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Vyn

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The storm came in sideways.

One moment the Elum were laying kindling, stringing lanterns, tuning flutes, preparing for a fire dance worthy of the Eight. Thunder decided otherwise. Sky cracked open like a bad egg. Buckets, not drops. Wagons scrambled open. People ran for cover. Cloaks became sails. Someone was yelling about cheese. Thunder came down like it was Tapan's own uncle.

The great fire was never lit.

They called nights like these moonsoft. Sky had swallowed the moon, and even the stars kept quiet. Rain pounded canvas, hammered wheels into the muck, hushed the song and made roads into lakes. Everyone got crammed into the nearest shelter like potatoes in a sack.

That's how Vyn ended up here, in a Wagon she most definitely didn't pick. Seemed to be Jem's. She had yet to sit down properly. Leaned against a corner instead with arms crossed and sleeves damp, pretending she hadn't slipped trying to climb aboard. Her blood was warm, but her socks were wet. Jem was sitting on a crate that didn't seem confident it could hold him, explaining (for the sixth time) that yes, it was in fact Gallen's ghost cheese, and yes, it was definitely watching us.

There was another person she didn't recognize huddled with them. A light skinned woman with hair that reminded of the Pale. She would've looked closer if not for the resident distraction.

Little Marcy who marched in and decided that „I will not be wet and sad in the same hour!“ she now sat with dangling legs. „I have snacks.“ A proud announcement as she pulled out a half crushed satchel of nuts and what may have at one time been a lemon cake. „Don't eat the cake. It fell.“

Outside, rain kept rhythm with a sense of purpose.

A long silence inside. Unacceptable.

Vyn clapped her hands „Alright. No fire. No drums. But we got four people and I'm sure you have some instruments stashed, Jem.“ She eyed him as he nodded and pulled out the cursed flute. Still wet, likely saved from a puddle. „And let's not forget the lemon cake.“

„Sounds like a show to me.“ Jem was always good in a crisis.

The kid groaned like it was a chore, so Vyn poked playfully. „Unlesss someone would like to tell another chicken story?“

„I said it was my grandfather's fault!“ the kid bared teeth, top left incisor was yet to come in.

Jem chuckled softly and that ended it.

„Well?“ Vyn leaned back, voice perked up. „Who's got something to share? Could be anything. Maybe even a story about how the cake met its terrible fate.“

Moonsoft night. Four souls. One lantern. Faint smell of onion in the air.

Might as well make it count.
 
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(Dove rolled an 18 here so I guess Dove is telling a story, enjoy!)

This place was strange. She found herself within it's weave when it was visiting another town, mistaking it as part of it. Before long, she watched as the tents folded, the laughter quieted down, and the cartwheels started to turn. A creature with no home, it seemed natural, almost instinctive to follow. Often, at home she was surrounded by her family, her clan. Although this was a shadow of that- it felt familiar. And perhaps really in that moment, that's what she needed to ground herself.

But as the silence fell- the demand for someone to speak grew. Her brown eyes surveyed the each person, feeling the pressure grow. And grow.

But the funny thing is: there was a comfort here she couldn't pin. Perhaps it was the bickering, the small little quips that became part of the ritual. The 'ghost cheese'. The effort to provide something- and perhaps maybe- just maybe.. this brought a little bit of.. enthusiasm that normally wouldn't have been present.

Very thoughtfully.. she pipped. ".. I will take the cake. I do not mind that it was on the ground." she explains. "A little dirt should not affect that it is desired right?"

There is a pause.

"I will contribute a tale for the cake." This seemed like a fair trade, right? They wanted entertainment, of some form. And Dove was, for the moment, willing to provide. There was an anxiety in her movements, a subtle twitch here and there, a discord to her breathing.

"If you would like, I can tell the tale of my people, and how we became to be. I think it is a nice tale. Because it speaks of love. What do you think of that?"

She glanced around, her gaze eager for approval, her claws gently tapping her thigh.
 
Vyn couldn't hide the grin.

„Brave woman.“ She glanced at the pale stranger, ceremony in her voice. „We don't just hand out floor cake. It has a reputation.“

She ducked down and made a theatrical grab for the satchel still tucked in Marcy's lap. The girl clutched it briefly, suspicious. „We'll remember this moment“ Vyn could barely contain a laugh. „One day you'll tell your grandchildren how you gave up lemon cake in the name of romance.“

„It wasn't even that good.“ Marcy muttered. But she let it go. Vyn hoisted it up, both hands, as if it was an offering to the Eight.

„For courage in storytelling.“ Voice formal, she would go down to a knee. „We bestow upon you the ceremonial floor cake. May it confuse the stomach and nourish the tale.“ Jem couldn't hold it, so when he broke Marcy gave him a stink eye. Like he was interrupting a ceremony. Which he was. So he went back to fiddling with the flute in his lap.

Rain kept the time. Occassional changes in wind reminding it to play more than a single drum.

Once the cake was out of her hands, she would slump down to the floor fully. Legs folding beneath, much like the little ones did around the great fire. „A love story then. As long as there are no evil chickens.“ Marcy did not seem too pleased with the latest comment. Vyn kept pretending she couldn't see her.

„Please,“ She'd gesture out with her arm. „We've naught but time.“

Jem set down the flute. Even Marcy was quiet. The fire performance got washed out, but the night didn't have to be. The little space inside the wagon, crammed and steaming with the heat of four wet bodies, suddenly felt like a theatre.

Lantern swung lightly, the only thing in the Wagon that refused to still.

And somewhere, unseen, the cursed cheese watched them.
 
The sudden introduction of energy, the response so quick- the poor bird didn't have a chance to think about her reaction, and her feathers ruffle slightly, raising on their end. Or, to more simply put it: she 'poofed'. A few spare feathers falling to the ground. She looked, well. Like an unsettled dove.

But it was met with a weak smile, and she took the floor cake, and all of it's dangerous, infamous glory. She held it with a strange tenderness, that almost seemed natural to her, and without even questioning the nature of the mush cake, she opened the satchel, and started to pluck away at it, in small, gushy bites, wrapping the smushed pastry into little balls and popping it into her mouth. It was indeed, a mediocre cake, and Dove very well could acknowledge it, tasting the metallic sting of dirt mixed with the twist of artificial lemon flavor.

But she was hungry. And she loved sweets. And after her most recent encounters, this cake was a blessing. Even if it wasn't the most graceful looking. Her appreciation radiated through her smile.

"Thank you kindly." she nods to Vyn. "I am very thankful for this treat. So I will tell you the tale of our people."

".. See, our people celebrate all forms of love- not just that in romance, but in the bonds of family. Of friends. True love is simply the desire to see the people you care about thrive, and to want to be a part of that. And so, this radiates in everything we do- from our morning rituals, to our talents. We hug, we share ourselves- because love is a powerful, wonderful force that can cure any ailment."

For a moment, there is excitement in her voice, her cherry colored gaze sparked with life. Her hand stop trembling, and there seems to be a delightful aura that follows her gestures.

"But it was not always that way. Once, our feathers were dark, mottled, and grey. We only cared for the needs of the day, and our own selfish measures. We made homes in the carcasses of old, wretched ruins, and turned to our pain for our weapons to guard us against the dark." Her voice grows soft, almost hushed, as she utters the word 'dark'. As if there was more to the word, but she didn't know how to explain it. ".. then one day- came one person. A very, very young man. He found one of our clan members injured, and instead of leaving him to the scavengers.. he decided to help him heal. He.. patched his wings." She holds her words, contemplating if she was using the right ones.. "He nourished him, freely. Never, had we experienced such a strange kindness.."

Dove pauses for a moment, just to observe the room for responses.
 
Vyn kept quiet. Just listened. Even her breathing tried to match the rhythm of the rain, not wanting to throw the speaker off balance. It was rare to hear someone speak of love like that. Like it was real. Like it was something you could hold in your hand.

She watched the way the cake vanished. Quiet, practiced motions. Not greedy or gross. Just hungry. A deeper need. She'd seen hunger like that before. So had Jem. Before Vyn could say anything, his hand was already moving. A twist of wax paper, dried meat, something that had once been cheese, and maybe still was depending on how brave you felt. It went from Jem to Vyn without a word.

„Floor cake is a ceremony“ she placed the offerings besides the woman. „But this is just food.“ A small smile. „Stories take a lot out of you.“

Silence often summoned mischief. And Marcy didn't disappoint.

„Was the man who saved the bird an evil chicken?“ Her voice cut the quiet clean. Tooth gap on full display.

Jem choked and made a sound somewhere between a snort an a flute. A most curious note. Vyn raised her eyebrows. „Evil chickens don't save anyone, Marcy.“ Quiet, like it was a secret. „They only eat naughty kids and whisper to the goats after midnight.“

„Oh.“ Marcy looked faintly disturbed by the implication.

They would never allow it to be sad. Just a pause between two songs.

„Go on. I want to know what happened next.“
 
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Dove's brows furrowed at the mention of the evil chicken again. She shook her head 'no'. Not quite sure what the fixation was on this, she turned to Vyn, her eye wide with surprise at the presence of the food. And if Vyn looked up, she would have been met with a bright, grateful smile, her eyes filled with warmth and gratitude. "Thank you." Soft, as always, but for some reason, it rang much deeper than normal.

"This man, his kindness, was so profound. At first, our people resisted it. We spat. We hissed. We did not know what love was. And it- it was scary. Learning a new feeling- it can truly uproot everything you knew. But he persisted. He taught us how to smile. He taught us how to hug.." she continues, wrapping her arms around herself. "And eventually, we learned how to share the warmth back." she smiled.

"We started to build.. nests, for ourselves. And we learned how to sing to comfort each other. We learned how potent touch was. And- of course, he was invited to be a part of this change. He was so- so valued. But.." she raised a finger. "He was a human. He did not live as long as we did. And so age took him. We watched his bones become brittle. We watched his skin turn ashy.." she sighed. ".. We loved him so dearly. So dearly, in fact, that on his deathbed, my people embraced him, finally returning all of the love that he had given us over the years- cherishing all of the lessons, into him." she explains. "Our love for him was so pure, that our feathers turned white, and our hands were given the ability to heal and spread love with ease."

"He had kin. And so we pledged ourselves to his kin, and became their companions forevermore." she nods. The last sentence seemed stiff, unsure. But she doesn't give the room to continue the conversation.

"This place.." she sighs. "Has a lot of love. So you most likely rarely notice it's absence. But to those who do not have: it is life-changing. Guard your hearts and let them grow." she warned. "This- this is rare, and I would hate to see something so beautiful fade."
 
The story lingered, sweet and sad. You didn't need to know the words of the song to hum along. Both Mary and Jem had gone quiet.

The space inside felt small in a good way.

Vyn leaned back on her hands. Watching the lantern cast shadows across the woman's face. She slipped her a bundle of her own. Sweetened flatbread. It was a snack she'd often have, but rarely enjoy. There would always be a reason to give it away along the way. Didn't make a moment of it.

„Love that changes you is rare.“ Shoulders moving up and down as if she was a scale „Love that lets you stay the same rarer still.“ She looked at the other two for a moment. They weren't keen on the moment, so she moved on. „But either way, you're never quite what you were after.“

„Thank you for the story.“ Jem spoke softly from the back. Eyes and hands on his lap, flute nearly dried out.

Vyn eyed the woman carefully. „You don't owe anyone the story you carry.“ And softer still. „But if you're ever tired of carrying it alone, there's space here. By the fire. On the Wagons. With us.“

„You don't have to decide tonight.“ Accompanied by Jem's silent nod.

Marcy piped up: „We got room. And if we don't, I'll share my blanket.“

„Generous“ Vyn's voice was dry.

„Only if she doesn't snore!“ Marcy added with a grin.

Vyn wouldn't press the matter. She just looked at the stranger the way you might at a passing bird, hand outstretched not to capture it, but to let it rest.
 
Dove returned the offer with a sweet, tired smile. Her eyes filled with uncertainty. It falters a bit, but her response remains optimistic. "... You are all very, very kind. My people would welcome you with open arms." she nodded. There seems to be something left unsaid, and she wears it on her face.

She smooths out some feathers on her forearm.. blinking softly as she picked up the small offerings they had given her, the scent welcome. And, much like the cake, she plucked at it as well. The sweetened flatbread seemed to curry the most favor, as there was almost none left by the time her hunger was satiated. The leftovers were carefully packaged again, and put along her very scarce belongings.

"I enjoy the songs here." she nods.

"There is always a tune. Even in the moments of quiet. I think that is quite beautiful." Her body starts to slightly recoil in again, as if the energy driving her boldness was beginning to fade once more.
 
Rain made steady work of the Wagon. That was alright.

Vyn noticed as the other woman pulled in. Gentle way the limbs gathered, like feathers folding in for the night. Costly softness. She didn't mention it. Just shifted, slow, stretching out her legs with a soft groan as if it were joints, not the moment, she was adjusting.

„You don't have to stay up“ Voice gentle like the lanternlight that swung faintly above. „Wagon's yours for the night. Blanket's warm, even if you snore. We can make ourselves scarce.“ She glanced over to Jem. He was already nodding. Marcy was already snoring on his shoulder like a victorious cat. The two of them rarely argued. Even less so when Vyn got the tone.

„You're welcome here, you know.“ No need to make big of it.

„And you're right. There's always a tune.“ A small, tired smile. „Even when it's just the quiet parts.“ And maybe that was the best kind. The kind you didn't have to perform. One that sat beside you, matching your breathing. Slow and steady. The one you fell asleep to.

She stood up, stretching slowly. Her steps made for practical sounds. Crate shifting, blanket straightening, soft fabric to serve as a pillow.

„Rest easy. We'll keep the fire going.“

And just like that, the night could resume its gentle rhythm. The lantern swinging and the rain tapping time. A quiet tune.

One you didn't need to know the words to.
 
Her head pulls up, and she looks up at Vyn, her gaze dancing between Jem, the sleeping Marcy, and back to the woman. There is a confusing mixture of emotions in her gaze, as if she is witnessing a battle, and trying to discern who the winner would be. If she was finding a victor, she dared not have the courage to give it recognition, and as such, the rhythm was disturbed ever so slightly. Just ever so softly.

"..." After a moment, she spoke. "Your generosity is boundless. Thank you." It sounds soft, and hushed. Like she was being sneaked a treat she shouldn't have. After a moment, she closed her eyes.

"Perhaps when the dark isn't so calming, I will pay you back for this favor." she nods.

Her shoulders rise and fall with the cadence of the night. Because some songs you didn't need to know the words for indeed. Just had to listen to sing along.
 
The rain wouldn't give up. It whispered instead, a companion too tired to argue.

Vyn rose quietly, leaving a folded up blanket next to the woman. She dusted herself off slowly as she listened for Marcy's steady breath and Jem's quiet hum.

She eased the door open.

„Back soon.“


*​


The world outside was drenched and grey. The storm lost its anger, sharp edges softened into cold puddles and lethargic drips. Lanterns hung like low stars along the perimeter. The Nightline enveloped the camp, cloaked in patchwork and patience. Watching.

Vyn stepped beside one, Bran, a wiry Elf with eyes like bark. He always carried a pipe, but never lit it. Vyn wondered what that was about. She could sense a good story there.

„Asleep?“

„Like stones.“

„I hear the bird one has good manners. Appetite too.“ Pipe nudged Vyn's elbow. In a community this small, everything was news.

She could only snort. They fell into watchful silence, eyes scanning the fog. Just in case something besides the dawn tried to arrive early.



*​


The Sun peeked in sheepishly. Light clung to puddles, mud turning to gold. The Wagons moved with new life. Boots noisy against wet wood. Someone filled the morning with an off key song about stew. Smoke of the breakfast fires was meant to climb the sky, but felt too sleepy to do it. Slipping up and down like a lazy cloud.

Vyn wasn't sure if it was her who woke them. She entered to see Marcy stretch and the other woman stir.

„You missed the world not ending.“ She wasn't sure how quiet to be, but she erred on caution. „And some very bad coffee. Lucky you!“

Thinking about it, she'd realize what she held in her hand.

„Well. Maybe not so lucky.“
 
Pidgeons, doves, much like herself, they never did very well in the darkness. The pitter-patter of rain drops, mixed with the cover of the night, made for a lullaby that coaxed even herself to close her eyes. For just a moment. Perhaps, if one listened closely enough, one could hear a soft flutter, almost like a cooing.

♦

Cast from the west, the sun stretched into the windows of a room, with an ebony, wooden floor. Falling leaves dancing down, breaking the passage of light. The room was decorated, in rich colors, but no matter how deeply you focused, you couldn't make out the shapes- or the features.

Looking down on the floor is a bright, white canvas, prepared for painting- brushes carefully laid next to each other, pans of color well used spread, vibrant and fetching. A drop of black ink falls onto the canvas, sliding forward, and branching. Another drop. Another branch. The ink bleeds into the canvas, the edges of the spill fading from a deep black, to a crimson red. With the right creative lens, one could see the visage of a great tree.

And yet- despite it's magnificence, it fills the heart with dread, and fear.

♦

Perhaps it is because Dove was naturally a morning person. Perhaps it was because Dove shared a lineage with other daytime avians. Either way, the woman quietly fluttered her eyes opened, uncurling herself from against the small boundaries she had formed unconsciously. It was almost as if she didn't sleep at all.

Her head exposed, she remained quiet, but she was very much listening. The white feathers that crowned bits of her flighty locks seemed to flutter and move. As the cacophony of the morning started to grow, one could see the feathers on the side of her head follow the noise, her dull brown gaze following them. Her nose wrinkles at the smell of the coffee, and she glanced up at Vyn. "I do not hear any rain- is it over?" she asked Vyn, curious.
 
Vyn was crouched by the small cupboard when the question came. First response came from clinking of mismatched cups instead of words. Steam ghosted as she poured dark from a dented kettle.

“Mostly passed” She eyed the sky like it owed her money. “Might spit on us later, but not in anger.”

She turned, holding both cups, then offered the less worn. “This one just smells bad. Jem says it helps him think. I say it’s a horrible trade.” A bit of teeth, all in good fun. The Wagon behind them groaned as someone outside landed in a puddle with too much enthusiasm. She didn’t look. She eyed the woman instead. Her feathers seemed to twitch at sounds.

“She snores funny.” Marcy passed between them mumbling. Trained route to breakfast.

The woman didn’t appear rested.

“I’m Vyn. Shouldn’t be strangers after we slept together.” She couldn’t resist the urge to slap her knee. She stole that one from an old sailor. It held up.

“Marcy probably claimed all the bread. Jem’s pretending not to notice, but he’s squirreled bits away for you too. You want something hot before she finds that too?”

A softer look back out, coin no longer owed.

“You sleep okay?”
 
Dove's gaze danced around the room, perpetually searching. But for what? Who knows. But eventually, her eyes settle back on Vyn, the clanking of cups catching her full attention. Cautious eyes quickly searched all of Vyn's features. From the curved horns that weaved between the dark locks, to the dusty robes. Her eyes rise back up to meet the woman's gaze, rather large and doelike in comparison to what glanced back at her.

She takes the cup, holding it. Listening carefully to Vyn. Unfortunately, her ship-ready humor didn't land on Dove, who gave her a very deadpan, emotionless expression, as if she didn't quite understand what she meant by the statement. Or, if she did, she certainly wasn't amused. The lack of emotion probably would have been disturbing, if Dove held it any longer. But she does break it, looking at the liquid swirling, steaming in the cup. This looked rather.. dangerous..

".. They call me 'Dove'. Thank you for letting me take shelter here." Again with the gratitude. Almost like she didn't know how to say anything else.

".. I slept fine." A pause holds the air. Everyone has whispers they keep to themselves after all.

"Could you tell me where this group is heading?" she asks after a moment. And then, her focus returns to the coffee. Never having seen such a drink before, her face is twisted into emotion, as she sniffs it, squinting at it as if it was going to jump out of her hands and bite her somehow. She pokes the tension of the liquid with her finger, feeling it's texture, before she lowers her face enough.. and slightly sticks her tongue out.. and just.. splashes it in for a moment, before her nose contorts and crunches up, her lips smacking together in disgust.

".. What did.. you.. give me?" she asks, perplexed.
 
Vyn watched amused. The sniff. The poke. The smallest taste. Didn't say a thing. Not even when Dove's face contorted in disapproval. She simply sipped her own cup, expression unreadable.

„It's called coffee.“ She confessed it like a crime. „Most people hate it the first time. Fifth time too, but by then it's tradition.“

She paused, remembering her first run in.

„It's Gordar's favorite.“ Like it explained everything. „He says it makes the mornings feel honest. So we drink it too. Not because it's good. Because it's his.“ Another sip. Heat scorching most of the taste, but the reverence remained. „Jem says it helps him think. I say he likes the suffering.“

Her hand fished for snacks she kept hiding from Marcy. Pulled out a small bundle that smelled of apple and clove. As the cloth unwrapped, it revealed small leathery strips of dried fruit. Normally they'd cook them down to tea. But they were perfectly edible on their own. „This might go down better.“ A peace offering.

„As for your question – east. Couple days trip to Gullton. Small place. Good people. They still owe us some bread and a goat.“ She recalled the last visit. It was a nice memory.

„But beyond that, wherever the Road allows. We're not a fast moving people, but we don't like staying still.“ She looked at the woman across from her and wouldn't voice her own question.
 
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