Festoon

Entering the town of Goldsmill during the Festival of Spring was a delight to the nose. From house to house and post to post, vines blossoming with delicate flowers festooned the settlement, releasing their gentle fragrances in an olfactory harmony.

Clad in robes of white, the Followers of Spring tended to the gardens with love and affection, their fingers stained green from the constant exposure to the fluids as they crafted each plant, flower and shrub to their most healthy.

A shrine set up near the central water spring handed blessings out to the local farmers for their deference to the Wheel of Seasons. Death was at her fairest in Spring, her form shifting with the changes of the world, or perhaps the other way around. And on that sunny day, she swept into town, toes barely touching the soil as she drifted across the cobblestones and soil.

Henar, the elder priest of the Followers, looked up from his shrine with a knowing smile as she approached. “Is it time, my Lady?” He asked in a wheezing voice, her form clear despite the cloudiness to his vision.

Death nodded, gesturing slowly to him, the sky and then beckoning towards herself. The soft dress made of tender leaves and blossoming flowers that clad her draped lightly on the floor as she held a hand out towards him.

“Thank you for the time I have had, my Lady.” Henar bowed respectfully, his hood pushed back to reveal a balding head topped with whispers of grey hair. Taking her hand, each wrinkle straightened, each lost hair sprouting anew in the dark brown tone of his youth as the years fell from him.

Death smiled gently as her nature worked, his essence renewed and rapidly fading as power radiated from his body. Each pulse washed over the town and the smallholdings around it, ablating the coherence of his body until with one last pulse, both Henar and Death had vanished.

As the land bloomed with renewed vigor, the town rejoiced in glorious song. For Death, for Henar, and for the blessing of yield, flavour and vitality that his passing would give their harvest.

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