Celebrations of the New Year
Some time during the afternoon of the New Year’s Festival of Muhjíbh a small group of cloaked figures scurry through the halls of House Ayrram. Their purpose unknown, one of them slides a small folded letter under the door of the Master Torturer’s chambers.
The note reads:
Most beloved Nyárrah of House Ayrram, may it please you to take blessed tidings as Mujíbh brings forth renewed life after a season of death.
It is with these tidings that we honor you for your kindness to our children, and for your presence in our clan. Know that the mice of Ayrram welcome you to their meager halls and byways, and that at our tables a seat will be found for you should you desire it.
It is hardly ever said that we are bold, but it is always said that we are thorough, and we humbly submit our service so that you may be welcomed to choose fine company wherever you go.
At this a crew of Mice (one of them Harthuk) and a supervising Plover bird arrive at the door with picks made from suthra shell, brushes and cloths of coarse Haryal silk, and lengths of sinew for flossing. A final application of Avisam liquor is applied and for at least the night of the feast of Mujíbh it is hoped that all castes of the House welcome each other unafraid to smile at each other as the Great Mother and Father Devah intended.
Ganjan’s paw is cramping as he finishes responding to some of the humorously cute notes at Vikram’s desk by the window. The fat that burns in the small borrowed lamp is nearly out as he finishes one of his replies with “My sole burns for you” above a small drawing of a festival fire.
As he looks up Ganjan spies the small cloaked group across the courtyard go through one of the fences by a yard near the edge of the compound. There is no one else around, and the Hyena is sometimes still on edge where the safety of House Ayrram is concerned. Who would dare to commit such a thing during the Festival?!?!
There is no time to summon others of the Honor Guard, and the small cloaked figures didn’t look like too much of a threat, so with a low growl Ganjan leaps through the open window to the ground below.
He can barely smell them as he approaches, the stench from the crocodile’s softening grounds overpowering his senses, and as he watches from around the corner he sees one of them slip something under the door. Too late! But the vengeance of the Guard shall be swift! The honor of the House shall… it, um… Harthuk?
The hyena blinks to clear his eyes and chuckles to himself as he walks back to the desk full of unfinished rhymes and couplets. “Muhjíbh’s luck to you, little mouse,” he thinks to himself, “with whatever foolish dance you think you’re doing.”