Submission (#544) Approved

they may not see their pomu often, but even mahou knows their little puffball isn't made of rotten fruit.

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Word count: 734
Regional Affinity: Faerindell
Featured Elnin: 1338 - Mahou

Mahou’s eyes flew open, heart thudding against their rib cage, breath fast and shallow. It was a sound. A resounding thump that sent their consciousness reeling and kickstarted what could only be described as a rude awakening. They lay, splayed upon their bed, focusing first on listening – fully expecting the sound to be followed by something equally as loud and sudden. Instead, however, there was only a resounding silence. They breathed. They smelled the wet climbing vines and the perfume of the small flowers that crowded their sill. Outside, birds crooned and sang. On the cobble streets below, elnin could be heard darting back and forth on their own personal errands. A Voice, a town crier, perhaps, could be heard delivering the morning’s news with gusto – something about bountiful harvests and bright sunny days.

They rose from their bed in slow, measured increments. Wary of upsetting the books that lay piled at the foot of their bed. The trinkets crowding their nightstand. They moved with silence as the priority, shifting atop their blankets and carefully taking in the room around them. Bookshelves. A desk. A closet. All squished together in their small room. The bed pressed against the largest window which remained open day and night, weather permitting. Their eyes roamed and detected nothing amiss. Nothing that looked like it had fallen. Certainly not something heavy enough to cause the sound they heard.

No choice, then. They had to move. Slide off the bed. Find what had caused the noise. The manic surge of adrenaline would not allow them to drift back to sleep, in any case. So, they turned, pushed past the heavy wooden door to the room and followed the lush carpet down the hallway. The window there had been left open, allowing petals and leaves flutter inside and pile up on the floor. A cloud of pollen seemed to dance through the filtered light, revealing the house next door. Picturesque two or three-floor homes that huddled and leaned against one another, leaving just room enough for a determined nin to squeeze through if they persevered. Even then, almost every available space was routinely occupied by gardens or the blooming bright green bushes that carried flowers of all colors. One particular neighbor wound their bushes about each other, so the flowers grew haphazard and in a dozen colors. A clear attempt at imitating the mythical faerie shrouds of Faerindell.

Past the window, a turn, and then a smell. Whatever the smell was it could only be described as unpleasant. Mahou recoiled, nose wrinkling. It was rancid. It permeated through the entire portion of the steps leading down to the first floor. It clung to the walls and the stone and the wood. It had to be that something died or rotted in the night. Maybe an animal had scurried past and knocked something down? Maybe the smell alone had knocked someone down.

There was no real thought or consideration to be had. Mahou simply stepped down. Forsaking stealth for speed, they took the steps with the surety of someone who had realized there was no danger to be had. They followed their nose – the scent – to the kitchen, where the origin of the smell greeted them.

First impressions revealed only a pile of garbage. Fruit peels, seeds, and half-eaten or sliced fruit stacked in the middle of the kitchen floor. Closer inspection revealed that there was a shape of some sort. Lumps of unidentifiable (but presumably organic)’ matter were arranged in such a way to give the impression of four limbs and two conical ears. How the effect was achieved was perhaps beyond explanation. Under normal circumstances, there would be no possible way for the monument to hold itself aloft without some sort of support. As Mahou studied it, they noticed a thick dribble of fluid spreading onto the wood. What was most unusual however, was its head. Or presumably where its head would be, was affixed, with great care, the bleached oval white mask of a pomu.

In fact, if Mahou didn’t know any better, they’d say this was their pomu’s effigy. Their companion. Their troublemaker. Their little missing piece of a shadow that had apparently left and replaced its presence with this most horrendous reminder of its existence.

That unsettled feeling--previously a vague lump in his stomach--solidified into hard and heavy dread. What had happened here?