Daughter of Wreath

Though Vexa takes some time to rouse from sleep, the two of us hit the road once again when morning comes. Our breakfast is something of a disappointing one, consisting only of oats and hot water, mashed together into a warm, belly-filling gruel that should keep our energy up until midday. The road itself, at least, is rather easy; it presents us with neither incline nor decline, and as the birch forest rapidly gives way to grassy plains, the sun is able to warm our skin once again. For Vexabeth, I assume it's been quite some while since her skin has seen the sun atall, but mine greets the warm light like an old, close friend.

Much of the day passes. A salad of lambfeathers - a leafy, nutritious weed - and wild-picked thornpeppers make up our lunch, despite the elf's complaints, and we continue eastward until the sun's nearly completed its journey westward, the far, grassy horizon threatening to swallow it and cast the evening into starlight. As the sky darkens, though, our eyes (particularly Vexa's, which are far keener in natural gloom than my own) are able to pick out new lights: the light of lanterns and torches, warm and inviting, accompanied by the jolly sounds of music.

"What do you think that is?" I inquire aloud, more to myself than to Vexa. "A little town?"

"Not a town," the elf counters quickly, squinting into the distance. "No roads, no houses, no signs. Tents, wagons. It's some sort of caravan. Probably merchants from up north."

"Huh. Well, it's getting dark... maybe they'll have a place for us to rest?" I pause, feeling a gurgle in my gut. "And, uh... maybe food."

"I'm not one to trust merchants," Vexa scoffs, "keep an eye out for whatever thugs they've hired to violently protect their interests. It's not like we have any money, anyway."

"Wait, you don't haveanymoney?"

"I'm a witch who lived in a hut for years and enslaved nature spirits to work for me, what do I need money for?"

"Fair enough." I let out a little sigh. I havesomenickel at least, if not much. "Well, who knows, maybe they aren't merchants at all."

As we approach the small, mobile settlement, it becomes clear why they've stopped here - it's a four-way crossroads. Westward lies the way we came, east leads toward Tague, and north would likely bring us to Graicea's capital Minoury, the home of the Archduke. The road leading south is far less well-wandered, confirming what I'd been told about Graicea's towns and villages becoming more scattered and less populated the closer they were to the country's southern border. We're still some distance from civilization, if you're heading this way anyway; it's an obvious place to stop and rest.

Also becoming apparent is that these are not merchants, nor simple nomads. While plenty of warm orange firelight comes from within the tents and wagons, the campground itself is decorated with standing or hanging lamps made from colored glass, with shades of green, pink, blue, and yellow casting strange, festive lights over the place. The tents, as well, are decorated, often with red, blue, and white stripes, and the sides of the carts and wagons are used as platforms for signs and murals advertising the true nature of this troupe - a wandering circus. Specifically, from its signage, the Picklehammer Brigade.

The sounds of drums, fiddles, and lyres grows louder as we arrive at the edge of the encampment, and we're greeted to the sight of the carnival's performers enjoying some downtime - eating, drinking, and conversing with one another, some playing their instruments while others simply relax. It's a melting pot of different sorts of colorful figures, ranging across the gamut of humans, elves, goblins, and even more exotic folk. I'm certain I spot a zura or two, and even one of the shokari, if the stories I've heard of their great heights and curved horns are true. There are perhaps fifteen or twenty people in total, though it's difficult to say for certain.

"Ooh, what's this, what's this?" a voice cries out when we're finally spotted. The speaker, a male elf, quickly excuses himself from the conversation he'd been having with a furry-faced human boy, rushing over to greet us. He's tall and spindly like Vexa, though with better posture, his red-and-black striped trousers, tail coat, and stovepipe hat making him look even more lanky. Exaggerated black makeup rings round green eyes, his skin tan and hair tawny. He glances behind us, checking to see if there are any more than just we two, and looks satisfied when he sees nothing. "Hello, you fine vagabonds! We weren't expecting visitors, but welcome, welcome-" his voice drops an octave, projecting from his belly so that it rings across the camp. "Weeeeeelcome to the Picklehammer Brigade! Traveling destination for joy, amusement, delight, and whimsy!"

"Oy, can it, we're off-duty!" calls a goblin woman from some ways behind, chewing on a roast leg of lamb.

"Off-duty? But the fine performers of this troupe arealwaysGraicea's most fantastic font of festivities!" The elf's lean, angular features are stretched wide by a huge, performative grin, but it comes nowhere near his eyes. His gaze is thoughtful and shrewd, sizing us up...studyingus. "Surely youauspiciousyoung ladies would at least like to join us for dinner? There's ple-E-e-Enty to go around."

"Fuck yeah, I'm in." Vexabeth says, to my great surprise. She's largely come off as pretty distrustful so far, so I certainly wasn't expecting her to bite so quickly. "Feels likemonthssince I ate anything."

"We've only been on the road for two days," I frown.

"You don't know what I was up to before that," she parries, then gestures toward the encampment, as if inviting herself. "Lead the way, tall stripey man."

"Oh, please! You need not be so formal! Tall stripey man was my father's name!" the elf lets out an eerie, self-congratulatory giggle, "You may call me Ribaldrous Toche! I serve as Picklehammer's chief barker, auteur, master of ceremonies - and tonight, as your humble host!"

Something about this - something about Toche in particular - rubs me the wrong way, but with Vexa having seemingly made up her mind, it seems best for me to just play along and stay alert. I follow behind, getting a better look at the campsite. On closer inspection, the tents and wagons are set up in a sort of insulatory ring around a large, semi-circular open area, situated around a central campfire, likely protecting it from wind and casual onlookers. The members of the circus behave almost like a family despite there being well over a dozen of them, all clearly very close and comfortable (even flirtatious) with one another.

"A li'l kip of mead, then?" asks one of the performers, a large, bald human man, heavily mustached and covered from head to toe in tattoos, offering Vexa and I wineskins with a wide, white-toothed smile.

"Oh, fuck yeah," the elf snatches one of the skins, taking a long swig from it without so much as a cautious sniff. When she doesn't seem to be immediately poisoned (and in fact, seems rather delighted), I take the other offered skin with a gracious nod. I'm not used to people being this friendly or generous, but within seconds of our arrival, it's like we're one of the family.

"Please, eat, and grab someplace to sit!" Toche urges us, gesturing at the campsite. "Mai valara, thou mísil!" I recognize the words, though he speaks the elf-tongue with a somewhat different accent than Vexabeth had. Maybe he's not... what had she called it... a 'low' elf?

Seating mainly consists of squat cushions or pillows, with only the occasional chair available, and by the time Vexa and I have sat down, plates are set in our laps - plates containing, considering what the two of us have been eating the past couple days, feasts fit for the Archduke himself. Hunks of roast, salted chicken, fresh-baked beerbread, honeyed white cheese, and an herb salad have me wondering what heroic deed I must have done for Those to give me this sort of blessing, and while I'm tempted to dig in and stuff my face, I try to have some sort of restraint for the moment. "Thank you, all of you, for this. It's... really, very wonderful."

"Well, s'not too often we get company in the eve, 'tis a good thing to share a fire with strangers, says I," the tattooed man says with a smile, now puffing happily at a wooden pipe filled with what smells like blackthistle - a mildly toxic flower that, when dried and its heady, aromatic smoke inhaled, offers a pleasant buzz to the body and spirit. I smile at the congregation of strange characters eating and chatting around the campfire, taking more of them in. An androgynous, flexible-looking goblin and human woman with a thoroughly-pierced face and body flirt with each other at the stoop of one wagon, gently touching one another's thighs and shoulders as they explore how bold they can be. Two lanky elven brothers (the only other elves present, as far as I can tell) play an arcane-looking card game against each other, its rules and design impenetrably mysterious to me at a glance.

"Well, it's... yeah, thanks, again." I still can't help but be suspicious of their hospitality, but I'm also notfromthis part of Paraven - maybe they just do things differently in Graicea, I really don't know. "I'm Nowa, by the way. I'm, uh... not used to people being this friendly. People are hospitable on the Bluffs, but for a meal like this, someone's probably gonna ask you to wrangle a loose goat, gather eggs, something like that."

"We make what we need from performin'," the man says with a shrug, "and we know hungry travelers when we sees 'em. An' I'm Braull, pleasure to have yer name."

"Oof -ack!- sorry - 'scuse me!" comes a voice, tip-toeing around obstacles and other people alike, trying to make her way to a heavy, halved log that she promptly uses as a bench. Her clumsiness seems to be an effect of her remarkable size, for this is the shokari I spotted earlier. "Whew! There we go! Hey, Big B, do we have any of that bread left, and if- ohhh!" she pauses mid-sentence as she notices Vexa and I, a broad smile crossing bright features. "People! Hi! Didn't notice!"

Though I'm sure it makes me look every bit the unworldly bluffsider I am, I can't help but stare,studythe woman for a moment, as I've never seen one of the shokari in anything but the pages of a storybook before. In most respects, she's fairly human-like, though with a few distinct differences. Most noteworthy is that she's enormous, around seven feet in height, making even Vexa look small by comparison. Her skin is a light shade of purplish gray, darkening around the temples before sprouting into a rack of tall, twisting horns like those of a kudu. Around the base of both horns are tied ribbons of yellow and violet, dangling down to her shoulders, andbetweenthe horns is a stripe of thick, straight hair that reaches down to her mid-back. Her eyes are of a pale silvery color that matches her hair, her arched brows and strong nose giving her a noble countenance ill-fit to her bright, cheerful demeanor. A faint layer of white makeup on her face, dot of black at the tip of her nose, and the dark purple on her lips and streaking up and down from around her eyes, belies her nature as a performer for the Picklehammer Brigade, just as boldly as her body betrays exactly thesortof performer she is. My eyes wander down from her face, to her broad, powerful shoulders and well-muscled arms, swaths of yellow fabric criss-crossed over what appear to be sumptuously full breasts, and I am possessed in an instant by a desire for her to lift and carry me, as if I were her new bride, or in need of rescue from a burning building. She's the circus strongwoman.

"B-... big lady...." I murmur, eyes going out of focus until I feel Vexa elbow me in the side.

"Snap out of it, bug! What, you've not seen a shokari before?"

"Gah! Um, shit, sorry, uh- no, I haven't, sorry." Honesty's probably my best bet here. I offer a sheepish smile, quickly eating a piece of the glazed cheese to cover my embarrassment.

"Oh, it's no problem!" the big woman says apologetically, holding up both hands to indicate she's taken no offense, and I notice her hands only have three fingers and a thumb. "I understand my folk aren't too common in this area, but you don't have to be scared, we don't... like... eat children or anything. Just big, that's all!" she lets out a nervous giggle, and I almost immediately find myself liking her (beyond my desire for her to carry me). I also notice, now that I've heard a few actual complete sentences out of her, that she has an accent of some sort, one that's completely foreign to my ear. She tends to stress the last consonant of words, and strings together clusters of smaller ones, but otherwise has a bright, clear voice.

"Right. Sorry again, anyway. I'm Nowa, and this is Ve-" I gesture toward the elf, only to find that she's finished her food and wine, and is now off dancing wildly with two of the other circus-folk, making the most of the night without a care in the world. "Uh,that, is Vexa, over there," I correct myself with a small smile.

"I'm Gelyn! Gelyn Ul-Shan. I pick stuff up! Heavy things, I mean. Well, other things too. Whateverneedsto be picked up. It's just that it's more impressive the heavier the thing is, I guess." She lets out an anxious laugh, then grabs a half-loaf of bread offered to her by Braull, taking a huge bite out of it. "Ummf!Yeah, tha's yummy."

"Gelyn may just be the strongest woman - strongestanythin', to be fair - I've ever known," Braull chuckles, slapping one hand jovially against the shokari's densely-muscled upper back with a thick-soundingthud, then wincing as if the friendly strike had hurt his wrist. "Lass sure can eat, though!"

"What about you?" Gelyn focuses on me, her large gray eyes clear and bright, her expression more openly, earnestly invested than I've seen in some time - particularly compared to Vexa's disaffected, sardonic energy. "What brings you to a crossroads in the middle of nowhere? The carnival roams around, but we almost never see people traveling by foot out this far west. Ooh, have you seen anything cool? A troll? Adragon?"

I purse my lips briefly, wondering how to explain the situation. My goal is one only barely understood byme, so it won't be easy to quickly explain. "I - we - are on a, um... a quest, I guess? I've been looking for someone for some time, and as far as I can tell they're in the goblin city, Tague. Vexa sort of just... invited herself along, so we've been traveling together the past couple days."

Unexpectedly, Gelyn lights up with an almost child-like wonder, stars alight behind her eyes. "Aquest?" she asks, stunned. "Like a dangerous quest? Like an adventure?"

"Uhh, I guess you could say that," I reflect back, considering my encounter with the grazzoth and those bounty hunters. "There certainlyhasbeen some danger, recently." My eyes wander the campsite as I talk, watching Vexa dance her heart out, switching from partner to partner as the upbeat drums and strings continue to ring out through the night air. My eye also catches something of interest - a goblin man, feeding a few scraps of chicken to a tiny, lizard-like creature in a small cage, pale orange with bright blue frills. "Whoa - is that a mebbinath?" I blurt out, notintendingto change the subject, but my mouth nonetheless voices my thoughts, unbidden.

"Mm?" Gelyn follows my gaze to the little creature, its wide, toothless mouth eagerly gobbling down the bits of skin and gristle. "Oh! That's Puppy, Ivol's little froggy guy!"

"You have a mebbinath and named it Puppy?" I say, more to myself than to her, but she only offers a laugh and shrug.

"I dunno! You'd have to ask Ivol, I guess. It doesn't really come out of the cage."

"That's... probably for the best," I say hesitantly. Those little things areextremelytoxic, from the stories my mother had told me. Shaking it from my thoughts, I take a long swig from my skin of mead, then turn back to Gelyn, "Anyway, yeah, we're on our way to Tague. You ever been?"

The shokari sighs, "No, though I've always wanted to! The Brigade goesnearthe goblin city, but never into it, simpler that way I guess. Sounds so cool, though, 'the goblin city'; do you think it's like an ordinary city, or does it have big castles and parapets and whatnot? Or... hmm, probably little ones, actually. Goblins and all. One of these days I'd really like to-"

I reflexively duck to the side when I hear the sound of a crossbow being fired from somewhere behind me, perhaps just in time - a bolt zips past my head, between Gelyn's horns, landing with a heavythunkinto the side of one of the wagons. "What the fuck?!" I exclaim, whirling around to try to see where the shot came from, and around me, many of the circus performers behave evasively, ducking into tents, or under carts and tables.

Standing at the same entryway Vexa and I had come through is a group of newcomers, looking to be around ten in total, though it's entirely possible that the gloom of night hides more from view. I'm reminded of Pinzak's bounty hunters for only a moment - I'm looking at scoundrels, to be sure, but of quite a different type. While Pinzak and his helpers had worn weathered, piecemeal armor and wielded scavenged weapons, there was a clear sense of order to them, a chain of command,somedegree of discipline.

These arebrutes, mostly human, though I think I spy a few elves among their number. These humans are tall, muscular, primal, clad in leather and fur, each one laden down with their own arsenal of weaponry. Not bluffsiders, not graicean.Southerners. Barbarians from the deepest bowels of Paraven, only leaving their wasteland homes to do what they do best - pillage. What's strange here is that they seem to be following a single leader, and that that leader is not one of them, but rather a raven-haired, tawny-skinned human woman of far shorter stature and slimmer build, more similar tomein appearance (if rather chestier) than those she's leading.

The festivities at the circus camp fall silent as the band of invaders move in, some of the southerners wordlessly taking food from plates, fanning out ominously among the visibly-fearful performers. The woman in front sets her foot up onto one of the benches, slightly increasing her apparent height. "Barker. I believe it's time." She has an intimidating countenance, her lips and eyes dark, but streaks of bone-white warpaint along her cheeks, neck, forehead, and shoulders. No, not warpaint - these are no crude streaks of color, but have been applied with great care and consideration, even and symmetrical. Her lightweight 'armor,' consisting of a boiled leather bustier, thick-tasseled skirt, and short boots, is also bleached white, with unfamiliar designs of inky black crawling along the toughened surfaces.

"Aw, who the fuck is this, now?" Vexa groans, her evening of dancing and pleasantry distastefully interrupted. "Can a bitch not have aminute?"

"Silence, crone, it will all be over soon." The strange woman shoots a brief, cold glare at Vexa, but her gaze continues to search for Toche.

"Oh, callmea fuckin' crone-" the necromancer begins, but is interrupted by the circus barker's loud, clear voice as Ribaldrous Toche comes crawling out from beneath a wagon.

He looks terrified, his top hat missing, pale hair already lank with sweat as he makes his way over to the woman. "Hezi, Hezi!" the elf exclaims, both empty hands held high in an obvious sign of surrender. "We, ah... weren't expecting you! Not that we aren't delighted to see you, of course! Please, take a seat, enjoy a meal, there's plenty to-"