Vyn nodded. Why was she reassuring him? She was the one who needed it! She didn’t smile. This wasn’t that kind of weave.

She moved away from the door awkwardly, her quarters feeling small, looking down her wet hands. Rain felt more like an echo of another day than something real drying on her skin. Still, she needed to know that the path was open. That he had a way out. Because of what came next.

Careful hand lit the lantern. Another pulled a scarf across the crooked shelf edge – too sheer to hide, but just enough to suggest the attempt. Vyn opened the cabinet and pulled a knife. Not her best, but the right one. One she wouldn’t mistake for kitchen work later. Her thumb shaved against the familiar edge. Habit. Then she rolled up her sleeve. The cut she made was deliberate, shallow and clean – just below the curve of her forearm. She avoided cutting her palm where she could. Needed that for work. But the forearm had plenty of room. Space for history. Because not all her years passed in seasons. Some had come with blades. A life of lines. This was just another. She hadn’t gotten older so much as she etched forward.

Blood came slow, shy. Red bled with purpose. A long white finger found her pulse, and from it, the rest of the shape grew. Mist become liquid, become solid. They never liked when Vyn got hurt. It messed with the food. The arm followed, too long and boneless in its movements. Shoulder. Then ribs. A chest halfway worked from wax. Hairless and nude. Not built for sex, or even shaped around the idea of it. Head came last, drooping – poured into place.

Eyes opened slowly. Brown and slightly cross. Focusing on something too near, or too far. Its only bit of color. Vyn didn’t recognize the face. But it wasn’t meant for her.

“It doesn’t always come with a face.” She didn’t look if Roki had stepped back. Some part of her hoped he had.

The Pale did not speak. Its eyes moved, steady, drinking the room. The head didn’t follow. Didn’t turn around once. Like it might’ve seen just as well from the back. Its free hand twitched. A sign. Maybe greeting. Maybe not.
 
A hand sprung up. Fingers fanned wide. A twinkle of digits. Spine hunched, just the bit back with leg raised in twist away. His eyes wide as they drank the creature in turn. His mouth screwed up between horror and curiosity. Shock of hair still a flutter in waves of purple shined by lamplight's flicker and glow. Most of the wagon's walls were painted with pulsing shadow.

"Um, hello, I think?" he asked, face half frozen between concern and disgust. His eyes flit to Vyn, back to the Thing, and settled on Vyn. His hand still frozen on the last trails of hello. "You..." he looked to the knife, and the blood that had birthed the strange and twisted shape. Saw the run of scars that all stacked their way up her arm. His hand fell and his brows screwed the more.

A hard wind howled. The wagon shook and rattled.

"Always?" he asked, peering over big weird fucker with the eyes just off, "You, see it regularly?" he asked. As calm as he could keep his voice with the sterile pull on the air. A shift, like a crack through the ice. Warmer water, drip, dripping into that frozen mass. Turning it all the warmer with a transfer of currents. "Its... it feeds on you?" his eyes stared at Vyn with a cold and sober horror.

Like she was a stew, left to sit for all the flavors to gather.

High above it all, the bowl of dough still sat.
 
Wind played the Wagon like an out of tune drum. Cymbals struck as it settled with each gale. The creature didn't seem unbalanced by it in the least. Much like Vyn, it had learned what Wagonfeet were, and how to use them.

„Roki, don't stare, it's rude.“ The familiar voice of a child that felt injustice in her kidneys. The blend was close and practiced.

It paused, considering. Its head turned away from Roki, but the eyes never seemed to move. Even now it might've been watching him. Because bones were just suggestions, as sheer as the scarf Vyn had hung up.

„Roki... know you're safe.“ Voice dipped to an almost perfect imitation of Vyn. Even the cadence seemed to match her earlier words. The body language was all wrong – but give it time. Everything was a skill. Vyn's blood told it as much.

„Roki..“ his own voice. Crooked and off key. The vowels were too long – like a sheepherder from the Mehara's. The breath was too shallow. The lips moved just out of sync with sound.

„Talk more.“ The head leaned down, like it had seen people do. The earplace positioned to hear better. Its chin moving into an underbite. Making room for imaginary tusks.

She let it speak, or try. But when it started speaking in his own voice, leaning down, lips mere syllables behind – she raised a hand. She didn't need to voice the command, but she did so anyway. For Roki's benefit.

„Shh.“ Quiet as a suggestion. Obeyed like law.

She looked at Roki, like this was all normal. Like there was nothing to be afraid of.

„Did it say something? The one you saw.“
 
Roki, don't stare, it's rude

The voice that answered him wasn't Vyns. And he felt his eyes grow colder, just the more wider that they were, lids peeling back.

Marcy?

His own voice seemed to shrivel up inside his throat. Like a frog, left under far too much heat. He watched it move. Turn as it did. Angles all wrong. Twists, where nothing should be twisting.

Roki... know you're safe...

That could not be true. Not with this thing here, shifting with each voice. Learning. Trying his voice. But not his voice. It twist its wide ear, made of folds of skin too thin, toward Roki.

He but watched, as the bowl from on high watched. No words save the gargle of dough, and rumble of guts. Set to twist.

All his hairs standing on end. If he bled, would it drink from him too? Because that is what it was doing, was it not? Drinking her.

A sound that bade his attention. No words. Eyes that looked right. Still pointed the direction he remembered them pointing.

Asked a question.

Was it her who had asked? Did he see her lips move? He stepped back. Heel felt the end of the wagon there behind it. He gulped, and shook his head.

No.

The thing twist. Churned. Flesh like smoke. Bones like clay. Its eyes still constant in just how wrong they stared. Yet, always seemed to stare. Into you. Didn't matter which way its shape looked to be looking. They saw you.

"Warm me?" the twisted thing said in its Vyn sound. Almost iron with it. Too brittle. Crumbled to question. It shift, there in that crooked wagon. Like bodies slammed against the walls of a sudden. A voice like stilled currents. So much stuck as it tried to get to sea. "You are cold." it said in a voice so full of loneliness.
 
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She thought him a knight and got ahead of herself. Or maybe it was just her life that was so fucking strange. Either way, Vyn felt silly. The Pale was starting to talk in memories she didn't want taken. Troubling. They were getting their own ideas, it seemed. But she didn't have time to wallow. Roki seemed overwhelmed. He was just a kid – it wasn't kind of her to spring this on him.

A flick of the wrist and the white became less tangible. Mist then steam. Then nothing at all. A small nick, already closed by the drinker, the only memory of it ever having visited.

But the Wagon still felt colder than before. Or maybe that was just her.

„You're alright.“ Maybe her voice wasn't the soothing kind. But it was the only one she had.
 
His eyes snapped to her. "Alright?" he echoed. Looked for the thing that just, vanished. He shook his head. No. "What was that?!" he asked, hands swept down to his sides through the cold with a heat.

The winds swept and snapped. Wagon groaned against its wheels.

His fingers wound to fists. His teeth clenched, tusks pointed to jut as he lowered his brow and set his eyes on her. Shook his head again huffed heat out into the cold air. "You called it here?" remembered the tapestry of scars.

Thought of what stories were held there.

"But," his eyes went out a window. "Not the other one?" felt the cold trying to crash back in between each hot breath. His eyes flit back to her. She didn't owe him anything. He shook his head, let his eyes fall to the floor. Paced. Hands up in fans and flicks by his ears as he rattled his thoughts. "It was no spirit," thought on the thing he saw. Just as strange. Just as unnatural. Stopped as lightning flashed down. "A fiend?"
 
Vyn watched him pace. That was good. Trying to make it his again. Made it all seem normal. And it wasn't – but not like that was a secret.

„Eh, fiend enough.“ Because she wasn't in the business of explaining the Pale. Barely understood them herself. Maybe she was starting to. But the knowing crept in, wrapped in stories she didn't want to learn.

„Didn't need to.“ Voice quiet. „That one was already here.“

Because they answered questions she'd never asked. Because she didn't know what to do. And because she was afraid Jem did.
 
Pacing, quick ups, turns on the heels, backs. Repeat as arms folded, forefinger and thumb pinch pinched end of chin. Spread. Smoothed four fingers up the jaw.

"Already here. So didn't need to," he went on stealing.

"Fiend enough. Did it say something?" he went on changing. "Who's the guy with the coat?" he asked absently.

A flash of blinding white filled the room. The smell of burnt ozone and the sparks run up the bones. Arced through the marrow. Almost a warning from Satyavati herself. Too close to a secret.

Hairs all at attention. Eyes wide as full moons. Roki drank in the site.

Too many teeth. Wrong. Smiling- not-quite-showing, the thinnest veil of skin pulled there over its bite.

Ghanga's drums thundered. So near it shook the cart with a violent rattle and shake of the crooked wagon's crooked planks. Threw Roki against the wall with a hard crack.

It settled on its wheels. Winds still howled, and rain fell through. Hard fat and wet as it poured.

A hole smoked through the roof. The bowl of dough steamed and bubbled. Popped with a hiss as a spider of arc spread across its surface.
 
Took a moment to recover from the white, both of 'em. If burnt air had a smell, that's what she was smelling. Still, that wasn't all that was burning. Her neck craned up and to the side. Unlike the Wagon, her mind knew no peace.

„That was...“ Was it even him? „My roof, Roki.“ Probably should've been angrier. But the whole situation was messed up. What was another roof to the whole burning heap.

Would've said more, but a cough reminded them from above. It hacked up flour and rue, with some insults to boot:

„Forget about me, will you?“ The bowl jiggled with its unbaked rage. „ME? You crustless, eggless,...“ more hacking.

A sweet dough, with a most sour soul.
 
A blink. Eyes on the smoking hole. Hair like candle wicks just pinched out. Rain pouring in.

That was... my roof, Roki.

Eyes flit back down. "I'll fix it!"back up to hole. Quick steps to better peer out into the dark. Eyes back to Vyn. "You, you didn't see it?" a jabbed finger at the opening. "It was-"

The cough crunched through the air. Pulled the yolks of his eyes right to it.

Forget about me, will you?

Roki's jaw dropped.

Me?

The ingredients whipped out. In spittles and splashes.

Hands flung up to let fingers claw at the heavens. "It's alive!!!" Jammed a thick finger at the thing jiggling and breathing. Spine bent to let his head find Vyn the more in the darkness. "The bread!" he said, eyes egglow. "It's alive!!!" tusks wide and wild.

The sound of the rain poured down in sheets. Hissing as the droplets bounced and spattered about.

The cold wet of it caught his attention.

"Oh shit," he said, and stripped out of his woolen liripipe. Clambered up the shelf. Covered the sour sweet dough, and jumped back with a stomp. Raised the bowl up over his head. "Got it!" Grinned like a golden eyed madman.
 
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Vyn was no longer sure whether it was the thunderclap or the talking bread, or this whole fucking day that had her stunned. Suppose it didn’t matter. Simply outstretched her hand under what would be her new roof window. Let it rain on her a little. Reminded her she was still there.

Roki’s inner kid shone brightly now. Whether it was the panic in his voice or the upbeat hope that all things could be fixed, however fucked. She was so tired. But cheer too was a skill.

“Nice save, Roki.” She followed the mad in his eyes and understood. She needed to be the calm one. It was a familiar rhythm.

“DO NOT TUCK ME!” Voice floury and raw. And it only got worse as the bowl went above the boy’s head. “I demand respect! My ancestors were baked in the great fires of…well you wouldn’t know it. Such indignity! I, Frank N. Dough, demand… pft.” Anger remedied by the need to spit the rain back up. “Move me out of the water, bakerless knaves… Wait, no!” And its voice took on a grave concern.

“By the great Yolk. Don’t tell me you’re one of those boilbread heathens.”
 
Breath all huff and huff, fingers clutched tight about the bowl.

Nice save, Roki

"Thanks!" He said, as another bolt of lightning peeled through the sky beyond. He laughed like thunder. And the thunder followed. Distant it rumbled.

DO NOT TUCK ME!

"Woah!" Roki snapped. Hands still sure about the bowl, he pushed it out. Worried it might glob on him as it went on and on. Wait a tick. "You have history?" he couldn't keep the wonder from his voice, all hover closer to it.

Frank N. Dough... Bakerless kanves...boildread heathens.

Roki looked to Vyn. Back to the dough. "I mean, I can't just... throw it out now, right? That'd be wrong," felt wrong. "And you know, Frank, there is nothing wrong with boiled dough!" he said, uncovering the bowl with a snatch of his woolen garment. "Here, hold him," Roki handed the not-quite-bread over. Looked about.

Something like a hammer. He hurried over to the thing. Snatched it up, spun it. Grabbed the handle sure and found some rusty old nails in a cup not too far. Sensible as his workshop really. Slipped on his liripipe and pulled the hood over his head.

A right gobalin he was, as he hop skipped out the door to find that wagon he recalled having all the scraps of wood.
 
“Throw me out?” The dough could hardly contain itself to the bedbowl. Anger rippled in bumps and lumps, its form not yet fully settled.

Roki had casually removed himself – Vyn wasn’t sure she heard his excuse if he had any. But what was she to do with the unbread that was barking up at her now?

“Probably green from all the olives his boilkind consumes.” Scoffed. The fucking dough scoffed. Continued in a waterless pft, this time around. “Be a good girl and fetch some cinnamon, we are ready for our…” Dropped the rude pastry-that-wasn’t.

“Oi!” All nobility gone, the Dough family name still remembered all of its rage. “What’s that for?! Pick us up and…”

“You’re in my house, Frank.” Not even angry. Just tired. “Another insult to me, or Tusky…or anyone.” Her foot pushed the angry lil’ guy back into the rain. “And I’ll use you to plug the hole in my roof.” Wouldn’t really drown a guy over a few barbed words, but she hoped Frank didn’t know that.

“Our aplog…PFT..ies.” He didn’t have to beg for it, Vyn pulled him back into the dry.

Apparently, there were worse things than boilbread. And even the thought of drowndough kept Frank in check.

“Friends?” Vyn offered.
“Yes, my lady.”
“No need for that, Frank. It’s Vyn.”
 
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Outside, in the rain, Roki shuffled through the crates stacked in the bed of a sturdy old cart with a canvas cover set to rasp and flap against the gusts. Heavy frame hardly rattled in the wind, with it's stout wheels firm against the earth. One hand on the liripipe's brim. Snugged the thing down tight while the rain slicked off of him in sheets. Drips and runs. The wind howled, long bale and whine across his ears. Had Roki laugh some. Smile and grin wide at the rush of it. Near took him off his feet.

The wagon though. Stout wheeled and firm. Hardly moved at all. Boards as smooth as a cutter's hull, set to knife across the sea. Tight as that too. In its hold, he dug. Greedy hands grabbing up loose planks and sticking them under his arm.

Lightning forked distant now. Thunder, softened. But in that quiet roll. He turned laden with the stuff. Too quick to see. Bumped into a coat, all pockets and curses. The man behind it hard as a warding stone.

Planks slipped from his hands. His eyes wide. "Tits!" he bent low to scrabbled them back up.
 
The boy bumped into him. People didn’t always see Jem. He didn’t mind – must’ve been the height. He wasn’t here to be seen, after all. Watched the planks scatter and the ork bend over. Thought on one of his pockets a moment too long before crouching down to help gather the wood.

“You should be more careful, Roki.”

Only his hands moved now, picking at the ground.

And yet, between the taps of rain and rips of thunder, a jingle still played.
 
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