The Merry Caravan

Brosi-Buk lounged in the afternoon shade of the Feralwood, halfway through his afternoon nap. Dappled sunlight flickered across his bright blue skin as the breeze played tag with the trees, but a feathered hat kept the brightness comfortably out of his eyes. A small wooden pipe hung limply from the corner of his mouth. Prismatic smoke wafted around his head and flashed with every exhaled snore, shifting hues and forming half-remembered shapes as Brosi stirred in his sleep.

His good friend, Sir Timophy Turttleton of Rockshell Manor, spun lazily on the back of his shell as he used his stomach as an impromptu table. A curved wooden mug filled with sparkling blue liquid fizzled with what sounded like low, murmured conversation. Every once and a while a larger bubble would float slowly over the rim before popping with a high-pitched giggle. Timophy’s breath smelled like blueberries.

Suddenly, an orc and a vennen crashed through the underbrush, locked in deadly battle. The vennen buried a long, wicked blade in the orc’s upper arm while the orc hacked at the vennen’s thin, spidery legs with her ax. Both were screaming vile obscenities at each other as they knocked Timophy’s drink to the ground and disturbed a perfectly good nap.

“Wha—Muffins!” Brosi-Buk jerked upright with a shout. He pushed his hat back out of his face with one hand and rubbed his eyes grumpily with the other. With an irritated huff, he blew warm red smoke from his pipe at the struggling pair.

With a sudden pop, their shouting disappeared. In the duo’s place, a rather confused looking pigeon pecked ineffectually at an angry hedgehog, who hissed before darting into the underbrush.

“This neighborhood has—*hic*—really gone downhill.” Timophy’s slurred speech warred with the prim vowels of his noble upbringing as he sadly wrung out his straw hat, trying to get as much of his drink back into his cup. “It’s no fun when nobody knows how to have a good time.”

Brosi-Buk tugged thoughtfully at one of his long, slender ears.

“What with the war and all, maybe it IS time for a vacation. I hear a bunch of people are gathering up north.” A slow, buck-toothed grin split his face from dimple to dimple. “Puck-it, man, Balthy owes me a favor. Let’s call ‘em and make a party out of it!”

Timophy rocked himself to his feet, hat in one hand and drink in the other. Though cold blooded, the twinkle in his eyes revealed that he had warmed to the idea almost immediately.

“Ooh, and we can have games like ‘What Am I Now?’ and ‘Kismet Bet’—*hic*—and those little poppycake things with the white frosting, and… and… music!” He plopped the slightly damp hat back on his head with a flourish.

“Ha-ha!” Brosi chortled and slapped his belly. “Then it’s decided!” He popped his pipe back in his mouth and took a long, happy drag. “We’re going on a road trip!”

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