If tomorrow never comes
#1
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Word Count → 1040 :: Forward-dated to the 15th, Drakien picking up an NPC.



Drakien had returned to the festival hoping someone might be able to trade him for some herbs. Sadly, no one there seemed to have the ones he needed; he wandered the festival, holding the ring through Breixo's nose. His faithful stallion limped along after him, his hindquarters wrapped tightly in bandages and his breath stinking of nettles and sickness. The bandages were bloody, and Drakien wondered if perhaps they should stop and rest a while. It was obvious there would be no herbs found here; it would be best if he just wandered off to find his own. As he moved to do just that, leading Breixo off the fairgrounds and toward the edges where people camped, the horse's head lifted, and his ears turned slowly atop his head. There was a long moment of curious silence, and then he began limping off into the crowds again, passing tents and campers. Drakien had no choice but to follow him, wondering if he were having some sort of fevered dream, but then he heard it; the soft, slow sounds of a pipe, drifting over the winds toward them.

Drakien picked up his pace, in order to keep up with the quickly-limping Breixo, and soon they broke through the sea of tents. The only thing this far from the festival was an old wagon, fashioned like a traveling house, with no seat, but a door leading inside. There were two horses out in front, grazing lightly, and as his hand loosened around the ring in surprise, Breixo ripped it out of his hand and stumbled over to the other two, flicking his tail as he settled down to graze as well. Drakien shook himself a bit, blinking in surprise at the two horses, pierced just as Breixo was through the nose. The pipe was louder now, though the soft sounds it made were more like breaths of wind even this close. Shaking himself out of his shock, Drakien wandered toward the vardos, his ears perked.

The wagon was made of old driftwood, with a red "roof" hanging over the edges of the box. He recognized it, knew it well; he'd lived in this wagon once, with Baba and Vali. He stood quietly listening to the sound, trying to determine who it was who'd come to the festival, but all he could smell were old, crumbled herbs and salted meat. After a moment of his hesitation, he heard the song stop, and soon enough there was the sound of someone coming to the door. As it opened, the smell grew stronger, and Drakien had to cover his nose from the overwhelming scent. The tall form in the doorway was easily recognizable, and Drakien stepped forward, his ears laid back as his eyes widened.

"Baba...?" He asked, and the elderly woman stepped down from the wagon, grunting in reply. Her sharp silver eyes turned toward him, and Drakien swallowed as he realized how good it was to see her. "Baba, ce faci aici?" He questioned softly, and the woman waved a hand at him irritably.

"Nu-mi pună întrebări." She snapped, and then turned her head toward Breixo with sharp eyes. "I see you've managed to injure your steed," She mused, and Drakien pressed his ears back, trying to look more guilty than elated. He hadn't seen Baba in months; to have her here, when it had been so very long, was amazing. She moved toward the palomino Vanner, running a hand down her neck. Breixo snorted softly, but he knew better than to act up, and Drakien suspected he was perhaps too tired for such things now.

"Go and fetch the white pot," She ordered, and Drakien jumped to obey, clambering into the wagon and looking about curiously. Nothing much had changed; there were the crates that acted as both storage and counter tops, and the old rocking chair in the corner, covered with pelts. There was even the old bed he'd shared with Vali, little more than a straw mattress and thick furs. He was happy to see it still there, after all this time. Turning, he looked to the crates, covered in pots both large and small, and painted all sorts of colors. He shuffled through them, and finally came up with a large white pot, the only one not striped or spotted with other colors. Hoping he'd gotten the right one, he hurried out again, and found that Baba had unwrapped his careful bandaging, studying the wounds closely. As he came back out, she snapped her fingers, and he moved over to her, lifting the lid on the smelly concoction. He could faintly detect cinnamon, and what he thought to be rose hips. She didn't let him investigate it further before she dipped her fingers into the poultice and began spreading it over Breixo's wounds, careful not to use too much of it. When all four scratches on his left haunch were covered, she moved around to the right, with Drakien following her. The process was repeated, and then she wiped her fingers off and closed the pot, brushing her hands. "There. Bandage those." She ordered, and took the pot from his hands, handing him a fresh roll of white cloth. Drakien did as he was told, and then patted Breixo's neck, soothing the horse.

As he finished, Baba came back out of the wagon, and put her hands on her hips, eyeing them both. "It seems you can't take care of yourself after all, boy," She said, and he moved around to see her better, his heart trembling a bit in his chest. "No, Baba, it seems not," He said, and laid his ears back, swallowing thickly. Agnessa came forward and patted his cheek, clicking her teeth together. "I suppose I'll have to look after you a little longer, now that I've found you," Baba mused, and Drakien felt his heart lifting, a startled smile crossing his face. After a moment, he couldn't keep quiet anymore, and took her into his arms, hugging her tightly. "I missed you, Baba."

"Get off me, you brute," She chuckled, and sidled back to the wagon, sinking down on the steps and relaxing against them. "There's no need for sappy reunions."

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