[J] He doesn't know why


"What are you smiling about there boy?" Grandpa Andrew looked up from his whittling, puzzled.

Truthfully, Roanoke had been counting the days since the caravan had departed from Palisade. Their journey was nearly at its end, and he was practically buzzing with excitement over settling in with the Gang proper. Surely, the old man could sense that. "It's just -- we're almost there," Roanoke answered, unable -- or rather, unwilling to veil his enthusiasm for his grandfather. Certainly not him that spun stories so easily, igniting all of this wonder.

"Tell me again, what's uncle Rio like?" the young man asked. Though Roanoke had never met his adopted uncle, from the way Andrew spoke, Roanoke felt as if he had known him his whole life. The Rey Salvaje. The wild king who stoked the dying embers of inferni until they blazed anew, reformed.

The wheels of the cart creaked over hard packed earth. Andrew winced with every sharp bump in the path.

"What haven't I already told you?" the old man chuckled, shaking his head. It was strange, but Andrew was a lot different than Boone, sometimes it was if he could pick up on exactly what Roanoke was feeling; in this case -- he caught what went unsaid. Roanoke was nervous. His gaze softened. "Look, you're going to be just fine Roan. Good kid like you? Rio's going to love having you around."

Andrew cleared his throat, a rough hacking sound followed.

"I'm sure he'll be there to greet the caravan when we arrive -- so, you'll meet him soon enough." He went back to his carving, and Roanoke's gaze fell on the careful dance of the knife.

"How do you manage that back here?" Roanoke asked. The piece of wood had taken shape; a small and carving of a bear.



The caravan arrived well into the evening, stopping just in front of the Trailside inn. Charmingtown reminded Roanoke of the Highstreet from back home -- it wasn't all too dissimilar, yet there was an odd and unexpected stillness here. He peered out from side of the wagon, looking for any sort of friendly reception.

All the while, Grandpa Andy reached for his cane. "Hold tight kiddo," he muttered before climbing out the back of the cart. 

Word Count - ---
WC: 402
OOC: Hopping into this joiner with Ryan's permission

"Again?" Belinda's sneer did little to faze her youngest son. He'd always seemed impervious to her passive aggression, though as he got older it was undeniable that it had some impact on him. No one could tell what just yet though. Regardless, Bishop shook away her taunting look like mud on his fur coat.

"Yeah. I miss Dad 'n Skeeter 'n Andi." There was no shame in his voice when he said it. Why should there be? He had returned so swiftly after his last trip. He'd hardly even gotten to visit with them properly before Mother had summoned him back home. He missed his siblings and his father - fathers. He had just discovered his relation to Sugabear before he returned to Palisade. 

"Don't you ever miss me? I'm the one who takes care of you and wrecked my body to care for you those months in the womb."

"Ma," his brow furrowed, stupidly at the question. "You are right here. Why would I miss you?"

"Whatever. Just go." Her voice was cold enough that Bishop's ears and tail dropped, pinning tight to his body. Oh no. He'd said something wrong again. He wrung his hands inside the loose folds of his pants and inched closer only for Belinda to gnash her teeth at him. "I said go, boy!"


So Bishop went. This trip from Palisade to Del Cenere was much more enjoyable than the first one. This time, he returned with the full caravan of people. They rode together on horses and in carts, Bishop choosing to more regularly walk on his own four feet than to travel by any other method. He'd been kept company by his cousins who journeyed with them.

This was Roan's first time to the Gang. He'd asked loads of questions the whole way up. He usually asked his grandfather for answers, so Bishop kept quiet so as to not interrupt, but when the grandfather grew tired of Roanoke's chatter it was Bishop's time to shine.

The caravan pulled up right into the heart of Del Cenere. The cart came to a halt outside of the Inn, and Bishop allowed himself to shift back onto two legs for the first time in days. He stretched his long arms high above his head and waved at the face that poked out of the cart. "Hand me some pants." People didn't really appreciate nudity in civilized parts.


For the entire length of Roanoke's memory, his grandfather had walked with a slight limp. Old war wounds, Andrew called called it -- though, every time Roanoke inquired about the nature of his injuries, the story behind them always seemed to change. He never quite knew where the truth of Grandpa's stories ended and where fiction began.

He seemed to know where he was going though, and Roanoke's curious gaze followed the man down the hard packed street. Only then did Bishop's hands come wildly waving into view.

"Pants?" Roanoke shot back, voice hushed. His brow furrowed and a hand came to rest on his chest, gesturing toward himself. "My pants?" He hesitated briefly, surprised by the request. It seemed a little late to shift now, especially here on the gang's doorstep -- but Bishop was a good friend. Despite being particular about his clothes, Roanoke could hardly leave a friend in need.  

"Hold on," he instructed before settling back into the cart. Prying open one of his crates, Roanoke produced a pair of breeches and tossed them down for Bishop to discreetly slip on.

"I'm gonna need those back when you're done," the young Winthrop whispered then.

Word Count - ---
WC: 209
OOC: alright, last post from me til leadership. Bishop looking like a dweeeeeb

Roanoke disappeared back into the depths of the cart. Bishop's brown ears twitched at the sounds of rummaging around. Pants weren't that strange of a request were they? Did Bishop do something wrong again? He brushed down the bare fur of his chest awkwardly. Too late now to change anything.

Quickly enough, Roanoke reappeared with a pair of breeches. They were far tighter than Bishop usually wore and certainly of finer make than anything Bishop dared bring with him. He was a Braithwaite so he certainly had nice clothes for formal occasions but only when he was forced into them by his relatives. "Thank you."

Despite his discomfort with the style, Bishop still squeezed his large frame into the breeches - he was almost half a foot taller than their intended wearer. They didn't want to button properly and a look from Roanoke stifled Bishop's urge to force them closed. He guessed he would just leave them in the unbuttoned high waters look.

"Yeah, you can have these back when I unpack my stuff." It was still better to look a fool than to be caught naked by one of the other Braithwaites. Speaking of... where were they? They should all be eager to see who had returned from Palisade.

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