Gingerbread Man

A caravan. Set up a good distance across the plain, a maze of wagons and makeshift stalls strung with colorful fabrics and lanterns casting flickering firelight as the day drew to a close. Aristaios strolled through the crowd with an easy gait, his one pale blue and other goldeneye sweeping over the merchandise displayed on weathered tables and hanging from ropes. He was accustomed to places such as these. The scents of spices, of leather, and of something sweet teased his nose. Hm?

He stopped briefly at a stall offering strange trinkets, his ash fur catching the firelight as he bent to inspect a peculiar carved charm. It was unique, but the merchant’s eager spiel flowed over him like water, unheard and forgettable as Aristaios gave a small, dismissive shake of his head and moved on. He was not interested. His gaze caught on another stall farther down, where glass bottles lined a rickety shelf, their contents gleaming in shades of amber, ruby, and emerald. Now, that was more his speed.

The vendor greeted him with a crooked grin. Aristaios picked up a bottle of deep amber liquid, the weight of it solid and promising in his paw. He uncorked it deftly, taking a sniff. The aroma was warm and sharp, with a hint of smoke. A satisfied hum rumbled in his chest as he nodded and dropped his trade onto the counter. A blade taken from a bandit, finely crafted—he wanted to be rid of it anyway. It was far too good quality to not have been stolen in the first place. 

The music hit him as he approached the heart of the caravan—a lively and rhythmic beat accompanied by the occasional sharp bark of laughter or howl of a wolf caught up in the moment. A bonfire roared at the center of the commotion, casting shadows on the ground as wolves danced in its glow. Ah, ah. That guy to the right just dropped face first to the ground.

Aristaios found a spot a little away from the commotion, settling himself on a patch of soft grass with the fire at his flank. He leaned back against a boulder,  giving him a clear view of the dancers. The bottle was uncorked again, and he tipped it back, the burn of the alcohol spreading warmly through his chest. The golden hue of his left eye caught the firelight as he watched the wolves move, their forms weaving through the music like living embers. Most of them were so drunk they were likely flammable.

For a while, he simply sat there, letting the warmth of the fire and the liquor soak into his bones. His tail swept lazily across the ground beside him, and the faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as the music picked up pace. The chaos and revelry suited him; reminded him of home. For now, though, he was content to observe, a lone figure on the fringe of the wild celebration, savoring the moment. Yeah. This felt right. Familiar.