Pan's Messenger

The messenger fluttered her iridescent wings as she hopped from foot to foot, waiting, as all of those who had gathered were. Malafawn lent against the great throne, hewn from the most ancient of the forests Weeping Willow’s. The deep fissures of its bark prickled at his hide, his thoughts astray as he considered the tremendous potential of the day if only he could escape the formalities of Pan’s court. A softness came over the Lord of the Wildlings' face as he lowered the scrawled invitation to his lap, a softness that had Malafawn’s deep brown eyes rolling within his head. “Malafawn." Malafawn moved quickly at Pan’s summons, coming to stand before the throne and his Master upon it. “Go to the human village at the forest's edge. Tell the people we would be honored to attend the festivities this evening. Send our many thanks”. Malafawn bowed deeply to his Cloven King, a twinkle in his wide brown eyes. Oh, how he did enjoy the humans. “Of course, Sire." He rose and made to turn for the willow's sweeping curtain and the edge of the woodland court. Pan cleared his throat, Malafawn plastered a sweet, boyish smile to his face. “Was there something more, my Lord?”. Pan leveled him a knowing look. “No funny business within the village this year. I want a nice, quiet affair, and the humans have had their fill of your nonsense". Malafawn drew himself up, his lips pressing to a thin line, his jaw set. “Yes, my lord Pan." With a clop of his tiny hoof and a bob of his ancient Sires horned head, he made for the forest's edge and the village beyond.

Malafawn gazed idly around the lush, swaying meadow that bordered the forest's edge. White and yellow daisies danced gracefully as the sea of vibrant green ebbed and flowed. Malafawn sighed, then wrinkled his nose as pollen assaulted its delicateness. He pushed forward into the tide of grass to a young woman who hummed so sweetly as she knelt, plucking the odd purple bloom from its lesser company. Her violet eyes grew wide as he approached; he waved a friendly greeting. “Might you come from the village past the meadow?”. The woman nodded mutely, her back stiff, fists balled upon her thighs. “No need to fear me. I am but a messenger from Pan himself, here to deliver his response to the invitation sent from your village". The woman's lip quivered, her silver-lined eyes still wide and darting furiously. Malafawn clenched his rather sharp teeth, trying and failing to swallow his contempt for the creature before him, for his Lord's love for them. The humans have had their fill of your nonsense. Malafawn chuckled darkly. It was April 1st, after all, and nonsense was his birthright until the moon descended from its apex, and the gloriousness that was this day faded into the morrow. Malafawn crossed his fingers behind his back, dispelling any manner of consequences. Grinning his best woodland-creature grin, he addressed the woman once more. “You and yours, it seems, have fallen out of favor with my Lord and Sire, Pan." The woman's delicate hands shot to cover her quivering mouth, silver trailing her cheeks as she shuddered. Malafawn smiled, wide and toothy. “There is, however, but a simple remedy." "Yes," the word was a breathy plea. The woman folded her hands into her lap, a forced composure settling into well-trained bones. With a voice as calm as a placid stream, she said, “Tell me. How I can please my Lord Pan?”. Malafawn waved a hand to the village beyond the meadow, the village that's borders were far from near. His eyes found the trampled, forgotten undergrowth beneath the woman’s skirts, and Malafawn smiled. “Bring me that which is cloven and knows many shades of green. Bring me that which is wooded and too often, unseen”. He smiled fervently as the woman snatched her basket, nodding her desperate thanks and well wishes along with her promise to bring such a trinket to the festivities that evening. Malafawn hummed to himself as he strolled into the heart of Pan’s forest, his fingers still firmly clasped behind his back.

The Festival was every bit the clamorous, irksome event it promised to be. Bonfires crackled and snapped as embers sailed on the lightest of autumn breezes. Roast game and buttery vegetables layered every bare inch of the oak tabletops as ale spilled and sloshed from barrel to tankard, the revelers clinging loosely to their wits. Malafawn sat to the left of an over-large, empty seat, lovingly crafted with carvings of twirling vines and willow leaves. Malafawn tapped his trimmed, gleaming black hoof against the vacant chair’s leg, flipping his pocket watch open once more. He rather preferred to have concluded his business before Pan was seated in the makeshift throne at his side. His eyes grew wide, his mouth quirked into a smile of mischief and malice as the young woman approached, a stranger at her side cloaked in the finest, darkest of ruby. Malafawn’s deep brown eyes glowed in the firelight as he folded his hands beneath his chin, his bony elbows resting upon the tabletop, damp and sticky with human clumsiness. “But not a moment too late, my lady. My Lord Pan will arrive at any moment. Do you have what I have asked for?”. The woman wrung her hands in her dress, yellow as the daisies she had knelt among, now creased and stretched by her well-placed trepidation. “I do," her slender throat bobbed. “It is cloven and knows every shade of green, and more. It is of the woods and far too often, unseen”. The stranger at the woman’s side slid away his heavy hood to reveal dark curling horns, rippled and cracked with age and cunning. “Happy April 1st, Malafawn," Pan smirked, mischief plain in his slitted, yellow eyes. A loud bark of laughter burst from Malafawn, starling the poor wide-eyed woman. “Happy April 1st indeed, my Lord”.