly. Then again. It swatted her, cleaving through her fur and hide jacket, ripping across the flesh on her back. An agonizing scream bellowed from the little girl, the adrenaline and shock from the initial encounter had worn off, as her consciousness swiftly began to fade. "I'm s-sorry M-Mama.." Fade to black.

That very next morning, Constans stumbled upon her. Face down in the snow, blood coating the fresh powder, yet there were no wounds to rectify the shed. Her clothing tattered from the assault, upon further inspection the wounds had mended and scarred. Distinctive claw markings on both her back and chest. Barely coherent, the little girl's hair and face had accumulated frost from the bitter cold. The now doused firepit ignited with a bright green flame, melting away the snow that had gathered atop it and radiating outward with a pulse of unknown intent. Without a second thought, Constans swooped her up and laid her across his shoulder, carrying her back from whence he came.

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"Everyone is looking for a purpose these days." Constans said, "The world is so big, one knight is so small. So whatever they say they're here for, in their hearts each one of them is pining for a purpose to choose them, instead of the opposite. I don't mean to proselytize here, but the big guy upstairs chose us. I think that's going to be a more powerful message than any they've got before. It will be. I'd know." 

After all, he'd once been a Gaian too. 

"Oh, gifts!"

He jumped up to his feet. Gift-giving was a custom of Gaian solstice he fully intended to continue into the new era. He took Ioreth's gift with a genteel bow of gratitude and ripped it apart with gusto. The lantern's function was mastered in short order and to Constans utter delight. 

"Hah! look at that! I guess I'm out of a job now, huh?" he said, patting the walking lantern's thin metal hat. It jangled and nearly fell over, its light flickering dangerously. 

"And for you!" he said to Ioreth, grabbing the serpent roughly by its chin and unraveling it from his shoulders like a unwilling rope. When he held its midsection outstretched in his hand to Ioreth it might have seemed like he was offering his snake, the front half of which was sprawled on the ground, sleepily looking up at the gift-givers. Yet for an observant elf like Ioreth the two lumps inside the snake, which were held in the part of its stomach Constans was offering to her, would appear to be the real gifts. 

"You gotta sort of squeeze them out." he admitted sheepishly. The snake looked between Constans and Ioreth and flicked its tongue. 

When she was finished with that uncomfortable process, the brilliant green serpent coughed up a pair of fist-sized tailless emerald mice. They were beautiful works, smoothed and cut to a stylized likeness of the small rodent after which they were shaped. Pressed close to one's ear, they made a barely audible squeaking sound. 

"Cute right?" Constans said, sitting back down on the couch, grabbing a pencil and small slip of paper from his hip-pouch and scrawling on it a single word. 

"They're bombs." he said, casual as ever as he finished writing. He handed her the paper. It read: Squeak. 

"That's the command word, if they hear it they shatter and everyone within thirty feet shrinks to about the size of the emerald mouse for an hour."  

He then handed her a small box of dark wood inlaid with white starry patterns. The inside was lined with felt. 

"And this is a sound-proof box. You don't want any of those," he said, nodding to the mice, " without one of these. Merry Cothmas!" 


Later, when Ioreth asked about guests, Constans joined her for a heavy gulp of wine. 

"Nyra, yes, I may have also mentioned it to-" 


"Silent night, holy night
All is calm, all is bright"

Constans shifted his eyes toward the door. 

"Just a few people..."


@KittyvonCupcake @Spooky Mittens @Better Than Gore @LikelyMissFortune


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 How a mystical serpent could maintain such a state of soporific beatitude after the trauma of its birth was a mystery to Ioreth. It was possible that the snake’s demeanor was a reflection of Constans’s inner peace, or maybe she just liked wine. Either way, Ioreth’s expression shifted from a wrinkled brow of concern to an exclamation of delight when the tiny green mice popped out of the snake’s mouth.

 “Very cute!” she agreed, holding one up to fire’s glow to examine the way light refracted off of its surface.

 “They’re bombs.”

 Of course they were. This piece of information was accepted with a serene nod as the tip of her finger skimmed across their tiny carved noses. The quickest way to Ioreth’s heart, besides with a bottle of whiskey and a turkey sandwich, was to be something shiny. Anything with a glimmer, a gleam, and a sparkle set her into blissful mood. And to be magically attuned for mischief and shiny? Perfection. Ignoring the temptation of impulsively parroting back “squeak,” she tucked the mice and their command word into the box.

 “It’s a beautiful gift, Constans,” she purred. “Thank you. Merry Cothmas!”

 At his answer regarding additional guests, Ioreth drained half of her wine glass. When she heard singing, the wine glass found itself completely empty. Not even a drop had been spared. He may have mentioned it to others and it may have been mentioned to her and now there was someone singing at her door.

 “'A few', yeah? Let’s see who it is.”

 It certainly wasn’t the worst thing she had ever seen on her doorstep. Wet, bedraggled, with chattering teeth and a sock flung over her shoulder was Odille. Ioreth let out a sigh. “Get inside before you catch your death, eilín valea*.” No time had been granted for the bard to sing out an answer before Ioreth seized her by the elbow and pulled her inside. “Boots off. Wet leather is horrid for the feet,” she stated, still giving neither Odille nor Constans the opportunity to say more than a greeting as she continued to shoo the bard towards her bedroom. “And you need something warm to wear. Do you not have a coat?”

 While she opened her bedroom door, the tide of nimble words continued to tumble from her tongue. “If you caught pneumonia, how could you sing? Or winter pox! Or tinnfaur, that warps the larynx. You need---” Long black skirts swishing, rich blue robe flowing behind her like a tidal wave, silver jewelry clinking, Ioreth pulled a fur lined cloak, thick leggings, a loose white undershirt, a dusty green tunic, a knitted cream colored sweater that would serve as a suitable disguise to hide amongst sheep, and squashy hat out a wardrobe that was carved from black oak and stuffed these items into Odille’s arms. “There. Something warm. Get dressed, I shall give you some privacy. Ignore the imp in the bed, he only wakes up if you take the cloak off his head.”

Before Odille could peek over the mountain of warm clothing, an object and a silk scarf had been stuffed into Ioreth’s loose left sleeve. Whatever it was, it would have to serve as Odille’s Cothmas gift.

 The object in question was rather pointy. Ioreth winced as she trotted out of the room and closed the door behind her. Out from the depths of her sleeve came a Welander’s throwing star, its center complete with a golden eye encased in a clear crystal. If, or more likely when Odille decided to throw it, the girl would discover that the throwing star always came back by its own volition. It liked Odille, and imprinted upon her like a duckling to its mother. 

 The eye blinked. Ioreth winced once more, wrapped it in silk, and discarded it next to Nyra’s gift with a grimace.

(*Duendaic for "silly girl")

Edited by KittyvonCupcake

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