[1725] – Y07.225 – A Festival In Our Hearts V

The sun basked the Front Iyr. Music floated within the air. Under this noon sun, in which the music floated, a particular young woman remained upon her hands, staring down at the floor, darkened by shadow and sweat. She slowly brought her feet to the strong, stable earth, though as they approached, she pulled her knees inward towards her stomach, finally allowing herself to stand upon her feet instead of her hands, panting for air, her arms, stomach, and back burning with the sear of exercise.

Once she was done dipping herself into the bath, and changing into her loose attire, similar to the shalwar of the Aswadians, though cut slightly shorter, slightly less billowy, the scarf wrapped around her shoulder and hip carried her spear, and she wore a ropebelt to carry a shortblade at her side.

“Did you enjoy your exercise?” an older Aswadian asked, face worn by sun and time, lean, strongly build. His hair had grown, falling down beyond his ears, curled like waves, and his beard was thicker too, although neatly trimmed. His dark eyes smiled greater than his lips.

“I did,” Yasha replied. “How was your walk?”

“Shukhur, it was good, it was good, betti,” Zabir assured, reaching up to scratch his chin. “You must be careful, for the Iyrmen, sometimes they do not wear their clothes, sometimes all the way, sometimes not at all.”

“The Iyrmen, they are… Iyrmen, after all.”

The joke caused Zabir to chuckle, and then the two began to explore the festival once more, although an older fellow, an Iyrman by the name of Rajin, the Bearded Dragon, called for Zabir, who instantly surrendered, for it meant there was something good to drink.

Yasha stepped through the Front Iyr, remaining away from certain areas of the Iyr, for the sake of her decency. She approached an outer section in which she found a great many of the familiar faces, she nodded towards the Lead, and as she eyed up all the Iyrmen nearby, many of him she vaguely recognised, she settled herself to the side.

“Kal Yasha?” an Iyrman called, pointing to her. She was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, and adorned on her forehead, a red hollow kite flanked by blue crescent moons, the tips pointed downwards. She was tan of skin, dark of hair and eyes, like many Iyrmen, and she wore light chain, and carried a rapier at her side. “Laywyj, you may know of my grandmother, Keiwyj.”

“Yes?”

“She slew Shade Dagger.”

“Ah,” Yasha replied, vaguely recognising the name.

“Of High Garden.”

“Ah!” Yasha replied, suddenly realising who her grandmother could be. “Keiwyj, yes, I know of her.”

The woman smiled, nodding her head, and with that, she introduced Yasha to the other Iyrmen nearby, those who were of her age.

‘Keiwyj…’ Yasha tried to recall the woman exactly, though since she had slain someone of High Garden, it must have been last year, when they had come, those of High Garden, with their Fariq and their Fariq Thanwi. Although, the old woman hadn’t come along with them during their adventure to Aswadasad?

Nirot’s eyes fell onto Yasha for a moment, then returned back to the triplets, who were enjoying their desserts. She had roamed the festival to find food for the children to enjoy, and though she was familiar with a particular set of triplets enjoying fish, these triplets enjoyed fruits and vegetables more, betraying their fae nature.

The boys poked into their salya, one of their favourite foods she had noticed, and their ears twitched slightly as they chewed their fruit slowly.

“You are all growing so well,” Nirot said, beaming down towards the children, her lips painting a gentle smile. “Look at how big you all are now.”

The boys flushed, and they held up an arm each to reveal their biceps towards Nirot, who smiled even wider. It was in this moment she considered how her cousins were geniuses. The triplets, each who were yet to turn three, were so adorable, so chubby, and they were all so meek and sweet, one might have assumed they might have been one particular fool’s sons.

Their father was a man with tan skin, his hair cut short, once weekly, monthly at least, his face freshly shaved, as it was every morning, his dark eyes holding a clarity, that could see what Nirot was up to. He cut into his son’s fruit, and as Owaen made to complain, his father covered his eyes with a hand, distracting the boy, his rough callouses gently scratching the boy’s soft skin, and as the world was revealed to the boy once more, he noted his fruits had been cut. He reached for them, eating them slowly.

“Slowly, small pieces,” John said, eyeing up the three, who were at the age where they would complain and cry, to test their father.

“No!” Tristaen, the youngest of the three declared.

“I have to change you,” John said, picking his son up, who cried and complained, causing the other two to cry and complain, though Garaeth stopped, as a finger held a piece of fruit to his lips, and one might have though he was perhaps Amalrot’s brother, the way he quietened and ate. Owaen stared up at his father, holding the man’s gaze, and though he had made to cry, John raised a brow, and the boy turned, instantly stopping his tears. “I will change you all.”

“No!” the boys complained, standing up, but as they stood, a pair of arms picked them up.

“You must listen to your father…” Nirot said, causing the boy’s to flush.

It was then the children whimpered, and they spotted him. It was he who would help them certain. As their eyes held the other half elf’s eyes, the half elf’s eyes fell onto their father’s, and then his own cousin, and slowly, Adam turned his head away, as though he hadn’t seen them.

The triplets blinked.

This betrayal would never be forgotten.

The boys smiled as they saw Adam there, with cups of milk for them upon their return, and they smiled shyly, for of course they would forgive him, just this once.

PATREON FOR 30+ CHAPTERS!

The triplets are so cute.