Maybe she wasn’t built to handle shroud, thunder, and spontaneous skylights – but this she knew well. It was always the most unexpected thing that rattled people to the bone. And whatever it was that bothered Roki – it wasn’t simple as a fucking roof. The wood didn’t matter. It’d get patched up and in time it’d be just another story told around the fire. Frank’s birth, and how he scared the sky so much that it tried killing him in the crib. Well, bowl. But same difference.

Didn’t hesitate a moment. Propped up the same tired smile she’d used at fairs all around Ilica.

“It’s alright, Roki. It’s just some wood.” Wasn’t sure what she was trying to soothe. But if it was guilt that ate at him, there really was no need. Shroud or not – this disaster barely rivaled burning the day’s stew. Something to be remembered and retold to the fire, but not a real threat.
“Thought you said it was Tusky?” Frank came in, unexpected.
“One person can have many names.”
“So if I wanted you to call me BUUUURP…” Sugar and cinnamon in place of more expected scents. “You would?”
“Might be bit of a language barrier. What do you think, Roki?”
 
Why did her smile just make him feel worse for it.

One performer showing another their trick. Didn't reach the eyes, because it had been rehearsed one too many times. Tried, far too many times. Worn ragged. Still good. But the cracks were all there.

"It's not," he shook his head. "I-"

Frank spoke up. All bubble and pop with the stretch of his dough.

Roki couldn't help but laugh some at that. "Tusky," he remembered the kids crying out. And the elder near calling him Syr Tusky, no less.

Come the belch of a new name, and Roki's glum near burned out with a laugh.

Paused with the question. Rocked on his heels and turned wave his spine. Opened his mouth and, "BURRRRP,"ed back to on his toes. Sweet onion and roasted garlic with herbs all pushed out. "Might take some practice I think," he said all bright eyed and tusked.

Maybe forgetting wasn't so bad.

Maybe they would talk about it tomorrow.

Still, he could help dry the place out. Got a broom. Started pushing the water out with the last stubborn bristles that clung to the stick. Push and pushed toward the door. Listened for the words they liked as they danced between the bristles and steps. Might be he could talk all the rain turned to moist and puddle right out the door.

There was a lot more of them out there after all. Pooling and gathering.
 
So her mask was not as good as it had been. It failed to cheer up a kid. Vyn would have to learn to do better. Luckily, she didn’t have to learn anything right now.

Frank and Roki caught in foreign greetings, straight from the doughbowl. Whatever it took to get the boy to settle down. Thank gods for Frank weren’t words Vyn ever thought she, or anyone, would ever utter. World really was a strange place.

“Got any good curses?” Purely curious. Like she wouldn’t teach them to all the kids first chance she got. Vyn? Never.

And the Wagon filled with talk of raisins and cooking methods, noble cooks and crooks that ate their food raw. Fire, and all pursuits less noble. Burp and laugh to fill the time between the broom’s bites.

Even with the open door, it wouldn’t be long before the Wagon smelled of raisins, garlic, and bad decisions. But there was joy there, even if it was a little burnt.
 
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