Plotlogs
Beyond The Thrift Sr Siofra 250421
In the dense and treacherous wilderness beyond the Gate on Karlash Road, a group embarked on an unusual journey. Evan, Lark, Malcolm, and Cadence found themselves navigating a post-apocalyptic landscape, filled with the debris of a bygone civilization and the roar of mutated beasts. Their guide, Squire Dahvidd, loomed over a bright pink Prius, presenting it as their steed for the day's errand—a diplomatic mission to engage with the local lordling, Knight Baegni, on his coming of age and negotiate peace to halt their raids using "metal steeds."
The group's journey was marked by the quirky and the curious. They traversed through a forest, following a triceratops pulling tires, and encountered a camp where modern-day knights joust with rusted vehicles instead of horses. Their audience with Knight Baegni was unconventional, to say the least. The knight, young and eager for recognition, mistook their arrival—an accident involving their Prius crash-landing into a tent belonging to another knight—as a challenge and an offering of peace.
Cadence, an intern looking to impress her superiors, notably struggled to understand the dealings of this new world but played along, hoping for a reward in the form of a car. Lark and Evan, meanwhile, navigated the encounters with a mixture of bewilderment and eagerness, particularly when Evan volunteered to joust in the name of diplomacy and personal bravado.
Malcolm, the de-facto leader and the most experienced among them, negotiated with Knight Baegni. He proposed a joust as a means to honor their host and potentially secure a diplomatic agreement. Despite the language barrier and the clear cultural differences, both parties agreed to the terms of a joust—though Baegni enthusiastically declared that everyone should partake.
As they prepared for the joust, the group's dynamics played out with humor and moments of camaraderie. Despite their ambiguous standing and the clear dangers of this foreign land, they found common ground with the locals through the universal language of competition and valor.
The story concludes with the team and a appointed scribe from the camp, tasked to record the forthcoming events, setting off to organize the joust. The promise of a sequel plot brews with anticipation as they look to the challenge ahead, hopeful to bridge the cultural gap with their "metal steeds" and perhaps, in the process, prevent further conflict.
(Beyond the Thrift!(SRSiofra):SRSiofra)
[Sun Apr 20 2025]
On On Karlash Road (W)
A rough-cut dirt road has been hewn through the forest here, from east to west by locals. Roots press in on the edges as if eager to reclaim the space, and eyes gleam in the shadows of the surrounding forests as if waiting for any sign of weakness from would-be travelers.
Tire tracks and the debris of littered motor carriages wrecked of their guts or struck upon trees make up the path. Beyond the short, narrow strip, a ruckus of chants cries out from a foraged and cleared pit set on a lower elevation to the north.
It is after dusk, about 62F(16C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
Evan totally paths along with Lark, taking the knife from her with a smile. "Thank you," Evan tells Lark with a grin.
Lark nods at Evan and waves to Malcolm.
Malcolm is, as always, fashionably late. Despite having a door that leads straight here. Somehow.
Lark starts doing jumping jacks.
Without further ado!
The briefing complete, today's bonanza sits at the end of the Gate on Karlash- just inside the Wilds.
Squire Dahvidd; a man dressed in sewer-stained leathers with a jaw that is not so much as chiseled as the anvil by which one hammers; underbite, with skin that shrinks in hunger. A coif that has seen battles with foliage and dirt sits atop his head, covering his hair. He looms over a bright pink Prius. Awaits the group with his palms faced down- resting on an invisible pommel. around him are the littered corpses of cars; their transmission guts left to muddy the floor, the scent of their flammable black ichor and grease resolved to stain the overgrown space. He waves first to a triceratops pulling what appears to be twenty or so tires on a wooden sled up the road. He has an expression that suggests he might have waved to every person that crosses his space, and an uncertainty that might resolve to give up after the next few tries. He, according to the briefing of the HSD, will be today's translater and guide.
This trail of vehicle tears past him, continues for a quarter mile where growing activity lingers over the not so distant horizon.
"Excuse me." He greets in a tone that attempts severity, looking past the group as a conversational escape in case things don't go well.
Lark stops doing jumping jacks, standing to attention next to Malcolm and Evan as she eyes the pink Pruis, and then looks towards the triceratops sled.
Evan sniffs the air, and lets out a sound of annoyance. The scent of ichor and grease filling his sensitive nostrils with.. well, the scent of something disgusting. Though, his eyes now scan towards the sled being pulled - noting it with a look of curious amusement, nudging Lark with an elbow as it moves on by - it seems he's got an idea brewing.
Unhurriedly and with a hair of wariness, as he is wont to do, Malcolm makes his way with the group toward this Dahvidd fellow. Seems the sort. "Not bad English," he reckons toward the presumably Wildling and his auto parts. "We're what's been sent." And a nod, past him, toward the sled.
The squire's greeting assumes that- given the lack of verbal riposte from Lark or Evan at first, has him sticking his hands back onto his invisible pommel and standing motionless by his Prius. The sound of cicadas, invasive from the Gate or natural, are crickets.
So when Malcolm addresses him, a quick point of posturing is in order. He holds his cement chin high and smiles back like a brick. "Thank you. I have practiced for this moment for a very long time."
"I see. We are going up the road. Knight Baegni's errant party for his coming of age return is currently amidst sorting bounty. The guards who call little lightning-" He points to Malcolm like the grim reaper, specifically his badge, "Have told them that you are.. Diplomats of great martial esteem."
Lark grins at the squire, hovering behind Malcolm. "Yes! That's what we are!" A nod. A second nod. She nods at Evan, to get him to nod along, also.
Evan nods along in turn!
It's not relief, but the man nods and opens all of the doors to his Prius. "The creature of this shell is quiet and lovely." He claims, gauntlets scratching the paints on the door handle. "It may lead us up the road in windblown comfort. May I ask how you intend to parley? I would submit this steed for joust, if you have no steed of your own."
Malcolm doesn't happen to be dressed for warfare, or with his badge visible, but he fixes that in short order. Besides, the rifle and armor are packed up a short jaunt away, if he needs them. A nod to mirror both Lark and Evan, and he echoes, "That we are." A look across toward the trail, then to the Prius. "I got a steed, too. I can get Lucky."
Evan might not have fully read a specific briefing but he's hovering just behind Malcolm, next to Lark and letting Malcolm take over the discussions and the conversating.
A little late to the party has made little difference. A man, presumably Squire Dahvidd if the briefing is to be correct, has four open doors to a pink prius in a graveyard of vehicular corpses; engines, transmissions, other parts of the scar- ah, radiators, those. There looks to be a stand off of sorts, the verbal kind, with the Squire clearing his throat, and then beginning to step into the driver's seat.
Cadence arrives by train, plane, automobile, space ship or rocket surgery as a representative of the Hand. An intern at that, looking to make her shine on the world. She's got a cigarette balanced between her fingers. She sweeps her gaze upon those assembled, offering them all a nod in acknowledgment whether she knows them or not.
The squire's car; three seats, four with the backseat threesome, five if you count the trunk, perhaps look sheepish at the number of people introduced. He offers, as the woman steps out of the Gate. "Ah. She is present with you? Please." He crumbles, "Someone say something I feel as if I have gone mad."
Lark clears her throat. "I would like to ride in your pink Pruis-ahem, steed!" she chimes in, ducking into the car. She rolls down the window (or power windows it, if that works) and sticks her head out towards the new individual entering, giving a polite wave. "Hello!" She gives Evan and Malcolm a look, a questioning one to see if either of them recognize the dark-haired woman.
"At the behest of President Phisher," Cadence brings context to light, nodding along, stepping over to the motley crew, checking them out with an appraising eye. She's holding that cigarette out and it looks like it needs to be lit. "G'day, mates," she says in her best Aussie impression.
"Ah, Nancy," Evan waves to her. "Yeah, I know her," Evan replies, vouching for the woman. "She's who she says she is.." Evan shrugs and moves. "I guess I'll um, take the middle seat," Evan says glancing at the Prius. "I have a feeling that's where I'm gonna get relegated to anyway, so I'll just suffer and decide on taking it now instead of playing musical chairs."
"President Fisher." The squire repeats as he clicks the button to an unimpressive whine of its electric engine. The man does not have a license, and his shape- like a wrestler but more square, is ill suited to the driver's seat. "Here. I will approach." The car abruptly bucks as he presses the pedal town too far, approaching the party and towards the Gate from the reverse.
"Hi, I'm Laaaa-aark!" Lark realizes that she needs to totally buckle this seatbelt as she jostles in the Prius. "Gentle, gentle on the foot my good man!" she yells out to the squire!
Malcolm settles into the shotgun seat of the Prius, instead, letting Dahvidd drive. Unfortunately. For a moment, he's dealing with something-or-other on his phone, despite not having a great connection out here. Old habits, perhaps. Old person habits, perhaps moreso. But nonetheless, when he looks back up at the rocking of the whip, he gives a small nod toward Cadence and a little wave of a hand, after a once-over. "Sounds right to me. Phisher's an ally."
"Hello. Laaaa-aark," Cadence enunciates and elongates the name as was proffered to her. She wants shotgun, but doesn't seem to be able to get to it because of someone and scrambles for a seat somewhere at the farthest back that isn't the trunk. She snoozed and she lost. "I forgot my briefing," she admits, holding up an empty manila folder for her efforts.
"Hello. Laaaa-aark," Cadence enunciates and elongates the name as was proffered to her. She wants shotgun, but doesn't seem to be able to get to it because of Malcolm and scrambles for a seat somewhere at the farthest back that isn't the trunk. She snoozed and she lost. "I forgot my briefing," she admits, holding up an empty manila folder for her efforts. "Pleased to meet you all."
The good news about the drive is that this metal (If breezy) coffin of pink cannot possibly kill everyone. There's not enough speed for it. Taking the road at a fine 10 MPH (or like 20,000 kph, that sounds about right) results in only the most catastrophic bumps on this near pre-historic road. Conversations with this taxi start with, "So-" and end with, "So." The deep lumps of the triceratops that they follow in the wake of up the road, absolutely ruining road quality. There are also, to be said, the growing sounds of roars in the distance.
Something awful and mad explodes somewhere in the back right of the vehicle as the road evens out ever so slightly for conversation. "I do not know if my steed will suffice for your joust. You cannot... Procure one, champion diplomats as you all are?"
As Evan is squished into the middle seat between Lark and Cadence he doesn't make much complaint really, just eying the outside and being here along for the slow, slow ride that is the Pink Prius caravan.
"Can you give us any more details, and maybe recap the briefing for those of us who... didn't bring it with us?" Lark asks the squire, wincing as the pruis tries to round over one of those bumps on the road. "Malcolm said he has a horse. Lucky. Do we need one for each of us?"
Buckling up for danger, and thankfully so when the ride appears to be more offroad than on, and with heavy divots, Malcolm rattles along in the passenger seat. When the question is proffered, he repeats more flatly, more evened out as the road becomes so, "... I have a steed. I can get Lucky."
Cadence leans forward, craning her neck past the seating in front of her someone, and Evan. "How much horsepower does this bad bitch have?" she asks to idle away the time.
Cadence leans forward, craning her neck past the seating in front of her Lark, and Evan. "How much horsepower does this bad bitch have?" she asks to idle away the time.
"I don't think Horse is around here," Evan tells Lark with a frown. "I can't actually remember where he is.."
His mind, it buffers. In short order, he addresses each like bullet points.
"I will give you details last." He starts, mostly talking to himself. "A horse would be fine, but you are of a place of these steel creatures? I admit that there are better procured than the one I am possessed of." Only now, have they passed the Moonguard inn on their left. "The power of this horse, Knight of a fisher, is... Underwhelming. I shame you, I am sorry."
"It helps if I know what I need it for," Malcolm prods to the driver.
Lark shakes her head at Evan. "Probably at the stable, duh."
"I am told that we were not wanted. Indeed, I was hunted in the great maze of waters and sewage that exists below The Haven. I am told peace is requested, and that my understanding of my people will assist in finding peace." SRSiofra explains, clearing his throat. "Peace is settled by various means. By luxury, by power, perhaps by holding close to spirits and cursing another to do one's bidding. They will be jousting when we are upon them, eager to test these metal steeds."
Evan blinks and sits up, "Wait, like actual jousting?" Evan asks. "Like on horses and shit? Except, car jousting? Holy shit, this sounds fucking epic."
"I'm surprised this motherfucker's held together this long. Complex mechanical shit tends to just fall apart offworld. 's'why we can't drive out here, really," Malcolm informs Evan over a shoulder, and Dahvidd, too. Not that the Prius is working all that well to begin with. "I'd bring my bike, but I'd reckon that shit'd mysteriously fall apart by the time I got out here."
WhrrrrrrRRRR...huhhrghh...pleh.
This mighty sad exclamation occurs in the engine as they leave the most immediate boundaries of the Gate, and the bumping stops- as does the car. He nonetheless calmly explains as he opens the car door and gets out, "Yes. They have made use of the vehicles as carriages. They scream loudly even if they do not move well." He rounds the back of the car and, with a *HUFF* begins to push the car sloooowwwlly down the road, panting with exertion.
Clearly, Malcolm just had to jinx it. There's a chuff of breath, a hang of his head, and he lolls out of the passenger seat, too, to wander back and help heave the thing along too. At least Cadence has her opportunity for shotgun now.
Lark jumps out to help Dahvidd and Malcolm with the car pushing. "So do they joust with weapons out here?"
"Mad Max headass shit," Malcolm claims, shoulder against the back of the car.
Evan also jumps out of the car, and with probably Lark and Evan this job is already going to be a lot easier in fact. "WITNESS ME!!" Evan shouts of the blue, and there's nothing even starting yet.
Cadence digs through her sweater and purse, finding all sorts of things to toss out the window: empty candy wrappers, a pink tube of lip balm, a quarter, and pieces of lint. The vehicle breaks down but she's still going at it. The last thing to go is a spare change of underwear, red and glorious, tossed out the passenger window and being sent to fly off on its own voyage through aloft the breeze. "Should I be writing all of this down?" she asks, flinching at the shouting. She scrambles for her handgun and pops a shot off into the air.
The destination is closer than thought, and perhaps still further than one hoped. Over the journey of about thirty minutes, Dahvidd answers in labored breaths; "Weapons. Teeth. Magic. Sometimes firearms. I'm illterate. I don't know."
Evan's assistance makes this god awful drag speed from a half hour to a half-half hour.
You hear them, the sounds of engines, alternating like war horns. Rumbling the canopy of trees and silencing the brittle life of insects and birds, they come. Cresting the ridge up a torturous incline, a camp is found. There are perhaps fifty to one-hundred and fifty in this gathering. It seems like a casual camp set on an elevated ground near what might be the sound of running water, until that horrible cacophany of noises comes. Until, that sight.
The first, a yellow and grey moped of separate models, rusted. Atop them are two stoic figures dressed in long sleeve tie dyes with kneepads and iron helms.
The last, in a fashion that drives directly through the center of their pit, is an ominous van with the top split open by hammers. The driver hunches out of its cockpit holding the reigns attached to a large, fleshformed mammoth with nine tusks, wearing an 80s visor and a Chubacca halloween costume while a man and a woman hold a tiny statuette of some colonial man on a horse between them, dressed in matching suit-ties that theyve wrapped as bandannas, and several layers of buttoned flannels and dress shirts.
In the middle, most presented, currently rousing with a pumping arm for people to restart the engines- several individuals of modern garment actively getting into the pits of each engine on little scaffolding, lounges a man in a cheep animal duster and red John-Lennon sunglasses, worn upside down, atop the roof of an old Chevy. A shitty Chevy raised with hydraulics two feet up. They do not care for the cold, they never did. To see emotion on their faces would be to imagine weakness. They are so, so stoic.
Four person-power engine from the rear, and a half and maybe more given the active divinity running through some blood, crests the hill with momentum to go- running the single occupant of the vehicle down the hill of elevation and towards the gathering.
Lark stares. "Hooooly fuck. How... do we get one of -those-?! She points to the fleshformed mammoth with nine tusks, her jaw wide open."
"Hmm. Well, in a joust, one does not often attack the mount- nor is the mount to attack the rider." He explains, though more puffy than that line gives credit. He glares at one of the figures down below. A few take notice in this camp of the arrivals, doing menacing things like cutting wood with knives and, like, pumping shotguns- though also itching their chins with the barrels.
Evan glances up in mild awe, matching Lark in that way. "Woah," Evan says, "That's like the fucking Oliphant from Lord of the Rings!"
Cadence sits placidly in her seat, handson her lap pretending everything she's seeing is something none too special. Inwardly, she's probably as excited as her pals.
Cadence lurches forward as the car begins to coast downhill, steadily approaching a tent as the car, keys still in ignition and neutral activated, buggies onward from those behind it.
Without* those behind it.
Cadence hits her head into the seating in front of her with that lurch, grimacing at the impact.
"Nothing without cost," Malcolm reminds Lark a little grimly as he helps to shove the car along. The bundle of his belongings is fetched from the trunk, including, notably, an M110A1 Marksman rifle with a number of attachments. Scope. Suppressor. Undermount grenade launcher. You know, normal cop rifle stuff. "Still ain't gonna feel great if it gets ornery."
The guy's eyes wander the gamut of folks in the camp as they approach. "Least I'll have an easier time parsing them than some of y'all." The car starts to slip away from him, and off it goes. Runaway. With Cadence inside. And he's too busy being a lookie-loo to do too damn much about that, not even really noticing until it's several yards away.
Cadence peeks out the passenger door window, watching everyone get further and further away. She's like the family pet everyone forgot was in the car. Oh no.
"Shit!" Evan calls after the car - taking off in a sprint as he tries to catch up to it. It might not be going that fast, but gravity is probably going to beat out Evan in the long run.
Lark nods at Malcolm, snatching up her bag, most notably with a longbow in it, a quiver of arrows already starpped to her back. "So which groups are we negotiating with? All of them?"
The 3200 pound vehicle rolls onward to the tent. Evan catches it fine- he can step inside even- though he is reaching his top speed as the car gains.
The squire loses faith as he watches the pink cabin run away. Perhaps there is some joy as he says, "It's going faster than I have ever seen it." But mostly, far, far moreso, there is shame.
As Evan reaches it, he grabs at the back, near the trunk - trying to dig his heels on and pulling in order to slow it down. He's not stronger than gravity or the car, probably. Who knows, maybe he is?""
"Knight Baegni," Malcolm repeats a name toward Lark, starting to jaunt after the car with a delay -- a delay hampered further by the fact that he's hauling more heavy gear with himself, now, shifting the strap of the rifle over his shoulder as he catches up to the vehicle. But he still does, likely, alongside Evan in short order to haul against the bumper. Or maybe rip it off, who knows.
Evan's shoes angrily scuffing against the dirt and roots, the prius pops a wheel abruptly as it comes across a curb of wooden fortification that stabilizes the tent in front of it. Malcolm, can perhaps, come along for the ride- though everyone is smashing their head into the trunk as the car goes from a mean 18mph to a pained 8. And then, it crashes in like an unlubricated ****- sinking into the tent and ripping out the pitons keeping it secure. A few cheers atop from the great beyond, and the lights go out for Cadence as the tarp seals off light from the ending evening and lays her in darkness.
Cadence holds her hand out limply at the wrist -- damsel in distress mode, dark hair, red ribbon fluttering with the wind. She watches Evan try and put a stop to the cabin and be the hero of the day with the reserved calmness of the family pet. "You can do it, Evan. I believe in you," she encourages, pumping a fist. The bump jolts her, then the tarp engulfs her in darkness. She didn't have seatbelt on, so that was a bump that's gonna rattle her. She's dazed when she emerges from the tarp.
"Oh fuck," Lark moves over towards Cadence. "Are you okay?? How many fingers am I holding up?!" She holds up three at Cadence, waving her hand frantically in front of Cadence's face.
sees double for some. "Six," Cadence says, waving everyone off. The world might be spinning, but she's fine for the most part. "I've always wanted tobe rescued from the jaws of death anyway." She's probably genuine in that sentmiment.
Promptly, as much as Cadence might rattle around on the inside of the car, Malcolm eats shit on the outside. The guy's scrabbling pull turns into a lurch forward of his own and his temple goes straight into the top of the trunk, sputtering out a disemvoweled, "Mthrfckr."
The lack of screams means that if someone was in this tent, they either died quickly or were naught at all here. There is a loose, fairly unalarmed gathering of Wildlings approaching- albeit with weapons. The sounds of engines are coming to a bust- like the many littered around. There are perhaps seven additional stolen vehicles waylaid across the grounds, and too many metal gizmos to count. They are left like trash, and probably hold up just as well. When eight men and women have gathered, unarmored, one approaches the group with the familiarity of addressing aliens. "Under what banner are you?"
As Lark did the act of making sure Cadence was secure, Evan exhales - chest rising and falling slightly in a slow heave - coming up from the fact his head was just smashed into the trunk with.. some spring in his step, surprisingly enough. He could just be a bit more sturdy or he's pretending he doesn't have a concussion. As people gather, Evan looks wary, head cocking at the unknown language.
It's when Malcolm straightens back up, rubbing his jaw and cheek, that he notes that approaching retinue and straightens. The weaponry on his back isn't reached for, but he does look back toward Dahvidd briefly, considered -- aaaand he's gone. Then back to this armed party. "The Knights of Nar," the older fellow of the party barks back. It's not particularly rude, just a gutteral language itself.
Cadence's not as steady on her feet she'd have liked everyone to believe. She finds Lark to lean against and stick to her like a magnetin that way for the short while she needs to find her equilibrium. Unfortunate that while they might be fretting over her, Squire Dahvidd makes his escape off in the horizon. "I don't know what he's saying," she complains to Lark, nodding over at Malcolm.
Lark squints at Cadence. "Okay wrong number, but maybe you're just bad at math?" She decides. "Can you sit up?" she asks, trying to be helpful, allowing whatever leaning needs to happen. "Yeah, I don't either," she says.
"Under what banner-" A woman repeats from the side, shouting helpfully. A few of them make eye contact with something running with a marching gait from just around the corner.
But the one closest, a man more hair and beard than skin, dressed with a red apron with a sushi-critter smiling on its front. Thrifted, no doubt. "A knight?" He asks, squinting dubiously. A figure pushes him aside, the one with the chewbacka costume, axe held and not entirely prepared for the motley group that he finds. "Are they attack?" He turns to the bearded man, whom shakes his head. The axe is lowered.
"What. Are. You. Doing?"
Evan makes his way next to Lark and nods, at both her and Cadence, his posture a slightly tensed one. "I don't either," he says in agreement. Rule of thirds! It's like the three stooges back here.
Malcolm looks back to the car, quickly taking inventory of his own retinue. All accounted for, nobody seriously injured. Just a tent that's been obliterated and a Prius that isn't doing much better, and a trio of chucklefucks along for the ride. A Nar-bershop quartet, including him, as he looks back to the Wildlings.
"On behalf of Kingdom of Nar, we seek Knight Baegni on his coming of age." One arm sweeps back toward Lark and Cadence and Evan. "An audience -- joust? -- diplomacy. To realign with Nar, and to stop the metal carriage incursions."
Chucklefuck number one loud whispers to Malcolm. "What are they saying??" Lark raises an eyebrow, looking up from her care of Cadence.
Stage-whispering aside, Malcolm informs Lark and the others, "They want to know who we are and what we're doing. Reasonably."
Cadence's confounded by the tongue that sounds like gibberish to her. To show some of her discontent with that, she makes a yapping motion with her hand. That's the best that Lark's going to get from her for a translation. She's at least steady enough on her feet she doesn't need to rely on Lark.
Lark nods back to Malcolm. "You're up to bat then, Dad!" she quips. She tries not to laugh at Cadence's hand puppeting.
Chewbacca straightens with a squint, beginning to hold his axe in a ceremonial manner. "Okay." His stupid stare lingers forward and behind all of that fake pelt- cheap and slowly being ripped by the elements, one can wonder if the drools. Thankfully, apron-man beckons. "I forage for these errant. Baegni the younger can be found wasting away atop his metal." With something like a bow, colloquial and a whole lotta fingers, Apron-man speaks servial to the knight and mumbles, "Please knight. I will take them."
The knight ascents to something by walking away. "Come with me," apron-man beckons.
"Your whispers concern me greatly." He adds as he begins to walk away.
This would make Evan Chucklefuck number three, and he isn't nearly as good at containing his laughter as Lark is, because he lets out a loud laugh, before quickly covering his mouth - stepping behind Lark like he isn't here at all, although unfortunately for him he's taller than her.
Evan's laugh gets strange looks and laughing echoes alike. Attractiveness perks.
Askance to the squad, Malcolm curls an arm beckoningly, abandoning the once-Prius to its ignoble death by pothole and tent. "C'mon, we're going to Knight Baegni to convince him to stop this shit," he conspires at a normal volume with his group. And he splits that with the chattery, harsh bark of Wildling toward the chattery, harsh Wildling that leads them, in the apron.
Lark gasps, looking around. "They like you!" She hisses at Evan. She glances to Malcolm. "Maybe we can tell them Evan is someone, uh, famous! Maybe we'll get better treatment or respect!" She gets up and trots after Malcolm.
Cadence digs out another cigarette from her sweater, pressing it between her lips before sticking it in her pockets. She still doesn't have a lighter to abet her nicotine fix, but powers on. "He can be our chosen jousting champion," she wagers, trailing after the gang.
"Offworlders," Malcolm speaks with some distaste toward the apron-man, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. "You'll have to excuse them. They don't know how to talk like folk. They only know metal carriage, storm-shaman their seer-stones, eat hot raptor, and lie." Something like that.
"Of course they do," Evan tells Lark with a grin. "Who doesn't like me? I'm super duper charming." Almost out of instinct, Evan rummages in his pocket, pulling out a comb and running it through his hair with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and then finally he's walking along with Malcolm.
Moving through the camp, the group is a gawkable moment, but most are all gawked out. The spirits are somewhere in the 'restless' category- the sort one might have if someone blared engine noises all week at increments where they tried to sleep. Ultimately, this camp has too high a population and not enough tools to keep out the forests. Some are sick, many here are natural. As with all Knights, they are the higher class- and they alone seem to be in marching spirits.
"Knight Baegni is a complicated boy, Havenite." 'Havenite,' though butchered, is an easy loan-word in that. "Yes. Well, your metal carriage- steed; is on another's knight's bed so it is his now- butchered have you his coming peace of naptime- the ugly thing should appease him if it makes loud noises." The sourness in apron man is feral at the end, and as people eventually grow tired of stalking at the heels and move back to work trying to survive, the land opens to the field where some remainder of knights still lay- including, one coated and cool chevy-sitting weirdo.
"Chevrolet," Cadence points out, spelling the name of the car brand in the air with her cigarette. "I wanna get me a Camaro when I get my bonus," she outlines her wishes aloud, eyeing the knight and his cool ride with some approval. The colour might not be the real deal.
The man in the cheap animal duster flicks down his John Lennon glasses. His posture is already straight- as if he mediated on the roof- though he manspreads both legs off the side. "Good to meet you." He greets, though his tone is gruff. Better words, from that voice, might be 'What am I doing to do to you?'
"Let's hope you get what you want," Lark tells Cadence as she marches alongside the others. Lark brightens up as someone finally speaks English! Though that brightness turns into a bit of confusion as she looks him up and down. "Hello," she says in reply. Can't go wrong with that.
"The steed is his," Malcolm permits 'graciously' as he wanders along behind the apron-man, and along with Lark and Evan and Cadence behind. The approach to the Chevy fellow has him calling up: "Knight Baengi? Hail, from Nar." And he, too, drops into the more familiar and shared tongue. Just needed the formalities out of the way.
"Congratulations on your coming of age, and the spoil-ceremony," Malcolm gestures toward the collection of parts, engines, and cobbled-together car-carriages. "Y'all sound like you got some engine troubles."
Just marches along behind Malcolm, eying everything in the camp with a mild interest, but also a mild threat. It's not judgy, just wary, and Evan agrees with Cadence and Lark. "What kind of Camaro?" Evan asks her casually, stopping in his march to move in line with the two. Then finally, he greets the other English speaking man with a nod and wave.
"One of the older types. Retro," Cadence says smoothly, picturing it in her head, ready to get lost in her daydreams. She snaps to attention before bumping into Malcolm from behind. "Maybe a 1990."
"Great Knight Baegni." Apron-man says, bowing with one arm to the chest and genuflecting in a peasant manner. It gives him a huff, and he introduces the group with a, "Their pink steed as struck Knight Rogolf's quarters." A wave is given, the peasant looks up to meet eye contact just once, then he huffs off.
"He-llo." He repeats to Lark, as if sounding out the words. It might be crude or lascivious if he looked longer. "I am great years old." He nods to Malcolm slowly. Two moped knights slowly walk up their vehicles and stand at either side. "We are.. Not in trouble. No troubles. G-good sounds. I like.. that we do not have troubles."
Lark nods slowly, skeptically. "Oh good, no trouble is good. Good." She squints, a little.
As his control of the language staggers, the nonetheless remains immaculately confident. "Why. Did you do that?" He asks to each of them, furrowing. "If you are bringing troubles on my good years old. I kill you." It seems like he expects this comment to come with an drawing of swords from his knights, but they do not. It doesn't seem like they speak English.
"That sounds nice," Evan tells Cadence with a smile. "Always gotta know what you want!" It's a short little conversation before Evan's attention is back on the man, and he's once again agreeing with Lark. It's like the share the same braincell, but Lark usually is the holder of it.
Malcolm totters forward at that, then straightens back up. Someone was gonna bump into him. He almost expected it, and rocks forward before it's back to his heels. A glance aside, and behind, and then back to the duster-clad gentleman. "That's mighty queer, 'cause it sounds an awful lot like your engines're grindin' to a halt. Y'all must be oiling them nonstop to keep 'em from jammin' up."
There's another beat to look to the moped guys, and back to the casually threatening Knight. "Didn't bring no trouble. I bring fixes. I'm -also- several great years old." Malcolm is a mirrorer by nature, and that includes language. The vocabulary leaves a lot to be desired, and he gestures to the vehicles. "Have experience with these. We celebrate. Joust? Maybe talk fixes."
"And we brought gift. Knight Rogolfs, since it hit his quarter -- but yours." Malcolm gestures over his shoulder, off to the piece of shit pink Prius 'giftwrapped' in the poor fellows former home.
"Do what now?" Cadence asks, holding her hands up disarmingly, nice and slow. "We come in peace," she says as the Martians do on landing. As by way of apology, she wipes patches of dust and dirt off the back of his shirt he earned with his tussle with a pink Prius. She lets everyone else do most of the talking, she's sort of here just to get an idea of the Wildling activity and write a nice fat report for the Hand and earn that sweet cash bonus for her efforts.
Lark nod-nods after Malcolm, deciding that shutting up is probably the best. Besides, she's not several great years old.
"Hmmm.." Brows squint behind his lenses and he points repeatedly to at Malcolm. "Wrong house. I..." He pauses with a heavy sigh, "Will not kill you right now. But I am sad later. Great- great-" He slaps the hood of his car indication, waking up the moped knights. "Peace!" He snarls to Cadence, posture breaking into a no-good slouch, "No! No peace. More.."
Nope, Evan is also not great years old so he shuts up as well.
A moped knight sneezes, bringing a grumble from the man overhead. A second sneeze and he gets a little kick in the back of the helm.
Moped knight will remember that.
For a few long moments, Malcolm studies the gentleman back, watching, waiting. Perhaps processing his words a little deeper than the others, or something. "We joust for you, then," he offers, gesturing toward Lark and Cadence and especially, perhaps, Evan, with an upturned palm. "Bring your day honor. And we talk fixes, find you things to return with. Spoils." A gesture to the mopeds. "That aren't spoiled."
smacking his lips for words, Baegni deigns to smile at Malcolm's words. "Joust!" The word almost carries lust. "Yes! You will bring.. metal- I will bring metal. We will.. Go World where spoils not-spoil. Fix honor, hmm, yes. We will joust." He makes crossing swords sound effects as he mimes the same. With a gutteral bark, he shouts out to the camp.
"SCRIBE! HERE ME! WE WILL FIND MEASURE ONCE AGAIN IN EARTH!" He leans in, holding up a finger to Malcolm, "What are the terms? When."
"I'll joust," Evan chimes says to Malcolm now, stepping forward a bit.
Lark claps encouragingly for Evan. "Yes! Evan can joust!"
"Let Evan joust," Cadence encourages, careful with her words. She's learned that this is the adults are talking phase.
The man straightens with a grin that betrays that he is, perhaps, somewhat young- as the language barrier is broken in two, his single desire spoken. "We all joust! Haha!"
There's a nod toward Baegni, and Malcolm turns toward his retinue at their steps forward. "When?" he wonders of them all, but particularly Evan. "Do we have the time to do this now, or do we schedule somethin' out in the woods outside'a town?" A gesture to the camp around them. "'cause the cars ain't gonna work here."
"Evan will joust." He confirms. "Scribes talk."
"Good," Malcolm decides, with a succinct bob of his head.
[Will probably set the plot to a sequel, starting at the day of the joust so everyone comes in with the energy.]
Evan continues to let the adults talk, and in this case it's the Dad of the group, Malcolm. Evan has done his part, he's volunteered to be the the third chucklefuck into the fray, which in turn promotes him to Chucklefuck number 1. Sorry Lark, you've been demoted.
Lark, now demoted to Chucklefuck number three, is still very proud of Evan, clapping him on the back while letting the adults speak.
"SCRIBE!" SRSiofra shouts again, wheeling a finger in a beckoning circle. "GO WITH AND SPEAK!" As he ushers, his voice was apparently already heard. An old man, ancient and hunched, stalks out slowly from the debris of engines holding a sheet of paper with no spine to take notes in.
"He go with you." He points to the scribe, and then Malcolm.
Malcolm joins his geriatric compatriot, nodding, to hammer out details.
The group's journey was marked by the quirky and the curious. They traversed through a forest, following a triceratops pulling tires, and encountered a camp where modern-day knights joust with rusted vehicles instead of horses. Their audience with Knight Baegni was unconventional, to say the least. The knight, young and eager for recognition, mistook their arrival—an accident involving their Prius crash-landing into a tent belonging to another knight—as a challenge and an offering of peace.
Cadence, an intern looking to impress her superiors, notably struggled to understand the dealings of this new world but played along, hoping for a reward in the form of a car. Lark and Evan, meanwhile, navigated the encounters with a mixture of bewilderment and eagerness, particularly when Evan volunteered to joust in the name of diplomacy and personal bravado.
Malcolm, the de-facto leader and the most experienced among them, negotiated with Knight Baegni. He proposed a joust as a means to honor their host and potentially secure a diplomatic agreement. Despite the language barrier and the clear cultural differences, both parties agreed to the terms of a joust—though Baegni enthusiastically declared that everyone should partake.
As they prepared for the joust, the group's dynamics played out with humor and moments of camaraderie. Despite their ambiguous standing and the clear dangers of this foreign land, they found common ground with the locals through the universal language of competition and valor.
The story concludes with the team and a appointed scribe from the camp, tasked to record the forthcoming events, setting off to organize the joust. The promise of a sequel plot brews with anticipation as they look to the challenge ahead, hopeful to bridge the cultural gap with their "metal steeds" and perhaps, in the process, prevent further conflict.
(Beyond the Thrift!(SRSiofra):SRSiofra)
[Sun Apr 20 2025]
On On Karlash Road (W)
A rough-cut dirt road has been hewn through the forest here, from east to west by locals. Roots press in on the edges as if eager to reclaim the space, and eyes gleam in the shadows of the surrounding forests as if waiting for any sign of weakness from would-be travelers.
Tire tracks and the debris of littered motor carriages wrecked of their guts or struck upon trees make up the path. Beyond the short, narrow strip, a ruckus of chants cries out from a foraged and cleared pit set on a lower elevation to the north.
It is after dusk, about 62F(16C) degrees, There is a waning crescent moon.
Evan totally paths along with Lark, taking the knife from her with a smile. "Thank you," Evan tells Lark with a grin.
Lark nods at Evan and waves to Malcolm.
Malcolm is, as always, fashionably late. Despite having a door that leads straight here. Somehow.
Lark starts doing jumping jacks.
Without further ado!
The briefing complete, today's bonanza sits at the end of the Gate on Karlash- just inside the Wilds.
Squire Dahvidd; a man dressed in sewer-stained leathers with a jaw that is not so much as chiseled as the anvil by which one hammers; underbite, with skin that shrinks in hunger. A coif that has seen battles with foliage and dirt sits atop his head, covering his hair. He looms over a bright pink Prius. Awaits the group with his palms faced down- resting on an invisible pommel. around him are the littered corpses of cars; their transmission guts left to muddy the floor, the scent of their flammable black ichor and grease resolved to stain the overgrown space. He waves first to a triceratops pulling what appears to be twenty or so tires on a wooden sled up the road. He has an expression that suggests he might have waved to every person that crosses his space, and an uncertainty that might resolve to give up after the next few tries. He, according to the briefing of the HSD, will be today's translater and guide.
This trail of vehicle tears past him, continues for a quarter mile where growing activity lingers over the not so distant horizon.
"Excuse me." He greets in a tone that attempts severity, looking past the group as a conversational escape in case things don't go well.
Lark stops doing jumping jacks, standing to attention next to Malcolm and Evan as she eyes the pink Pruis, and then looks towards the triceratops sled.
Evan sniffs the air, and lets out a sound of annoyance. The scent of ichor and grease filling his sensitive nostrils with.. well, the scent of something disgusting. Though, his eyes now scan towards the sled being pulled - noting it with a look of curious amusement, nudging Lark with an elbow as it moves on by - it seems he's got an idea brewing.
Unhurriedly and with a hair of wariness, as he is wont to do, Malcolm makes his way with the group toward this Dahvidd fellow. Seems the sort. "Not bad English," he reckons toward the presumably Wildling and his auto parts. "We're what's been sent." And a nod, past him, toward the sled.
The squire's greeting assumes that- given the lack of verbal riposte from Lark or Evan at first, has him sticking his hands back onto his invisible pommel and standing motionless by his Prius. The sound of cicadas, invasive from the Gate or natural, are crickets.
So when Malcolm addresses him, a quick point of posturing is in order. He holds his cement chin high and smiles back like a brick. "Thank you. I have practiced for this moment for a very long time."
"I see. We are going up the road. Knight Baegni's errant party for his coming of age return is currently amidst sorting bounty. The guards who call little lightning-" He points to Malcolm like the grim reaper, specifically his badge, "Have told them that you are.. Diplomats of great martial esteem."
Lark grins at the squire, hovering behind Malcolm. "Yes! That's what we are!" A nod. A second nod. She nods at Evan, to get him to nod along, also.
Evan nods along in turn!
It's not relief, but the man nods and opens all of the doors to his Prius. "The creature of this shell is quiet and lovely." He claims, gauntlets scratching the paints on the door handle. "It may lead us up the road in windblown comfort. May I ask how you intend to parley? I would submit this steed for joust, if you have no steed of your own."
Malcolm doesn't happen to be dressed for warfare, or with his badge visible, but he fixes that in short order. Besides, the rifle and armor are packed up a short jaunt away, if he needs them. A nod to mirror both Lark and Evan, and he echoes, "That we are." A look across toward the trail, then to the Prius. "I got a steed, too. I can get Lucky."
Evan might not have fully read a specific briefing but he's hovering just behind Malcolm, next to Lark and letting Malcolm take over the discussions and the conversating.
A little late to the party has made little difference. A man, presumably Squire Dahvidd if the briefing is to be correct, has four open doors to a pink prius in a graveyard of vehicular corpses; engines, transmissions, other parts of the scar- ah, radiators, those. There looks to be a stand off of sorts, the verbal kind, with the Squire clearing his throat, and then beginning to step into the driver's seat.
Cadence arrives by train, plane, automobile, space ship or rocket surgery as a representative of the Hand. An intern at that, looking to make her shine on the world. She's got a cigarette balanced between her fingers. She sweeps her gaze upon those assembled, offering them all a nod in acknowledgment whether she knows them or not.
The squire's car; three seats, four with the backseat threesome, five if you count the trunk, perhaps look sheepish at the number of people introduced. He offers, as the woman steps out of the Gate. "Ah. She is present with you? Please." He crumbles, "Someone say something I feel as if I have gone mad."
Lark clears her throat. "I would like to ride in your pink Pruis-ahem, steed!" she chimes in, ducking into the car. She rolls down the window (or power windows it, if that works) and sticks her head out towards the new individual entering, giving a polite wave. "Hello!" She gives Evan and Malcolm a look, a questioning one to see if either of them recognize the dark-haired woman.
"At the behest of President Phisher," Cadence brings context to light, nodding along, stepping over to the motley crew, checking them out with an appraising eye. She's holding that cigarette out and it looks like it needs to be lit. "G'day, mates," she says in her best Aussie impression.
"Ah, Nancy," Evan waves to her. "Yeah, I know her," Evan replies, vouching for the woman. "She's who she says she is.." Evan shrugs and moves. "I guess I'll um, take the middle seat," Evan says glancing at the Prius. "I have a feeling that's where I'm gonna get relegated to anyway, so I'll just suffer and decide on taking it now instead of playing musical chairs."
"President Fisher." The squire repeats as he clicks the button to an unimpressive whine of its electric engine. The man does not have a license, and his shape- like a wrestler but more square, is ill suited to the driver's seat. "Here. I will approach." The car abruptly bucks as he presses the pedal town too far, approaching the party and towards the Gate from the reverse.
"Hi, I'm Laaaa-aark!" Lark realizes that she needs to totally buckle this seatbelt as she jostles in the Prius. "Gentle, gentle on the foot my good man!" she yells out to the squire!
Malcolm settles into the shotgun seat of the Prius, instead, letting Dahvidd drive. Unfortunately. For a moment, he's dealing with something-or-other on his phone, despite not having a great connection out here. Old habits, perhaps. Old person habits, perhaps moreso. But nonetheless, when he looks back up at the rocking of the whip, he gives a small nod toward Cadence and a little wave of a hand, after a once-over. "Sounds right to me. Phisher's an ally."
"Hello. Laaaa-aark," Cadence enunciates and elongates the name as was proffered to her. She wants shotgun, but doesn't seem to be able to get to it because of someone and scrambles for a seat somewhere at the farthest back that isn't the trunk. She snoozed and she lost. "I forgot my briefing," she admits, holding up an empty manila folder for her efforts.
"Hello. Laaaa-aark," Cadence enunciates and elongates the name as was proffered to her. She wants shotgun, but doesn't seem to be able to get to it because of Malcolm and scrambles for a seat somewhere at the farthest back that isn't the trunk. She snoozed and she lost. "I forgot my briefing," she admits, holding up an empty manila folder for her efforts. "Pleased to meet you all."
The good news about the drive is that this metal (If breezy) coffin of pink cannot possibly kill everyone. There's not enough speed for it. Taking the road at a fine 10 MPH (or like 20,000 kph, that sounds about right) results in only the most catastrophic bumps on this near pre-historic road. Conversations with this taxi start with, "So-" and end with, "So." The deep lumps of the triceratops that they follow in the wake of up the road, absolutely ruining road quality. There are also, to be said, the growing sounds of roars in the distance.
Something awful and mad explodes somewhere in the back right of the vehicle as the road evens out ever so slightly for conversation. "I do not know if my steed will suffice for your joust. You cannot... Procure one, champion diplomats as you all are?"
As Evan is squished into the middle seat between Lark and Cadence he doesn't make much complaint really, just eying the outside and being here along for the slow, slow ride that is the Pink Prius caravan.
"Can you give us any more details, and maybe recap the briefing for those of us who... didn't bring it with us?" Lark asks the squire, wincing as the pruis tries to round over one of those bumps on the road. "Malcolm said he has a horse. Lucky. Do we need one for each of us?"
Buckling up for danger, and thankfully so when the ride appears to be more offroad than on, and with heavy divots, Malcolm rattles along in the passenger seat. When the question is proffered, he repeats more flatly, more evened out as the road becomes so, "... I have a steed. I can get Lucky."
Cadence leans forward, craning her neck past the seating in front of her someone, and Evan. "How much horsepower does this bad bitch have?" she asks to idle away the time.
Cadence leans forward, craning her neck past the seating in front of her Lark, and Evan. "How much horsepower does this bad bitch have?" she asks to idle away the time.
"I don't think Horse is around here," Evan tells Lark with a frown. "I can't actually remember where he is.."
His mind, it buffers. In short order, he addresses each like bullet points.
"I will give you details last." He starts, mostly talking to himself. "A horse would be fine, but you are of a place of these steel creatures? I admit that there are better procured than the one I am possessed of." Only now, have they passed the Moonguard inn on their left. "The power of this horse, Knight of a fisher, is... Underwhelming. I shame you, I am sorry."
"It helps if I know what I need it for," Malcolm prods to the driver.
Lark shakes her head at Evan. "Probably at the stable, duh."
"I am told that we were not wanted. Indeed, I was hunted in the great maze of waters and sewage that exists below The Haven. I am told peace is requested, and that my understanding of my people will assist in finding peace." SRSiofra explains, clearing his throat. "Peace is settled by various means. By luxury, by power, perhaps by holding close to spirits and cursing another to do one's bidding. They will be jousting when we are upon them, eager to test these metal steeds."
Evan blinks and sits up, "Wait, like actual jousting?" Evan asks. "Like on horses and shit? Except, car jousting? Holy shit, this sounds fucking epic."
"I'm surprised this motherfucker's held together this long. Complex mechanical shit tends to just fall apart offworld. 's'why we can't drive out here, really," Malcolm informs Evan over a shoulder, and Dahvidd, too. Not that the Prius is working all that well to begin with. "I'd bring my bike, but I'd reckon that shit'd mysteriously fall apart by the time I got out here."
WhrrrrrrRRRR...huhhrghh...pleh.
This mighty sad exclamation occurs in the engine as they leave the most immediate boundaries of the Gate, and the bumping stops- as does the car. He nonetheless calmly explains as he opens the car door and gets out, "Yes. They have made use of the vehicles as carriages. They scream loudly even if they do not move well." He rounds the back of the car and, with a *HUFF* begins to push the car sloooowwwlly down the road, panting with exertion.
Clearly, Malcolm just had to jinx it. There's a chuff of breath, a hang of his head, and he lolls out of the passenger seat, too, to wander back and help heave the thing along too. At least Cadence has her opportunity for shotgun now.
Lark jumps out to help Dahvidd and Malcolm with the car pushing. "So do they joust with weapons out here?"
"Mad Max headass shit," Malcolm claims, shoulder against the back of the car.
Evan also jumps out of the car, and with probably Lark and Evan this job is already going to be a lot easier in fact. "WITNESS ME!!" Evan shouts of the blue, and there's nothing even starting yet.
Cadence digs through her sweater and purse, finding all sorts of things to toss out the window: empty candy wrappers, a pink tube of lip balm, a quarter, and pieces of lint. The vehicle breaks down but she's still going at it. The last thing to go is a spare change of underwear, red and glorious, tossed out the passenger window and being sent to fly off on its own voyage through aloft the breeze. "Should I be writing all of this down?" she asks, flinching at the shouting. She scrambles for her handgun and pops a shot off into the air.
The destination is closer than thought, and perhaps still further than one hoped. Over the journey of about thirty minutes, Dahvidd answers in labored breaths; "Weapons. Teeth. Magic. Sometimes firearms. I'm illterate. I don't know."
Evan's assistance makes this god awful drag speed from a half hour to a half-half hour.
You hear them, the sounds of engines, alternating like war horns. Rumbling the canopy of trees and silencing the brittle life of insects and birds, they come. Cresting the ridge up a torturous incline, a camp is found. There are perhaps fifty to one-hundred and fifty in this gathering. It seems like a casual camp set on an elevated ground near what might be the sound of running water, until that horrible cacophany of noises comes. Until, that sight.
The first, a yellow and grey moped of separate models, rusted. Atop them are two stoic figures dressed in long sleeve tie dyes with kneepads and iron helms.
The last, in a fashion that drives directly through the center of their pit, is an ominous van with the top split open by hammers. The driver hunches out of its cockpit holding the reigns attached to a large, fleshformed mammoth with nine tusks, wearing an 80s visor and a Chubacca halloween costume while a man and a woman hold a tiny statuette of some colonial man on a horse between them, dressed in matching suit-ties that theyve wrapped as bandannas, and several layers of buttoned flannels and dress shirts.
In the middle, most presented, currently rousing with a pumping arm for people to restart the engines- several individuals of modern garment actively getting into the pits of each engine on little scaffolding, lounges a man in a cheep animal duster and red John-Lennon sunglasses, worn upside down, atop the roof of an old Chevy. A shitty Chevy raised with hydraulics two feet up. They do not care for the cold, they never did. To see emotion on their faces would be to imagine weakness. They are so, so stoic.
Four person-power engine from the rear, and a half and maybe more given the active divinity running through some blood, crests the hill with momentum to go- running the single occupant of the vehicle down the hill of elevation and towards the gathering.
Lark stares. "Hooooly fuck. How... do we get one of -those-?! She points to the fleshformed mammoth with nine tusks, her jaw wide open."
"Hmm. Well, in a joust, one does not often attack the mount- nor is the mount to attack the rider." He explains, though more puffy than that line gives credit. He glares at one of the figures down below. A few take notice in this camp of the arrivals, doing menacing things like cutting wood with knives and, like, pumping shotguns- though also itching their chins with the barrels.
Evan glances up in mild awe, matching Lark in that way. "Woah," Evan says, "That's like the fucking Oliphant from Lord of the Rings!"
Cadence sits placidly in her seat, handson her lap pretending everything she's seeing is something none too special. Inwardly, she's probably as excited as her pals.
Cadence lurches forward as the car begins to coast downhill, steadily approaching a tent as the car, keys still in ignition and neutral activated, buggies onward from those behind it.
Without* those behind it.
Cadence hits her head into the seating in front of her with that lurch, grimacing at the impact.
"Nothing without cost," Malcolm reminds Lark a little grimly as he helps to shove the car along. The bundle of his belongings is fetched from the trunk, including, notably, an M110A1 Marksman rifle with a number of attachments. Scope. Suppressor. Undermount grenade launcher. You know, normal cop rifle stuff. "Still ain't gonna feel great if it gets ornery."
The guy's eyes wander the gamut of folks in the camp as they approach. "Least I'll have an easier time parsing them than some of y'all." The car starts to slip away from him, and off it goes. Runaway. With Cadence inside. And he's too busy being a lookie-loo to do too damn much about that, not even really noticing until it's several yards away.
Cadence peeks out the passenger door window, watching everyone get further and further away. She's like the family pet everyone forgot was in the car. Oh no.
"Shit!" Evan calls after the car - taking off in a sprint as he tries to catch up to it. It might not be going that fast, but gravity is probably going to beat out Evan in the long run.
Lark nods at Malcolm, snatching up her bag, most notably with a longbow in it, a quiver of arrows already starpped to her back. "So which groups are we negotiating with? All of them?"
The 3200 pound vehicle rolls onward to the tent. Evan catches it fine- he can step inside even- though he is reaching his top speed as the car gains.
The squire loses faith as he watches the pink cabin run away. Perhaps there is some joy as he says, "It's going faster than I have ever seen it." But mostly, far, far moreso, there is shame.
As Evan reaches it, he grabs at the back, near the trunk - trying to dig his heels on and pulling in order to slow it down. He's not stronger than gravity or the car, probably. Who knows, maybe he is?""
"Knight Baegni," Malcolm repeats a name toward Lark, starting to jaunt after the car with a delay -- a delay hampered further by the fact that he's hauling more heavy gear with himself, now, shifting the strap of the rifle over his shoulder as he catches up to the vehicle. But he still does, likely, alongside Evan in short order to haul against the bumper. Or maybe rip it off, who knows.
Evan's shoes angrily scuffing against the dirt and roots, the prius pops a wheel abruptly as it comes across a curb of wooden fortification that stabilizes the tent in front of it. Malcolm, can perhaps, come along for the ride- though everyone is smashing their head into the trunk as the car goes from a mean 18mph to a pained 8. And then, it crashes in like an unlubricated ****- sinking into the tent and ripping out the pitons keeping it secure. A few cheers atop from the great beyond, and the lights go out for Cadence as the tarp seals off light from the ending evening and lays her in darkness.
Cadence holds her hand out limply at the wrist -- damsel in distress mode, dark hair, red ribbon fluttering with the wind. She watches Evan try and put a stop to the cabin and be the hero of the day with the reserved calmness of the family pet. "You can do it, Evan. I believe in you," she encourages, pumping a fist. The bump jolts her, then the tarp engulfs her in darkness. She didn't have seatbelt on, so that was a bump that's gonna rattle her. She's dazed when she emerges from the tarp.
"Oh fuck," Lark moves over towards Cadence. "Are you okay?? How many fingers am I holding up?!" She holds up three at Cadence, waving her hand frantically in front of Cadence's face.
sees double for some. "Six," Cadence says, waving everyone off. The world might be spinning, but she's fine for the most part. "I've always wanted tobe rescued from the jaws of death anyway." She's probably genuine in that sentmiment.
Promptly, as much as Cadence might rattle around on the inside of the car, Malcolm eats shit on the outside. The guy's scrabbling pull turns into a lurch forward of his own and his temple goes straight into the top of the trunk, sputtering out a disemvoweled, "Mthrfckr."
The lack of screams means that if someone was in this tent, they either died quickly or were naught at all here. There is a loose, fairly unalarmed gathering of Wildlings approaching- albeit with weapons. The sounds of engines are coming to a bust- like the many littered around. There are perhaps seven additional stolen vehicles waylaid across the grounds, and too many metal gizmos to count. They are left like trash, and probably hold up just as well. When eight men and women have gathered, unarmored, one approaches the group with the familiarity of addressing aliens. "Under what banner are you?"
As Lark did the act of making sure Cadence was secure, Evan exhales - chest rising and falling slightly in a slow heave - coming up from the fact his head was just smashed into the trunk with.. some spring in his step, surprisingly enough. He could just be a bit more sturdy or he's pretending he doesn't have a concussion. As people gather, Evan looks wary, head cocking at the unknown language.
It's when Malcolm straightens back up, rubbing his jaw and cheek, that he notes that approaching retinue and straightens. The weaponry on his back isn't reached for, but he does look back toward Dahvidd briefly, considered -- aaaand he's gone. Then back to this armed party. "The Knights of Nar," the older fellow of the party barks back. It's not particularly rude, just a gutteral language itself.
Cadence's not as steady on her feet she'd have liked everyone to believe. She finds Lark to lean against and stick to her like a magnetin that way for the short while she needs to find her equilibrium. Unfortunate that while they might be fretting over her, Squire Dahvidd makes his escape off in the horizon. "I don't know what he's saying," she complains to Lark, nodding over at Malcolm.
Lark squints at Cadence. "Okay wrong number, but maybe you're just bad at math?" She decides. "Can you sit up?" she asks, trying to be helpful, allowing whatever leaning needs to happen. "Yeah, I don't either," she says.
"Under what banner-" A woman repeats from the side, shouting helpfully. A few of them make eye contact with something running with a marching gait from just around the corner.
But the one closest, a man more hair and beard than skin, dressed with a red apron with a sushi-critter smiling on its front. Thrifted, no doubt. "A knight?" He asks, squinting dubiously. A figure pushes him aside, the one with the chewbacka costume, axe held and not entirely prepared for the motley group that he finds. "Are they attack?" He turns to the bearded man, whom shakes his head. The axe is lowered.
"What. Are. You. Doing?"
Evan makes his way next to Lark and nods, at both her and Cadence, his posture a slightly tensed one. "I don't either," he says in agreement. Rule of thirds! It's like the three stooges back here.
Malcolm looks back to the car, quickly taking inventory of his own retinue. All accounted for, nobody seriously injured. Just a tent that's been obliterated and a Prius that isn't doing much better, and a trio of chucklefucks along for the ride. A Nar-bershop quartet, including him, as he looks back to the Wildlings.
"On behalf of Kingdom of Nar, we seek Knight Baegni on his coming of age." One arm sweeps back toward Lark and Cadence and Evan. "An audience -- joust? -- diplomacy. To realign with Nar, and to stop the metal carriage incursions."
Chucklefuck number one loud whispers to Malcolm. "What are they saying??" Lark raises an eyebrow, looking up from her care of Cadence.
Stage-whispering aside, Malcolm informs Lark and the others, "They want to know who we are and what we're doing. Reasonably."
Cadence's confounded by the tongue that sounds like gibberish to her. To show some of her discontent with that, she makes a yapping motion with her hand. That's the best that Lark's going to get from her for a translation. She's at least steady enough on her feet she doesn't need to rely on Lark.
Lark nods back to Malcolm. "You're up to bat then, Dad!" she quips. She tries not to laugh at Cadence's hand puppeting.
Chewbacca straightens with a squint, beginning to hold his axe in a ceremonial manner. "Okay." His stupid stare lingers forward and behind all of that fake pelt- cheap and slowly being ripped by the elements, one can wonder if the drools. Thankfully, apron-man beckons. "I forage for these errant. Baegni the younger can be found wasting away atop his metal." With something like a bow, colloquial and a whole lotta fingers, Apron-man speaks servial to the knight and mumbles, "Please knight. I will take them."
The knight ascents to something by walking away. "Come with me," apron-man beckons.
"Your whispers concern me greatly." He adds as he begins to walk away.
This would make Evan Chucklefuck number three, and he isn't nearly as good at containing his laughter as Lark is, because he lets out a loud laugh, before quickly covering his mouth - stepping behind Lark like he isn't here at all, although unfortunately for him he's taller than her.
Evan's laugh gets strange looks and laughing echoes alike. Attractiveness perks.
Askance to the squad, Malcolm curls an arm beckoningly, abandoning the once-Prius to its ignoble death by pothole and tent. "C'mon, we're going to Knight Baegni to convince him to stop this shit," he conspires at a normal volume with his group. And he splits that with the chattery, harsh bark of Wildling toward the chattery, harsh Wildling that leads them, in the apron.
Lark gasps, looking around. "They like you!" She hisses at Evan. She glances to Malcolm. "Maybe we can tell them Evan is someone, uh, famous! Maybe we'll get better treatment or respect!" She gets up and trots after Malcolm.
Cadence digs out another cigarette from her sweater, pressing it between her lips before sticking it in her pockets. She still doesn't have a lighter to abet her nicotine fix, but powers on. "He can be our chosen jousting champion," she wagers, trailing after the gang.
"Offworlders," Malcolm speaks with some distaste toward the apron-man, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. "You'll have to excuse them. They don't know how to talk like folk. They only know metal carriage, storm-shaman their seer-stones, eat hot raptor, and lie." Something like that.
"Of course they do," Evan tells Lark with a grin. "Who doesn't like me? I'm super duper charming." Almost out of instinct, Evan rummages in his pocket, pulling out a comb and running it through his hair with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face, and then finally he's walking along with Malcolm.
Moving through the camp, the group is a gawkable moment, but most are all gawked out. The spirits are somewhere in the 'restless' category- the sort one might have if someone blared engine noises all week at increments where they tried to sleep. Ultimately, this camp has too high a population and not enough tools to keep out the forests. Some are sick, many here are natural. As with all Knights, they are the higher class- and they alone seem to be in marching spirits.
"Knight Baegni is a complicated boy, Havenite." 'Havenite,' though butchered, is an easy loan-word in that. "Yes. Well, your metal carriage- steed; is on another's knight's bed so it is his now- butchered have you his coming peace of naptime- the ugly thing should appease him if it makes loud noises." The sourness in apron man is feral at the end, and as people eventually grow tired of stalking at the heels and move back to work trying to survive, the land opens to the field where some remainder of knights still lay- including, one coated and cool chevy-sitting weirdo.
"Chevrolet," Cadence points out, spelling the name of the car brand in the air with her cigarette. "I wanna get me a Camaro when I get my bonus," she outlines her wishes aloud, eyeing the knight and his cool ride with some approval. The colour might not be the real deal.
The man in the cheap animal duster flicks down his John Lennon glasses. His posture is already straight- as if he mediated on the roof- though he manspreads both legs off the side. "Good to meet you." He greets, though his tone is gruff. Better words, from that voice, might be 'What am I doing to do to you?'
"Let's hope you get what you want," Lark tells Cadence as she marches alongside the others. Lark brightens up as someone finally speaks English! Though that brightness turns into a bit of confusion as she looks him up and down. "Hello," she says in reply. Can't go wrong with that.
"The steed is his," Malcolm permits 'graciously' as he wanders along behind the apron-man, and along with Lark and Evan and Cadence behind. The approach to the Chevy fellow has him calling up: "Knight Baengi? Hail, from Nar." And he, too, drops into the more familiar and shared tongue. Just needed the formalities out of the way.
"Congratulations on your coming of age, and the spoil-ceremony," Malcolm gestures toward the collection of parts, engines, and cobbled-together car-carriages. "Y'all sound like you got some engine troubles."
Just marches along behind Malcolm, eying everything in the camp with a mild interest, but also a mild threat. It's not judgy, just wary, and Evan agrees with Cadence and Lark. "What kind of Camaro?" Evan asks her casually, stopping in his march to move in line with the two. Then finally, he greets the other English speaking man with a nod and wave.
"One of the older types. Retro," Cadence says smoothly, picturing it in her head, ready to get lost in her daydreams. She snaps to attention before bumping into Malcolm from behind. "Maybe a 1990."
"Great Knight Baegni." Apron-man says, bowing with one arm to the chest and genuflecting in a peasant manner. It gives him a huff, and he introduces the group with a, "Their pink steed as struck Knight Rogolf's quarters." A wave is given, the peasant looks up to meet eye contact just once, then he huffs off.
"He-llo." He repeats to Lark, as if sounding out the words. It might be crude or lascivious if he looked longer. "I am great years old." He nods to Malcolm slowly. Two moped knights slowly walk up their vehicles and stand at either side. "We are.. Not in trouble. No troubles. G-good sounds. I like.. that we do not have troubles."
Lark nods slowly, skeptically. "Oh good, no trouble is good. Good." She squints, a little.
As his control of the language staggers, the nonetheless remains immaculately confident. "Why. Did you do that?" He asks to each of them, furrowing. "If you are bringing troubles on my good years old. I kill you." It seems like he expects this comment to come with an drawing of swords from his knights, but they do not. It doesn't seem like they speak English.
"That sounds nice," Evan tells Cadence with a smile. "Always gotta know what you want!" It's a short little conversation before Evan's attention is back on the man, and he's once again agreeing with Lark. It's like the share the same braincell, but Lark usually is the holder of it.
Malcolm totters forward at that, then straightens back up. Someone was gonna bump into him. He almost expected it, and rocks forward before it's back to his heels. A glance aside, and behind, and then back to the duster-clad gentleman. "That's mighty queer, 'cause it sounds an awful lot like your engines're grindin' to a halt. Y'all must be oiling them nonstop to keep 'em from jammin' up."
There's another beat to look to the moped guys, and back to the casually threatening Knight. "Didn't bring no trouble. I bring fixes. I'm -also- several great years old." Malcolm is a mirrorer by nature, and that includes language. The vocabulary leaves a lot to be desired, and he gestures to the vehicles. "Have experience with these. We celebrate. Joust? Maybe talk fixes."
"And we brought gift. Knight Rogolfs, since it hit his quarter -- but yours." Malcolm gestures over his shoulder, off to the piece of shit pink Prius 'giftwrapped' in the poor fellows former home.
"Do what now?" Cadence asks, holding her hands up disarmingly, nice and slow. "We come in peace," she says as the Martians do on landing. As by way of apology, she wipes patches of dust and dirt off the back of his shirt he earned with his tussle with a pink Prius. She lets everyone else do most of the talking, she's sort of here just to get an idea of the Wildling activity and write a nice fat report for the Hand and earn that sweet cash bonus for her efforts.
Lark nod-nods after Malcolm, deciding that shutting up is probably the best. Besides, she's not several great years old.
"Hmmm.." Brows squint behind his lenses and he points repeatedly to at Malcolm. "Wrong house. I..." He pauses with a heavy sigh, "Will not kill you right now. But I am sad later. Great- great-" He slaps the hood of his car indication, waking up the moped knights. "Peace!" He snarls to Cadence, posture breaking into a no-good slouch, "No! No peace. More.."
Nope, Evan is also not great years old so he shuts up as well.
A moped knight sneezes, bringing a grumble from the man overhead. A second sneeze and he gets a little kick in the back of the helm.
Moped knight will remember that.
For a few long moments, Malcolm studies the gentleman back, watching, waiting. Perhaps processing his words a little deeper than the others, or something. "We joust for you, then," he offers, gesturing toward Lark and Cadence and especially, perhaps, Evan, with an upturned palm. "Bring your day honor. And we talk fixes, find you things to return with. Spoils." A gesture to the mopeds. "That aren't spoiled."
smacking his lips for words, Baegni deigns to smile at Malcolm's words. "Joust!" The word almost carries lust. "Yes! You will bring.. metal- I will bring metal. We will.. Go World where spoils not-spoil. Fix honor, hmm, yes. We will joust." He makes crossing swords sound effects as he mimes the same. With a gutteral bark, he shouts out to the camp.
"SCRIBE! HERE ME! WE WILL FIND MEASURE ONCE AGAIN IN EARTH!" He leans in, holding up a finger to Malcolm, "What are the terms? When."
"I'll joust," Evan chimes says to Malcolm now, stepping forward a bit.
Lark claps encouragingly for Evan. "Yes! Evan can joust!"
"Let Evan joust," Cadence encourages, careful with her words. She's learned that this is the adults are talking phase.
The man straightens with a grin that betrays that he is, perhaps, somewhat young- as the language barrier is broken in two, his single desire spoken. "We all joust! Haha!"
There's a nod toward Baegni, and Malcolm turns toward his retinue at their steps forward. "When?" he wonders of them all, but particularly Evan. "Do we have the time to do this now, or do we schedule somethin' out in the woods outside'a town?" A gesture to the camp around them. "'cause the cars ain't gonna work here."
"Evan will joust." He confirms. "Scribes talk."
"Good," Malcolm decides, with a succinct bob of his head.
[Will probably set the plot to a sequel, starting at the day of the joust so everyone comes in with the energy.]
Evan continues to let the adults talk, and in this case it's the Dad of the group, Malcolm. Evan has done his part, he's volunteered to be the the third chucklefuck into the fray, which in turn promotes him to Chucklefuck number 1. Sorry Lark, you've been demoted.
Lark, now demoted to Chucklefuck number three, is still very proud of Evan, clapping him on the back while letting the adults speak.
"SCRIBE!" SRSiofra shouts again, wheeling a finger in a beckoning circle. "GO WITH AND SPEAK!" As he ushers, his voice was apparently already heard. An old man, ancient and hunched, stalks out slowly from the debris of engines holding a sheet of paper with no spine to take notes in.
"He go with you." He points to the scribe, and then Malcolm.
Malcolm joins his geriatric compatriot, nodding, to hammer out details.