Last Year's Mess

On a grey day of the waning year, Khevol overtook a man in the forest. He was tall and bearded, and an owl rode on his broad shoulder. He was dragging a small sled of chopped wood with a massive ax strapped atop the pile.

"Greetings," he boomed, and his owl companion fluttered in agitation. "Easy, my sweet." He rubbed her brow as she settled. "We don't see many of the Dwarven kind around here."

"Hello," Khevol said, wrapping his tongue around the man's language. "I have not seen another soul in five days. Is a village nearby?"

"Indeed! Follow me; it's not far." They walked and chatted for an hour, and the subject of Yule celebrations came up.

The big man said, "At the village, they have a custom where eight men dance wildly around the square with stag antlers on their heads. We say it brings good luck for the coming year."

Khevol nodded. "My people sweep out every corner of their homes. Even the ceiling and furniture. We say it makes the new year start clean, with no old energy from the dying year."

"Yes," the big man mused. "We would happily be rid of last year's mess."

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