The night-winds blow, the shapeless presence pushing its way down the mountain, creeping and crawling along the rocks as it falls, crashing down into the darkness beneath them all, carrying with it both strands of her hair, as well as the sounds of the voices from all around them. The winds also carry with them the voice of the man, pushing the sound of it into the dark abyss, as if hiding his presence from anyone else, from everyone else, as if to ensure that no ears heard his words save for hers.

The festival rages on behind them, growing louder and more energetic by the second. The sounds of celebrating people, of loud cheering, of chaotic spells, of reverent singing, of the clinking of mugs and the spilling of alcohol, of the stumbling and the laughing and the fighting of the festival-goers, all of them seem to become louder and louder rather abruptly. Loud enough to obscure their conversation, loud enough to obscure the trickling of the running river just on the other side of the stalls. As if some spell had come over the entire mountain-town, energizing every last person who is outside in this hour close to midnight, filling them with unnatural fervor.

Fresh knows that she shouldn’t talk to the man, despite Jubilee never having explicitly warned her not to, like they had done with Shamrock. It’s more than just some gut-feeling or her intuition, it’s simply a fact of life that her mind holds to be self-evident, much like her need to breathe, her need to blink. Much like that, the man is clearly someone who shouldn’t be spoken to, who shouldn’t be listened to.

Fresh turns and she walks away, not saying anything, not engaging with the man from the thieves’ guild. She is sure this would otherwise result in nothing but trouble. She causes enough of that already, without anyone else’s help.

“Is it what you expected it to be?” asks Patala, as Fresh walks away. “Your new life?”

She stops, the hairs on her neck standing on end, as the hissing of his words reaches her ears which are filled with the sounds of festivity. Her new life? Does he know about…

Fresh blinks, suddenly remembering something that she had forgotten. No, it wasn’t forgotten. It was simply… painted over, covered in a smear of wet, thick, black ink.

- Her old life. She had a life before this one. It wasn’t even that long ago. A few months ago at best. Her eyes wander down towards her hands which are at her side, seeing the pale, thin skin become illuminated for a moment by the odd purple light of a haunting spell that explodes high up in the sky, like a firework. She doesn’t turn herself around, but she does look over her shoulder towards the stranger. “Some adventure, right?” he asks, almost laughing.

“What do you want?” asks Fresh, feeling both extremely confused and also highly suspicious. Her mind is racing as she remembers and at the same time, it tries to grasp how he could know her secret.

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk to you, sorry to be rude,” replies Fresh, turning her head to keep walking away. It’s time to go home. She wants to take a bath and go to bed.

“Who else are you going to talk to then?” asks the man coyly. But when she turns around this time, he isn’t there anymore where he was a moment ago. Looking forward towards the side, she sees the man standing there now with his arms crossed, leaned back against the side of a stone wall. She didn’t notice him moving there, let alone so quickly.

“My friends,” replies Fresh defiantly, feeling strangely annoyed by his presence. No, not annoyed. Offended. Something about him simply being here, about his talking to her, something about it makes her mad and she doesn’t really know why it does. But she feels that her temper is oddly short all of a sudden, despite it never being so. Maybe because it’s late. Maybe because she’s tired. Maybe because she was having a bout of loneliness. Maybe because of the memories returning to her.

“Your friends?” asks Patala, gesturing around them, but not moving from his spot in the shadows. No light from any spell, any streetlight, or any crystal ever seems to manage to reach him. “I don’t see any friends.”

“I’m going to tell Jubilee if you don’t leave me alone,” threatens Fresh.

The man laughs and lifts the fingers from one of his still crossed hands, waving to her listlessly. “Well. Okay, then. Good night,” says Patala dryly, turning his head to look back out over the look-out.

Fresh blinks, surprised that he let it drop so easily. Turning for the third time to go back home, she starts walking towards the festival, half-expecting the man to appear in the next shadow before her. But he never does. He simply stands exactly where she left him, not moving, not looking her way, not saying a word. He’s doing exactly what she told him to do and for some reason, that’s annoying her too. Somehow even more so than if he had kept pursuing the topic.

How does he know about her old life? More importantly, how did she forget about her old life?

Fresh clenches her fists, hating herself a little more than usual. Knowing that she shouldn’t speak with the, more than shady, character, the girl turns around again. “What do you want?” she asks for the second time.

But Patala is no longer there.

Fresh stares at the darkness for a moment, before walking back alone through the loud fair. By the time she gets home, she is more than exhausted. She is barely able to keep her eyes open as she shuffles quietly past Shamrock’s and Basil’s beds. Throwing off her robe and boots, she flops down onto her soft blanket, her eyes still open for a second as she stares down at the little thing that fell out of her pocket onto the floor.

Reaching down from her bed, she grabs the small slip of paper and squints her eyes, trying to read it in the darkness.

Ask for a glass of serpent's blood

Drown the fish

The slip of paper falls apart a second later, charring into ash, as if she had held it over a fire.

Fresh doesn’t sleep well that night, but she sleeps nonetheless. Her mind feels oddly itchy while she sleeps, like regrowing skin covering a small burn wound. When the next morning comes, she doesn’t tell the others about her encounter, though she does consider it.

She isn’t sure why she doesn’t exactly. Maybe because she doesn’t want to get yelled at by Jubilee, or maybe because she doesn’t want to get lectured by Basil. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to, because she doesn’t want to. Fresh doesn’t know. Instead, she sits quietly at the table, sipping her coughee while the others scrounge their own breakfast together today.

Today is the day that her new mattresses go on sale and despite having been very excited about it, somehow her mood feels very… neutral about everything right now. She just feels very tired and cranky, no matter how long she closes her eyes, no matter how many cups of the coughee she drinks, somehow, she always feels like she could use a long, deep nap in a quiet, dark place.

Sparing a moment as they open for the first day since the festival, she watches as the crowds swarm in. Most of them look destroyed in body and soul, their faces and eyes red and tired, yet somehow, they still manage to keep smiles painted on them. A few curious, excited fairies even fly inside along with them. Half of the crowd heads towards the shelves, the red-eyed customers making a beeline for the hot and cold coughee, while the other half heads towards Shamrock. This makes her angry too.

A few of them stop to look at the mattresses and they seem really excited about them, despite their proud price of almost six-hundred Obols. But somehow, their excited words don’t reach her. Somehow, the venomous glances of the casters she had seen last night making fun of her, don’t reach her. Feeling oddly tense in spirit today, Fresh heads down to the basement without saying anything to the others, letting them handle it.

She wants to make something. To do something. Something to get her mind back into shape. She’s still agitated and a little angry and she still doesn’t know why. Sparing a glance at Basil’s planters, one of which is still not growing, she heads to her table and grabs everything that she can reach, not even sure what it is that she’s making. Though, she’s sure that her friends will yell at her for it.

But there is an idea floating around in her mind, a bad idea, the idea that she isn’t sure if it is even hers. It is too strong for her to ignore, since it being present in her head makes her angry. It’s like the mind-numbing roaring of a cascading waterfall.

Grabbing the largest crystal that she has, she takes a knife and begins engraving the ghost-warding sigils into it, sparing a glance over towards the fireplace for a moment as something about it bugs her. Something about it is making her angry too. It is making that gnawing voice in the back of her head buzz, like there’s something else that she forgot, something else that she’s missing, despite it being right there, right in front of her face.

But she just doesn’t know what it is.

Frustrated, Fresh sets the knife to the crystal and begins engraving it.