Legend LIX – The Pumpkin Whisperer of Moorlicht

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In a forgotten corner of the world, far beyond fields of mist and crooked oaks, stands an inn found only by those who aren't looking for anything. It bears no name above the door, no sign fluttering in the wind, and yet it is known everywhere where stories spring from the ground like mushrooms at night. Whoever enters always hears the same first sound: soft giggling, a little too bright, a little too warm—like a secret betraying itself. There he sits. Always. On the same chair, at the same table, at the same hour. A small creature with a hat of old felt, ears like curved leaves, and a smile that is both a promise and a warning. His beard falls softly like moss, his gaze sparkles like freshly stolen stars. A glass of dark drink before him, two candles whose wax drips like tears, and a pumpkin. Not an ordinary one. He smiles back. With teeth of light. The innkeeper and the travelers call the little creature Brennak, but some say he has many names. Visitors who see him forget their worries like stones falling from a pocket. But those who stay longer notice more. It is said that Brennak speaks to the pumpkin. Not aloud, not for the ears, but in the flickering of the flame, in the trembling of the candle's movement. And sometimes the pumpkin answers in the same flicker—like a second heart in the room. Once Brennak was not a quiet drinker, but a wandering trickster, a master of small pranks, with laughter like thunder over hills. But it is said that he once saved a village from dark night. A shadow creature crept through fields like ink in water, silent, hungry, old. People locked their doors, but fear feeds shadows. Then Brennak took a pumpkin, carved it a grin wider than any fear, placed a candle inside, and set it on the highest hill. The pumpkin laughed with fiery teeth—and the darkness retreated, for where light laughs, shadow cannot prevail. But the rescue demanded a price. Brennak bound his own laughter to the pumpkin, gave it a piece of his heart, a piece of warmth. Since then, the pumpkin has never left his side. And Brennak laughs—yes—but never quite alone. His smile has two voices. One of flesh, one of flame. Travelers who enter the inn quickly realize that everything there is a little crooked, like a wink from the world. The wind stirs around the windows as if listening. The stained glass scatters colors that sound like distant music. And the pumpkin—oh, the pumpkin—watches every visitor with sparkling eyes, as if testing whether they carry laughter or fear in their hearts. They say that Brennak grants wishes—small, harmless ones that merely ease a tug in life. A lost ring. A missing word. A dream that is meant to return. But every gift demands something in return. Not gold, not blood—a laugh. Real. Deep. A laugh that rises from the soul, not from the mouth. He who gives it walks lighter. He who owes it never forgets.