“Do you think such thing as a ‘dire goose’ could exist?” muses Professor Abernathy, sifting through a case of scrolls. “Or a masterwork chicken? Now, that would really be something.” Finding no texts of interest, he turns to browse the shelves instead. Erling, Keelan, Zoe, Vasiles, and Abernathy wander ‘Johnny’s Masterwork Store’ in search of supplies. Mort has yet to show his face this morning and is likely off nursing a hangover. The store’s proprietor, a stocky man named Johnny, watches the group from behind the counter. They’re a curious sight indeed, with Zoe in her raven swathed armor, Vasilles with his tattooed everything, and Abernathy carrying his tremendous crossbow. Erling, likewise, is the only salidar for miles around, and Keelan looks like death on casual friday. Having spent the night in his childhood home, the fili has made an effort to look presentable. He’s traded his raggedy nightclothes for village attire, begrudgingly borrowed from Jeremy the apprentice. This morning he wears a proper tunic, trousers, and vest— though he’s still refused any footwear. His hair is as damp and stringy as ever, pulled back into a tangled ponytail. The tightness of his new apparel seems to distress him and he can scarcely browse the shop without stopping to pluck at his sleeves.

“You know what,” Zoe decides, hands moving to rest on her hips. “That must be why you hate wearing shoes so much. You haven’t worn them in ages.”
Keelan groans and tugs at his collar. “Yeah. This is all so… confining.”
Abernathy approaches the shopkeep and flattens his hands against the counter. “Do you have anything fancy?” he asks, “I feel like treating myself.”
Johnny smiles and produces a copper spyglass from one of the drawers. Abernathy is immediately taken in, enamored by its collapsible portability. When the price is revealed, however, his jaw drops to the floor. The professor politely declines in favor of something *less* *fancy.* He turns his attention to a set of lock-picking utensils instead. The shopkeep dubs them ‘jailbreak tools’ and extols their excellent quality. They’re expensive, he explains, because their manufacturer stops in Wicklow but once a year. He is apparently famous for his “dippy birds,” a line of novelty glass tubes. These so-called “sipping chickens” drink from a glass of water, continuously bobbing and tilting. “They sell out so fast,” notes the shopkeep and everyone murmurs in agreement. Despite hailing from different corners of Domme, everyone in the party has heard tell of the legendary dippy bird. After much back and forth, Abernathy and the shopkeep come to an agreement. The professor walks away with shiny, new thieves tools.
“You’re a good negotiator,” Johnny chuckles.
Keelan is next to approach the counter. “Hello,” he greets. “Have you any ink and parchment? I’m looking to write a letter.”
“Of course,” answers the shopkeep. “…but I also have this.” He holds up a fibrous white sheet. “They’re calling it… ‘paper.’”
Keelan is mystified by the new invention and fumbles for his coin pouch. Erling intervenes before he can pay, placing a cautionary hand on his shoulder. “That might not be the best idea,” he warns, explaining how paper can turn soggy. “Given your… moistness,” Erling gestures to his sopping clothes, “…I’d probably go with parchment.”
Keelan heeds this advice gratefully, opting for the “least water soluble options available.” While he’s checking out, Johnny cheerily asks if this is “his first time in Wicklow.”
Keelan shakes his head. “Oh, no. I used to live here.”
The man frowns and looks at him sideways. “Really? I’ve lived here all my life.” There is an obvious undertone of ‘…and I’ve never seen you before’ to his voice.
Keelan looks sheepish and tries to rectify his story. “Forgive me,” he coughs, brushing a bone-braid over his shoulder. “I’m an O’Callahan relative, I mean. That’s what I meant to say.”
Appearing to buy this, the shopkeep looks instantly rueful. “Ah, the O’Callahans. Sad thing that happened to that family.” He hands Keelan his satchel of ink and parchment. “I suppose you’re here to help with Armus’ passing.”
“…pardon?”
An uncomfortable incertitude hangs between them. Johnny scratches his neck and apologizes, not having meant to cause alarm. He’d assumed Armus’ condition was common knowledge. He explains that he has the “black lung,” a creeping illness with no magical cure. Healing magic only bolsters the disease, causing abnormal cells to further divide. The temple clergy have long tried to heal him, to no avail. Attempting to pivot, the shopkeep advertises his grandmother’s “fat tea,” a supposed northern cure-all. He’s in the midst of a rebranding campaign, having found that “fat” wasn’t the most salable adjective. The product is now called “hearty broth,” which the party eagerly purchases. Keelan asks how many packets are available, fully intending to shower his father in it. Before leaving the shop, he poses one final question. “You wouldn’t happen to know Dillan M’Kale, would you? I was hoping to pay him a visit, but I hear he’s moved.” Johnny answers that he’s gone up north towards Bellenis, taking his family with him. Keelan thanks him for the information and heads outside, muttering about how fitting it is that a “trash man should live in a trash city.”

Before Abernathy can leave with his purchase, Vasilles pulls him aside. They linger behind one of the bookshelves, concealed from Johnny, Zoe, and Erling. “I want to apologize…” begins the Quazit, speaking low and unusually earnest.
The professor blinks. “For what?”
“For being… hard on you. Before… I… didn’t have the money. For Illyana, though, I would have done anything.” He produces a sackful of gold and places it in Abernathy’s hands.
“Well, I… gathered that part,” the professor admits, “…are you going to pay everyone, then? Is your wife getting healed?” He pockets the coins and clears his throat. “What’s going on…?”
Vasilles fiercely assures that Illyana will be restored. As for the rest of the money, he still has a bit of finagling to do. The Quazit is determined to settle his debts and see through the expedition. Apparently satisfied by this, Professor Abernathy pulls a book from his backpack. “I bought this,” he says, turning the cover to Vasilles. “A guide to lock picking. I believe it will prove a good investment.” He smiles. “If we stay together, perhaps it will be worth our while.” The Quazit squints at him, uncertain if this counts as archeology or crime. In any case, the quarrel between them is finally settled— for now, anyways. They depart from Johnny’s Masterwork Store in peace.

‘Benny’s Blades’ is next on the supply run. Abernathy removes his oversized crossbow and offers it to the blacksmith. He’s decided to replace it with something smaller and quicker.
“You’re no longer overcompensating!” jabs the Quazit, “What changed?”
“I carried a huge crossbow for our entire adventure!” snaps the professor. “I’m tired!”
Benny is on the fence about the weapon, explaining that “only old men hunting squirrels in their yards” would bother buying it. They eventually agree on a price after much negotiation. Abernathy feels instantly lighter, both in spirit and in carrying capacity. Keelan approaches the counter next, setting down his rusty short spear. He’s convinced that the weapon can’t belong to him, seeing as to how poorly he’s performed with it. Having no memory of the spear, he’s decided it must have washed up by chance from Lough Cairbee. “I hate this thing,” he frowns, chipping away at a rust flake. “It’s ugly and heavy. Do you have anything smaller…?” Keelan settles on a compact dagger instead. He also asks about instrument repair, which Benny’s shop doesn’t offer. “It’s starting to get squishy,” Keelan explains, pulling his fiddle from his back. “…and it smells funny.” Having spent thirty-five years underwater, the fiddle has come to a poorly state. It is— much like Armus O’Callahan— not long for this world. Keelan is reluctant to replace it, describing it as a tenth birthday present from his father. He flips it over to show Zoe his initials on the bottom. The smith suggests he find a fellow fili or visit the Temple of Stanlith. Zoe pokes the rotten wood, to which her finger leaves an indentation. She grimaces. “I think we should look for a spellcaster,” she says, “They might be able to fix… all of this.”

Next on the docket is Cliff’s Butcher Shop, which is festively strung with garlands of sausage. Zoe is first in line, filling her arms with bags upon bags of jerky. Noticing her enthusiasm for meat, Cliff offers to fill the rest of her order himself. He advertises his namesake creation, ‘Cliff’s Trail Ration Cliff Bar.’ This chewy morsel is rich in nuts, jerky, and dried fruits. “When you eat this bar,” he warns, “…it is imperative that you don’t skimp on the water, so that when you lay siege to the privy, it won’t be a protracted siege.”
Zoe collects her purchases and thanks him. “It’s not for me,” she points out, visions of giant ferrets dancing in her head.
Keelan steps up next. “Could I buy some blood?” he asks, causing his companions to snicker. Cliff looks bewildered and takes a half step back. “Son, I think the store you’re looking for is ‘Cults R Us.’”
Keelan waves his hands defensively. “It’s for arts and crafts purposes! I swear!”
“Well… we do keep some around for making the blood sausages.” Cliff agrees to fill his request, but warns him not to shake the bottle too hard. Should the cork be mistreated, the phial will be sure to leak.
The party splits for the remainder of the afternoon. Abernathy dives headfirst into his latest reading. Vasilles finds himself worrying about Illyana and what a “horrible husband” she must think him. To remedy this distress, he decides to return to the brothel. “That’s not the pivot I expected,” Keelan observes, watching him march off towards the bordello. “…but you do you, I guess.” Having overpaid considerably on his first visit, the courtesans are kind enough to grant Vasilles a buy-one-get-one deal.

Keelan heads to the outskirts to visit his mother’s grave. Zoe volunteers to join him, standing guard against any ne’er-do-wells or wildlife. The O’Callahan family stretches back for generations, with a stone marking each ancestor’s ashes. Keelan sits in the grass and fiddles, playing his mother’s favorite songs. Zoe stands back and watches the horizon, wind tossing her hair and raven tabard. When the last of his goodbyes have been said, Keelan rises to his feet. Hiking further down the line, he is crestfallen to find his own grave nearby. It reads: ‘Keelan O’Callahan—Gone But Not Forgotten.’ “Zoe,” he calls, swallowing down a shuddering breath. “Come check this out.” He extends an arm to the inscription. “…I’m dead.”
The paladin moves to his side. “It says you’re gone,” she corrects. “…not dead.” Zoe reminds him this is his chance to live his life to the fullest. She asks him what he wants out of it, which causes the fili to think.
“I don’t… I don’t know,” he confesses, weaving a hand into his hair. “I think I want Dillan to hurt… to smash his head into the mud a thousand times.” His brow scrunches. “But I don’t want to lose myself, Zoe. I don’t wanna turn into a maniac.” Having never before craved violence, the fili is unnerved.
“That’s not losing yourself,” Zoe assures, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That’s justice.” They talk for awhile and Keelan shifts to a more tangible goal.
“My father,” he says, beginning to pace about the graveyard. “There has to be something I can do.” Zoe keeps in step and they zig-zag like loons. “Oh! I know! There’s the… uh,” he snaps his fingers, remembering. “…the ‘Three Treasures of the Dagda!’ Dad used to tell me stories about them!” Keelan describes two divine artifacts, one meant for healing and another for resurrection. “All we have to do is find them… preferably within the next three days… then boom! Dad’ll be healed and Mom’ll come back.”
Zoe puts an end to their traipsing about, digging her heels into the dirt. “Keelan,” she begins, voice low and steadying. “Those are legends. Even if they do exist, that timeline is… tight.” She expresses her doubts and tries to dissuade him from the wild goose chase. Zoe urges him to focus on the life he has now and appreciate his chance to bid Armus farewell. Keelan is tearful but knows that she’s right. He throws his arms around the paladin and catches her in a moist hug.

The party reconvenes for dinner at the O’Callahan and Son Apothecary. Vasilles is disheveled from the afternoon’s festivities, while Mort’s nose has swollen as red as his wine. Keelan gives the “grand tour” to Zoe and Erling, pointing out his favorite quirks of the apothecary. He’s elated to find that his smiley-face shaped scratch is still present on the hearth. Renith snoozes nearby, enjoying his reprieve from the cold. The store overflows with herbal deliciousness, smelling of sizzling garlic and onions. Armus is preparing leek soup, a longtime favorite of Keelan’s. Vasilles watches him stir the pot, peering in at its contents. “Looks delicious,” he smiles, fully expecting to be poisoned.
“Can you believe I’ve met such interesting people?” beams Keelan, beginning to set the table.
Armus nods. “They certainty are an… eclectic bunch.”
“Vasilles said I’d find you near Dahlish and I did!” Keelan waves over the Quazit, who takes a seat at the table. The fili sets down silverware in front of him. “Hey, maybe *you’re* the oracle!”
Vasilles frowns. “I only listen to the fates.”
“Isn’t that what oracles do?”
The Quazit produces a pocket-sized book bound in leather, holding it up for Keelan to read. “I just have this book.”
“Ooooooh,” Keelan nods, understanding. “The *book* is the oracle.”
With dinner ready to be served, everyone takes their place at the table. Dishes are passed round family-style. Armus leaves the table to fetch something, returning with a platter full of phials. “I do have to thank you all,” he says. “You have done me a great kindness and given me something I never thought I’d see again.” As reward for fishing Keelan from the lake, he presents two potions to each adventurer.
“This is too generous, my fine sir,” objects Vasilles, but Armus insists. Professor Abernathy attempts to choose “the most historical looking” potion of the group. Armus laughingly admits that many of his cures are just whiskey.

The party separates after dinner, with some bunking down for the night and others hanging back to clean the dishes. Keelan helps Armus to his chair, where he errupts into another coughing fit. The fili rushes to fetch his tea. “This tastes like ass,” Armus wheezes, gratefully accepting the cup. “…but at least I can breathe.” He’s accepted that “all things must come to an end,” but takes solace in the fact that he got to cure cholera babies. “That was pretty cool…” he reminiscences.
It is now that Keelan has his “eureka” moment. Promising to return shortly, he ducks off to join Vasiles, Erling, and Zoe in the back room. “Quazit!” Keelan calls, startling everyone. “If your druids can regrow Illyana’s arm, couldn’t they grow a new lung for my father?” His face is bright with anxiety-laden hope.
“Um… maybe?” answers Vasilles. “We could certainly ask, but…”
Erling twitches his frill. “I don’t really think so. They’re very… live and let die, cycle of life types.”
“And he’s very old, so…” Vasilles looks away. “They’ll say ‘let the old people die.’”
Keelan’s hands ball into fists. “What the hell kind of druids are these?”
Zoe looks sideways at the salidar. “These are Erling’s people.”
“What?!” Keelan is aghast. “Your circle hates senior citizens?” In a huff, he instinctively stomps off towards his bedroom. Then, recalling that it now belongs to Jeremy, turns on his heel and returns to Armus.

All is quiet within the O’Callahan and Son Apothecary. Night has fallen over Wicklow, sending everyone in the shop to a well-earned rest.
Everyone except for Mort.
“I appreciate this,” he says to himself, examining his gifted potions. He tucks them into his bag. “…and I would like another.” Slithering past his snoring companions, the jester creeps into the storefront. He begins with the apothecary drawers, finding jar after jar of ingredients. Having no use for mouse paste or bishopwart, he proceeds to Armus’ desk. Here, he finds an comprehensive list of apothecary clientele and their ailments. It is the tell-all Burn Book of Wicklow’s bunions. Mort now knows everyone in town who has a goiter and exactly where they’re hiding it. Armus’ notes describe a particularly obnoxious patient with toe gout. Just when Mort is ready to throw in the towel, an unusual pair of gloves catch his eye. He plucks them from the drawer and puts them on, admiring the intricate leatherwork. Then, like a rat in the shadows, he scampers back to bed.

A sizzling breakfast of eggs, bacon, and barley mush harkens a new day. The party prepares to depart for Bellenis, having acquired a wagon for transport. Keelan sits with his father and shares his druid idea. He takes Armus’ hands in his own and asks, “…will you come with us?” The fili is reluctant to remain in Wicklow, feeling alien and out of place. He does, however, promise to stay if Armus prefers it. The old man looks thoughtful before musing aloud, “…one last adventure.” He squeezes his son’s hands and agrees to tag along. Keelan is estatic, pumping a fist in the air. “The O’Callahans ride again!” he whoops.
Arrangements are made for Jeremy to run the O’Callahan and Son Apothecary. After years of dedicated training, the apprentice finally gets his time to shine. The party finishes loading the wagon and hitches up Moscow, helping Armus into the back. He finds a comfortable perch beside Brandy’s corpse, where Keelan soon joins him. As Wicklow disappears over the horizon, Armus raises two fingers to his lips and blows a kiss. “Goodbye, my love,” he says, misty-eyed and smilinng.

Professor Abernathy makes a pit stop to purchase some roadside chickens. He also acquires a cage to keep them in. “Have you named your chickens?” asks Keelan, stooping down to look at them.
Vasiles chuckles. “They’re called ‘Breakfast,’ ‘Lunch,’ and ‘Dinner.’”

Mort returns to Patrick’s nest, calling him down from the canopy. “Oh Great Owl! I have your stuff!”
There comes a long pause. Then the owl replies, “Who?”
The jester cups his hands around his mouth. “No! We’re not doing this!” he yells, refusing to take part in the cliche.
A pair of wings spread wide above the nest’s rim. The owl glides down to meet them, landing with a *fwoosh* upon the ground. “Oh shit,” gawks Armus, watching the bird in shock. He had no idea how close he lived to a tremendous beast. “Fine,” grumbles the owl, ruffling his speckled feathers. “This is an owl’s best joke and you’re not going to play along?”
Mort shrugs. “That joke was a hoot.”
A lengthy silence settles between them. Patrick slowly begins to rotate his head, swiveling it a full three-hundred and sixty degrees. “I don’t get it.”
It is finally time to unveil the ‘combination cape pendant sequined embroidered tailored garment.’ The party lugs it from the wagon and holds it wide for Patrick to see. The cape is a triumph of maroon linen, stitched with delicate yellow thread and a gleaming silver mirror. The hemline is encrusted in citrine beadwork, spiraling about in filagree curls. A collection of buckles and leather straps serve to keep the garment in place. “Ooooh,” hums the owl, trying to feign indifference. “It is… acceptable.” A twinkle in his eyes betrays true excitement. He spreads his wings and allows Mort to dress him, and for a split second, the jester considers murder. Everyone watches his hands tense on the neck buckle, ready to strangle and pull. He comes *very* close to betraying the owl, but ultimately keeps his word. He adjusts the cape straps then steps away. Patrick vogues and flexes, flicking his feathers and stretching his wings. “I find your tribute acceptable,” he says, “You may now pass through my woods without fear of being snacks.” According to the owl, all bipeds look the same. He isn’t entirely sure that the party members are human, nor can he differentiate the salidar.
Vasilles looks uneasy. “Hold a moment— if you can’t tell bipeds apart, how will you know not to eat us?”
Abernathy gives a thoughtful nod. “Yes, the Quazit makes a valid point. Perhaps we could carry one of your feathers? That way, you’d be able to recognize us.”
Patrick ruffles. “Absolutely not,” he scoffs, raising his beak. “I’ve already given a feather away. If you want it, you’ll have to seek out the Artist.”
“Why does the Artist want it?” asks Keelan, leaning over side of the wagon.
“Probably for art.”
Seeking a prize for his service, Mort shuffles before the owl. “Hey, Great Owl. Since you’re not using any of your stuff… maybe you want to give it to us?” He gives a noncommittal shrug. “Pass it on to someone who actually *would* use it. Patrick is perplexed by this offer, maintaining that he *does* use his collection. Some of his expensive fabrics serve as nest insulation. The rest is a built-in gallery, displaying his greatness to the world. “Humans cannot be great,” Patrick explains, “…they can only be good.” The group begins to discuss ‘land nests’ and their various decorations. The Great Owl is intrigued by the concept of chandeliers. Another fetch quest is nearly initiated, but the owl decides that he’s no place to hang it. He bids the party farewell and returns to his nest, cooing happily within.

The wagon rolls on, steadily approaching the artist’s cave. Along the way, Keelan begins penning a letter to Dillan M’Kale. Using the parchment, ink, and blood from Wicklow, he fashions a blackmail note. “Professor Abernathy?” he calls, “Could you proofread this for me? You’re a scholarly type.” Keelan passes along the note, which is spattered with crimson and written in harsh, angry letters. “Is it concise enough?” worries the filli, tapping his fingers together. “Is my spelling alright?”
Abernathy looks deeply disturbed. The letter reads: ‘Dillan M’Kale— I know what you did.” Included is a cutting of Keelan’s hair. “Ah, well, it looks… fine,” coughs the professor, awkwardly handing it back. “I’m not sure what that scribble at the end is, but…” He shuffles a few feet backwards, instinctively distancing himself from the bard.
Keelan folds the letter into his wooden finch, which flaps off towards Bellenis. He watches it vanish into the treeline. “What was that, son?” asks Armus, following his gaze to the woods.
“Oh,” answers Keelan, fiddling with one of his braids. “I wanted to write to Dillan. Get to the bottom of this, you know?” He frowns. “I’m not really sure what I’ll say to him yet, but until then, I want him to be as uncomfortable as possible.” He expresses his desire to exact revenge, specifically in the form of egging. “I’d like to find an enchantment that would throw an egg at him every time he leaves his house.”
Mort flips a club between his hands. “Why not just gut him?” he proposes instead.
Armus answers in his son’s stead. “You can only gut someone once,” he advises, shaking his head slowly. “…but you can egg them forever. Or, until you die. Whichever comes first.”
Professor Abernathy supplies an alternative: “Now, what you want to do is give him a *single* wet sock. If you’ve two wet socks, you get used to it. With one, you always suffer.”
Erling glances at Keelan, watching stray droplets drip from his hair. “That would be a fitting punishment,” he observes, “Given your current… situation.” The party falls into a discussion of foot diseases and toe fungus.

Around noon, smoke rises from beyond the game path. The group cautiously approaches, discovering a fantasy yard art display. Eclectic figures of bone, fur, metal, and paint dot the clearing. All manner of materials have been utilized in their creation. Their adornments jingle softly in the wind. Erling begins to investigate, finding a dried wasp’s nest and a strange inscription. The professor is eager to translate and identifies it as ogre text. As if on cue, an ogre emerges from the nearby cave. Swooshing open the fur door covering, he clomps his way over to the group. “Bahbul da kaa,” he says, speaking in a language that no one understands.
“Hi!” greets Vasilles, “Helloooooooo!”
The ogre looks immediately irritated. “Hoo-mans?” he inquires.
“Yes,” answers the Quazit.
“Mostly,” shrugs Erling.
The ogre looks down his nose at them. “You… hoo-mans… never learn. Everything,” he gestures to the surrounding property, “…not you.”
Erling nods in solidarity, responding in Salidar. “You know it.”
This appears to significantly downplay the tension, with the ogre responding in pristine Salidar m. “Ah, a Circle Druid,” he observes, less off-put than before. He expresses respect for the organization, but doubts their aesthetic choices. “They build with straight angles,” he complains, “…where in nature do you find straight angles? Nowhere!” He criticizes humanity for their abundance of overly-literal artwork. “My artwork revolves around my emotions,” he explains, introducing himself as Clombush the Artist. “Take this piece here— I call it ‘Rock Vs. Wood; Who Wins?’ In the end, time is the true winner.” Erling and Clombush begin to chat, with the salidar translating for everyone else. They realize that they have lactose intolerance in common. Erling explains how the party vanquished winter, which disappoints the ogre. He’d been enjoying the deep-freeze because “…folks didn’t come round so often.” Clombush provides a brief tour of his gallery, pointing out pieces such as ‘Fate of Rude People’ and ‘Fuck Around and Find Out.’ Keelan is enamored with a set of ‘Skull Chimes’ borne from dead halflings. He comes very close to purchasing it.
“What are you gonna do when someone opens your bag?” questions Erling.
“And it’s filled with *halfling* *skulls!”* finishes Vasiles, disapproving.
Deciding the chimes would be “too jingly” to lug around, Keelan makes a donation to the gallery instead. He offer ten coins, a bottle of ink, and a bottle of blood. Having little use for human currency, Clombush is not impressed. “You could use the coins for art,” Erling suggests, making a hammering motion. “Flatten them into golden discs.” It is now that a giant feather catches his eye. Erling recognizes it as Great Owl Patrick’s Plumage. “That’s a big feather,” he remarks, stepping over to it. “What are you going to use it for?”
Clombush gives a thoughtful hum. “I’m thinking something about… joy. Like, when the owl swoops down and eats people.” A rumbling laugh escapes him. “…I love that shit.”
As the tour continues, Mort sneaks away to “practice” with his new gloves. Concealing himself beside the cave, he begins to juggle. Having no interest in modern art, Abernathy remains glued to the wagon. His nose is buried in his latest reading, a book called ‘Magic for Dummies.’

The party bids Clombush goodbye, feeling artistically and culturally enriched. They continue down the road until dusk, then pitch camp for the night. The snap of a twig sets everyone on edge, drawing their eyes back into the woods. A stranger has appeared between the trees, with flaming red curls and a bow on his back. He’s a human man dressed in leather armor. “Hello,” he calls, waving a hand in greeting. His voice carries a strong gnomish lilt. “I don’t mean to intrude… but I saw the fire. My name is Leif Skogar.”
Mort leans back on his log. “That’ll be one gold.”
“Mort!” scolds Keelan. “Why would we charge admission?”
“He’s partaking in our stuff,” shrugs the jester. “That costs money.”
Keelan bites his lip. “Well… yes. But if we’re charging him, we should at least be entertaining.”
Mort and Vasiles leap to their feet like men possessed. “Yes!” they gasp in unison. The performers scramble to recreate their circus acts. While Vasiles hangs a slack line between the trees, Leif pays the camp toll. It is agreed that he should chop firewood in exchange for entry. He does this with surprising grace, loosing three enchanted arrows. Colorful streaks of energy prune the branches overhead, raining down a perfect armful of firewood. Keelan is impressed and claps. Zoe is instantly suspicious. “Someone could have seen that go off,” she grumbles, watching the fireworks fade from the sky.

© Katherine Steffeter