Isolde staggered out of inn with a few other Gilneans, drunk on the gin and rum and stout in celebration of All Hallows, and raised her bottle with a laugh and a shout. “To the portal!”
She’d left Wintergarde, aye, catching a portal from a mage shipping supplies. This time of year was no time to be stuck away from home and away from other Gilneans, and Isolde took full advantage of the her chance to get away. Let himself wonder, then, and…She paused, frowning a bit. Wavering only a little bit. There was a great and proud Wickerman burning here, but there damn well should be up there as well. The place was damn cold and lonely and the whispers of the undead were way too close. That was bad luck, that was, this time of year. She should fix that. Gods know what the gloomy guts would do with all that.
So she went back to the portal, dragging bundles of straw behind her, bright red hat and black cloth costume littered with flecks of hay now. Threw them down in the middle of the court at Wintergarde, and built a crude homemade Wickerman right there. Lit a match and grinned wildly. Took a sip from the bottle and then threw it, splashing liquor over the straw and stick man.
“Oi! Happy All Hallows!”
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