Marcona Pennon's Autumn Mousequerade [Event!]

It's warm tonight in Winterheap. The shhshh of rain drums distantly on the roof of the millhouse, punctuated by the occasional rumbling snore of weak thunder. Yet Winterheap itself jumps with life, far from drowsy in spite of the late hour and the humid blanket of rain. There's a party here tonight, a Marcona Pennon party right here in the center of Winterheap. Every mouse old enough to sip ale has filtered into the town square, dressed in their best costumes and eager to dance.

The party itself, though at this point still locked in the Guests Arriving stage, is already proving to be buckwild. An unnecessary amount of honey mead sits in a row of mason jars along the west of the town square, backlight and shining gold with the glow of tall wax candles. A troupe of honey-colored alchemists - just a handful of the Winterwhisker elder's grandchildren - sit atop the jar lids and hand down thimbles of golden sin to rows of chattering party-goers dressed as eggs with legs, old ancestors, snakes, cats, acorns, and all manner of things. In the center of the square is a raised stage crafted from a frisbee, upon which sits a circle of unattended instruments. Surrounding the stage is a dance floor, markedly empty of dancers just yet.

To the right of the stage sit clustered a huddle of trade-stalls and shops built from bean cans and shoe-boxes, their keepers handing out delicious smelling food, handmade masks, and pop-pops. The medical tent (Built from a first-aid kit box supported by a shoehorn) on the end of the row is the only building that's empty, the elderly horticulturist inside whittling away at a statue of Steadyset and whistling a merry tune. At the other end of the row stands another conspicuously empty structure - a tussle ring, just waiting for fighters to step in and try their might against each other. The ring's attendant is also whistling a merry tune, though they appear markedly less wholesome than the nurse, clutching a coinpurse and a betbook.

All of the clan's elders are gathered here as well - Marcona Pennon, the host, stands with Flaxen Hat and Huld, chatting merrily. Marcona is dressed in a gay array of deep blue fabrics, apparently mimicking a bluejay. Though aged, they are vibrant and laughing, a wicked grin flashing from under their fake beak. Flaxen Hat's outfit is ironically uncreative - they appear to be simply wearing a tiny mimicry of the disappeared farmer's old straw hat. Hat smiles warmly at the two mice around him, his small golden paw resting on each of their shoulders. Huld is markedly uncostumed, but does his best to answer Marcona's verbosity. Corpse Knell looms around by the tussle ring, though she makes a point of leaning against a shop stall to flirt with a gaggle of young does. She wears a tiny imitation of a dog collar around her neck, her chestplate missing to display a painted-on black saddle akin to a beagle's. She laughs and sticks her tongue out at one of the girl's jokes, panting like a hound. And Cypress is, as she usually is, standing off on her own with a thimble of mead and watching the party with quiet eyes. A bottle cap sits primly on her head, the label of a beer bottle sashed neatly over her middle.