Image Description: A warm, storybook-style illustration shows the Mushroom Men gathered in a forest glade at night for Sporesend. In the centre, the Truffle Elder — a stooped, wise-looking mushroom with bark-like skin and a broad cap — sits on a wooden stool, gesturing as he tells a tale. In front of him, Button, a small young mushroom, listens wide-eyed from a mossy rug. Around them, other anthropomorphic mushroom folk sit at log tables covered with glowing foods and drinks. To the left, Boogie and Groove — two Funky Fungi performers with brightly patterned caps — play a moss-harp, their expressions full of rhythm and joy. Behind the Elder, Auralyn and Hera sit together, their features elegant and glowing. Lanterns made from hollowed caps hang from the trees, casting a golden light, while above the canopy a single bright star shines in the night sky, hinting at the Dancing Star of the story. The whole scene feels magical, warm, and timeless — a festival of stories and memory.
Sporesend: The Dancing Star
The first leaves had started to turn. Not many — just a whisper of change across the canopy. But it was enough to mark the end of the sun’s warm reign and the quiet beginning of Firstfall.
In a clearing deep within the forest, beneath the shimmering glow of the Sporalight Tree, the tribes were gathering. Rugs of moss were rolled out. Lanterns made of hollowed caps and glowing spores bobbed gently in the breeze. Long tables of carved logs held dishes from every corner of Misilania: truffle-paste tarts, crisp-root crisps, glowing gill jelly, and roasted cap-ends dipped in dew-syrup.
It was time for Sporesend — the ancient celebration of change, memory, and story.
Button skipped ahead, eyes wide. “Are the tales real?” they asked anyone who’d listen. “Will they tell the one about the mushroom who danced so hard he spun into the sky?”
Hera of the Lionsmane Tribe leaned close, his mane of shining threads glittering. “All stories are real, in their own way.”
When the sun dipped low, Auralyn of the Oyster Tribe raised her arms. “The wind has cooled,” she said. “The forest tilts. It is time.”
A hush fell. One by one, the elders stepped forward. From the shadows came the oldest among them, the Truffle Elder — stooped, his skin like bark, eyes deep as root-wells. He took the centre seat, and the spores above began to drift like glowing snow.
“Tonight,” he said, “we remember the Dancing Star.”
Button leaned so far forward they nearly toppled.
The Elder began:
“Long ago, before tribes had names, there was a small mushroom with a cap no bigger than a thimble. They were plain, unnoticed, always at the edge of the gatherings. But inside, their heart beat with rhythm. At night, when no one watched, they danced. First small steps, then leaps and spins, until even the owls tilted their heads to listen.
“One Sporesend, the little one stepped into the circle. The others laughed, for what dance could a plain cap show? Yet when the drums began, the mushroom leapt so high the wind caught them. Round and round they spun, faster than spores in a storm. Their joy was so fierce, the earth let go of them.
“They whirled upward into the dark until their glow was lost to the sky. And there they remain — the first star of Firstfall. Even now, when the season turns, we see them twinkling above, still dancing.”
The Elder’s voice faded. Silence held the clearing. Then Boogie and Groove struck their moss-harp strings, and the rhythm of the sky seemed to tremble in the forest.
Button whispered, “So the story was true.”
“True enough,” Hera said softly. “And that is what matters.”
Above, the first star gleamed through the branches. The tribes of Misilania bowed their heads, knowing Sporesend had begun again — as it always would, in dance, in story, and in memory.
Blind Man Makes 