Most years, the early spring in Imnesvale was hailed and welcomed with the festival of Greengrass. Some thought that the celebration ought to be skipped altogether; it seemed improper to celebrate while the deaths were continuing. But others refused to be daunted: "Ghosts or no, respects to Chauntea must still be paid," said Eina, the mayor's wife, a stout, middle-aged woman whose lips had wrinkles from all the times she'd pursed them.

In the end, a compromise was reached, as Chauntea's blessing on the land was paramount; without it, the farmers in the valley risked a bad harvest. Most years, Imnesvale celebrated Greengrass with rituals in the morning and a feast and dancing at sundown. Instead, the meal - the best the village saw all year, so skipping it was unthinkable - was moved to the early afternoon, so that everyone would be safely behind closed doors when night fell. There was much clucking of tongues, and murmuring about how there would be little time to celebrate properly, but in the end Eina had the final say. Even so, many of the farmers' families refused to come to the village; most of them wouldn't have been able to return home in time. So it was a much smaller and subdued crowd than usual that met in the village square that day.

Shortly before noon, Eina led the few children in a short procession. All of them, girls and boys alike, were wearing their best and cleanest dresses and smocks. The children's arms and hair were filled with the first flowers: snapdragons, primroses, dandelions, even a few daffodils from some of the gardens, all yellow to invoke the waxing power of the sun. Bit by bit, the children scattered their armloads of flowers on the ground as they led on a string a red hen, which was a form that Chauntea's messenger spirits sometimes wore.

The sun was high, and the sight of the children and the familiar ritual lifted the spirits in the crowd. Still, here and there, someone glanced at the thin shadows the buildings cast upon the ground. Someone in the crowd started singing the first measures of a raucous song, one that was usually heard many times during Greengrass:

"Was never in village heard nor seen

Such dancing nor display

Neither in Trademeet on the green

Nor Trailstone to the play - "

The song fell silent under an onslaught of dark looks.

Most years, the Greengrass feast was held in the open air, under some carefully stored mage-lights that served for that night alone. Uncharacteristically for today, those that gathered were eager to return indoors after the ritual to Chauntea was done, and in fact the lower level of the lodge had been cleaned and readied to host the whole village. The proprietor, Vicenzo, had laid out a series of long tables lined with chairs in the common room.

Gorion's Company had a spot close to the food at the villagers' insistence, since they were the guests of honor. They paid for it by subjecting themselves to a flurry of introductions. Seemingly, everyone was related to everyone else, and the Company was the first new people to come through since the trouble started. They fielded several questions about who they were and why they were there, telling only as much as was needed, but no one seemed overly concerned about the answers.

One older man remarked, "We'd wanted an army, but it was about time Athkatla came in the clutch, is what I say." And that was the most anyone said about that - the Sythillisians and the shadows loomed largest in everyone's mind and on everyone's lips, though a few people tried to start some semblance of merry-making.

And then the food was laid out. Clearly, though the mood of this year's Greengrass was heavier than anyone could remember, the village kitchens had worked double-time to compensate, working from early in the morning to ensure everything was ready by noon. The smell wafted through the windows and doors and emptied any holdouts from their homes: chicken and chickpea stew, bacon and sausage, potatoes, carrots, porridge with apples and raisins, ale cake and custard, with ale and cider to wash it down. There were only a few breads or cakes, for which Eina felt the need to apologize - as she explained, the Baron had recently taken control of the village's communal oven and charged for its use. But this year, someone had managed to get their hands on several crates of oranges, and this caused a stir, to the point where Eina had to stand guard to ensure everyone only had one.

Lidia had filled her wooden trencher. She was always grateful for any free meal she could pick up - and this one promised to be excellent by the smell alone - but she was especially curious about the orange. Candlekeep had nearly unlimited resources, but it had been an austere place to live, and no doubt oranges were seen as an unnecessary expense compared to books, inks, and quills.

She was eager to start on her food. As soon as she took her seat and set down her trencher, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

A line was forming behind her chair. Nearly everyone who had brought a child had taken a place in it.

The first one in line was a dark-haired woman, whose willow-thin limbs were clothed in a brown dress. She regarded Lidia with a mixture of wonder and doubt as she approached with her brown-skinned, tightly swaddled baby on her hip. She tilted his head forward. "Bless him, lady."

Before Lidia could say anything, a man she recognized as Minister Lloyd approached. In his booming, jolly voice, he said, "There's time for that later. Go, get something from the board first!"

The line reluctantly dissipated, and the minister shook his head at their backs. He said to Lidia, "There's a rumor going around that your touch protects from the shadows."

She could, in fact, cast protection spells, but they were rather combat-specific and were most effective against demons, not undead. That spell was not what these people were looking for - or needed.

She mused on whether she should try to explain this to him, but Minister Lloyd continued, "I reckon it's because you're the only one to have gotten close to those things and lived to tell. They're looking for hope. Who can blame them?"

In fact, Lidia's supposed powers weren't the only rumor making its way from table to table. Everyone seemingly had a different theory on who was responsible for the disappearances - "Ogres in the hills, they're Sythillis's and would eat children if they could get their claws on 'em," "There's a cloaked man wandering the forest. He's who done it, that ain't natural," "It's the curse of Shar, and we must appease her if it's to lift." And still others spoke of a witch in the woods, or of a dark shadow whose feet never touched the ground.

To avoid being taken themselves, some lit candles in the window; others set strings of garlic on their doorknobs; still others rubbed their heads with holy water blessed by Lathander. These villagers were vocal in which protection was best, and were eager to discuss the benefits and drawbacks of each one.

But everyone sealed their homes tight, especially when darkness fell. And everyone agreed that the missing ranger-protector was a bad omen.