Daughter of Wreath, ch.3

Author's Note: More Wreath! This one's really long -- I hammered at it for ages, unwilling to compromise or sacrifice any parts, and it came out kinda like a little movie! I'm really hoping you guys enjoy it!

The Karlach/Mizora fic will be a little late (yay, February is short as hell!) but I'll get it finished as soon as I can, so stay put!

Again, I really hope everyone likes this, so if you did, please leave a heart so I know! It took forever!

[story] [action/violence]

_______________________________

Though Vexa takes some time to rouse from sleep, the two of us hit the road once again when morning comes. Our breakfast is something of a disappointing one, consisting only of oats and hot water, mashed together into a warm, belly-filling gruel that should keep our energy up until midday. The road itself, at least, is rather easy; it presents us with neither incline nor decline, and as the birch forest rapidly gives way to grassy plains, the sun is able to warm our skin once again. For Vexabeth, I assume it’s been quite some while since her skin has seen the sun at all, but mine greets the warm light like an old, close friend.

Much of the day passes. A salad of lambfeathers – a leafy, nutritious weed – and wild-picked thornpeppers make up our lunch, despite the elf’s complaints, and we continue eastward until the sun’s nearly completed its journey westward, the far, grassy horizon threatening to swallow it and cast the evening into starlight. As the sky darkens, though, our eyes (particularly Vexa’s, which are far keener in natural gloom than my own) are able to pick out new lights: the light of lanterns and torches, warm and inviting, accompanied by the jolly sounds of music.

“What do you think that is?” I inquire aloud, more to myself than to Vexa. “A little town?”

“Not a town,” the elf counters quickly, squinting into the distance. “No roads, no houses, no signs. Tents, wagons. It’s some sort of caravan. Probably merchants from up north.”

“Huh. Well, it’s getting dark… maybe they’ll have a place for us to rest?” I pause, feeling a gurgle in my gut. “And, uh… maybe food.”

“I’m not one to trust merchants,” Vexa scoffs, “keep an eye out for whatever thugs they’ve hired to violently protect their interests. It’s not like we have any money, anyway.”

“Wait, you don’t have any money?”

“I’m a witch who lived in a hut for years and enslaved nature spirits to work for me, what do I need money for?”

“Fair enough.” I let out a little sigh. I have some nickel at least, if not much. “Well, who knows, maybe they aren’t merchants at all.”

As we approach the small, mobile settlement, it becomes clear why they’ve stopped here – it’s a four-way crossroads. Westward lies the way we came, east leads toward Tague, and north would likely bring us to Graicea’s capital Minoury, the home of the Archduke. The road leading south is far less well-wandered, confirming what I’d been told about Graicea’s towns and villages becoming more scattered and less populated the closer they were to the country’s southern border. We’re still some distance from civilization, if you’re heading this way anyway, it’s an obvious place to stop and rest.

Also becoming apparent is that these are not merchants, nor simple nomads. While plenty of warm orange firelight comes from within the tents and wagons, the campground itself is decorated with standing or hanging lamps made from colored glass, with shades of green, pink, blue, and yellow casting strange, festive lights over the place. The tents, as well, are decorated, often with red, blue, and white stripes, and the sides of the carts and wagons are used as platforms for signs and murals advertising the true nature of this troupe – a wandering circus. Specifically, from its signage, the Picklehammer Brigade.

The sounds of drums, fiddles, and lyres grows louder as we arrive at the edge of the encampment, and we’re greeted to the sight of the carnival’s performers enjoying some downtime – eating, drinking, and conversing with one another, some playing their instruments while others simply relax. It’s a melting pot of different sorts of colorful figures, ranging across the gamut of humans, elves, goblins, and even more exotic folk. I’m certain I spot a zura or two, and even one of the shokari, if the stories I’ve heard of their great heights and curved horns are true. There are perhaps fifteen or twenty people in total, though it’s difficult to say for certain.

“Ooh, what’s this, what’s this?” a voice cries out when we’re finally spotted. The speaker, a male elf, quickly excuses himself from the conversation he’d been having with a furry-faced human boy, rushing over to greet us. He’s tall and spindly like Vexa, though with better posture, his red-and-black striped trousers, tail coat, and stovepipe hat making him look even more lanky. Exaggerated black makeup rings round green eyes, his skin tan and hair tawny. He glances behind us, checking to see if there are any more than just we two, and looks satisfied when he sees nothing. “Hello, you fine vagabonds! We weren’t expecting visitors, but welcome, welcome–” his voice drops an octave, projecting from his belly so that it rings across the camp. “Weeeeeelcome to the Picklehammer Brigade! Traveling destination for joy, amusement, delight, and whimsy!”

“Oy, can it, we’re off-duty!” calls a goblin woman from some ways behind, chewing on a roast leg of lamb.

“Off-duty? But the fine performers of this troupe are always Graicea’s most fantastic font of festivities!” The elf’s lean, angular features are stretched wide by a huge, performative grin, but it comes nowhere near his eyes. His gaze is thoughtful and shrewd, sizing us up… studyingus. “Surely you auspicious young ladies would at least like to join us for dinner? There’s ple-E-e-Enty to go around.”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in.” Vexabeth says, to my great surprise. She’s largely come off as pretty distrustful so far, so I certainly wasn’t expecting her to bite so quickly. “Feels like months since I ate anything.”

“We’ve only been on the road for two days,” I frown.

“You don’t know what I was up to before that,” she parries, the gestures toward the encampment, as if inviting herself. “Lead the way, tall stripey man.”

“Oh, please! You need not be so formal! Tall stripey man was my father’s name!” the elf lets out an eerie, self-congratulatory giggle, “You may call me Ribaldrous Toche! I serve as Picklehammer’s chief barker, auteur, master of ceremonies – and tonight, as your humble host!”

Something about this – something about Toche in particular – rubs me the wrong way, but with Vexa having seemingly made up her mind, it seems best for me to just play along and stay alert. I follow behind, getting a better look at the campsite. On closer inspection, the tents and wagons are set up in a sort of insulatory ring around a large, semi-circular open area, situated around a central campfire, likely protecting it from wind and casual onlookers. The members of the circus behave almost like a family despite there being well over a dozen of them, all clearly very close and comfortable (even flirtatious) with one another.

“A li’l kip of mead, then?” asks one of the performers, a large, bald human man, heavily mustached and covered from head to toe in tattoos, offering Vexa and I wineskins with a wide, white-toothed smile.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” the elf snatches one of the skins, taking a long swig from it without so much as a cautious sniff. When she doesn’t seem to be immediately poisoned (and in fact, seems rather delighted), I take the other offered skin with a gracious nod. I’m not used to people being this friendly or open, but within seconds of our arrival, it’s like we’re one of the family.

“Please, eat, and grab someplace to sit!” Toche urges us, gesturing at the campsite. “Mai valara, thou mísil!” I recognize the words, though he speaks the elf-tongue with a somewhat different accent than Vexabeth had. Maybe he’s not… what had she called it… a ‘low’ elf?

Seating mainly consists of squat cushions or pillows, with only the occasional chair available, and by the time Vexa and I have sat down, plates are set in our laps – plates containing, considering what the two of us have been eating the past couple days, feasts fit for the Archduke himself. Hunks of roast, salted chicken, fresh-baked beerbread, honeyed white cheese, and an herb salad have me wondering what heroic deed I must have done for Those to give me this sort of blessing, and while I’m tempted to dig in and stuff my face, I try to have some restraint for the moment. “Thank you, all of you, for this. It’s… really, very wonderful.”

“Well, s’not too often we get company in the eve, ‘tis a good thing to share a fire with strangers, says I,” the tattooed man says with a smile, now puffing happily at a wooden pipe filled with what smells like blackthistle – a mildly toxic flower that, when dried and its heady, aromatic smoke inhaled, offers a pleasant buzz to the body and spirit. I smile at the congregation of strange characters eating and chatting around the campfire, taking more of them in. An androgynous, flexible-looking goblin and human woman with a thoroughly-pierced face and body flirt with one another at the stoop of one wagon, gently touching one another’s thighs and shoulders as they explore how bold they can be with one another. Two lanky elven brothers (the only other elves present, as far as I can tell) play an arcane-looking card game against each other, its rules and design impenetrably mysterious to me at a glance.

“Well, it’s… yeah, thanks, again.” I still can’t help but be suspicious of their hospitality, but I’m also not from this part of Paraven – maybe they just do things differently in Graicea, I really don’t know. “I’m Nowa, by the way. I’m, uh… not used to people being this friendly. People are hospitable on the bluffs, but for a meal like this, someone’s probably gonna ask you to wrangle a loose goat, gather eggs, something like that.”

“We make what we need from performin’,” the man says with a shrug, “and we know hungry travelers when we sees ‘em. An’ I’m Braull, pleasure to have yer name.”

“Oof – ack! – sorry – ‘scuse me!” comes a voice, tip-toeing around obstacles and other people alike, trying to make her way to a heavy, halved log that she promptly uses as a bench. Her clumsiness seems to be an effect of her remarkable size, for this is the shokari I spotted earlier. “Whew! There we go! Hey, Big B, do we have any of that bread left, and if– ohhh!” she pauses mid-sentence as she notices Vexa and I, a broad smile crossing bright features. “People! Hi! Didn’t notice!”

Though I’m sure it makes me look every bit the unworldly bluffsider I am, I can’t help but stare, study the woman for a moment, as I’ve never seen one of the shokari in anything but the pages of a storybook before. In most respects, she’s fairly human-like, though with a few distinct differences. Most noteworthy is that she’s enormous, around seven feet in height, making even Vexa look small by comparison. Her skin is a light shade of purplish gray, darkening around the temples before sprouting into a rack of tall, twisting horns like those of a kudu. Around the base of both horns are tied ribbons of yellow and violet, dangling down to her shoulders, and between the horns is a stripe of thick, straight hair that reaches down to her mid-back. Her eyes are of a pale silvery color that matches her hair, her arched brows and strong nose giving her a noble countenance ill-fit to her bright, cheerful demeanor. A faint layer of white makeup on her face, dot of black at the tip of her nose, and the dark purple on her lips and streaking up and down from around her eyes, belies her nature as a performer for the Picklehammer Brigade, just as boldly as her body betrays exactly the sort of performer she is. My eyes wander down from her face, to her broad, powerful shoulders and well-muscled arms, swaths of yellow fabric criss-crossed over what appear to be sumptuously full breasts, and I am possessed in an instant by a desire for her to lift and carry me, as if I were her new bride, or in need of rescue from a burning building. She’s the circus strongwoman.

“B-… big lady….” I murmur, eyes going out of focus until I feel Vexa elbow me in the side.

“Snap out of it, bug! What, you’ve not seen a shokari before?”

“Gah! Um, shit, sorry, uh– no, I haven’t, sorry.” Honesty’s probably my best bet here. I offer a sheepish smile, quickly eating a piece of the glazed cheese to cover my embarrassment.

“Oh, it’s no problem!” the big woman says apologetically, holding up both hands to indicate she’s taken no offense, and I notice her hands only have three fingers and a thumb. “I understand my folk aren’t too common in this area, but you don’t have to be scared, we don’t… like… eat children or anything. Just big, that’s all!” she lets out a nervous giggle, and I almost immediately find myself liking her (beyond my desire for her to carry me). I also notice, now that I’ve heard a few actual complete sentences out of her, that she has an accent of some sort, one that’s completely foreign to my ear. She tends to stress the last consonant of words, and strings together clusters of smaller ones, but otherwise has a bright, clear voice.

“Right. Sorry again, anyway. I’m Nowa, and this is Ve–” I gesture toward the elf, only to find that she’s finished her food and wine, and is now off dancing wildly with two of the other circus-folk, making the most of the night without a care in the world. “Uh, that, is Vexa, over there,” I correct myself with a small smile.

“I’m Gelyn! Gelyn Ul-Shan. I pick stuff up! Heavy things, I mean. Well, other things too. Whatever needs to be picked up. It’s just that it’s more impressive the heavier the thing is, I guess.” She lets out an anxious laugh, then grabs a half-load of bread offered to her by Braull, taking a huge bite out of it. “Ummf! Yeah, tha’s yummy.”

“Gelyn may just be the strongest woman – strongest anythin’, to be fair – I’ve ever known,” Braull chuckles, slapping one hand jovially against the shokari’s densely-muscled upper back with a thick-sound thud, then wincing as if the friendly strike had hurt his wrist. “Lass sure can eat, though!”

“What about you?” Gelyn focuses on me, her large gray eyes clear and bright, her expression more openly, earnestly invested than I’ve seen in some time – particularly compared to Vexa’s disaffected, sardonic energy. “What brings you to a crossroads in the middle of nowhere? The carnival roams around, but we almost never see people traveling by foot out this far west. Ooh, have you seen anything cool? A troll? A dragon?”

I purse my lips briefly, wondering how to explain the situation. My goal is one only barely understood by me, so it won’t be easy to quickly explain. “I – we – are on a, um… a quest, I guess? I’ve been looking for someone for some time, and as far as I can tell they’re in the goblin city, Tague. Vexa sort of just… invited herself along, so we’ve been traveling together the past couple days.”

Unexpectedly, Gelyn lights up with an almost child-like wonder, stars alight behind her eyes. “A quest?” she asks, stunned. “Like a dangerous quest? Like an adventure?”

“Uhh, I guess you could say that,” I reflect back, considering my encounter with the Grazzoth and those bounty hunters. “There certainly has been some danger, recently.” My eyes wander the campsite as I talk, watching Vexa dance her heart out, switching from partner to partner as the upbeat drums and strings continue to ring out through the night air. My eye also catches something of interest – a goblin man, feeding a few scraps of chicken to a tiny, lizard-like creature in a small cage, pale orange with bright blue frills. “Whoa – is that a mebbinath?” I blurt out, not intending to change the subject, but my mouth nonetheless voices my thoughts, unbidden.

“Mm?” Gelyn follows my gaze to the little creature, its wide, toothless mouth eagerly gobbling down the bits of skin and gristle. “Oh! That’s Puppy, Ivol’s little froggy guy!”

“You have a mebbinath and named it Puppy?” I say, more to myself than to her, but she only offers a laugh and shrug.

“I dunno! You’d have to ask Ivol, I guess. It doesn’t really come out of the cage.”

“That’s… probably for the best,” I say hesitantly. Those little things are extremely toxic, from the stories my mother had told me. Shaking it from my thoughts, I take a long swig from my skin of mead, then turn back to Gelyn, “Anyway, yeah, we’re on our way to Tague. You ever been?”

The shokari sighs, “No, though I’ve always wanted to! The Brigade goes near the goblin city, but never into it, simpler that way I guess. Sounds so cool, though, ‘the goblin city;’ do you think it’s like an ordinary city, or does it have big castles and parapets and whatnot? Or… hmm, probably little ones, actually. Goblins and all. One of these days I’d really like to–”

I reflexively duck to the side when I hear the sound of a crossbow being fired from somewhere behind me, perhaps just in time – a bolt zips past my head, between Gelyn’s horns, landing with a heavy thunk into the side of one of the wagons. “What the fuck?!” I exclaim, whirling around to try to see where the shot came from, and around me, many of the circus performers behave evasively, ducking into tents, or under carts and tables.

Standing at the same entryway Vexa and I had come through is a group of newcomers, looking to be around ten in total, though it’s entirely possible that the gloom of night hides more from view. I’m reminded of Pinzak’s bounty hunters for only a moment – I’m looking at scoundrels, to be sure, but of quite a different type. While Pinzak and his helpers had worn weathered, piecemeal armor and wielded scavenged weapons, there was a clear sense of order to them, a chain of command, some degree of discipline.

These are brutes, mostly human, though I think I spy a few elves among their numbers. These humans are tall, muscular, primal, clad in leather and fur, each one laden down with their own arsenal of weaponry. Not bluffsiders, not graicean. Southerners. Barbarians from the deepest bowels of Paraven, only leaving their wasteland homes to do what they do best – pillage. What’s strange here is that they seem to be following a single leader, and that that leader is not one of them, but rather a raven-haired, tawny-skinned human woman of far shorter stature and slimmer build, more similar to me in appearance (if rather chestier) than those she’s leading.

The festivities at the circus camp fall silent as the band of invaders move in, some of the southerners wordlessly taking food from plates, fanning out ominously among the visibly-fearful performers. The woman in front sets her foot up onto one of the benches, slightly increasing her apparent height. “Barker. I believe it’s time.” She has an intimidating countenance, her lips and eyes dark, but streaks of bone-white warpaint along her cheeks, neck, forehead, and shoulders. No, not warpaint – these are no crude streaks of color, but have been applied with great care and consideration, even and symmetrical. Her lightweight ‘armor,’ consisting of a boiled leather bustier, thick-tasseled skirt, and short boots, is also bleached white, with unfamiliar designs of inky black crawling along the toughened surfaces.

“Aw, who the fuck is this, now?” Vexa groans, her evening of dancing and pleasantry distastefully interrupted. “Can a bitch not have a minute?”

“Silence, crone, it will all be over soon.” The strange woman shoots a brief, cold glare at Vexa, but her gaze continues to search for Toche.

“Oh, call me a fuckin’ crone–” the necromancer begins, but is interrupted by the circus barker’s loud, clear voice as Ribaldrous Toche comes crawling out from beneath a wagon.

He looks terrified, his top hat missing, pale hair already lank with sweat as he makes his way over to the woman. “Hezi, Hezi!” the elf exclaims, both empty hands held high in an obvious sign of surrender. “We, ah… weren’t expecting you! Not that we aren’t delighted to see you, of course! Please, take a seat, enjoy a meal, there’s plenty to–”

“I’m not here for food or drink, clownfather.” Her voice is unshakably firm. “I’ll have tribute, one of two ways, and the choice… as always… is yours.” Though she appears to hold no weapon, she speaks with the confidence of someone who had a crossbow pointed at the dead-center of Toche’s chest.

Toche swallows hard, glancing from the woman, to me, to Vexa, and back to this dusky stranger, this woman in white. “I… u-understand your impatience, my good lady, but if you recall, your previous tribute was only half as long ago as the one before that. I need time, you see – customers, an audience, you understand!”

“And you understand that it pleases me just as much to send you to The Waiting One as it does to take whatever handfuls of nickel and ivory your band of colorful scavengers manages to scrape together.” Once again, her tone is utterly unwavering, as is her jade-green gaze. “But… my people like the circus,” she continues, gesturing to the fighters she’d brought with her, “and I like to think I’m reasonable. So we’ll be back tomorrow night. When that time comes, you can either pay what’s owed… or feed Wreath with your blood.”

She turns, jerking a hand forward to signal her followers to escort her out of the camp, and they loyally do so, lighting torches as they wander back out into the night. There’s no collective sigh of relief among the performers, barely any release of tension at all – they’re terrified, and I can only assume with good reason. It’s time Toche and I talked.

“Hey, hey,” I say, catching up to the pinstriped elf as he slumps down, spindly and dejected, at the banquet table, filling a small wooden mug with mead and pounding it down his slim throat. “What– I mean, who was that? What just happened?”

“You saw the important parts,” Toche sighs, legs splayed. “We have a day to pay her, or….” He trails off. Other performers are starting to emerge from hiding places, looking just as distraught as Toche does, though I notice that Gelyn, the shokari, never left her seat.

“This is a regular thing?” I ask aloud. “She just comes and makes demands?”

“It’s been more frequent, as o’ lately,” Braull says, his heavy mustache drooping. “Hezikha’s impatient, she wanna bleed us dry, finish us off, an’ move on. Fill her coffers and satisfy–”

“–Kou.” Vexabeth interrupts, folding her arms across her chest and taking a seat, frowning. “I heard her mention The Waiting One. She doesn’t just want you dead, she wants you erased. She’ll spend the money she takes in a thousand different shops, toss your corpses in a lake, burn the wagons. She won’t be happy until there’s no memory of you.”

I hold my breath as she speaks. Vexa’s words line up with what my mother has told me of Those – once something passes from living to remembered, and from remembered to forgotten, they become part of Kou’s ever-growing hoard of power. It is called The Waiting One because all things, given enough time, become part of it. It’s entropy. It’s oblivion.

“And, uh… I don’t suppose you have a really quick, easy way to get the remaining bits, right?” I say, uneasily. I was unsettled enough by the small squad of barbarians, but if they’re being led by a priestess of Kou, this is a really unpleasant situation.

“Not e’en half of what Hezikha’s demanded,” Braull sighs.

“...Although…” Ribaldrous Toche raises his head, looking at Vexa and I with a new flame behind his eyes. “The two of you! You’re… travelers, yes? Adventurers, you said? Heroes, maybe? Perhaps you could stay with us! Help us fight them back! A bit of gratitude for us taking you in off the road tonight, we could say!”

The necromancer arches a brow. “Gratitude…?” she says, putting the pieces together. Her feral yellow eyes narrow. “You knew she was coming tonight. You gave us food and wine so you could try to conscript us. Try to get us killed to save your skin!”

The other elf quickly threw his hands up in a gesture of helplessness as Vexa’s posture grew aggressive. “Now, now, that’s being a bit uncharitable, I’d say – we are simple folk and gracious hosts, that’s all! Your arrival here was simply a… b-beneficial coincidence!”

The tattooed man hesitantly interrupts. “Beggin’ pardon, Tochey, but if we’re to be visiting Sast soon, I’d do it with a clean conscience,” he says, then turns his brown-eyed gaze onto Vexa and myself. “We’ve been waiting for anyone who might be willin’ to spend a night or two with us, an’ might be willin’ to lend a hand – be it filled with nickel or steel – to see the Brigade stay in one piece. We ain’t warriors, like. A few more’n others, maybe, but we got no shot against that harpy and her berserkers. So yeh, we knew there was danger on our doorstep, and we didn’t tell ye. Weren’t no malice in it, but… no pride, neither.”

I bite my tongue, holding back words that may not do what I want them to do. With a slow shake of my head, I turn and take a few steps away, perching on a bench some distance from the others, considering everything that’s happening here. We were treated with such hospitality in the hopes that we’d risk our lives to protect the Picklehammer Brigade, at least that’s how it would seem, but even with such a short time to observe this people… it’s true, they aren’t fighters, even less so than I am. They’re desperate.

“We should get out of here, bug,” Vexa sets a hand on my upper arm from behind, announcing herself before sitting beside me, shoulder-to-shoulder. “We don’t owe these bastards a gods-fucked thing, nothing worth risking our lives for. They drew the attention of an oblivion priest, that’s shit luck, but it’s not our shit luck.”

I let out a sigh. Vexa’s right, but… not completely. We’d be leaving these people to die, and I don’t know if I have what it takes to do that. I glance over my shoulder, looking at the various carnival workers winding things down for bed, but what they think will be their final night’s sleep. “None of them are running.”

“Eh?” Vexa grunts, beside me.

“A lot of these people could just make a break for it, right here and now. Leave in the night, let that priestess come for the others instead. I don’t think anyone would stop them.”

“And?”

“And… none of them are. They’re all staying, even though they think they’re gonna get slaughtered tomorrow.”

“Because we’re a family.”

I’m startled for a moment, not realizing that Gelyn had crept up behind me (she’s quiet for such a big girl, I suppose!). “Oh, shit, I– sorry, I didn’t see you there. Um, what was that?”

The horned girl flashes a small, sad smile. “Nobody’s leaving because the carnival’s like a family. A lot of us were born into it. I barely remember anything about Khxendrol; the Picklehammer Brigade is the only home I’ve ever known. I’d sooner leave them to die as I would my own brothers and sisters, and I like to think they all feel the same.”

I bite my lip, not looking fully at Gelyn, but considering her words. Vexa watches me, but stays uncharacteristically quiet, and it’s then that I have a horrible realization – she’s waiting on me to make a decision. We could vanish in the night, and leave these people to their fates… or we could stay, and defend them. Risk our lives, risk finding the Shrine of the Second, risk finding my mother, to help a bunch of non-combatants fight off a group of hardened killers.

Fortunately, I have a plan.

“We’re staying.”

“Yes!” Gelyn squeals, “I mean – I knew you would! I knew you were good people, it’s a thing you can get a feel for! I’ll tell Toche and the others!” The shokari goes jogging off, leaving me sitting next to Vexa again, the elf looking annoyed but understanding.

“Didn’t realize I’d be traveling with such a do-gooder,” she shoots a dark smirk at me.

“Hey, I don’t remember you complaining when I got you out of that cage.”

“That’s ‘cause it didn’t happen, li’l bug,” she chuckles under her breath. “Keep something in mind, though. When you volunteer my magic, you’re volunteering away years of my life, and that ain’t something that’s yours to give. There’s a reason I don’t involve myself with shit that don’t concern me.”

I nod, a feeling of discomfort taking shape in my gut. I hadn’t thought about that. “Well… maybe you don’t need to cast any spells at all?”

“Fuck that, you kidding me? I need to blow something up!” the elf stretches out both her arms and legs, as if keeping herself limber for tomorrow’s skirmish. “How about you? Any monsters for you to change into, monster-girl?”

“Just one.”

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Things don’t relax much even after I pledge my aid, but they do relax a bit. We finish our interrupted meal, take some much-needed time to wash ourselves with water-basins and clean cloths that the circus provides, and eventually, try to get a decent night of rest. Even with the threat of battle tomorrow, I find I sleep much better with the sound of people around me, and against all odds, my night is long and restful.

The morning has a cold, somber air to it. Some of the performers come to us, thanking us for staying, praying to Rul that we remain among his subjects when the day is done. We fill our bellies with a sweetened gruel made of oats, cream, and lotberries, and Vexa and I begin to prepare ourselves to fight. Or… she does, anyway. I’m a wanderer, not a warrior, once my dagger’s good and sharpened there isn’t much left for me to do, so I spend some time talking to other circus-folk, seeing who’s willing to join the fight, and who will only get in the way.

“Figure I’ll be more’a liability n’ anythin’ else,” Braull muses after I ask him, patting his right thigh, from which a hollow, wooden thood sound rings, “Already fought my fight long since, y’see. Put a crossbow in my hand and I may be able to help, but, ah… ‘ey now, I may have somethin’ you can use.”

“Anything helps,” I say hesitantly, following the tattooed man to his tent. He ducks in, tossing some old clothing out of the way, then lifting a large box to reveal a somewhat smaller clamshell one beneath it, around five feet long, two wide, and two deep. He scoots the box out across the floor and drags it outside, blowing dust off of it before carefully unclasping its lid and lifting it.

“I was loyal to the last duke, not that it got me far,” he chuckles grimly, “and when it came to fightin’, this was what I used. Thing looks like it barely has a scratch on it, but it brought low more Seizurist bastards n’ I can rightly recall.” My eyes widen as I behold what’s in the box – it’s a weapon, and a heavy one, not dissimilar to a morning star. Its long haft is wrapped tightly with red leather, its pommel dense and bullet-shaped, the metal all charred black. The head of the thing is what sets it apart, a round ball the size of a large shotput, its surface studded all around with spikes no more than two inches long, though on its front-facing side is a short, sickle-like blade, around eight inches long and perhaps five wide, its tip facing slightly downward and giving the appearance of an eagle’s cruelly-curved beak. An extremely imposing weapon, to be sure. Braull carefully withdraws it from the box and hands it to me, and I clumsily clasp both hands around the haft, immediately reeling under its weight.

“Wow, it’s… I mean, it’s beautiful, but it’s so heavy, Braull,” I say hesitantly, my arms already starting to burn from holding it up. “It’s amazing, it is! And I’m really grateful. But I don’t even know if I could use it.”

“I didn’t figure ya would. Already seen that little pig-stick ya carry aroun’, didn’t take ya for one to want much to do with a beast like this. She, on the other hand–” he raises his voice to catch the attention of the passing shokari, Gelyn, who pauses with a dumbfounded look. “Reckon for the strongest lass in the Brigade, the thing’ll be light as a knittin’ needle.”

I follow Braull’s gaze to Gelyn, whose expression quickly goes from shocked to flustered. “Who? What? Oh– ahah, no, you– I mean, I couldn’t! I’m not a fighter, I’m just… y’know, big! And strong! You uh, you know us shokari! With our bigness and our strongness!”

“Come, lass. E’er since I’ve known ya, it’s all been ‘heroes’ and ‘castles’ and ‘princesses,’ all you’re doin’ here is killin’ time ‘til ya hear the call,” the mustached man gestures to the mace-ax, which I’m still struggling to hold on to, my muscles screaming for release. “I’d say it’s time ye answered.”

Gelyn’s uneasy for a moment, but finally reaches out to take the weapon from my hand, lifting the big, heavy thing as easily as if it had been a freshly-roasted turkey leg. “Maybe…” she muses aloud, not finishing her thought, though quite a number of emotions continue to burn behind her silvery eyes – then a moment later, years. “Thank you! I swear to use it honorably!” she says seriously, then looks down to me, “and I will fight by your side!”

Well, of anyone who could be fighting with me, a seven-foot shokari with the craziest weapon I’ve ever seen would probably be my pick. “Just watch where you swing that thing,” I say with a nervous chuckle. “Oh, and Braull – Vexa’s looking for trash, preferably metal, do you know of anything she could use?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can scrounge somethin’ up,” the man nods, heading off in the mage’s direction, leaving me alone with Gelyn.

“So, uh… do you think you’re ready for this?” I ask hesitantly.

“Not at all,” she responds with a small smile, “but I’ll do what I have to. How about you?”

“Well… I will be soon. Where’s that goblin we saw yesterday? Ivol, you said his name was?”

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Hours pass. Morning fades to afternoon, then evening. Those without the will or ability to fight hide in the wagons, while those who’ve taken up arms (except for me) sit at the center of camp. While we weren’t able to find a crossbow for Braull, it turns out a carnival is an excellent place to find throwing knives, and the tattooed human’s been given about two dozen of them. Gelyn brandishes her mace-ax, preparing for the worst. Ribaldrous Toche has brought along a golden cane which I suppose will work as an adequate bludgeon. The two skinny elven brothers and the woman with the piercings round out the performers willing to fight, but alongside them is Vexa, birch staff in hand, a barely-visible field of magical energy encasing her in a sort of reflective armor. She’s been doing something all day, though I can’t say I’m entirely sure what.

We know we won’t have long to wait. Being human herself, and primarily leading other humans, Hezikha will want to fight while there’s still some light in the sky. So we all wait patiently, Toche taking point – and at last, they arrive, around ten of them. Hezikha holds a wicked-looking sickle in her hand now, the two elves in her band holding bows, and the southerners wielding various instruments of death, from swords, axes, and spears, to the large, metal-bound cudgels their people so favor. This isn’t a negotiation; she isn’t leaving without either money or blood.

“Have something for me, clownfather?” Hezikha calls out, the thick black braids of her hair bouncing around her shoulders as she marches forward from the grassy plains around the encampment. “Or shall I satisfy Kou’s endless hunger at last?”

“Madame, we haven’t provided dinner-shows at Picklehammer for at least a decade,” Toche flashes a wide, wicked grin, showing off large, slightly crooked teeth. “In fact, I’m afraid we’re no longer taking reservations at this time for any of our services.”

Hezikha returns the smile, though hers is far darker, far more bloodthirsty. “So be it, then. I’ve grown weary of haunting your steps… it’s time we put an end to–”

She’s interrupted by an anguished roar, one of the southerners stumbling sideways, swiping an axe at an unknown foe. “Sorcery!” the big man shouts, though his target remains unclear until a few moments later, the group of brigands fanning out cautiously to find whatever trap or other mischief was befalling them, quickly realizing that, hidden in the grass around the encampment, unassuming bits of trash such as cans, bottles, and sacks, had been made into vessels for tiny, malevolent spirits. Standing behind Gelyn, Vexa’s dark lips curled into a wide, satisfied, one-fanged grin.

“Charge!” Toche roared as the barbarians kicked and stomped at the angry little gremlins, glyph-scrawled metal pipes growing burning hot from the fire spirits inside, shards of inscribed glass bound to zephyr imps turning into razor-sharp whirlwinds, immediately creating a chaos that the Picklehammer defenders could exploit. Braull stayed back, staying calm and focused, watching for clear, clean openings to throw blades, and Vexa remained nearby, enjoying the show but not engaging – she’d done her part, and the ensuing melee was no place for the lanky witch.

The elven brothers never leave each others’ sides, picking a single enemy and ruthlessly attacking them with long knives, aiming to spill as much blood as possible and then fleeing before a counterattack could ensue. The pierced woman had wrapped a length of thin chain around her wrist, attacking with the short strands of sharpened trash that extended from it – smaller chains attached to shaving razors, bits of glass, sharpened rocks, and even claws or fangs from animals. The makeshift scourge likewise seemed designed to bloodlet, and the southerners’ propensity for very lightweight armor made that an easy goal to achieve… as long as one could avoid their own quick, powerful strikes.

Quickly backing away from the central fight, Hezikha’s two elven archers prepare tightly-recurved shortbows, intending to unleash their quivers into the circus performers from afar once they’re safe from harm. They are not, unfortunately for them, safe from harm at all… but they don’t know that. Nor do they know that, in addition to being highly toxic, mebbinaths have excellent natural camouflage. Neither of them has even nocked an arrow before I emerge, nearly invisible, from the grass, plunging my dagger between the ribs of one, then the other – its blade glistening from the deadly poison I’ve rubbed off of the surface of my own skin.

The two archers begin to gasp for breath, beginning to bleed from eyes, ears, nose, and mouth just as readily as they do from the narrow wounds in their sides. I slink back into the grass, waiting for the next moment to strike. Just because something is small, does not mean it cannot be a monster… in fact, since I’m more easily able to hold their power for a longer period, I’d say I quite prefer the little ones.

At the forefront of the fight, Hezikha and Toche lock weapons, the elf’s cane snaking into the inner curve of the priestess’s sickle and holding it at bay, allowing him to snap out the occasional kick with his long, slim legs, kicks largely blocked by an interposing knee. Even as their weapons locked, their eyes locked as well, a burning malice between them now getting its first ever opportunity to blaze openly. “You would see everything I cherish destroyed, and for what?” Toche hisses, “for your gluttonous god? Does Kou not get the sustenance he needs without your help?”

“The Waiting One always hungers for more!” Hezikha snarls, pivoting on one foot and lashing out with the back of her free hand, catching the elf’s chin and nearly sending him staggering. “You shall not fill him, nor shall anything else! It is not my place to question him, only to feed him!”

Close by, bloodied and sweating, Gelyn mauls her way from southerner to southerner, focusing on those already entangled with Vexa’s summoned spirits and blasting through them with singular, outrageously forceful blows, years of experience exceling in strength-based feats telling her exactly how to use her massive, powerful muscles for the more destructive outcome. She moved with a sort of bizarre grace, her large frame seeming to lurch and stumble clumsily, only to end up in an advantageous position for a brutal attack – whether she had a sort of strange grace, or pure dumb luck, I’m not entirely able to tell. Whatever she has, though, it’s serving her quite well, as the shokari has already beaten her way through two of the barbarians with her newly-acquired mace-ax, the number of enemies we have to contend with rapidly diminishing with no casualties on the side of the carnival….

Until one of the elf brothers tastes the kiss of a southerner’s axe against his clavicle, boring down through his ribs. He crumples there in the grass, all at once, cut near in twain as if he was nothing but a long, skinny tree. He’s dead, I think, before his knees touch the ground. His brother screams out, reaching out to try to grab him, to drag him to safety, perfectly defenseless against a downswing from an incoming cudgel – a cudgel that never falls, as a dagger plunges into its wielder’s back before his arm can swing. Like the two archers, blood begins to stream from the barbarian’s eyes, ears, and nose, and behind him, I shimmer back into full visibility, my skin now bright orange in color, hair and fingertips a shimmering blue. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to the surviving brother, then vanish again.

While Toche and Hezikha continue their prolonged struggle against each other, Gelyn and the pierced woman keep pace with the remaining few southerners – though the human woman scrambles away after taking a few serious injuries from one of the brute’s cudgels, a shattered shoulder and hip sending her crawling away from the fight, leaving the shokari to clean up whoever remains. Eventually, sickle against cane is deemed fruitless, the two leaders of their respective groups backing up and lashing out at one another rather than letting the standing pin endure, slashing and swatting back and forth at one another with quick, frantic strikes that leave both exhausted and blood-soaked. “You can never destroy me, circus man!” Hezikha wails through bloodied teeth, lunging forward with the sickle again, tearing across the front of Toche’s jacket. “As long as I haunt your dreams – for every day I spend outside his realm, I serve my lord!”

Toche kicks out, then swipes sideways with his metal can, catching Hezikha firmly across the jaw and sending her sprawling onto her back. Swiftly kicking her sickle away, the elf stands over her, just as perfectly poised as ever, and offers up his most showmanly smile. “Then I’ll see ya there, hot stuff.” He rains down a blow with the cane, then another, then another, not stopping until Hezikha has stopped moving.

Finally, everything’s over. Gelyn’s dispatched the last of the southerners (and the summoned spirits all seem to have dispersed, as well). Hezikha’s dead. Only one loss on our side… though still, I wish it weren’t so.

Like releasing a breath long-held, I let go of the mebbinath’s power, my appearance and abilities returning to plain ol’ Nowa. I wait and watch while a man mourns his brother, his wails of grief shattering the evening sky. In time, Toche and the other circus folk make their way back to the central encampment, dragging the other elf’s body with them, to burn or bury I’m unsure. He’s with Sast, now, at least. And with elven lifespans, elven memories, he’ll be with Sast for a long while.

After some time, I head in myself, finding Vexa and quickly wrapping my arms around her in a long hug, not saying anything, just… needing something to latch on to, for however brief a time, after that. She seems surprised and uncertain at first, then folds her slender arms around me, giving me a weak squeeze, and the time I need to unwind from having just killed three people. Part of me wonders what good this gift is, if I only use the powers of monsters to kill others – but when I see the other performers coming out of their hiding places, their faces awash with tears of relief, and the knowledge that their doorstep is no longer darkened by that white-armored jackal… well, maybe it’s not all so bad.

It takes a moment for my heart to stop pounding, but I finally sit down, holding tightly to Vexa’s hand. “That was crazy… and you did amazing. I don’t know if we could have managed that without all your little, um… y’know. Guys. And I’m sorry for making you use your magic.”

“Oh, don’t worry – I didn’t.” Vexa smirks. “Binding spirits is all busy work, no internal energy at all. Please, you think I was gonna burn off my lifespan for some clowns?”

“Ah… right, fair,” I sigh, glancing over toward the other members of the Picklehammer Brigade, hugging and talking to each other. I see Gelyn, Toche, and Braull exchanging words… or rather, it seems like Gelyn talking to the two of them, though I can’t hear what any of them are saying. Braull nods, looking somber, and Toche sets his hand on the shokari’s shoulder with a comforting smile. After a moment, Gelyn turns, eyes wide and face bright, and begins to jog toward Vexa and I.

“I wanna come with you!” she calls out before she even arrives, finally making her way over to us and smiling.

“Eh?” Vexa’s lip snarls upward.

I blink up at her. “But you said the carnival was like your family, right?”

“It is! And sometimes you stop living with your family,” she says, sagely. After a moment, she holds up the mace-ax. “Braull gave me this weapon and told me to be a hero. And I did. And I wanna keep being! I can be more than just strong, I… I-I can be courageous, and virtuous, and... heroic! I just need an adventure to go on! Besides, last I checked…” she glances over one broad, muscular shoulder, back at the circus, “...there aren’t any princesses here! What’s a hero without a princess, right?”

I lick my lips thoughtfully, then glance towards Vexa. After a moment, the necromancer shrugs. “She’s gonna eat every bit of food we’ve got…” she begins, sizing up the seven-foot shokari, “...but I do love a good meat shield.”

Stifling a chuckle, I stand up, and take one of Gelyn’s hands in mine. “Alright, Gelyn – welcome to the group. It’s gonna be a long, hard road, you know.”

“All I do is travel, silly! I bet I know these roads better than you do.” She smiles brightly, optimistic for the future, so full of hope.

I think I’m gonna really like having her around.