Aries, Week 2: Cleaverton, Ehro

Tarot Card: The World

Marktday arrives, signaling the end of a very tiring week. My week of moving in leaves me feeling accomplished. I won't paint my summoning circle for a few weeks, but my workshop is finally in order and, more importantly, I consecrated my magickal altar.

I have three villages to manage, so I can't afford to have an elaborate altar in each one. But Cleaverton has so many boutiques that I couldn't help but wander into a very faux-arcane one, where I splurged on a small Death statue carved out of obsidian.

As today's name implies, the market is open today, and I pre-emtively hung up my "Closed" sign for the day to provision myself and to have a bit of a day off. I won't be visiting the grand market—only used for sabbats—but instead the more modest village square.

First stop: buying staples. I put in several orders for groceries to be delivered to my house in three weeks. I'm headed to Nightway tomorrow, and after that, Kelschurch, so there's no point in carting anything home today.

Next stop: preparing for a luxurious day by myself. I buy a wicker basket with a comfortable handle that I hang over my arm, and a thin table cloth checked in light green and blue. Next comes fresh focaccia, a spreadable cheese sampler, early spring berries, and a take-away covered bowl of tasty-looking tabouleh. As an afterthought, I double back towards the wine booth to purchase an inexpensive syrah.

As I turn the corner, I see a young person, perhaps a year or two older than I am, bickering with the wine proprietor over a bottle of what I can only guess was spoiled wine. I can't tell one vintage from another, but the flask certainly marks itself as quite refined and expensive.

As I approach, the customer glances over at me, and I find myself staring into the most beautiful brown eyes I have ever seen. Our gazes lock; their irritated scowl at the vendor melts away instantly and a broad smile sweeps across their face. For a moment my heart threatens to stall and leave me passed out on the cobblestones.

Side-swept dyed blue hair with an under-buzz, and black hair peeking out at the roots. Flaired half-skirt over tight breeches and mid-calf heeled boots, with a stylish aristocratic waistcoat and long jacket—perfectly sensible for the bourgeoisie of a village like Cleaverton—but with accessories that whisper rebelliousness. I catch the faint whiff of magick, but it feels too intimate to examine it closer. I look away, blushing and embarrassed.

"You must be the new village witch," they say to me. Or at least I think that's what they say. They could have exclaimed, "That purple cat over there dances jigs on Frueday" and it would have been equally coherent to me.

I stammer an affirmation, and then they floor me when they ask me my pronouns. This is the first time in Cleaverton that anyone has done so; most people just assume, and only about a third of the time do they get it right.

Then they introduce themselves as Ehro, only child of the Ptalia family. Their mother is Claro, head of the village council, and the family owns the aethereum refinery over in Nightway. Ehro nonchalantly brushes off the implication of importance, as if they hadn't mentioned it.

I stare at them, mouth gaping; a pleasant, twinkly laugh escapes their lips, and I remember to mumble something about it being a pleasure to meet them.

"Well, I see you're busy at the moment, but I'll probably see you around," they wink as they turn back to the vendor. Calmly, Ehro instructs the older man to handle the refund at his own discretion, and then saunters away with a backwards glance and a quirked smile in my direction. I realize I have been holding my breath and let out a sigh.

A half hour later, and a distracted lapse of time missing from my memory, I arrive at the spot I've chosen for a picnic.

Tucked deep into the woods is an old dilapidated shrine to Drowthel, a gender-fluid deity that represents the cycles of time. Traditionally effigies of Drowthel are enchanted to match the changing seasons: during Aries, he appears as an impulsive, haughty martial artist; next month she will be a sensually seductive homemaker. But the statue is in disrepair and is stuck in her form of the Keeper of Secrets: dark, flowing robe with a hood pulled so far over her face that it is almost entirely obscured. She holds a lantern aloft, implying that all will be revealed for those who seek, and change will inevitably follow.

I clear away the rotting leaves and debris that have collected at the base, sad that I have no magick that would correctly repair it. I grew up in a traditionally religious family, but I left it mostly behind when I attended the Academy where it was seen as superstitious. The gods haven't spoken to us in generations, and many people have abandoned prayer to deities that don't listen any more. I don't blame them, and I think they're right; still, something about the statue tugs at my soul. As a finishing touch, I leave a small offering of strawberries from my picnic basket—not her traditional offering, but she likes red, so I silently pray she'll be okay with it.

I lay out my delicious spread and am prepared to settle down into a delightful fantasy novel (about a world without magick, of all things!), but my mind keeps wandering towards the dashing figure in the marketplace. I suddenly feel the first drops of rain splash on my head and instinctively protect my book. Hurriedly, I gather up my picnic, and my delightful day of relaxation is ended by the downpour.