11-01-2025, 08:29 PM
The last heat of autumn smolders across his back as he enters the Meadow. Magic tastes like copper tonight — sharp, bright, waiting — and frost brushes his breath as the dying grass whispers secrets beneath his hooves. He follows a feeling more than a path, instinct tugging him forward, and it leads him to carved faces glimmering in the fading light. Their insides glow with flickering flame-light: a sea of toothy grins and warped expressions stretching as far as he can see. The sight coaxes a grin to his own lips. He trots closer, bold and buoyant, blissfully ignorant to the idea that this could be trap or danger. Why wouldn't pumpkins suddenly possess the Meadow? Beqanna never pretended to be sensible.
Magic hums warm and electric around the patch, and he pauses — ears forward, head slightly lifted, letting his cerulean eyes skate across the lantern-lit field for some hint of why this exists. A prank of the season? A message from whatever god has a sense of humor this year? Or maybe autumn just refused to leave quietly. As if a shrug ripples across his shoulders, he slips into a gleeful lope, weaving through the round taunting faces that leer and giggle in fire-tongued glow. Some he slows for, whiskers brushing their cool skins; at his touch they spark to life, lighting from within like startled spirits. He huffs in amusement and nudges another just to watch it flare.
He never notices that another has come before him, already claimed their prize. Eventually the buckskin finds his own; bright, round, and carved into a menacing smirk that feels like it’s laughing with him and at him all at once. It suits him perfectly. He grips the stem, satisfied, and the pumpkin’s glow licks orange across his navy-dusted legs as he turns away from the field.
With his chosen trophy swinging from his teeth, he leaves the Meadow behind, content, victorious, and smelling faintly of smoke, frost, and mischief.
Magic hums warm and electric around the patch, and he pauses — ears forward, head slightly lifted, letting his cerulean eyes skate across the lantern-lit field for some hint of why this exists. A prank of the season? A message from whatever god has a sense of humor this year? Or maybe autumn just refused to leave quietly. As if a shrug ripples across his shoulders, he slips into a gleeful lope, weaving through the round taunting faces that leer and giggle in fire-tongued glow. Some he slows for, whiskers brushing their cool skins; at his touch they spark to life, lighting from within like startled spirits. He huffs in amusement and nudges another just to watch it flare.
He never notices that another has come before him, already claimed their prize. Eventually the buckskin finds his own; bright, round, and carved into a menacing smirk that feels like it’s laughing with him and at him all at once. It suits him perfectly. He grips the stem, satisfied, and the pumpkin’s glow licks orange across his navy-dusted legs as he turns away from the field.
With his chosen trophy swinging from his teeth, he leaves the Meadow behind, content, victorious, and smelling faintly of smoke, frost, and mischief.