Standard disclaimers apply.
I. WIND
The wind came at his back, pressing down and springing off like a March hare over a meadow patch causing Guy Fawkes to twist his stumble into a sidestep. The wind twined and twisted around him in a whirlwind of chatter; blown away words about a new playmate of some sort.
"Bugger off you barmy breeze, if you think I'm going to listen to you blather on about shite before I even get off the bloody corpse road! Go nick a newspaper and wait for a lad to at least to get a pint in him before pouncing in."
Guy shoved forward, walking widdershins towards the distant village lights, avoiding the churchyard with the wind nipping at his heels impatiently.
"Budge up and move over and I promise you those new goblin shanties you are so keen about. I sit on the bloody green and sing them to you all afternoon tomorrow if you just let me get to the pub."
The air turned still and Guy Fawkes smiled, pulling a cig out of his pocket and lighting it with a small burst of flame from his finger. The wind was the best gossip in the all the worlds but the not the most incoherent: nothing but snatches and snitches of everything spoken in the open air. Still with a bit of patience and a bent ear for purloined poetry, you could charm news from the wind faster than a bird out of her skirt—all it took was the right touch, even if it meant that Guy Fawkes had to sit out on village green singing, 'dance magic dance' tomorrow.
Guy snorted and dragged out a puff on his cig, "Jack Frost, huh, I'll have to gen up about you but not before I have three pints in me. Hadn't had a proper beer since Candlemas. Goblin ale ain't fit to strip paint—paint deserves better," he muttered before making a beeline for the bright lights of the pub across the way.
*cookies for spot the reference.*