29 November 25
The Treachery of the Feast Day Remnants
THE COURTYARD GAZETTE SHEET
My most distinguished readers,
the Feast Day has passed, yet a more cunning peril now lingers upon every sideboard in the land. I speak of the remnants, those silent betrayers resting in covered dishes as though they possess virtue.
The grand turkey, once carried to the table in triumph, now lies carved into uncertain slabs whose loyalty declines with each turning hour.
The gravies thicken like plots.
The vegetables wilt as if surrendering to unseen forces.
And the stuffing sits heavy as a secret that should never have been kept.
Still, there is always one fearless soul in every household who lifts a lid on the third or fourth sunrise and declares, with alarming optimism, that the remnants remain noble. By nightfall, this brave fool is doubled over, cursing his choices and clutching his stomach as if visited by a vengeful spirit.
Physicians of the realm warn that the remnants grow treacherous once time has had its way with them.
Apothecaries whisper of invisible invaders that flourish in the quiet.
Even seasoned cooks insist that a dish may appear unchanged yet harbor mischief capable of felling the strongest knight.
Let it be known throughout the Dominion:
The remnants of the Feast Day do not age with grace.
Their beauty fades.
Their purity dissolves.
Their loyalty is a myth.
Handle them with caution.
Taste them only with certainty.
Cast them aside when they begin to behave suspiciously.
SOCIAL FOOTNOTES AND WHISPERED REMARKS
Lady Primrose Tattlewood swears any meat that glows beneath candlelight is courting disaster.
Sir Barnaby Wexley believes leftovers gain consciousness by the third sunrise.
A veiled figure insists that the stuffing loses its innocence the very moment it ceases to resemble bread.
Closer.
The Feast may bring joy, but its remnants have ended many a peaceful evening.
Guard your health.
The remnants will not guard you.
