AnonSpice

Anodyne | She/her | Northern Coast The winds that swept up the coast were chilled with winter’s bite, and the purr of storms on the horizon, still distant from the shoreline as the winter’s frigid nature settled heavy over Girfugol, making the thinner feathers on her neck flick upright in a desperate bid to trap the heat against her neck. Even in the north the air had a biting chill for Anodyne. Her mammalian features were well adapted for the cold, as her thick, brown fur did well in cold water and air. Her feathers still pulled up into goosebumps as the winds caressed her in their gentle way, gentle yet tainted with a quiet whisper of winter’s many ails that followed in the wake of the winds. She’d heard from the many dromaeus and southerners who had gathered on the coast in the past month that snow followed in the wake of the willful winds in the mountains, and when Anodyne had traveled south to see the dragon’s tails in the sky, glittering above more brilliantly than any other

Rib | she/her | Harpy | Rainforest Leech Farmer "I don't know who named oranges," Rib loudly announced to no one in particular, "but I'll tell you what..." She paused, stretching to grab the offending citrus and put it in her basket. "I'm really glad they didn't name any other fruit, or we'd have 'purples' and 'reds' and 'orangy greens' and 'blues'- oh, wait, maybe they named Blueberries too..." She broke off with a cackle. The long-limbed harpy who was picking a branch over didn't seem to find her ramblings amusing though, and shot her a pained smile before swinging to a higher tree and out of sight. Well boo to you too then! The small hen tipped her head, looking below the trees for the familiar mottled pelt of her son, Mud. He said he would come meet her here at around lunch time, but Rib had decided to start picking without him. She had been worried she'd get caught in a treeway queue or something and end up late, so had overcompensated and arrived early. But she wasn't one to

Frond | She/They | Pseudo-Harpy | Orchardist and Horse Trainer It was Frond's favourite time of the year. She loved the Gatherer's Festival, and she loved food even more. There was so much fruit that grew, vegetables, delicious fungus, and pretty flowers! What's not to like? She had visited Fern earlier that day and unlike many of their visits, no mischief was afoot. She simply wanted to spend some quality time with her sister by helping her gather stuff. It was Fern's job after all. Maybe sometime soon she could help Frond harvest some fruit. But that was for another day. It took a bit of convincing, but she managed to talk her sister into having Frond tag along. So here they were. The green and white hen flew after her sister, her wings loudly whistling as she did so, landing on a branch, baskets strapped to her sides. "SO, how do ya start sis? Or know where to find stuff? I'd get confused, trying to remember where the good stuff is. Do you know where stuff is?" Unfortunately

Myrrh stokes the bonfire, piling wood and tinder until a tiny torch becomes a raging flame in the center of the clearing. They laugh softly to themselves as they drag logs into a rough circle in front of the fire, marking clear seats for a fair number of modestly-sized harpies (or maybe just a few of the larger ones— they certainly won’t turn a hippus away). Finally, they drag a hefty log across the clearing, nearly as large as they are. But Myrrh is as tenacious as they are proud, and they manage to set it upright before the flames as a makeshift stage without needing help. There are other vendors present for the gatherer’s festival. They can feel eyes upon them, a few heads turned to watch them putter about, but that only excites Myrrh even more. Good, let them be suspicious. Rumor and curiosity always win the most skeptical-hearted over in the end, and they’ve crafted a wonderful story for this year’s festival, better than anything they’ve dreamt up before. The more avus that are

Gray talons tapped a piece of blank papyrus, the tapping filling the hut. The artist was unable to think of anything to put on it. Their mind was too occupied. Filled with thoughts about the damn war, and the threat of being drafted. Being an artist wasn't an essential job after all. It was difficult, to think that their dreams of being an artist for a living had been shattered by an incompetent ruler. Now they were stuck between a rock and a hard place. They could easily become a hunter for a living, they were good at it after all and gave Pepsi and Tumbleweed advice. Yet that would mean proving their mother was right. That they needed to get a 'real' job and that they couldn't ever make a living off of making pretty pictures. A knock sounded at the door. Turquoise stiffened, unsure of who it was. They hadn't planned for guests. Was it one of the Wanderers perhaps? Or had they been too careless, and it was a guard? They stood up slowly and walked to the door, opening it to see a