I don't know who rolled in six large barrels of wine to break the stagnant atmosphere.
When the dusty cap was pried open, the sweet liquid instantly melted the coldness of the night, and the pre-departure revelry officially began.
As bright as the silver hook of the crescent moon hanging a few star lamps slowly rose, the emerald green forest crown accumulates a snow-covered agar top. Most people came prepared; they were all in a light white dress, head wearing a laurel crown, never missing a lacquered silver wooden bow on the back, perfectly restoring the goddess's crescent moon evening make-up.
If the full moon symbolizes perfection and maturity, it is a night of fulfillment belonging to the great witches; if the crescent moon, with its cat's string pupils, shows flaws and imperfections and at the same time sparkles with vitality, it is a night of revelry belonging to the young girls.
The goddess of the crescent moon is green but not without ferocity; her body is as transparent and flawless as the snow in the early spring; and a silver bow is engraved with the chapter of the priesthood of purity and hunting. In the form of a maiden of the moon, she runs through forests and streams, sheltering the young and the children who have no one to depend on, and the silver bow on her back always hangs high in the night sky, guiding lost pedestrians on their hunts and journeys.
Now the young girls were about to depart; this was the last night of the new moon they would spend in Miller's Valley.
Later, they would spend countless dark nights alone, starched and moonlit, until they hunted down the head of the Demon Wolf, so now they danced their most spirited dances in their purest forms, praying to the goddess of the crescent moon for direction, strength, and victory.
It was like prom. The mellow smell of alcohol made Dill forget about the smelly mud on her body, and she couldn't help but smile.
Dill had been a bit rattled, but as the alcohol took effect and her blood began to boil, it was as if her brain had been split in half, one half soaking in the intoxicating fruity scent and the mesmerizing moonlight, already blending in; the other half observing everything with uncanny clarity and calmness, out of place, telling Dill who she was all of the time.
She heard Gernis draw her bow and hit the target, drawing shouts of approval from the crowd. She subconsciously followed the shadow of the arrow, but just in time to see the silver bow of the crescent moon hanging high on a straight, bald branch; the treetops were snow-covered and glistening with silver, like silver arrows poised on the strings of the moon, just as a lone star dotted the tip of the branch.
Dill took a sip of the mesmerizing fruity scent and thought to herself that all it took was one shot from the goddess and the shooting star would be transformed into a wish to land on earth, and she didn't have much of a wish to make, just one little star to make it come true.
"That's drunk on summer dreams, huh?"
A young girl sat beside Dill, her honey brown curls falling lazily, the oak barrel in her hand half empty.
"When Ms. Perron finds out in the morning, she'll catch us out one by one like drunken chicks and seal us alive into barrels to brew for a hundred years."
The color-feathered parrot on her shoulder smartly chimed in, "Chicks, chicks!"
Helena, who was giggling drunkenly, spat the wine in her mouth back into the glass without thinking at this remark, causing the other party to burst into a fit of giggles and the parrot to match its owner's crisp laughter.
Dill, who wasn't quite drunk enough to recognize the magical pet symbolizing wit on her shoulder, guessed the person right away, "Kristina?"
Kristina covered her thin white gown with a thick dark green cloak; her beauty had fully grown; her green tunic framing her dark brown hair and rose-colored lips; she was also the oldest of all the girls; she used to take the lead in setting the rules for the games; and nowadays she carried the charms of a honeyed fruit at the beginning of its ripeness in her hands and feet.
Perhaps it was the fact that she was also the owner of a bird-magic pet that made Kristina unusually close to Dill lately. The girl tugged on her cloak and shooed the parrot down to play with the great white goose, a colorful one, a white one, looking at each other with crooked heads, which was quite amusing.
"A bottle of Summer Dream plus not a bad face is the most common love potion used by the mortals of Juniper River."
Ketrina's mouth rattled off her own personal secrets, despite her posturing:
"Should it be my mother or father? Anyway, it's definitely not good for a commoner to hook up with a noble if it happens to also let his spouse know... hiccup! Luckily for me, my lady was passing through the area, and the man prayed with a bottle of Summer Dream for her to take me away. Until now, I've believed that whenever I have a fine wine to drink, something bad is definitely going to happen, and you see, after this glass, we're going to die in the morning."
The atmosphere froze for a moment, and then it was broken by a higher voice.
"Then have a few more sips of wine before you die!!!"
Alcohol made even the deadly Becky soft and harmless. But the girl from the south was drunk, and as she danced with frenzied nonchalance, her dark brown skin resembled honey-colored sweat, and a beautiful turquoise and silver serpentine tattoo loomed lifelike in it.
Only Dill soon realized that it was a real snake. The dangerous enchanter now coiled tightly around the young girl's waist, lest her master's weight falter and drop her.
The brunette was now sure she was the only sober person in the room.
"Eh?"
Kristina set her glass down, intrigued by Dill's movements. "Dressing box?"
Dill finally had a chance to properly appreciate her birthday present: in the center of the box was an exotic yet extremely familiar picture: a red man-wolf holding a beautifully shaped wood-stringed instrument in a gold and bronze sun-ring encrusted with palm fronds was trying to compel a dark-skinned girl, with exotic hair color and skin tone, and unchanged only by a strong sense of vigilance and murderous intent.
"Isn't this Lord Mida's great fable?"
Becky came over at some point, her wet hair falling down her face, her honey-colored skin sweat-sheening, and her white sarong seemingly glowing.
Dill subconsciously shrank back a safe distance; Becky was always able to approach a person without a sound, a bear hug at the drop of a hat, and her embraces had become even more deadly since she'd gotten her hands on the highly venomous mercury snake, Tolker.
Becky was especially fond of the small Dill. The brunette reminded her of a black velvet mouse she had as a child, a rare creature from the east coast, a small, slithery creature that made you want to hold it in your palm and love it; this also made Dill almost suffocate in her arms several times as a result of the snakes she had to put in her arms.
She didn't notice Dill's quiet shifting of position and excitedly pointed to the painting on the top, "Ha, a red wolf, I'll bet that's one of the great fables from Beverly Hills. "The Scarlet Poet was fond of the maidens there! My aunt used to tell me every night how he would eat a man from the tips of his fingers and then write an elegy for him on the spot."
Byfleetings was the most prestigious port on the south coast, and Becky, on the spur of the moment, sang in her native tongue "The Night of the Werewolf," which was the opening song before every game of Grand Fable. Once the familiar melody sounded, even Cristina put down her glass of wine and sang along with interest, and then Helena's voice was as low as a mosquito's cry.
To Dill's surprise, even Gnesse put down her bow and arrow to join them. Either way, it was better than getting drunk until dawn.
"At sunset, when the night breeds sin, the Demon Wolf takes off his human skin coat and begins his hunt! Close your eyes, close your eyes; don't be deceived by the unsullied white wolf; the black heart is unsullied too; cover your ears, cover your ears; don't listen to the red wolf's rhetoric; that's how the plagues come out; run, run; the black wolf is in hot pursuit; you can only keep on walking towards death."
The small fables of popular folklore only have a rough division of four roles, and the reason why this big fable in Dill's hand is precious is not just a gorgeous shell. As soon as the box was opened, the scattered porcelain tiles were colorful, spelling out a whole map of Vitokovano.