With studious intensity you gaze at the strikingly vivid amorphous region that currently dominates the vault of the heavens -- that which is known as Chris' Mass. Its glowing ribbons of red and green light burn so brightly that they threaten to obscure the rest of the sky, yet you do not blink, you do not falter. Surely something can be learned of the future in that sparkling display, no matter the failures of those who have studied it before.

A sharp tug on your robes breaks you from your observations. With a scowl befitting one taught by Kssarh, you glare down to see what intrudes, expecting a child or perhaps an Olvi, but just as quickly stop and stare in puzzlement at the small, grinning fae creature. With a wink, it dashes eastward down the road, dodging the hooves and wheels of a passing caravan.

Your work abandoned for now, you take off in pursuit. Perhaps this is what the Mass was meant to show you after all.

**

Sweat and metal, the two scents pervade the Forging Society's workrooms so utterly that you hardly notice them any longer, so often you spend your time bringing hammer to anvil. Today though, a new smell eddies in pale competition, at least near your small corner -- freshly baked bread. No milk, though you'd have liked it as well, but the flames for the forge would curdle it far too fast.

The buttered roll would have to do for now. A small offering, perhaps, but one all the same. You set the plate near the anvil's base before returning to your handiwork, keeping the words of the priests of Divyaush fresh in your mind between each clang.

As you plunge the now-finished iron sword into the water to slake the heat, you find yourself distracted by a soft whisper in your ear giving you thanks for the meal and saying a blessing of luck. You look around, yet see nobody. With excitement you glance at the plate and find that the roll is now gone -- in its place is a tiny kertig tear and a small, buttery handprint.

**

-Persida