Night 0
The village of Gruffendale had always been quiet, save for the rustle of hooves on mossy stone, the rush of the wind, and the occasional bleat echoing through the heathered hills. The goats lived simply—chewing cud, climbing improbable slopes, and staring blankly into the distance with the solemnity of ancient monks.
But something had changed.
Yesterday, with the ceremony of an overturned feed bucket, the village had crowned its first co-mayors in living memory. One wore a cape made of shadow and spoke only in sonorous riddles; the other, draped in a hoodie scrawled with arcane symbols like “#BLEATMODE” and “LFG,” had declared herself
Chief Meme Officer of Governance. The crowd had cheered - some bleated ironically, others out of habit.
Overnight, beneath a starry sky that, to some, felt too low and heavy, the goats had gathered at the newly opened market. Stalls lined the muddy square, offering pickled moss, glow-in-the-dark hoof polish, embroidered leg-warmers, and jars of something that looked and smelled like sorrow. A strange music - part dirge, part digital loop, and was that a touch of dubstep? - hummed from unseen speakers. Goats nodded in rhythm, their rectangular pupils dilated. All of them excited to get their tickets for the start of the Festival of Beats that would be starting in just a few short days. Some seemed upset about their tickets. Hoofitmaster is a criminal enterprise, and scalpers could really ruin the vibe.
One old nanny goat stood apart, chewing her cud quickly. Was it too quickly, or was she just hungry? Her eyes darted. She watched as a kid scrolled endlessly through a hoof-sized slate, expression blank, ears twitching in patterns she didn’t recognize. The co-mayors stood above it all, high on the stone plinth. One painting her hooves black and adjusting silver rings on her horns; the other scrolling through an endless feed of memespirations, occasionally snorting with glee.
In the early hours before dawn broke over the horizon, a mist rolled in. Not the usual comforting fog of Gruffendale, but something colder, thin as breath and smelling faintly of wires and ash. Many of the goats were still snuggled in their straw, blissfully unaware of the icy fingers of a mist that sent a chill down the spine. Those who were awake were uneasy, speaking less, and occasionally stomping their feet trying to shake the feeling of
something being
different.
By dawn, the sky warmed to a soft yellow, deepening to magenta before a brief moment of blazing scarlet. And deep inside the bones of the village, something ancient stirred, recognizing a shift in the tides of the world.
The previous day was momentous. Historic. And the maaarket was such a delightful treat!
But the goats couldn't shake the ominous sense that their world would never be the same.