Vorston

Vorston

Active member
The local plums amassed about the wagons, wide wheeled and well fashioned in bold bright colours, pursuing their curiosity and the curiosities that did wheel in. Cheery cries to welcome and announcement sent the entourage out, and to the wagons did they bustle as the slow arrival did make it's final stretch. Vast bags of the usual fragrances of foodstuffs that were pawed at and breathed in heartily, cargos tight bound in strings and trappings of preservations for the journey gawped at and rendered all the more mysterious for their concealment. Potions did slosh as the wheels trundled over bridge and cobblestone path, and artwork did keep their artistic visions concealed in canvas, the odd hand that did seek to peek tutted and shoo'd away with much mischief and good humours. The plums did jostle so, much talk of recipes to indulge, galleries and homes to fill, wild inquiries about shipments and orders, new things in the world that would dazzle and amaze, and much cheerful rapport between the smallfolk who did welcome each other as old friends. Inquiries of how the road had fared, if all was well with rider and with cargo, and platters of tea in the third best china were doled out to grateful travellers who did all remark that they had been looking forward all venture to the fine brews that the Plums did steep.

A floral cup of dazzling blues and greens, depicting weasels dancing about gemstones, was offered to one who rode near the back of the last wagon. Wizened hands did take it politely and gratefully, Vorston's shoulders relaxing for the mere sight let alone the smell, which he did draw in himself to cherish, his eyes closed.

“Vorston! So good to see you again, wasn't expecting you see you again, so soon! Ah Merris will be happy, you should have written! How's the Therapy trade, did the-”

“Ah Jerry, old sport, your bath bombs did wonders for my clients, and is part the reason I did return so soon! A good soak is sometimes all a fellow needs not to set the world on fire, eh?”

They both did laugh and the wagons did trundle slower and slower for the welcoming committee. The cup quick sipped, and returned to Jerry's hand. The sound of a cup breaking against the cobblestone, with the usual apologies.

“Happens every time,” Vorston did say with a smile, not much rueful for the third best china, as his wagon did shudder still. He gathered up his robes about himself, picking up his travelling pack and doctor's bags, two heavy things with clasps numerous, and readied to heft himself off the cart. Devices about his wrist did bite at the handles of his doctors bag, crocodile clips did seem gleeful with their purchase.

As Vorston looked down to the ground, his eyes looked to the horizon as the golden sun did reveal it's splendor on the road they had traversed.

“Makes you almost not want to get back to work,” Vorston did say, a mix of homesickness being cured within him and a longing to return to those who might be soothed by his profession.

He hopped off, a well practiced motion, assisted by what small bracers did connect to a waistcoat of supports to allow him to heft his gear so well, the crocodile clips that allowed one so small to heft so much from wizard tower to hermit cave, and now, back to the Hollow. The bags did remain away from the ground, precious cargo within of glass and herb and all manner of kits.

“But a Heuristic Mage's work is never done you know Jerry,” he did say, and knocked on wood to preserve the thought. Jerry agreed firmly, much nodding of the head as he placed hands upon his apron, the good one, designed to protect him from the quick cuts of the sickle that he did cut his lavenders.

“Too true Vorston, too true,” Jerry said agreeably, although not sure exactly what Vorston exactly did, no matter how many times it was explained. All he knew that bath bombs did help, and that was enough to make them good friends alone.

A sniff from Jerry in the direction of the cart, and the two did look at the crates within the back of the wagon. The driver of the wagon did tend to their tea, much smacking of the lips and answering of questions concerning the pony's health, Toby, was supping from a pail of the tea himself with much pleased gulps.

“Say Vorston, what's in this wagon? Never seen crates like these before, smells curious, and I have a better nose than most, as you do know!” Jerry did say, drawing up as menfolk did in small circles about things they examine and judge.

Vorston readjusted his glasses and an answer drew up confident in his frame, but sputtered out. A frown, a chuckle, the sounds of befuddlement.

“You know Jerry,” Vorston said, glasses now used to examine the crate that loomed terribly large on the back of the cargo, “I dare say,” he said, drawing close as others joined the circle of examining, “I haven't the foggiest!”
 
"It beats having the darkest," came a low and sing song voice from within the terribly large crate. "Or the bumpiest, for that matter,"
 
Glasses were readjusted as if they were suddenly a piece of safety gear, Vortson's eyes blinking rapid as he did gain facilities. His ears did recognise the element of madness, and his gut did tell him respond immediate, too many lessons learned from the guild and first hand to ignore that spice of unhinged humour in the voice.

Puzzlement in his soap maker, who began to speak, rendered still by a quick hushed, “Hab-hab-hab,” from Vorston. A gesture from the Heuristic Mage which could only mean, 'Fetch more tea,' with much nodding to encourage the feet the move. And so, the soap maker, shaking his head, but not sensing the true potential of cartwheels of sanity to roll about the place, did leave Vorston with a crate that did mock so.

Vorston drew himself up respectable and with a flick of the wrists did release the crocodile clips from the waistcoat, the mouths sealing tight those handles until they were attached to Vorston again. The eyes of those crocodiles sly in their humour as teeth did bite comfortably on. The gnome did clamber up to the cart with a grunt and a mindfulness of stepping over his beard in the process, and did speak as he did place hands upon the crate, wizened hands feeling the joinery.

“Yes, t'was a bit bumpy wasn't it? 'fraid the wheels were replaced by needs must, not quite the Plumhollow standard of wheeling ways. Let me see,” Vorston said easily, wetting his lips as his fingers found a small carving of a runic nature upon an underlip of lid, and did bid the weave to join the connection. No need for nails to seal and crowbars to pry when the weave did work it's way.

A languid pulse of living will did course from fingernail to runic language, curling and unfurling the box lid in slow slide. The box was much too high for Vorston to peer, and even if he were a tall folk, he thought, best not look a gift cargo in the face. Especially when it did speak so.

“You've arrived in Plumhollow my good person. Don't worry, I'm from here, and everyone is frightfully nice, you'll see. Tea will be here in a moment, don't you fret, you must be parched from such a compartment,” Vorston did say, as if all of this was awfully mundane, as if he were some kind of travel conductor to box transportation. It was the air of civility and accommodation, for both gnomes and Heuristic mages did their best to facilitate good hospitality in whatever form it could be afforded.

“I'm Vorston, do you need a hand out of that crate at all? I can fetch a ladder, no trouble in finding that around here,” Vorston did say, as if a proper introduction might encourage whatever did lurk in the box to manage their matters and ask for a ladder if they were smallfolk like himself.

The sound of the third best china clinking about a saucer could be heard as Jerry did circle about the wagon. Toby the pony slurped loudly and happily. Vorston held himself as proper as one might, as the crate did hold what jesting delights it might.

@Zakarias
 
"Vorston," came the voice from down in the dark of the crate. The soup of shadow so thick, none of the sun's light seemed to peer through. "No hand, Vorston no, but a ladder would do," the darkness bubbled and stirred to the sound of his voice. "I do hate the idea of a good spot of tea going to waste,"
 
Jerry did arrive and deliver the cup with outstretched arms to Vorston who did kneel mindfully to receive it, balancing as best as he might to prevent a waste of tea and china, placing his own half empty cart upon the cart floor before his hands met the new saucer.

Vorston did begin to gingerly ask as fingers did clasp, "I don't suppose friend that you could fetch a-"

"Already on it Vorst," Jerry did say, cup delivered and quick stepping to the side of the cart.

A small team of small folk with a ladder that did jostle above them as their knees did power, all the moments of lathing and sanding culminating in this excitable moment of usefulness. A brightly coloured team, the brothers Rung, in yellow and green pomp, sashes and jangling bells, wide grins and boisterous movements did make their way.

Vorston did nod appreciatively, cupping the saucer for protection as the ladder did arrive and crash down on the cart. Hands waved wildly in a 'Tah-dah' motion, proud of their placement. Vorston's cup rattled, yet did not spill, settled by a gentle stilling heel of Vorston's shoe.

"Up here if you could, good Rungs, we have a guest in need of tea and a warm welcome," Vorston did say, bemused at the quick assumption that he needed the ladder to get down from the cart, protecting as best he could his cup while holding the crate guest's own.

Perplexed for a moment, the brothers Rung did jump into action, bells jangling, ladder clambering as the cart was boarded, and the ladder was about to be flung wildly into the box, before Vorston did encourage some caution with an elderly look. Further nods, and the ladder did slide slowly down into the crate, a multi hinged thing that did rest against the crate side, and work itself down in pleasing clunks of articulation, some back and forth between the brothers. Along the side could be seen carvings of ducks that did quack at small folk in high towers.

Vorston did look up at the ladder, best welcoming face upon his features, cup ready to be raised to provide.

"A ladder for you friend, and tea, courtesy of the Brothers Rung and Jerry, please, join us," Vorston did say, mindful to give recognition to those that did gape at who might be clambering out, all smiles and curious, no touch of trepidation except in Vorston's gut, which was quick being soothed by the supped tea.

@Zakarias
 
"My," the voice rumbled from on down below. The pits of shadow that bubbled and popped and hissed. "A whole committee, just for mee," a laugh that wound tight as a rope come taught. "You really had no need to do such a thing, Vorston," the darkness tried the name again. As if it had placed it upon a scale to measure. To see. "And yet," he pondered along as the scales tipped. "You did,"

The shroud of shadow went on with its pitch and its curl. Its smoke.

"Very well," the voice said in surrender. "I will do, I will do," a jingle of bright bells. A shift in the ink soup, and another chime from bright brass come loose as that which the voice belonged to stirred.

Out popped an impossibly long leg. A pointy boot there at the end of it. It hooked at the knee and planted its toes unto the first step of the ladder. Like an octopuses' tendril, the leg gathered its strength, planted its foot, and pulled the rest of the body out with it.

In a whip and spring of movement, a Jester appeared. Draped in red, horned, and towering. A mask, pale as death, affixed upon their face, with a twisted smile painted across its plane. Half glad, half mad. And there in the darkness behind all the costume, burned a pair of silver eyes that took in all of the putrid pleasantry that was Plum Hollow.

"Well," he said flatly, and looked down unto the small folk. "I thank you for that," he brought his fingers together, steepled before him, pads pressed light against each other as long digits kept pitched. "Vorston and..." he looked to the others, tilt his head with measurement. "Crew,"
 
The ripple of reaction was immediate. The brothers Rung's pride melted into sheepishness, boots looked upon and quick looks between them, before they made a few steps back. Jerry seemed to be juggling pleasant homilies and sayings that he might have jumbled together had the jester's appearance not been so wildly confusing to one's feeling of ease, his mouth just making a few attempts at an adage.

Vorston however kept composure, the curious nature of gnomes living strong in him about those who walked the tight rope of the odd, strange and bizarre. Indeed, his tone was warm as the steaming tea that was offered from his wizened hands, his words delivered with practiced care to soothe and make all right when nothing was right at all.

"A Harlequin! How extraordinary. Been many a year I dare say since anyone in Plumhollow did see a fellow of your dedications, what a rare occasion indeed."

Jasper did nod, gaining some further confidence to be welcoming for Vorston's lead. The brothers Rung however, did make themselves scarce, knowing much more of ladders and duties about them. Some quick genuine remarks about others needing their ladders, and made themselves industrious somewhere else, the ladder they had provided fine to remain in use for now.

Vorston did continue, hands upon the cup of tea in offering. His eyes upon the strangeness and boldness of the movements of the jester, and decided a tact. This jester was most likely mercurial. And perhaps bold in tone of joke.

And so with this in mind, he did his best.

"Did you know Mister Harlequin, that there's a great number of books written from this very Plumhollow about comedy. Oh yes. 'fraid you won't know who wrote what though, you see, everyone in Plumhollow uses gnome de plumes."

@Zakarias
 
Silver eyes narrowed at the word. Harlequin. Their lids squeezed by the red hands of contempt. They flit down to find the ancient toddler. There upon, they turned crescents with his smile. Cold as distant starlight.

"Yes," he all but hissed at the warm welcome. Head keeled to observe the assistant, who was so happy to nod along. The towering clown nod in near tandem. Just off by a hair.

Come the question of the comedy, and the plummy pun, his eyes squint, just the more. Burned with a bright glee.

"Gnome de plumes," he said with a super heated joy that rumbled in his throat. Threw his head back with a crash of jingling bells, and daggerous laughter. Long fingers set to clap frantic claps as they beat thrush wing pats against palm. "My oh my," he stretched one way, all spring and bend, then the other, snap and flail as his throat rattled out its whimsy wail.

All the way back he arched. And the laughter grew the more. All the way back, as spine and knee did bend.

A snap forward, hinge at the hips, red horns flailed and flopped. Feet all pitter patter atop his step. White masked and red cowled head held still as an owl's, with eyes just as wide.

"You'll show me these books then?" he asked too eager. Straightened up straight and gave his foot a stomp. His hands a clap. "For as you have witnessed, Mister Vorston, I take my clownery all too seriously," he held his head in the air, as might a king, turned to give frame to his portrait.
 
If there was a sound that was unmingled together until this moment in Underhill, it was cocktail that did pour out from Zakarias, of daggerous laughter and jingling bells shaken together so. The bells from jesting folks came with chortles and mirth, not these peals of wicked humours. Further trepidations rippled, some curiosity smothered as teas across the caravan were encouraged to go to garden benches and welcoming hearths.

Deadpan to such display, almost resigned to it, Vorston did reply, taking responsibility for the work had followed him all the way home, a hand rubbing on the shoulder of Jasper as if to say, 'all was being handled, be about other things.'

"Why, the Fellows Jubilant would be glad to have their library apprized," Vorston said, cheerfulness gaining over him as he adopted the new case in his head. He rubbed his chin within his beard, and looked conspiratorial with Zakarias, the kind of look one makes towards someone who had been given a cookie from the jar without mother knowing.

"Although I'll forewarn you, their pop up books are rather explosive and loud," Vorston said, eyes creased with a smile buried beneath his beard, "and there's all sorts of mischief about the pages. They've haven't had a visit from someone else serious about clownery in years I'm sure, so, I'm sure they'd be delighted. Their material is near as old as me, so, I think taking you to them would do a world of-" he said, making way from the caravan with his luggage, looking to Zakarias as he might follow.

He paused, considering.

"I think it would do something."

He nodded his head, as if beckoning the bells jingle follow alongside him to the Fellows Jubilant, his bags clasped in laughing crocodile clips, the Jesting Hill of Fellows Jubilant unknowing as to what was being setup.

@Zakarias
 
Proud as Pierrot, if only in a breath. "The Fellows Jubilant," he said, too straight, too cold in the knock of tongue and teeth. "Now there's a name," the words curled dark, halfway to impressed.

The zip of his star-light stare struck onto Vorston. All shaggy beard and soft.

"Explosive?" The word trembled on his tongue. "Loud?" he felt it rattle cross his taken breath. Nod-a-nod-nod. Little giddy claps, all fingers and slaps against the butt of red-gloved palm. "I think it might, I think it might," Long winding step, after long winding step. Legs hinged at hips more like arms trying to swim. Bells together in their slosh and slang, brass sounded so tired it sang.

"Do they have Anetoli's Analysis on Alchemical Ambientes, perchance?" Curious as a cat.
 
"Anteoli has a good shelf life," Vorston said.

"Perchance his canned laughter is in stock, all hermatically sealed. Larder was swelling last time I checked. Depends on how many avante guard funerals were arranged."

A sound that could not decide an opinion. He spoke as if a neutral party. In ways he was. Plumhollow had been his home. And now his home was with the job. So, truly, he had arrived at home and home again.

He had become tour guide, adopting such a tone.

"One of many of the Guild's exports you see. Many a letter to the editor from such, which is a sideshow unto itself. Rough chuckles, but a lock in is a lock in. You think they had been cut from the can."

Vorston held a hand behind his back, to aid the ache within his back that was hinting.

"That book is known as book of AAAA!" Vorston said, making pantomine muted shriek. "After all, the recipe has to be read each time you wish to make a batch. Else the joke turns sour."

@Zakarias
 
"One could only hope, the stuff is worth its weight in gold. And good for the pigs who slopped it up. Better for the dead grannies that heard such perfectly false applause, on their way down to whatever put upon hell they believed in. May they rot in the cheer so pathetically crafted" The proclaimed harlequin played along.

Not quite happy no. But something like it. If only sharper and thinner and all the more razoress. A feeling for peeling.

"You don't say," it wasn't every day a bit of historical build up slapped him upside the head like a plucked chicken.

Dry preamble for the wet whoopie cushion, or pie in the face that was sure to come. Less a hook fall from the heavens and yoink them off their wretched stage.

That book is known as book of AAAA!

Eyes wide as a mad owls slowly blinked. Disbelief plain in them as he leaned over the round and hairy gnome mid step. Bells rattled their bright whispers. Giddy as giggles and gutwrenchin gumdrops. The red clown seethed a simmering beneath the pallid face he wore. Painted purple lips twisted half smile and half frown.

... Else the joke turns sour.

A tickle of laughter. Then a downpour. All hot and loud as shrill thunder. Spine bent this way and that. Horns flopped and bells shook with it all.

"Sour," he said it like a knife drawn naked. "If there isn't anything worse than such befuddled letting," he let it hang in the air as they walked. Hand combing back the tendrils of red that flopped behind him, like a bird preening it's feathers.
 
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In his line of work, a caustic word was oft lashed against whomever might be maligning his clients in the flash of a pan mood. His present company seemed however to use his entire semblance to provide lashings of citrus drizzle to what poisonous dessert did spin out of their crooked kitchen. Sparklers and spitting whiz bang pop with the chiming trail of bells.

Vorston allowed a little time of silence from him to give some distance in sounds so that he was not collaborator with Zakarias' sentiment. A stroke of the beard, soft shoe to winding path placed ponderously as the jester made the winding path within Plumhollow his court. Zakarias jangling as they passed a vegetable patch of pumpkins that longed for the visage of the jester in their up coming season. Vorston giving sage hum as he regarded an upturned desiccated Ibbis root, all dried curling cursive of crackled plant, did shiver about it's core, seeking to tumble away in play.

"Ah, here we are," Vorston said, picking up the pace a smidge as the rhombus door, divided into swirling segments of mismatched and quick smeared paint, did invite up the small hill. A single pinwheel outside did flap diligently, silvers and primary colours all taka-taka-taka.

Vorston made approach, cleared his throat. Hefted his bag, set his robes to correctness in the sleeve length.

A raise of the eyebrows, as if inspecting a spine of a good book in faded light.

A turned knuckle, pausing before the paint.

A look to Zakarias, as if they were both salesmen of the same product, or perhaps envangelists of an untested god with an unproven pitch.

-KNOCK- -KNOCK-

The knuckle delivering this setup solidly. So much so that Vorston gave a small rub of his knuckles as he stood aside, allowing Zakarias some room to compare grease paint to door paint proper.

A sound of scuffing feet, a quick padding of boots on ladders, a listening horn unwracked and then the reply. Short, and true to the form. The sound of a gnome who never tired of the potential to hear new material in response did reply:

"-WHO'S- -THERE?-"

Vorston looked to Zakarias. And made small gesture if saying, "Give them the good stuff." He gave space in silence and in proximity for a jester to operate in the oldest structure that jokes did have. Vorston wore a quiet smile, as if he had found new talent. Or trouble worthy of spreading to those who specialised in such mischiefs.

@Zakarias
 
The pumpkins and the roots. "Now, there's an audience," the tall clown purred behind his mask. Gave a gracious bow to the withering sustenance so gathered in rows and bunches.

Capped as they were in stalks and leaves, and spirally vines. As to the nines as gourds and a celery could hope to be. feet together all in one step. A second bow fit for a king, all smooth action and exaggerated grace wherever bones and flesh did bend.

"I shall come and carve you myself, little ones, worry not," he laughed as he bent back, with a fall of his horns, jingle of his bells, and glitter-shine the countless little beetle shells that had been sewn into sequence about the collar and flair of his lustrous regalia. "Come the fall, of all the leaves and longer turns the night," sing song and cheer, mixed with a longing so dear. Bright as sunlight, cooled as it dappled through the the span of green spades, and comb of needles.

Come the diamond door, and the great question.

"Who's there?" he parroted, one eye squint. One eye raised. Looked to Vorston, who said something small. The good stuff.

Lips twist beneath the white plate. Masked to the world outside.

"The good stuff," he gives to the door. All curl of clouds gathering dark.
 
A sound of quick thinking in form of smashing bottles from behind the door, a great quaffing from numerous mouths each choking down liquid in between chortling. Another sound, of heavy sphere being placed upon rails, rolling and rolling and gaining speed slow but sure, the rails shaking from each staggered spiral step it did descend.

Vorston remained in the nook and cranny, huddling about himself as he watched in solidarity with what jokes were to come. But his face was stupefied by the display that did pierce the door, his glasses filled with the shimmer light of illusionary explosion that did barge direct past painted door.

Full plumed in lime greens and flamingo pins that did flash with wing and light, a vast parrot head did break through the door without a splinter. Squarking shrill and loud, it did screech, "THE GOOD STUFF?" as if Zakarias was a cracker for overbearing illusionary polly. It's beak opened wide, the eyes rolling googily.

Then something all too real did roll from rails winding behind the door, exploding out of hatch into polly's head, boundering into light and smashing onto floor. A bowling ball made of odd stone slate did explode out with confetti tatters, polly turning into sparkler light as it did sputter and spend itself dramatically. Tickets of confetti did spiral. A bunch of kazoos did as flowers sprout at Zakarias' feet and did blare shrilly.

Vorston's hands were to the wall at all this. Terribly loud and dramatic. It seemed the Guild weren't playing around at playing around today it seemed, Vorston thought, as he blinked and reset his eyes and glasses.

A fitful of laughter, smothered behind hands, ears craning to horns to hear the next reply, door sealed for now, more fun to be had.
 
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