Roki

Roki

Cooking Wizard
Character Profile
Profile
"See, when you turn the crank," sound spilled from the wooden box like steam from a kettle. Wavered and droned near to whistle, but stayed in its honeyed hum. "The wheel makes the strings sing," puffy eyed and Lirynk said beneath his mop of silvered grey. "And your fingers," with his knobby digits pressed the keys. The pitch changed. Screamed higher, and higher. Dropped low.

Roki's eyes near popped out of his skull. "HO!" He shout. Eyes on the mechanics of the thing. How smoothly it turned, and clicked and, how brightly it sang.

Lirynk laughed warm as the wind that stirred the leaves. His hand stilled its turn of the crank and the beginnings of song ended their sweet promise. "Don't have one of these around your parts?" he asked.

Roki shook his head. "Nope, can't say we do," he turned and rummaged through his pack like a mole through the dirt. Grabbed up his prize, and pulled out a flute. "Make plenty due with this though!" he spun the thing like a baton. Went snatch.

A laugh from Lirynk. "Aye, suppose you do, Roki lad,"

A purple brow quirked as Roki's fingers found their place, elbows bent and head keeled, readying to play. "And your fiddle?" he couldn't help but wonder.

Old Lirynk's smile turned lopsided, his brows bent in with a scrunch. "Hands aint quite what they used to be, I'm afraid,"

That sat with Roki a moment. "Still playing music though," he said bright.

"Won't stop for no one," Lirynk said with a laugh. "Even m' old damn hands," Cranked the wheel so the hurdy gurdy let out its whine. Almost mournful in its richness.

A flute followed. Bright as the breeze.
 
She heard the box before she saw them. Lirynk’s box. The sound was unmistakable. Once around the corner, the hands cranking the box were familiar too. Gods, he was so old now!

“Lirynk” She whispered to herself in recognition. It had been a long time since Vyn had last seen the man. Stepped close, hands tucked in sleeves and boots half muddied. As she approached, she felt younger, smaller than she’d been in near two and a half decades. She saw a younger face too. His kin, surely. Though not one she’d recognize. But he played like Elum lived – quick footed and bright hearted. Ready to stretch the night.

The flute took but a beat for her to catch on. And she joined. A song Lirynk taught her all those years ago:

“If I had a Road that I could carry,
I’d wrap it in gold, wouldn’t tarry.
But the Road won’t wait, the Road won’t bend…
And it don’t remember where it ends.”

She was never known for her voice. She kept her voice clear, lack of training betraying her. Steadiness slowly slipping away as her eyes started leaking slowly at the corners. Still grinned like a mad woman. It was good to know the old badger was still alive. Didn’t even finish the song. Couldn’t.

“Lil’ Vynella” And in that moment, even as she outgrew him, she was again.
 
Come the join of a third, and the musicians smiled the brighter.

A voice more belted than song, but full of heart so infectious it caught in the turn of the wheel, and the push of the lungs turned to flutes sweet song. The notes the brighter and prouder that they had been given voice to follow and carry. Wind beneath wings.

And when she burnt out, all laugh and joyful tear, the flute and the box came to end short after.

Recognition sparked in the old man's rheumy eyes as he looked at the breathless woman. He nod at the end of a long and withered neck. "Ah, I knew I recognized that pure note," he laughed. "It's been many a moon now, hasn't it lass?" the old man said cheerful. "It's a joy to see you well, Vynella, and still carrying those words no less," There was a real pride to his tone, the sort that came with seeing fruit bared from some effort that'd been made.

He nod to the young man beside him. "This here's Roki,"

The purple hair orkin gave a playful nod, smile wide, tusks proud.

"Tloki and Yuki's boy, you might remember them? He was just a tenner when they took him to the Monastery, up by the Vayd,"

"Some singin you did there," Roki grinned on. "Fancy a bit of dancing too?"
 
The laugh still stuck in her throat when she turned to the old man. “Lirynk,” Heat of coals. Low and lasting. “You’ll not be rid of me that easy.”

She pulled closer, hands still pinching the inside of her sleeves. “Don’t go too far just yet.” Eyes never left his, head angled. He opened his mouth to an old rhythm, polished wisdom.

“The Road waits for no man.”

She grinned before he could finish. Not to mock, but to beat him. “Nor should it.” Agreement. “No one’s asking.” Touched his arm in a brief press, fingers lingering. “I’m asking you to wait for me.” Dropped it there like he wouldn’t dare argue.

Turned to Roki with new energy. “Alright then.” She offered her hand in a fluid motion. Her grip firm. “But I expect you to lead!” She would allow him control. “Tloki and Yuki, right?” She pulled the names from far reaches of her memory. “They never stayed long. Heard they’d gone off the Road for good.”

And she was already moving to the circle. Ready to dance, if the Road allowed it – even if only for a song.
 
A laugh. Bright as the flute came twirl behind him. Caught at the small of his back. He stood and set the instrument down upon the old keg that had been his seat.

"Here I'd hoped to learn a new step," he said, bright eyed as he took the hand offered. The news of his family did not phase him. And he held her hand sure as they came to stop amidst the circle. The taps of Lirynk's fingers, hollow knocks against the hurdy gurdy's box.

Finding the count, Roki tip-tap-tapped his toes along with the lead. "Ready?" he asked, a tease, as he set to Vynella's side, and the dancers scattered about the circle jittered and laughed. Readied. A collective, they gathered their breath.

​

Lirynk gave slow turn to the crank. The first low drone of the strings across the wheel shook between the ribs. A wobble and shake of the crank. A moment to let the box's hitch and pitch set vibrations to sink into bones and tremble those things that did connect.

Roki set to easy step, hand firm as it held up his parnter's. Gentle, with a confidence that came with practiced steps, and dances danced. They would turn slow with the tempo. Kick with the shift of the key. Twine arms and switch sides when crank sawed out the sounds, drew out a kick and a hop, to show heel and toe. Roki laughed as the tempo picked up. Looked to his partner with glee.

The spiral song spun, like wheels set to roll.

 
First note a thunder that shook something loose. Second a reminder that her legs were worth trusting. Vyn followed Roki’s lead with the caution of someone who’d been away from the circle for far too long. Her limbs still remembered more than she gave them credit for.

Step. Turn. Hands up, then apart.

The floor was uneven, her breath just shy of short, but it was good. Felt correct. There was no attempt at shine or performance. Just song and the movement. Each note a finger, and each limb a string it plucked. Tension left her body. And she spun. Not in the rhythm. Because she could. Allowed herself to sway like a blade of grass in the wind. Like she meant it.

The smallest laugh. It had been so long since these boots had felt so light.

No need to tease the boy. Simply a grin too wide. Too many teeth to be polite.

Circle spread and gathered back in the steady rhythm of a heart. Of breathing. She let herself be carried to and from. Leaf in the wind really. And there was freedom in that.

“Thank you for reminding me what these feet are for!” more than a whisper, too shy for a yell.

Let the Road roll away. Tonight, she would keep pace.
 
Thank you...

A laugh, all tusk and bright eyes. "Ain't nothing to it!" he shout out, as arms and legs pumped the to whir and ride of Lirynk's wheel and crank.

A leaf in the wind.

A bright flame stirred by the breeze.

As one went higher, the other followed. For the fun of it and the flow of it. How the grass felt beneath each step, almost slick as they moved. How the wind felt against his skin as sweat shined across brow. Lost in the rythm, but tandem connected. With Vynella by hands and steps that mirrored and accented as if part of a play, a game of call and response and follow along.

Beats and shifts where the whole crowd gathered.

If only for that song, and for that moment. Come the last crank of the wheel, slow as it approached, and all the circle slowed the more. Out of breath and joyful in the haze and heat they all shared in.

Roki breathed the heavier, said sharp with zing in his voice. "Sing, and Dance!" he stuck out his tongue. "What' Can't you do?!" showed teeth, joyful. Put his arms up over his head, wrists crossed and rested on his crown.


 
The final steps came light. Spinning down like the last leaf of autumn. Her hands fresh out of Roki’s, breath gushing out of the edges of her smile. This was the best tired. And it ended as all good stories did, just shy of done.

“One more spin.” She laughed through the breath. “And I’d’ve turned to smoke.” Shook the sweat from her brow. Movement fluid and balanced. You needed both your hands when you were messing with fire. This was the kind of moment that made staying still for a while worth it. Even if the Road stood edge of frame, whispering the next turn. Wheels eager for another spin.

“Can’t bake for squat.” Confessed with joy. “Everything ends up cursed or on fire. Marcy still holds a grudge over the bread incident.” It was a good memory of a great failure.

“You’ve got good feet, Roki.” She nodded in approval. “That from your ma or da?”

It wasn’t always easy to be Elum. But tonight, it was good.
 
A huff like a bellows pump between breath being caught. "Can't say I blame her," his hands hooked at the blue sash at his waist. His tusks gleamed bright. "Few things in the world worse than good bread gone to waste," he grinned, like he'd eat her himself if he'd been Marcy. All in good fun.

"My feet?" he asked with a cock of his head, eyes down at his boots. A wiggle of his toes. A rock on his heels as he hinged forward at the hip. "Pa, if I still remember the old words right," he plant his heels, rose up to look up at her. "But thanks!" his lips settled into that easy up curl of theirs. "Take a bit of pride in my footwork I do," he said with raise of his chin, and a little tug on his robes. Made back toward Lirnyk, who cradled his box, warm look on his face.

In the breath of silence there in the soft shuffle of steps, he remembered what his sister and Arbok were always telling him.

Not everything's about you, little onion.

"Say," he started, eyes finding her again. "You fancy I bake something up for ya, Vynella? Might help Marcy make peace, what with the tragedies of bakings past and all,"

 
“Bake somethin’, huh?” She glanced around as if it was consideration, but the decision had already been made. No one of the Road would ever refuse free food.

“Suppose that depends on the offering.” Grin like a wet knife. “Cause Marcy’s got memory of a dried fruit. All sweet ‘s long she wants, but it’ll crack your teeth if you bite wrong.” Her voice shifted back to serious, the smile adjusted slower. Let him wonder if she was teasing, that was half the fun.

“If you bake, I’ll eat.” Hands up in surrender. “’S long it’s not raisin bread. That’s how the last peace treaty failed.” She couldn’t chain the laugh any longer.

“But you warn Marcy first. If she smells baking without context again, she might start swingin’.” A nod, she was happy with that one. “And, for your sake, those feet better be fast.”

She would point to a crooked Wagon, two rows down. It was unclear whether it could still be called painted after so many years on the Road. “That one’s mine.” A nudge to his shoulder. “Go get set up. If you can’t find something, ask for Jem.” She was already looking behind the boy, to Lirynk.

“I’ll catch you in a bit. Someone still owes me a story”.
 
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Something about the smile had the young man flinch. A nervous titter of laughter there after. "A real apricot, huh?" he scratched the back of his head. He knew his way around fruit snacks. Nod. Packed his flute and grabbed up his ruck.

"No raisins, got it," she started laughing, and he just grinned the wider. "Fast as fire, you better believe," a shuffle step jig before he set to the wagon. "Jem, got it," least he thought he had it. He had most things quick. And he moved off to the crooked Wagon two rows down. Pot and pan clank and rattle as he adjusted his straps and set to his steps.

"A story, aye?" Lirynk asked, hunched back bent over the musical box his old bones worked on packing up. Set latches to lock, and cover to slide. One smooth over of callused and crooked fingers passed over the polished wood. "The sort with a ghost and a curse I'd take it?" he smiled warmly. "Perhaps, an evil chicken?"
 
Vyn crouched down beside the old man as he worked, arms tucked in.

“The chicken was real, y’know.” A grave truth. “Not a myth or legend. Just mean. Some monsters peck you slow.” Sat in silence like she was hiding the punchline. Then she softened.

It was good to see him again.

“But I don’t care about chickens, Lirynk.” Her eyes flickered over his hands. Turning like the wheels. Just as spent. “You owe me a story, remember?” She nodded somewhere beyond them, in the distance. “Tell me about your Road. Your real one. It’s been too many years.”

She watched him work with a quiet patience that wasn’t all that patient.

“And don’ skip the ugly parts. We don’t get many neat ones out here anyway.”


*​


Two rows down, the crooked Wagon had already begun to rattle under the weight of hopeful new occupancy. Just as Roki was searching for more things to help set up for the cook he promised, a voice came from the entrance:

“Oi! Tusky!” Tone all but friendly.

Marcy.

She leaned in the doorframe like it was hers. Like she owned the whole damn Road. One tooth late and a glare stolen from someone older. Hunched over just enough to hint at menace, but communicate bladder.

“That’s Vyn’s stuff!” She hissed, jabbing a finger at his bags. “You touch her kettle, I’ll know. I’ll feel it in my kidneys.” Brows came down like she meant it.

No one ever had the heart to tell her that frowning made her look like she really needed to pee.

Didn’t move from the doorway. Not yet. Just watched. Waited. Ready to defend honor, stew pots, and possibly her claim of the nearest latrine.
 
"Tusky?" Roki muttered to himself. Turned to find the voice. Blinked at the half-pint child that stood at the doorway, all snivel nosed and full of vinegar. "Uh," he squint at the girl, jut his chin at her. "Do you even know where you're kidneys are?" he croaked, hands about a bag of flower he had pulled from his pack, bowl set unto what he thought was a counter there in the lopsided wagon.

"You Marcy?" he asked. A real green apricot, sour and tart. "Vynella told me you were a fan of bread. Want to help?" his lips split wide, to show his teeth the more. "I'm baking up some milk bread," he added, flared a hand to the asortment of goods he had fished out of his ruck. "I'm just missing..." he looked about. Opened a cabinet. Shut it quick.

"Nope, definitely not in there," ducked down and checked some shelves that looked one strong rattle away from breaking down. "Hmm," popped up, spied a basket and brightened with a half moon grin. "Basket!" Zip stepped, grabbed, turned. Nothing. Deflated. "Some eggs," his eyes found Marcy. "Wouldn't happen to know where we can get some, would you?"

"Others goose you quick," he said, all coals and embers.

Probe as she did, the old Deva did not seem the more hurried. His instrument packed and ready to move. He looked up at her. Something like pride in his eyes to see the woman she had grown to be.

"What is there to tell, Lil' Vynella," he said with some sorrow. "I played my fiddle across the land. Amidst Vans and Wheels that turn on different Roads," he laughed.

"I sung and danced and charmed hearts a plenty. Thought, a time or two, my wheels would come to stay. Amidst golden fields of wheat, with a good man by my side. He sang all the sweeter there 'tween the whittle and wail of the strings fingered and bowed. But there again the ruins went, and there again the wagon rolled. To cities, to courts, to ships that sailed the sky," he shook his head as he looked unto his bent fingers. All bone and vein, and skin like birch bark. "One too many drink, one too many fight. Old breaks only helped time do its work the more, and with the fiddle gone, I, well," a smile full of sweet hurt as he looked to her. "Felt it time to find the Road I knew I belonged to,"
 
She could only offer a smile at the goose. That was a good one. She’d be taking that.

“It wasn’t only the fiddle you played.” Folded beside him quietly. Watching the Road pretend it knew how to stand still. “You taught people to listen.” That was no small thing. Wasn’t said like praise. It was fact. A law.

“I’m sorry the Road took him.” Didn’t ask who. Didn’t need to. The hurt was there, sweet as dried fruit. Only it wasn’t teeth it was cracking this time around. “Some love don’t survive the fire. Some don’t survive the idle.” She let that hang there, bothered by ghosts of her own.

“Y’know, I used to think the best thing about the Road was that it kept us moving.” She held her breath a moment. “Now I’m not so sure.” She didn’t ask him to stay again. Didn’t tell him she missed more than his fiddle. That would’ve been too clean. Too easy. She got up, ready to rescue the boy from Marcy. Because, good or bad, it did keep moving.

“Rest.” Turning to go. “Next time, I’ll bring the stew. You bring the ugly bits.”

Smiled. But wasn’t waiting for a reply.

“Oh, and the new boy promised some baking. I’ll bring it by later!”


*​


Two Wagons down, Marcy still had her arms crossed. Nose scrunched up like it’d sniffed out a crime. Roki’s friendliness seemed to wear her down. Slowly.

“’Course I know where m’ kidneys are.” She muttered under her breath, but her eyes flicked towards the basket anyway.

“You’re making milk bread?” Feet uncrossed, posture a bit better. “With actual milk?” Skepticism laced with interest. “That’s illegal!” Said like she might call someone. But she didn’t move. Her head tilted to see better at what he was doing.

“…I might know a chicken.” And just like that the guard dog backed up. Not gone, but orbiting. Like she was in charge of quality control.

As she backed away to handle urgent business, she called back. “If there’s raisins, I bite!”
 
"Illegal?" he laughed with disbelief and a recoil of his big head.Purple flame of hair bounced. "Well, aren't you in for a treat then?" he said wild eyed and big grinned.

A smack of hand's heft against open palm. Swept away the dried up grapes that weren't there to begin with. "No raisins, not the one!" he said sure. Rose up with a finger pointed up. "Now!" he slacked with mischief in his eyes. "Let's see about this chicken?"

Can't have bread without eggs.
Crestfallen, the old musician nod, all too knowing. "The ugly bits fin you, one path or the other," a smile there, cold as the morning fog. A second nod. "Come the turn of the Wheels, I'll be here,"
 
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