Spirits on the Wind

A sharp cold clung to the evening air, threading between the roots of the old maples and trailing wisps of mist across the forest floor. Shafts of late sunlight filtered through the thinning canopy, catching on crimson and gold leaves that swirled lazily in the breeze. The scent of damp earth and distant pines drifted beneath the branches, carrying with it the quiet promise of an approaching winter. Out here in the wilds of Lothain, the world seemed to hold its breath as autumn reached its zenith.

Sicheii sat by his modest fire beneath a canopy of scarlet maples, a content smile curved his lips as he stirred the simmering pot beside him, an earthen vessel perched neatly on a hot stone. He’d foraged the day before and found golden chanterelle mushrooms, hardy roots of mountain burdock, and a clutch of wild tubers sweetened by the frost. With them he’d added a handful of dried herbs from his travels: sage, sweetgrass, and just a pinch of salt. To Sicheii, cooking was not simply a necessity, but both an offering and his thanks to the land that had provided him these gifts.

The Mantibab’s cheeks caught the firelight in soft hues of green and gold, and his long tail curled lazily around him, stripes of vivid green and purple coiling like a resting serpent. His ears twitched to the sounds of the forest: a distant owl’s hoot, the trickling of a nearby brook and the rustle of small creatures preparing for the cold nights ahead. The wilderness of Lothain was his comfort, his home, even as he wandered.

A strip of roasted flatbread rested on a heated stone near the flames. It was a humble meal but he only took only what he needed, never more. But to Sicheii, it was enough. The forest had given him food, the river had provided water, the earth itself warmth and shelter. He murmured a short prayer of thanks under his breath in his people’s tongue, as he often did before a meal.

The evening was settling in, and the light through the trees had shifted to that deep amber glow that heralded twilight. The world around him was at peace, yet there was a strange stillness now, as though the woods themselves held their breath.

Sicheii noticed it first in the quiet. The usual chirping of the forest birds had stopped and even the breeze through the maple leaves had stilled. A spark of instinct made the fur on the back of his neck prickle, but it was not a sense of danger. Rather, it felt as though he was being watched.

Then he heard the crunch of leaves. A soft deliberate step, and looked up.

A small figure stood at the edge of the clearing. It was no more than knee-high, cloaked in the fiery hue of autumn leaves. Its eyes, dark and unblinking, fixed on Sicheii with an unwavering gaze. In its tiny hands it held a tan-colored envelope sealed with deep scarlet wax.

The creature did not speak. It simply stepped forward with slow careful movements and extended the letter toward Sicheii.

The Mantibab tilted his head, curiosity dancing in his blue eyes. “Ah… a spirit,” he murmured softly, as if addressing the winds themselves. He had heard tales of such beings, The Autumn King’s helpers, wandering emissaries of the shifting seasons. Among his people, they were treated with respect and he remembered that the red ones were said to be the most persistent.

Setting aside his wooden spoon, Sicheii shifted on his haunches and gave the little being a gentle smile. “You’ve come far, little one,” he said kindly. “Have you something for me?”

The helper did not respond with words, only nudged the envelope forward a fraction more, eyes fixed on him.

There was no hesitation in Sicheii’s actions. With careful paws, he accepted the letter. The moment his claws brushed the parchment, the creature’s dark eyes crinkled with what could only be described as delight. In the next heartbeat, it vanished in a whirling puff of crimson leaves that danced across the clearing before settling into a small pile at his feet.

The Mantibab’s ears flicked in quiet amusement. “Thank you,” he said, as though the little spirit could still hear him.

He sat back and examined the envelope. The parchment was textured, edges adorned with tiny impressions of pressed leaves. The red wax seal bore an unfamiliar sigil, intricate lines forming the image of a crowned oak leaf. Breaking the seal, he unfolded the letter within.

The paper inside was smooth and the ink a dark, autumn brown. The words within were written in an almost playful hand:

My fellow Crederians, it is with great joy that I announce The Autumn King has invited you to celebrate the changing of seasons.
He has so graciously opened his heart and home, for the celebration will be held in his very court.
The festivities will commence upon the 20th, and we do hope you’ll manage to make it.
Until then, ta ta~

Sicheii’s eyes lingered on the title, The Autumn King. To most, it was the stuff of stories told around campfires, a fable that spoke of a monarch who guided the turning of the leaves and the slowing of rivers before the snows came. Yet to Sicheii, raised with a deep respect for the land’s spirits and the old traditions, it was no jest.

He folded the letter with care and tucked it safely into the leather pouch at his side. Turning his gaze upward through the canopy of red leaves, he breathed in the cool air that smelled faintly of rain yet to come.

“So… the King calls,” he said softly, his voice filled with both reverence and a spark of curiosity. “I will come.”

The maple branches swayed gently as if in answer, though the breeze had not stirred them.

Sicheii did not hurry that night. The invitation had been received and the path ahead would unfold in due time. For the time being, he tended his meal, savoring its earthy aroma as the flames cast a gentle glow against his fur.

The forest seemed to have returned to its usual cadence, the hush lifting as the forest’s creatures began their songs once more. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled, and the sound was neither ominous nor threatening, just another voice in the wilderness.

He ate his meal slowly, his thoughts wandering to the fabled court he might soon see, to the colors and the spirits said to dwell there. Yet he did not rush his imagination. There was wisdom, he knew, in letting things come in their own time.

He finished his supper, allowed the fire to burn to embers, and settled beneath his blanket. Above him, the stars pierced the darkening sky, silver pinpricks amidst the branches. The red helper’s leaves, gathered in a small pile near his firepit, rustled softly in the breeze as though whispering secrets of the coming celebration.

And so the night deepened in the wilds of Lothain and Sicheii slept beneath the trees, an adventurer at rest holding in his pouch the promise of autumn’s grand invitation.