She gave a hum. Soft. Like wind when it played hide-and-seek with you on hot evenings. Like sea when it whispered to the stone, early in the morning, before you could catch it in the act. Some truths cut both ways. You were correct each way. Those were the best ones. „Merriment, always.“ She was proud of it. It was easy to turn yourself into snot and slime as things got tough. „We say goodbye much like we say anything else. A little rhythm. A lot to drink. And Jem stepping on someone's tail at the most unlikely moment.“ She still remembered when they saw Gallen off. Memory warm.

„But no one waits for you, if that's your ask“ That was the truth of it. „Wagons stop for no man.“

„That's the deal. Fall behind, you catch up. Or you don't. But the wheels never turn back.“ Last couple of words always sounded sad. Never felt so.

„So if they're still up when we arrive, that's not waiting. That's them being alive. And if not, that's a song I missed.“ She elbowed him in a manner she thought gentle. It was hard to tell with his bulk. „Better step lively, Jens! Or I'll tell the fire you were the one who got us lost.“


*​


The shadows stretched longer now. Laughter faint ahead. Music close enough to taste. Percussion and clapping. Voice and horn. String, coaxed by finger and bow alike.

„This next part“ she whispered like it was a secret, finger mock pulling to her lips. „Is where I say I disappear.“

No vanishing.

„But not tonight.“

Kept walking.
 
There were lessons there, one after another. On the wagons, on her people, a bit of life too. Nothing to challenge or disagree with, as he lacked either the place or the inclination to. He granted her and the tales a silent sort of deference, all the way to the point she took jab at him. Physical like.

“ Tell on me, already? “ He gave a shark’s snarl, all feigned indignation. “ What of my perfectly respectable, if worldly first impressions? I’ll be caught unlively no sooner than the day after I’m dead! “

For his own benefit, he stepped a little faster. Taking side, instead of wake.

*​

The dark closed around them, latticed with the bluest moonlight and making the warm shimmer ahead all the brighter. Inviting. And that’d been before the voices and music had properly reached them. A strange sensation crawled in his chest for the sound and sight of it, like a soft little wriggle. Rogue homesickness, maybe.

To will it away, he leaned over at the whisper with a wolfish little smile, committing to the appearance of conspiracy.

“ Appreciated. “ He whispered in tune, daring to let go of her hand to flick a salute off the edge of his brow. For the sailor’s brim that wasn’t there.

“ Awfully catchy rhythm — Dance much? “ He inquired in a whim, distancing a step to eye her, then ahead. “ Or is it considered gauche for a stranger as myself to ask, first thing, let alone partake? “

Body over mind. Daring over temperance. Spirit over decorum.
 
Not much to do but grin when asked. It wasn't polite. No. Wider. Wilder. Too many teeth and none of them sharp. There was no need to answer. Her knew her answer back at the dock. That's what made the walk back down so pleasant. She hooked fingers to his sleeve and pulled. It wasn't gentle or forceful. Simply practiced. A hundred different nights and a hundred different clearings. Roof or stars. New friends and old ghosts.

„You've got one thing wrong.“ She let go of him fully, feet slowly adjusting to the rhythm. „You're a stranger no longer.“

She spun around. Limbs loose. Feet light. Firelight spilled like laughter. Bodies moved with the music. Stole somebody's drink and passed it to Jens after checking for quality. „This is Jens.“ She'd point. „He's new and possibly cursed. We're still deciding.“ A few laughs and the circle would pull closer to include them too. A few laughs and a dozen more drinks offered. Someone that big surely could drink a lot. „If you get him drunk, he'll sing sea shanties and scare the goats!“ she would add to the excited group. And another wave over the curious mass of Elum that surrounded him, so he wouldn't get lost.

„Come and dance, ghost walker!“

Clapping began again. Low and slow. It would pick up. It always did. She moved like she was born to it.

Goats beware.
 
There amidst their painted wagons, the end of the lanterns, were the fires and the people he’d heard so much about. His company unmoored, drifting away to the music like one of them water spirits gone pirouetting above the waves at night, when none but a late watch remained to witness them. Had she not fast returned to shove a drink in his hand, he may have well convinced himself of that being true.

While no actual siren, lure on she did. And he braved the drink, just about tasting it for how rapidly he slinged it back. Something bitter, but not unpleasant. The next was warm, burning in the back of the throat. A smokey aftertaste, a hint of oak, an acquired taste. Smarter to hold onto, so he did.

Better than those half pints of grog on ships, that was for sure. Past the rim of his cup, torn betwixt the hospitality and the percussion tugging at every fiber, he huffed an amused breath at Vyn’s wild introductions.

“ Truths all, save for one. “ He called out, tossing his head and doing a wanton little twirl, the hand holding his very earned beverage kept aloft lest he spill it. “ I’ve never scared a thing in my life, let alone goats. “

He mustered his best smile, a caricature of innocence. The clapping was a force, egging on. There was no choice but to surrender to it, the little jig. The grace of movements didn’t matter half as much as the easy feeling it forced into him, from his limbs to the cavity of his chest. Like love, but not as cutting. It’d also fade sooner.

There wasn’t but to dance, as bid. He did it badly, but not afraid. It

“ The porpoise about the piers at home absolutely hate me though — for my off-key chanting. They’re a musical sort, with standards. “ He swirled his drink in the air in a roundabout way, meeting eyes with whomever had just bumped shoulders with him in the milling little crowd. No harm, apologies given in a rise of a hand and a breathless whoa.

“ You scare plenty things yourself, I’d reckon, if not with singing. “ He added, as her shape danced towards and then away again.

Vanishing. Appearing. Speaking a truth so directly.
 
„That so?“ she called back as they spun. Grins didn't get any wider. „Then you haven't met the right goats.“ She swept by him, wind through tall grass. Limbs of feather, eyes of fire. The crowd swallowed her for a moment she came back with another drink. This one unstolen. After making sure it was safe, she passed it to a pair of hands in the group. Someone too young to refuse and too old to know better.

Then she was back beside him, watching his movements. There was no grace. But it was honest. And honest was all that counted. „It doesn't have to look good.“ She said. Voice low enough that it was only for them. „Only has to be real.“

It wasn't about dancing. Or not about dancing alone.

„Most things aren't about being good. They're about doing. Especially if it's bad.“ A soft laugh ah she had to make sure another drink was up to standard. „People who wait 'til they're good tend to miss the fire entirely.“

And finally, gentler. „You're doing fine.“
 
Suppose she was right about the goats. He’d heard of a kind that fell over, stiff as logs, at just the feel of an unsettling breeze or the sound of louder sneeze. And he wasn’t exactly the comeliest maiden that ever walked, swam, spoke or sang.

The hushed assurance took him aback a touch, but he smiled through it regardless. The words and their low tone felt warm, heating up the face. Or perhaps it was the fires. A bit of embarrassment rippled through him, just there in the look that averted from her at the surrounding people, for the bit of time it took him to sweep it beneath a bolstered spirit.

He cocked his head, making himself coy for the occasion.

“ Just fine? “ He dared ask, with tacked on disbelief. For his effort at some sort of flourish, he managed to appear even more graceless. For effect, dipping into comedic.

“ I thought you just said I might have this thing you call ‘fire’. “ Some sort of— passion belongst to beginners and lifelong learners? He drained the rest of his drink, drawn to it by some wild impulse. The empty cup was so malleable in the grip, held any which way. Lukewarm.

“ Or was it something real — either way, suppose you’re doing fine too, from where I’m looking. “Perhaps a touch too bold in the way he appraised her, openly up and down. Like one might art, though he made a purposeful caricature out of it. Another layer of jest.

“ Plenty fine. And not just on the front of finding some new thrilling beverage every other step. “

Now that, was with real curiousity. Who was making them, somewhere out there?
 
„Oh, you're looking for an appraisal now?“ head cocked in consideration. Chin in hand, squinting. „Signs of fire, I suppose. A little flicker. Most Dramatic.“ Her finger wiggled up from his chest as if a flame spawned. „Needs tending tho.“

She took away the finished drink, mug turning over in her hands. Then she pointed to a group of Elum that wasn't dancing. The ones moving between with bottles and mugs, none matching. „No bartenders here. But plenty believers. You hand them your mug, and they give you what you need“.

She wanted to be terribly dramatic about it, but the drink in her decided against it. „The real trick?“ She added in passing. „They don't always get it right for you. Sometimes they just say it's what the fire wants instead.“

She looked up at him. „So?“ A small pause. „You think they got yours right?“
 
Most dramatic. He tossed his head at that, the image of a prize horse. Damn right— And he could afford to get much worse yet. The gesture and the flame only kindled his smug expression, despite the bit of nervousness bubbling in his chest.

There was something about her specific blend of closeness and daring that inspired both ease and unease. Too much wish for more of it, too much knowledge as to what it usually meant. Insincere, means to an end.

Naught but to step forth and take it in stride. Hope a little. Half without noticing, just watching her, he surrendered his empty cup.

“ I’m not one to dislike anything that’s free. “ He answered diplomatically, shrugging. “ Fire for fire, I can respect what it’ll give me. Figure that's your preference too, with how daringly you drain from every which one? “ Meandering, not so much dancing as avoiding stepping on another’s toes.

“ No blame there, as I haven't complaint for the taste. Sour, a pleasant burn. “ He tried his neck, red frills flaring. “ Does put courage into a man, though. Which one around here is Jem? “

A glance cast about, searching for—

“ Many pockets. Perhaps I’ll try my luck with them— for something hallowed. “

Fife or else.
 
Vyn laughed into the cup, and then once again at the echo. She would have to use that one around the kids come morning. „Courage and burn? Sounds correct.“

Her head swung back over her shoulder and she would quickly spot who she needed. „That one's Jem!“ Turning fully to wave the Deva over. Thumb wedged between middle and index, as the latter bent over.

Join – Pleading

A short Deva quickly emerged from the group even though he seemed far too short to know it was Vyn calling over the mess. Gentle jingle of a hundred cursed pockets followed him. The robe truly a disaster – patches over patches, every edge of cloth given up twice over before it became storage. When they were alone he was just Jem, but for an audience he was the man with the cursed coat. A quiet rhythm of metal and wood, cloth and quieter things. A one man concert of his own. Still tuning the instruments.

„'ey Jem!“ her wave switched back to normal.

The man had a smile ready for when he was in view. „That's me.“

„This one.“ Vyn gestured to Jens with a mock bow. „Is after something hallowed. I told him your robe was full of forbidden knowledge.“

Jem stood barely to Vyn's shoulder, so he had to look up for a proper gaze at Jens. „Could be.“ His voice perfectly serious.

Vyn was already backing away. „I'm off to get more booze.“ An index up, point moving between them. „You two behave. Or don't. Just write it down if it gets interesting.“ And then she was gone to see who was hiding the good stuff tonight.

It got quiet as she left. Jem seemed fine with it. Looked to Vyn. To fire. Back to the stranger. Put a hand down one of his many pockets and pulled something out. Offered it.

„Dried fig.“ Didn't even look at it. „Might be holy. Hard to say.“

As he waited to see what the visitor would do, he nudged his head down.

„Good boots.“
 
“ Forbidden knowledge? “ He repeated belatedly, feigning surprise, at Vyn’s distancing back. There’d been no talk of that, but suppose he could use some. Never underestimate the value of any which smidge of occult intellect, was what my— Well, what someone had probably said. A lot. If they were smart.

Considering the look of Jem, the entire character that he appeared, Jens imagined it was threatening to get very interesting. Perhaps not as far as she’d like it, but quite sufficiently for him. All too intrigued, he reached for the might-be-holy fig just as he had for a spectre’s hand mere moments before, without thinking twice. Bringing it beneath his look, he appraised the shape of it.

“ Thank you. “ He responded to the compliment, standing a little straighter and knocking his heels together like a soldier rousing to attention. “ Just had them resoled, before this winter. A cobbler at Kalkrona made them originally, years ago. “ Lifting one leg, he glanced at the side of his boot.

“ Thought them a little out of my style range, but I’m no fool who turns down a gift. “ The sole scratched back down, his smile a little wider.

“ A ghost told me you might have a cursed instrument? “ He started again, glancing at the crowd with the tinge of hope he might see her coming back. Way to vanish on me, now.

“ The honk of geese and yowling of cats in the wrong hands. Shrill and reedy. “
 
Jem didn't laugh. Just watched the fig disappear like a secret. „Winter'll test the sole of any man.“ Said it like it went beyond boots, then shrugged like he meant nothing by it. The talk of ghosts and cursed instruments didn't rattle him. He did look back in the direction Vyn went and raised an eyebrow at Jens on the return trip.

He moved like he knew exactly which pocket. Even though they all looked the same. Pulled out something long and wrapped in cloth. Set it down on the wood beside them gently. Backed away a couple steps, like it might bite. Unwrapped it slightly as he was pulling back.

In the open, it looked vaguely like a flute. If the flute had grown up in a haunted swamp. Tarnished, wood knotted and a strange notch near the mouthpiece. It hummed faintly without being touched. Just barely. Like something inside still held breath.

„It don't play well for people who lie.“ Said plainly, without judgement. „Plays worse for people who try to make it play pretty.“ He shrugged like it explained everything. „Sounds good in the cold though. Sounds carries far.“

He wouldn't touch it. Wouldn't even look at it. Simply gestured to Jens that he was allowed to take it.

„You can hold it if you'd like. Just don't blow unless you mean it.“ The riddle carved wood hummed as if in protest.

„Vyn's probably still huntin' for booze. Gets mean when she's thristy.“
 
Night and day were they, Jem and Vyn. A much tougher crowd she’d left him with, the man with the cursed coat of the more impassive persuasion when met with his cheerful antics. It was no matter to him, naturally, but perhaps he ought keep some of his best jokes for himself. Lest he waste them.

The unwrapping of the flute had a strange ceremonial feel to it, just as the way the both of them remained staring at it therein, like it was the bones of some devil brought to firelight. Curiously, as the man explained it’s character to him, he squat down to really peer at it. No touching, not yet.

Will it blow my arm off if I pick it up? He hadn’t many left, so it felt a terrible gamble.

“ Suppose I haven’t much lied, in my time. “ He responded conversationally, head keeling to glance at Jem sidelong. “ Just left things unsaid. To some that has been no better. “

In a shrug, he rose, resulting to standing next to the bench. Jem’s remark about Vyn remained betwixt them for couple seconds, his hum the low kind belongs to thought. A sombre quality come to the set of his eye and the lopsided nature of his smile.

“ Gets mean — Why do you think that is? “
 
„Unsaid still burns, if the fire was lit behind you.“ Looked back to the flames over his shoulder and got quiet for a moment. „But lies probably won't hum when picked up.“ He kept a clear distance of the thing.

The question got more of his focus. „Some stuff is meant to be kept in.“ Looked at the stranger as if he was unsure whether to finish that thought. Did anyway. „Sometimes it leaks.“

The man appeared comfortable with silence.

„You ever get mean, stranger?“ and for a moment the jingling of his robe stopped. He appeared still before. But this went beyond that.
 
“ Sure burns. “ He remarked, spirited even as the line of his mouth grew tighter. A nod, eye regarding the firelight in tune with the man’s glance. All the trappings of a warlock, a wizard, a witch — coat, demeanour and words that held a crypticism much rivaling that of Vyn.

In the mill of the revelry about them, a sea of music and dance, they stood as two skerries. With their unspeaking, which he minded none, only regarding his partner alongside a curse when he spoke again. A shark’s aspect came about him, blank if genuine.

“ Yeah. “ He responded. “ Doesn’t everyone? “ A shrug, no judgement.

“ A man has his strings and some know how to play. Be it juuuust— “ His hand lofted to the neck of an imagined fiddle at his shoulder, eye closing as he plucked a tune. “ Right. Or oh, so wrong. Unless, of course, being mean is what he prefers. “ His arm fell, sleeve giving a little plap against the side of his coat.

“ There’s a place for it, don’t you think? “
 
Jem flexed his fingers as the taller man spoke. Digits moved around as if banishing a weatherache, joints creative in their stretch. His face shifted at Jens' words, but he didn't respond. He didn't need to. The reply came without much delay.

„Of course there's a place for it.“ Vyn's voice rang out, loud an sure, feet working to catch up. She emerged like someone who'd been listening the whole time. Settled between the two of them with two mugs, carrying the quiet confidence of someone who'd already performed quality control. One passed to Jem. Other to Jens, fingers brushing his knuckles like it was a mistake. She didn't apologize or bother explaining.

„The trick is not staying there too long.“ She continued, as if no time had passed. „Mean's good seasoning. Not much of a meal.“

Her coat smelled differently now. Smoke and foreign perfume. Hair was messier. Her eyes flicked to the instrument between them.

Then she smiled, wide as it could go. „So“ she asked. „He cursed yet?“

Jem sipped without blinking. Then nodded. „Not yet.“

„But we'll soon know.“
 
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