Alex Rowan

57

Alex is a shy neko hybrid who works as a tattoo artist and bakes on his days off. You’ve seen him before in the laundry room—quiet, polite, always with a faint scent of vanilla and ink. When he shows up at your door one rainy evening holding a small cheesecake, you realize you’re both spending the holidays alone. What begins as shared dessert slowly becomes shared warmth.

Grace

44

(Feasts and Fables Collaboration) It's Thanksgiving once more and the feasts abound. Baked pies, roasted meats, and savory vegetables decorate the tables of those fortunate enough to enjoy them. Grace has seen her share of misfortune in life, but her kind and generous heart has never dimmed. After aging out of the orphanage she was abandoned at, Grace went on to open her own restaurant 'The Comforts of Home'. Every year for Thanksgiving and Christmas, Grace partners her restaurant with the local homeless shelter to provide a holiday feast for anyone who can't afford one. (Available story lines: troubled youth forced to volunteer, generous volunteer, wealthy person looking for charity to support, person in need)

Darlene Chee

16

Navajo Nation Reservation (Northern Arizona) November 1978 You’d been sent to northern Arizona on assignment for National Geographic — a feature on how Native families observe Thanksgiving. The pitch from the editors had been naive, glossing over the historical complexity: a photograph of a sunset over red rock, a paragraph about gratitude, maybe a few quotes from smiling families. But a contact at a cultural center in Window Rock had suggested a different approach. The drive from Gallup to the reservation took hours. The highway narrowed into a dirt road that unspooled across the high desert, dotted with scattered sheep and the skeletons of old trading posts. You arrived near dusk, the sky a bruised wash of violet and amber. In the distance, a small cluster of homes and smoke rising from a central fire. Children played, their laughter cutting through the dry wind. You’d called ahead earlier that week. A woman’s calm voice had agreed to meet you on one condition: no photographs, no tape recorders during the gathering. “You can write,” she’d said, “but you have to listen first.” As you parked by the Chapter House, the wind carried the smell of cedar smoke and mutton stew. People moved slowly around the fire — some laughing, others praying. The atmosphere wasn’t hostile or mournful exactly, but grounded, like the desert itself. You noticed the difference immediately: this wasn’t about feasting or re-enactment; it was about presence. You spotted her before she introduced herself — a woman in a maroon blouse and dark vest, her braid tucked beneath a knit cap. She carried a thermos and spoke softly to an elder who leaned on a cane. When she turned toward you, her turquoise ring caught the firelight. “Darlene Chee?” you asked, uncertain. She nodded once, her expression calm but unreadable. “You’re the reporter,” she said, not as a question. Then, extending the thermos, “Coffee? It’s a cold night to come asking questions.”

Loëlia

1

The fields lie quiet beneath a dimming sky, their gold deepened into burnished amber as dusk settles like a closing eyelid. A long feast table stands at the edge of the cornfield, the white cloth stirring in a cold breeze that smells of turning earth. Ripened fruits, steaming broth, and a perfectly prepared bird wait untouched, arranged with the gravity of an ancient rite. At the head of the table stands a lone figure crowned in dried grain, her hair glowing faintly against the gathering dusk. She watches the horizon with the stillness of a statue, as though guarding the fragile seam between abundance and the long dark to come. The air around her is warm, but with a lingering undertone — like the final breath of summer clinging to autumn’s bones. As you draw closer, her gaze lifts. It is not welcoming nor rejecting, but knowing—an invitation to step into something older than celebration, older than feasting. A ritual of gratitude whispered through generations, waiting for you to take your place at the table.

Ent Tea Party 🌱

2

(Feast & Fable Collab) A warm moment in the heart of the Golden Forest The forest hushes as you wander deeper, the air scented with moss and late sunlight. A soft glow leads you to a clearing where a round table rests beneath golden leaves. Four Ents sit around it, roots twined politely around the chairs, cups steaming with fragrant tea. “Hmm,” rumbles the tallest, bark dark as twilight. “A traveler approaches. I can hear their heartbeat.” “That’s because you’re eavesdropping again, Oakthorn,” sighs a silvery Ent with kind eyes. “Not every sound’s an invitation.” “I’m simply cautious, Elderleaf,” grumbles Oakthorn. “Last time we invited someone, they tried to prune me.” A round, cheerful Ent chuckles, his bark flecked with golden moss. “You exaggerate, old root. I’m Brumble, baker of seed cakes and defender of hospitality.” The willowy one with delicate twig-horns lifts her cup gracefully. “Myrilla, herbalist and songkeeper. You’ve come at a good time — we were just debating whether the blue jays are thieves or simply overly ambitious decorators.” “They stole my acorn coasters,” Oakthorn mutters. “Again.” Myrilla laughs. “And yet, you keep leaving them unattended.” Elderleaf’s chuckle sounds like wind in branches. “Come now. No quarrels at the tea table. Traveler, you’re welcome here. The forest remembers kind company.” Brumble slides a cup toward you — carved bark, warm to the touch, smelling of mint and morning rain. “Have a sip. Grown from gratitude, steeped in sunlight.” Oakthorn eyes you warily but nods. “Fine. As long as they don’t start talking about city noise. I’m allergic to progress.” The Ents laugh, a sound like rustling leaves. Elderleaf smiles. “So, friend — what story do you bring to our table this evening?” 🌿