Teller of Fortunes 10: Return to the Shardlands

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When Ane reawakens,  the wagon has finally come to a stop. It’s almost disorienting, as if her body expects the floor to suddenly jolt forward once again. Above her head there is a single beam of light pouring in through the window, shimmering behind the gauzy curtain. Wherever they are now, it’s certainly not the shadowlands.

Her senses reclaim clarity from the cloud of slumber, and immediately anguish at the buzz of outside activity. Clanking pots, rolling wheels, the hum of distant chatter… The caravan has come alive once again as if it too has reawakened. The strange, barren world of shadows has receded, and a battered semblance of normalcy has swept in.

Ane stretches her limbs, wincing at the dull throb that reminds her of the wounds on her arm. She tests the temperature of the air against her bare skin for a moment, before wriggling out from under her blanket and into a pair of trousers and a loose shirt. They’re plain clothes, old and much-repaired, but they’ll do.

She slips a sliver of honey soap and a clean cloth into her pocketbag, and steps, squinting, into the shardlight. If there’s light, they’re probably near Paakoponde, and that means she can find a stream.

And lo and behold, a glittering span of water shines off in the near-distance. It’s a wide thing, more a river than a stream, spanning to the far horizon. It’s right against the edge of the encampment. It would probably be a five to ten-minute walk to reach the river’s shore, which slopes down from the solid ground and into a silty beach.

The surroundings seem to be yet another grassy plain, but up ahead, things rapidly change. Parallel to the river, the smooth ground turns marshy, patched with water and thick vegetation. Further on the brush turns into trees, and then into a wide-leafed canopy. Beneath this, a road half-paved winds in between large tree trunks. This must be the path to finally reach Paakoponde, the last stop before the circus finally arrives at the city’s edge.

All around, the caravan seems to be buzzing as per usual. The motion is constant, but a bit more subdued and sluggish than usual. The men carrying boxes all seem to take their time, while those washing clothes and running fetch-errands all look more than a little drained and withdrawn. The bulk of the troupe seems cheerful having survived, but not invigorated in it. There are smiles on faces, right under the lines beneath eyes.

Those without immediate orders seem to be divided; some are heading towards the center of the camp to score some breakfast. Others are heading to the beach, hoping to clean the darkness of the shadowlands off their skin.

Ane makes her way toward the silty beach, avoiding the groups of other bathers as best as she can. Fortunately, she’s able to find a small space for herself — a neat semicircle of shoreline, marked by a stand of tall, swaying reeds and the spongy hump of a fallen tree, gone soft in the water. She neatly vaults the tree and finds a place to lay her clothing, happily shucking off her trousers and shirt and laying them aside on a dry, sandy patch beyond the reach of the river.

She can tell already that the river will be cold, so she hastens her way into it to get past the shock of the icy water on her bare skin. Waterbugs skate around her knees as she wades in up to mid-thigh, and she keeps her hum trained on her feet to keep from slipping on a mossy rock or trodding on a grumpy shellfish. Shellfish are not friendly at the best of times.

With soap in hand, she bends and dips her hands into the water, working the wet bar into a creamy lather up her legs, over her stomach, and across her chest and arms. She splashes herself with clean water before slipping a hand between her thighs, rubbing the soft fluff of hair into a lather with a soapy hand.

As she washes, the same strange, wordless song rises to her lips. She half-hums, half-sings to herself as she pours water over her hair with cupped hands, before working the soap through the silky, green-black locks.

This proves to be a peaceful location, currently secluded from the rest of the caravan by a tumble of rocks from a nearby cliffside. The water glitters nicely in the shardlight, with small fish and bits of stray algae floating by from upriver. The source of the flow comes from high in the mountains, rather than the shadowlands, and so it brings a refreshing coldness and cleanness.

Across the river, on the far side, is the shape of a water-bear in the distance. Its pudgy, hairless body trudges across the rippling surface, occasionally poking its circle-mawed head down to catch fish. Whenever satisfied, it returns to leisurely floating along with the water’s flow, easily floating despite its bulk.

Elsewhere, towards the middle of the river, the surface foams and ripples with activity. A small group seems to be playing there, frolicking amidst the small waves. Their arms and bodies seem to glisten in the air when they wave or sweep a splash at one another. The lot of them seem to be accompanied by large, sectioned creatures that float ever-close, like oversized prawns or some other sort of enormous shellfish.

Ane squeezes the soap through her hair, before dipping her head down into the water to rinse away the bubbles. Cleaned of the traveling dust, she gives herself a little time to play… She’s not hungry yet, and the cool water feels good on the cuts on her arm and thigh.

She bends her knees, tensing her thigh muscles like coiled springs before she pushes forward, hands pressed together to slice through the water. With a deep breath, she splashes beneath the surface, feet kicking to propel her along the shallow bottom of the riverside.

Ane lingers as long as breath and temperature allow, only rising long enough to take another gasp of air before she vanishes beneath the rippling surface of the water again. The perpendicular current buffets her side, gently pushing her off course as if toying with her. When she has finally had enough of the river’s chill, she wades back to the shore, pulls her clothing on, and makes the soggy slog back to her wagon.

For now, she’ll air the wagon out, maybe do some laundry… She has devoted enough time to pursuits of the mind and spirit of late.

Today is a day for housekeeping.

Hours later, with her blanket airing out over a tree branch and her clothes drying on a line, the Teller of Fortunes sits on the little rickety wooden steps leading to her door. She balances a book on crossed knees, one bare foot idly swaying as she makes notes in the margin of a page adorned by a drawing of a plant with short, slender, twisting leaves.

SNAKELEAF

Root: Good for creative expression. Divination(?). Hard to maintain control, though. Bitter. 

She pauses to take a bite of an appoh before she traces the drawing with the wax pencil in her hand, gently darkening the delicate lacework of the veins of one serpentine leaf.

As Ane works on the drawing, several other troupe-members wander past in their day-to-day doings. There’s first the old matronly herbalist, Dynkala, who hobbles by on her cane. Her sight is fading, so she doesn’t seem to take notice of others on her way. Given the tatty wicker basket on her arm, it’s likely she’s headed off to gather materials for her work. The area around Paakoponde is prime for this sort of thing, and a faint smile creases the old mouth-lines across her cheeks.

Next come Brair and Vasht, talking about something as they stroll along. Vasht, still clad in leathers and strapped head-to-toe in knives, seems as tired as he ever has. He has the look of someone who’s either not slept for days, or just awakened from sleeping well beyond what the body can handle. Either way, he’s likely not to be up and about much longer; the stint in the shadowlands must have taken its toll.

Brair, in contrast, looks about as bright and warm-blooded as ever. He likely didn’t have the eyes for spotting in the darkness, and his method of combat — pyrotechnics — would’ve either burnt down the wagons, started a forest fire, or just drawn more faceless with the spectacle. He’ll probably be doing double duty for awhile on cooking to make up for it.

“Good day, Ane! Easier to draw in shardlight, eh?” Brair booms, walking past Ane with a wave.

Vasht, seeing this as an opportunity, smirks and begins to slip away. Time to go steal that nap he’s been lacking…

“‘Lo Brair,” she calls out in return, before pausing to spit out bit of fibrous appoh skin, “Seems like everything’s easier in the shardlight.”

Especially staying alive.

Brair chuckles, scratching the back of his head under his fire-like shock of hair.

“Well, I’ve heard you’re rather capable at some things out there… Vasht was alight with praise that you handled yourself. Isn’t that right Va–”

He looks around, then notices Vasht is long gone.

“Bah. Anything he can do to avoid complimenting someone directly,” the callosian scoffs, crossing his arms.

“D’you get a look at him?” She asks, with an incredulous rise of her brows, “He looked about half-dead himself. He probably flapped off somewhere to get a nap in before having to do it all over again.”

Brair hums, rubbing the blunt end of his chin with a wide palm.

“Well, he did make fewer dark jokes than usual… They must’a run him pretty ragged in the shadowlands.” He shrugs his tattooed shoulders. “I dunno what Jarrik does to keep a guy like him.”

She shrugs in return.

“Blackmail? Or Vasht just likes feeling important.”

“Maybe both,” the bulky callosian agrees. It’s then that his gaze drifts down, finally taking notice of her book. “Hrm…? Oh,” He glances up, abashed. “Was I interrupting?” Brair’s never been great at noticing things. Given how often his lidless eyes are exposed to open flames, it’s a wonder he can see at all.

“Hmm?” She scoots her hand aside, before making a small, dismissive gesture. “Nothing, you’re fine — just a way for me to keep track of things.” Brair is easier to talk to than Aedas most days, but it would still be patient work to really, honestly explain exactly what she gets up to when the wagon’s curtains are drawn.

Brair nods, a bit of comprehension shining in his eyes, which always seem glassy — as if the heat of his work has dried the clear scale typical of callosian eyes into a window of sorts.

“I wish I could do the same… Though I’d never write with a skilled hand like that. And it’s all powders and chemicals,” he muses, letting out a huff of air. “If only I knew letters, maybe I could do it that way. I’d put them all in neat little blocks, like bricks, but for explosions!” He booms, miming out the brick shape, then the subsequent blast.

“Hey, everybody has their talent! Yours is fire, mine is strange plants and stranger dreams, Vasht’s is having more edges than a hope chest full of silverware.”

“Ah yes, Lord of the Barony of Edge,” Brair agrees, smiling and bobbing his head. “If only we had someone with a talent for arrangin’ boxes… Then my mixes would blow up on atheir own less often,” he figures, scratching at his scruff. “They could put them together, maybe into columns and rows… One for things that ‘splode easy, one for one’s that don’t,” he figures, miming out the stacking process. As ever, Brair is a rather fixated individual. “… And one for all the things I’m not allowed to have,” he adds, beaming.

“Could ask the herbalist… If anyone knows organizing, it’d be her,” Ane offers.

He pauses for a moment, then snaps his large fingers.

“Good point! She’s got to keep all her drugs straight somehow,” he figures. “Bright as ever, Ane! Thanks for the thought, and enjoy the light and the city!” The callosian bids her, in the midst of excitedly bustling off.

“You too, Brair,” she says, as she tosses the remains of the appoh off into the trees. She flips the book closed and sets it down as she stands, dusting her hands against her hips before reaching out to touch one of the skirts fluttering on the line. The very edge of the hem is still cool, though dry enough to the touch. Ane hums as she sets about pulling her clothes from their pegs, draping them over one arm to carry them back into her wagon.

Once inside, she has the rest of the day for small, domestic things: Making her bed, putting away her laundry, and organizing her shelves of herbs, tinctures, and simples. There are a few things she’s running low on — some she might be able to forage from around Paakoponde, others she’ll need to track down a medicine seller for. She worries the right side of her lower lip in her teeth as she formulates a shopping list, performing a little mental math to help stretch her earnings from their last stop as far as she can.

At least Paakoponde is bound to be a prime location for gathering such materials. According to rumor, the city is known to have a large, open market amidst the trees. Many of the merchants here tend to corner the market on these things and charge huge prices to ship the materials abroad. Here, though, they’re certain to be cheaper by several orders of magnitude. There’s also word of a great arboretum somewhere within Paakoponde… The Eternalists are known to be preservers of many things, from knowledge to cultural artifacts; perhaps they might see fit to stockpile plants and seeds as well.

Then, of course, a stray medicine peddler or two is a likely sight. Who knows? It’s a large city.

Ane settles onto a floor cushion to skim through another book — something barely a half-step above a bodice ripper, but with sorcerers in it. She ends up missing the call to dinner when she dozes, but that’s alright — Paakoponde’s market beckons, and sleep shortens the hours before her arrival.