Was I drunk?

Wendy was very nervous. So nervous she'd almost emptied the contents of her stomach earlier and then spent five minutes with her head in her knees trying to convince herself to run away. But of course that was impossible. So she'd gone over to where the dancers were practicing on the makeshift stage and asked them if they could spare an hour off the stage. They had hesitantly agreed.

I don't know the first thing about being silly!

The passive was hoping against hope that Warwick wouldn't show up. That he would be the one to bail. And she could get on with her life without doing anything else foolish. For now though, Wendy stood near the edge of the stage where the dancers were still practicing. Maybe if she made herself invisible he wouldn't see her and he'd leave...

...in her dreams. Warwick, for his part, had also had trouble sleeping -- but on his part it had been due to a wild amount of excitement. He'd wasted most of the festival on meeting people and eating well, wandering and sleeping and...and he'd gone almost a week without any real kind of performance. It made him itchy.

So he appeared early, ten or fifteen minutes. The hat, as promised, was on his head -- an almost shapeless bucket hat that still wouldn't be able to tame the rooster's crest that was his hair. He pulled up beside her, not quite dragging himself onto the edge of the stage, and flashed her a brilliant grin. "Hesta! Ye ready? Where's the judge?"

Wendy bit back a tiny scream when she heard his voice. "The judge. The judge is...the judge is coming." Probably. Maybe he wont show up!

She cleared her throat, straightening her green dress nervously, "Listen. Listen so-- so we don't have to do this y'know. If you don't want to. What I'm saying is I would understand perfectly and completely if you didn't want to because y'know people get nervous and crazyness happens and maybe it wasn't such a great idea."

The passive took a breath, and tugged on her hair nervously. "So if you don't um. Want to. That's totally okay."

"Your judge is grumpy, but present, mujo ma. I sure hope between th'two of you, there's more than enough silliness." Tristaan answered with obvious humor from the rows of benches near the stage between bites from a randomly interesting onnastick. The passive had at least bothered to mostly button his shirt and pull back his hair, but he'd left his hat and weapons at camp. The swordsman was rather enjoying the relaxed air of the festival, and while he may not have entirely dropped his guard, the whole place was very much like a small vacation. He picked a centered spot on the second bench to sit down, propping his bare feet up on the first row of benches and leaning back on his elbows.

He pointed using his half-consumed onnastick at the other wick with Wendy, "Junta. Y'must be Warwick, oes? Name's Tristaan."

The passive smirked at Wendy, but gave no comment as to whether or not he was here alone, preferring to leave it as a tangible mystery just for her slight discomfort.

Sarinah wasn't really sure she wanted to come to this contest. But Tristaan had asked her and she didn't want to appear childish. The dancer chewed her lip as she approached the bench, chicken wrap in her hand. She didn't look up, instead choosing to slip in beside Tristaan and pay attention to picking at her food. Crossing her legs, she tried to be supportive and invisible all at once. Glancing up at familiar passive, she gave him a little smile.

"Ye kidding? No chance, I need the --" But then Tristaan was there and Warwick's attention slid away from Wendy and onto the other man, blinking a little. What was this, a passive party? But he had the good wits not to say anything. Maybe they travelled in packs.

" -- oes, Warwick, ranking silly champion, 'less she defeat me..." There, a grin, sudden and easy. He swept the hat up off his head and his hair shot up immediately, wild, every which way. He blinked across at Tristaan, and maybe this was a jab, "Ye familiar with silliness? Comfortably familiar, at least?"

Tristaan chuckled, watching Warwick while leaning into the dancer a little, finishing the last bite of his onnastick before speaking. He rolled his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug, arching a slim eyebrow at the wick, voice suddenly deadpan, "Ne. I ent got the slightest clue 'bout silliness. I'm a completely unbiased opinion."

He might have been just a little sarcastic, but it was obviously in good spirits, "Perfect for your contest, don'tcha think?"

The passive winked, grin broadening in expectation.

"Dze, could've guessed that from across th'island." His own eyebrows raised in reply, his grin broad but -- unconvincing. It was possible, just maybe, that he didn't like what he'd seen of Tristaan, so far. Some vibe the man gave off, some air, a twitch of attitude. Perhaps it was just two peacocks at war...

"Wish we hadda second. If'n ye spy someone in a funny hat, give a shout." And those eyebrows wiggled, unclear if he was joking or not.

So Tristaan was here. And she was here. If it was possible, Wendy felt sicker. She even looked faintly green...or perhaps that was the sun shining through Warwick's hair.

"Yes. Yes everything is wonderful. Um." Wendy clenched her hands behind her. Brave! Be brave!! She couldn't keep herself from feeling the butterflies in her stomach-- no, butterflies was the wrong word. Butterflies were gentle. There was some sort of sea monster in her stomach that was thrashing about. For the second time that day, Wendy considered taking a private moment and throwing up.

And the tek was making her dizzy, "Funny hats? What do they have to do with--"

She groaned, "Okay. Okay let's get this over with. You um. Do the honors of introducing us. The dancers will get off the stage when you ask them..." Wendy had no real idea how this would work. She'd just go on stage and do her thing...whatever that 'thing' was.

Why did I agree to this!? No-- I challenged him!! What's wrong with me?!

"Be calm, chip, it's just fer fun..." That made his smile fade a little, worry creeping through. He shook his head at her, not quite giving her the option of backing out. He was already moving, dragging himself up onto the edge of the stage with the battered remains of his hat tossed into her lap.

"Worst case, ye look silly. They're expecting it anyway, ne?" She got one pat on the shoulder before he was pulling away to talk to the dancers.

"Yeah. Yeah I guess." Wendy said in a very small voice, looking up at Warwick wide eyes. "Sure okay."

((I apologize in advance for the length of this post...I was having fun...::sheepish.::))

Wendy was probably hoping that this would come out to be a bust, that it'd be quiet and small, the two of them and the judges and, perhaps, a few passersby walking through now and again. She almost certainly didn't want the noise and the bustle of a curious, entertained, interested crowd.

Unfortunately for her, Warwick was a hopeless showoff, and he thrived on attention. As soon as the dancers started off stage, shooting him curious and perhaps a few amused stares, he eased into the center and fished juggling balls out of his bag, tossing them carelessly into a comfortable pattern. It was simple, mindless, but lovely and distracting --arcing up and waterfalling inward, a ceaseless fountain of patchwork color, and he didn't even have to look at it while they moved.

The intent was attention, and this would help get it, especially when accompanied by a high pitched whistle that cut through voices and shouting and singing alike, well practiced. There was a moment in which Warwick realized how clocking long it had been since he was on a stage, and he had time to blush, almost uncomfortable under the stares. He dropped his head, worked to untie his tongue, and succeeded. When he lifted his head, he'd found his smile and a ringing, comfortable tone of voice.

"If'n ye ent got a sense of humor, or if yer of the mind to jeer or tease, if ye can't be nice or if ye're holding fruiit," here he switched to a taller, one-handed juggle that seemed impossible without magic, so that he could point to someone holding a very ripe piece of fruit to her mouth, "I'm goin' te ask ye te back off, fer yer own good. Our judge here in th'front seems the sort o'kov te take offense to that kinda behavior, and he's a mean sort, if ye ent heard the rumors I have."

He paused, caught the balls, and tossed one of them neatly in Tristaan's direction. The assumption was he'd catch it, but Warwick didn't bother to check. If he didn't -- well, it'd add to the silliness and win a few laughs, wouldn't it?

"We're havin' ourselves a silly contest!" This was louder, with his eyebrows raised as if it were a serious matter. He made eye contact with several people in the crowd in the attempt to draw them in closer, personable and easy. "An' if ye're wondering what that is, dze, don't worry, as we just made it up. There ent no rules, exceptin' that we have te please the judges, and that if ye enjoy the show, ye can drop a few tally inte the hat."

The hat got a wave, and Warwick gave a grin, dropping it at the edge of the stage with an exaggerated bow. "No sum too small, so long as it jingles, ye chen, and two coins jingle more'n one, and three more'n that an --"

And he pause, mid sweeping gesture, mid grift, straightening and pointing into the crowd. "Hoy, 'sthat Jerzy I spy? Willin' te come up and play a second judge? We're needin' someone who knows how te smile..."

Tristaan arched a slim brow at the mouthy wick, who was quickly losing all kinds of points for his negative commentary. Warwick was hardly being silly as much as he'd begun to border on the insulting, regardless of his goofy smile and apparently well-practiced juggling talents.

"Wo chet, kov. I'd stick t'your jugglin' an' silliness 'fore y'get your foot stuck." He chuckled, gray eyes far from hard or mean, though his tone of voice might have been barely noticeably miffed.

He wasn't quite sure what he'd done to bother the wick other than show up, and he'd be more than happy to leave had Wendy not invited him. Certainly the passive had plenty of humor to go around and didn't struggle to play along when he felt it was appropriate. He was just beginning to think his window of entertainment was waning ... and it was still early yet.

It was mostly by thoughtless reflex that he caught Warwick's ball-turned-missle, intercepting the thing just as he was moving his hand to rest on Sarinah's knee. He laughed with a hint of mischief before tossing it back in the tattooed wick's direction, hoping to catch him as off-guard as possible.


"I ent gotta problem smilin' if th'act is funny enough, ye chen. So far, however, you've only managed t'impress th'bochi." Tristaan grinned tauntingly without any malice or discontent, nodding his head in the direction of a small assembly of young wicks crowding in front of the stage.

((Catching was predetermined in a PM.))

Truthfully, Jerzy hadn't been paying much attention to what was going on. His purpose in being part of the crowd was to track down the laoso who'd paid him a phoney shill for his wooden flute.

"Where'd ye go, ye bugger..." he muttered to himself. But before he could track down his man, he heard his name shouted from the middle of the circle.

To his surprise, it was that wick he'd met while fishing the other day, and someone he'd never met, and...Venadi? What were they doing? Intrigued despite his vested interest in getting his refund, he wiggled his skinny body through the crowd.

"What's that you need?" he shouted back, winking at Venadi and waving a hand at Warwick - he mostly yelled for the crowd's benefit, as the man was right next to him. Even if he didn't know what he was expected to do, Jerzy was a wick and knew how to put on a good show no matter what the occasion.

Sarinah picked out a strip of chicken, glancing over at Tristaan with a slight frown. She noticed the change in his voice, and she didn't find Warwick particularly amusing either. But since Wendy's outburst she wasn't prepared to get herself yelled at again.



The witch flicked her eyes to Wendy then, with a blank expression. Had this girl set Tristaan up to make him look a fool? It wasn't going to work.



Smiling, Sarinah chuckled at Jerzy. She remembered him from her arrival. A nice man, with a good sense of humor.

Warwick bounced toward the edge of the stage, started to explain again that it was a silly contest, got up to that they needed a second judge -- and the ball came flying back to him, knocking him in the side. It was light, but it still startled a sharp, squeaking noise out of him, and in the middle of the stage. It hit the floor at his feet and he blinked down at it for a moment, like he didn't recognize it, before his grin slid back.

One look to Tristaan as he snatched it up, settled back to juggling. "Yer one o'five or so people I know here. Come judge, be on my team? Choose who's sillier, me or the green girl off that way --"

At least his smile softened as he looked back to Wendy, eyebrows raised, making sure she was alright.

"Wait--" Wendy said in an alarmed voice, not catching Warwick's look and walking on the stage to join them. She tripped and fell on her face on her way up and some of the crowd laughed, thinking it part of the act. Wendy got up, blushing, and had an idea halfway up. She fell again. Another laugh from the crowd. Wendy didn't dare try it a third time and pink with embarrassment and a mixture of pleasure she went to crouch by Jerzy and Warwick.

"I just can't seem to stay on my feet today." She said loudly, imitating the two wicks and grinning at Jerzy. "You sure you don't want to enter the contest instead of me? Your face is naturally silly so you would do a good job..."

Tristaan chuckled, mostly expecting Warwick to catch his return, but amused none the less. While he'd never really picked up on the performance side of wick life, the passive could at least appreciate the tattooed wick's ability to smooth the transition despite his apparent surprise. A quick recovery spoke of someone who was more than just fluff, someone who'd bothered to practice, or at least someone with a bit of talent.

He grinned at Jerzy, wondering now how the red-headed wick could be considered a judge if he so willingly became part of the act.

"I ent sure if this is really a contest." The passive smirked, speaking mostly to Sarinah, nodding his head at Wendy fell for the second time, "Seems more like everyone went an' planned things together."

Tristaan shrugged with a laugh, "A free show is still a free show, so I s'pose it ent worth complainin'bout."

The dancer smiled politely and picked out some baby silverbeet from her wrap, eating in small pieces. She didn't know what to say that wouldn't start a shitstorm.



A polite nod.

Jerzy laughed out loud at Wendy's comment. "Venadi, please! If I were to stand against ye, it wouldn't be a contest at all! Now, don't take that as a sign that I'm biased, folks. Never was there a more impartial judge of character."

He took a wide, sweeping bow, winking at Warwick. "Anythin' for a new friend. Now, impress me!"

"Looks like ye've already started, eh?" His smile to Wendy blossomed, grew into something brighter and more comfortable. Warwick offered her a hand, friendly but serious: it was to signal the beginning of the contest. Even if this was a silly contest, casual and fun, there was an air of ceremony. If they were going to do it, they were going to do it right.

"I say three rounds, do yer silliest, an then we c'n let th' judges choose. Ye can choose which of us goes first, as I'm settin' the terms. Sound fair?" Solemn, almost. Except for the quick wiggle of his eyebrows.

Wendy took his hand and shook, smiling at him. "That sounds fair." She felt strangely excited...almost buoyant. Although she was still infinitely nervous she was more in control of herself. All she had to do was pretend she was back in the forest...goofing off with Warwick.

"But you go first."

Just because she was less terrified didn't mean she was stupid. She grinned at him and stuck out her tongue, walking to the back of the stage to give him space.

Plus, she was going to get to relish Warwick making an ass of himself before she had to do anything herself -- there was that, at least, wasn't there? He stood in the center of the stage for a moment, tapping his lower lip, exaggeratedly thoughtful, and then he grinned. Two steps, long, put him at the edge of the stage, where he dropped down to sit.

"A joke!" His voice, at least, was still loud. He met eyes in the crowd with that same easy confidence, thoughtlessly in control on the stage. "A long'un, but a good'un I think. If'n yer in the back, move forward so ye can hear me."

With a grin, he started the joke. Maybe there was a wicked note to his expression.

"There were two chroven, Ja an' Wa, best'o'friends, brunnos, an' both raised fer racing. There was no bad blood 'tween'em, except fer one thing: Ja always won, and Wa always came in second. Nevermind that they had th'same training, just as good riders, the same gear..."

He wove the story out in an almost painfully slow manner. The two chroven approaching their retirement, Ja promising to let Wa win so that he'd be put to pasture and not sent off to be used for Unseemly Things. Three separate races, each time Ja not quite able to help himself and racing forward at the last moment to take the lead, each time the race just a little closer -- but, in the end, Wa was the loser and not good breeding stock, the end of his career.

"...furious, he turned on his once brunno and lashed out, cursin' him fer sealing his fate, and leaping upon them..." A great battle, and Warwick described it in intense detail; the rolling in the dirt, the biting, the thrashing. He waved his arms wildly, had one attack the other, snapping and flailing and generally making an ass of himself. It'd make the kids giggle, at least, and some of the more light-hearted adults, hopefully.

"An' finally, their battle rolled'em inte a little inn. In the corner was a little piano, witha little hingle sittin' an' playing a tune. He turns te the two chroven an' says --" Warwick's voice shifted, higher, more nasal, more...hingle, "'Ja! Wa! Why are ye fighten like this! All these years, ye've been like brunnos, there fer each other, helpin' as much as ye can. Instead o'fightin, ye should be celebratin' yer last days together!' "

Breathlessly, he paused: this was obviously the end of the joke, the culmination, and he wanted everyone on the edge of their seats --

"...and Wa turns te Ja an' says, 'By the Mona! A talkin' hingle!' "

-- and that was it. All that lead up, and that was it. He sat grinning, waiting for annoyance or applause or a bit of both. If nothing else, it was silly...

Giana had just wandered over to the stage to see what the fuss was about. When she arrived, she saw...who was that?
Warwick! Her Warwick. Cooooool.
And she immediately started giggling behind her hand, because he was telling some long, elaborate joke. Seemed to be about two chroven, and now he was acting out the fight scene with his hands. She loved silly things like that; and he seemed so engaged and excited by just being up on stage. He was...well, amazing. Amazingly super awesomely amazing--well, adjust that with the inverse of Giana's Warwick Law, which overexaggerates anything to do with the one known as 'Warwick' currently 19 at Surwood, and you're stuck with a medium-high level, but's that was still very good indeed.
When he got to the punchline, she didn't expect it at all, and burst out laughing, groaning a bit at the same time. She cheered, and clapped. Whatever he was doing, he was doing it right.

Viator slunk in, glad to see that Warwick was still telling the jokes. He was a fool and the son of a fool; he'd fallen asleep by the rivers edge, a nap with the sounds of living water too much to pass up. His already tan face had a darker cast now, and her was certain the sun had stolen a bit more dark from his hair.

His eyes searched for Wendy, and he soon found her. Waving, he sauntered up, looking both sheepish and hopeful.

"'Ope I ent missed t'much, Venadi..." He liked the V name; it suited her. It also matched with Viator. Like... they were siblings, almost. He grinned again, and without warning leaned in and planted a small kiss on her forehead.