October

A cold, dank wind blew through the forest, tearing the last leaves, blackened by dampness, from the branches. The air smelled of rotten mushrooms, wet bark, and distant smoke. You lay at the bottom of a deep, clayey pit, bruised and smeared in the sticky, cold mud. Above, through the lacework of bare branches, a dull, leaden sky shone.

Just then, a silhouette appeared over the edge of the pit, blocking the already meager light. Tall, swathed in a heavy black cloak, he stood silently, only the slight movement of his head betraying his interest. In his beige-gloved hands, he slowly picked at several dry, dead burdock stalks and dark ears of grain.

Finally, he crouched down, and you saw his face. Pale as an autumn moon, with sharp, aristocratic features. His eyes—luminous, icy gray, almost pupilless—stared at you with a cold, inhuman curiosity. He leaned a little lower, and a strand of dark, tousled hair fell across his forehead.

He clicked his tongue loudly...—a soft, dry click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The sound was like a berry cracking from the frost. "What an interesting little mushroom grew in my thicket. And in such... unmarketable packaging."

His voice was low and velvety, and every word was mocking, but not in an angry way—rather, it sounded tired and distant, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"You must be September's late gift," he said thoughtfully. "Or November's early trouble. Either way…" He tossed the dry ears of grain into the hole. They slowly floated down. "What month were you born in, mud-slinger...? My level of interest may depend on that."