>>5778186“See, when you are all WEIRD about stuff like this, it starts to make me think it IS a date.”
Henzler’s mouth snapped shut at that, forming a thin line.
“Though I have to warn you,” you continued, struggling to keep a straight face, “I’ve told all my friend and family where we’re meeting, so if I go missing—or come back with any hickeys—they’ll know what happened to me.”
You didn’t think it was possible for her to go any redder and, yet, here you both were—and she, with her brownish skin, had purpled up like a beet.
“THIS IS NOT,” she reiterated, hands balled in fists at her side, “A DATE!”
You raised your hands defensively, but before you could explain that you were only joking, she added: “And anyway, you don’t HAVE any family.”
You shut your mouth, narrowing your eyes a little. To her credit, the unsociable Henzler seemed at least self aware to realize the faux pas. Unfortunately, she was about as graceful at backpedalinga s she was at deflecting.
“I-I didn’t mean… I just meant you have no family HERE, in Hawksong. I know that, for instance, you have a family GENERALLY. Everyone does. You have to come from somewhere.”
“Yeah,” you said, with a forced smile, “even strange, adopted little girls.”
You were both quiet for a moment until, finally, the groggy, tea-nursing halfling fellow at the entrance kiosk broke the awkward silence:
“You two lovebirds going in, or not.”
“Yes,” you both answered at once, then looked at each other, then hastily looked away once more.
Side-by-side, you entered. It was, you had to admit, an almost hilariously-surreal experience to be walking by so many wackily-warped and amusingly-enchanted effigies of yourself—stretched, warped, distorted, discoloured, upside down, backwards-walking, funny-faced, and everything in between—in solemn silence.
“…Like the Yokai Parade.”
You looked over at Henzler beside you, utterly confounded.
“Like WHAT now?”
“In the Eastlands,” she said, not looking back at you but rather still staring into her own transfigured reflections. “They say the yokai—fairies, incarnate demons, beastmen in disguise, undead even—parade through the streets at certain times of year, demanding tribute or bewitching those who fail to provide it. It must look a lot like this, don’t you think?”
Ugh. This GIRL. ALWAYS showing off! You huffed, and shrugged.
“I guess it’s a bit like a fairy court,” you countered, which proved a mistake.
“You’ve SEEN a fairy court?!” she asked, looking at you starry-eyed now, reaching out as if to grip your robe’s hem. You backed up, only your innate elven grace sparing you the embarrassment of bumping into the mirror behind you.
“Uh,” you fumbled, “not… PERSONALLY, but, you know… The pointy ears pick up stories.”
