Wendy felt ridiculous. Ridiculous, jittery, scared, on the verge of something wonderful. But mostly ridiculous. She'd spent the last few days being drilled on every form of strange words which she was instructed to called tek, how to cheat at cards, how to tell people's fortunes by looking at their hands, and to remember not to cry because the 'tattoos' on her face were ink and they weren't sure how it would do with the salt from the tears.

She was dressed in the brightest clothes she'd ever seen (In colours that made Wendy suspect that perhaps Petra was a little colour blind). A blinding pink and yellow 'dress'-If you could call it that-that only went down to her knees, a dark green vest (the only article of clothing she didn't mind, and had in fact insisted on wearing), and striped stockings that were blue and white. Two new tattoos on her arm, one of a key, the other of a rose. Feathers and jewelry adorned her neck, the boots she had stolen when she'd left, and her hair. Oh god. Her hair.

They had dyed it mostly blue, and shaved off the back so that whenever she felt a breeze she shivered. Then they'd braided parts, and strung colourful strings in others, and made different ponytails. When she'd seen the end product she remembered saying (after she was done hyperventilating) something along the lines of 'I didn't know demented skunks were so popular among the wicks'.

And this was the moment of truth. It probably wasn't going to be as grand, or frightening as she expected it to be, but Wendy still jumped when ever she heard anyone say anything that sounded like her real name. She glanced at Petra, trying to make herself as small as possible.

"You did say this was going to be easy, right?" She asked through the plastered nervous grin on her face. I'm going to be caught. I'm going to be caught. Oh Alioe please let me not be caught.

It was lucky she hadn't eaten anything, because she might have let it all out there and then. Instead she took a deep breath, crossing her fingers and sending a quick prayer up to the skies. "Right?"

Petra was nonchalantly puffing on her pipe, seemingly unworried.

"Oes, simple enough Rosh." She said, making a smoke ring with her lips and tongue. "Just don't open your mouth much, you still talk fancier than most wicks do."

Petra reached a hand down and hauled Wendy up onto the back of the wagon she was driving. Her kint was being driven by someone else today, leaving her in charge of some communal supplies. The wagon was ugly but fairly cheap to maintain.

"This'll be simple enough. Try not to look scared, look angry if you have to. All the tekaa in Vienda got kicked out, it's not a stretch." Petra patted Wendy on the shoulder. "You'll be right, rosh."

Petra walked around to the front of the wagon and jumped into the driver's seat. She flicked the reins, making some warbling sounds in her throat to drive the kenser in front of her forward. She headed towards the gates, seeing seventen in the distance.

((Would someone mind modding the seventen to make this more interesting? Scuro or Chiaro would be welcome, too or Alstair.))

((I gotcha covered, ladies.))

It was still too early for Ensign Ermanno. The young, blond-haired initiate had spent the night before in the Stacks, drinking himself under the table with a few of his friends who were still students. He pretended not to be dozing against the rich red stone column in the front of the guardhouse, leaning on his pike, his uniform only slightly wrinkled and unkempt.

Two other guards hovered inside. They were debating the finer points of sharpening a rapier with rather amazing enthusiasm. One was older, perhaps a higher rank, with greasy dark hair and an even greasier smile. The other was red-headed and freckled, and by this time in their near-argument, almost entirely red-faced.

As Petra and Wendy approached in the wagon, Ermanno snapped to attention, the other two guards hushed their discussion and peered out from inside the guardhouse, fingering their weapons intimidatingly but still distracted in their thoughts.

With a groggy sigh, the young initiate stepped up to the wagon. His lip curled a little; they were wicks. At least, he figured they were. Something was different about one of their fields. Was it missing or just that weak? He was just a little hung over, so it made his head hurt to concentrate too much.

"Halt." He said hoarsely, trying to bring authority back into his voice, "State your business this morning." The young galdor eyed the cart suspiciously before letting his gaze linger on Wendy. Her outfit was almost sobering in its brightness.

Wendy immediately looked down, making herself as small as possible. She would have panicked but she honestly couldn't move. The passive concentrated on her skirt like her life depended on it.

Disappear! I used to be able to do it, but in these gods cursed clothes I can't just fade out!

She felt a shiver crawl up her spine and swallowed painfully. This is it. This is it. Just let Petra handle all of it. Her brown eyes crept up to the seventen and she barely managed not to wince when they met. Instead she glanced away out into the crowd, trying to look bored instead of petrified.

Petra smiled widely at the young guard, teeth white around her pipe.

"Hello, young man." She said, voice tilting in an effort not to switch into tek. "We're just leaving the city for Old Rose. The wick festival is on, don't you know?"

Petra looked back at Wendy.

"How you doing back there Venadi?" She asked, making a thumbs up then down gesture.

She turned back to the man. "Young folk these days, I swear if her father were here to see it... Nothing but grump and kicking dust. He'd turn in his grave."

The hungover initiate shifted his gaze from Wendy to Petra, bleary eyes focusing slowly on the pipe in her mouth. It was rather disarming to the young galdor, and he found it very odd in his slow-minded state. He really wasn't interested in dealing with the wicks; he knew they could be slippery and strange.

Just as he opened his mouth to tell them to carry on, however, his dark-haired superior officer strode out of the guardhouse, fingering the hilt of his blade and running his free hand through his greasy hair. The taller, older Seventen narrowed his eyes at Wendy, totally ignoring Petra as she spoke. He knew she had no field, but also knew that even wicks could have passive children. The greasy guard had no problem waving these wicks through, but he felt like toying with them first. It had been a long, boring night.

With a sneer and a raised eyebrow the officer finally looked at Petra, "Old Rose, eh? Funny, I seem to recall that damn festival is on Surwood. Wouldn't it be easier to take a ferry across the clocking river instead?" He narrowed his eyes, "You could just have other plans first."

His dark smile widened into something cruel, "Maybe you're really going to Vienda to pick up some of your poxy folk who've been permanently ... removed."

He laughed. It was nothing short of wicked. His subordinate, unsure of how to feel in his hazy state, chuckled uncomfortably. The red-headed Seventen in the guardhouse grinned stupidly, but said nothing.

Wendy frowned and curled her legs up, mumbling something unintelligible for lack of anything to say, feeling her heart beat like a drum in her chest. She could barely hear anything because her ears were buzzing so loudly.



Wendy had been about to relax when she was put on alert by the new Seventen. This one. He's dangerous. She felt cold although the day was quite warm. The passive stared back at the man quietly, keeping half of her face hidden behind her knees. She let out a wisp of air and reached up with a hand to coil one of her pigtails around her finger nervously.



Wendy closed her eyes, trying to block out the sudden hate that she felt course through her small frame. How dare they? The old phrase sent an angry jolt up through her brain. Her eyes flew open and she glared at the man, lowering her legs slowly, "Petra, how are brigk's made?" She pronounced the word so it sounded like 'brick', "I heard once that they were made out of scummer. Is it true? I don' want to be among brigk's...d'you think there'll be many in Old Rose when we get there?"

Her eyes didn't leave the Seventen until she was done speaking, then she turned her head away pretending to look in Petra's direction while composing her expression into something less than fury. Her hand was clenched painfully and she relaxed it slowly, shifting positions so that she could curl up even further. Stupid. Where is your caution?!

Wendy bit the inside of her cheek. You don't even sound like a wick. You'll be caught. You'll be caught! This thought alone kept her quite still.

Petra's mouth began to resemble her namesake.

"I might be." She said quietly. "Eitherway we're better out than in, dze!"



Petra's mouth quirked into a smile.

"Oes, I don't think we'll see many of those in Old Rose. 'N that's aunty Petra to you, boch. Putting on airs at your age. Never should have let you anywhere near the jents."

The greasy officer's sneer twisted into something that may have resembled surprise if it hadn't been kept in check by his own culturally-encouraged pride. Was this sorry excuse for a wick baiting him? He liked it when folks talked back to him, really, for it was kind of an excuse to abuse his power.

He flexed his field and tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade, drawing himself up to his full height and brushing past the initiate that stood dumbfounded. Resting his free hand on the front of the wagon, he glared upwards at the two witches.

Behind him, noticing the sudden movement, the red-headed Seventen walked out of the guardhouse, hand hovering near his own weapon.

Only the hungover soldier stood clueless, staring at the kenser thoughtfully.


The dark-haired Seventen's face returned to its threatening expression. He practically hissed out of his teeth to Petra, "I'd suggest you keep that one in the back for the rest of your journey. She quips up again in front of soldiers like us, and I'm sure it'll cost her more than both of you could ever bargain for."

He was half tempted to drag them both off the wagon and inspect it, just to belittle them for what he saw as indignance, "I could call that harassment and search your clocking sorry excuse for a wagon for contraband, but I'd rather be done with you both. Get out of my sight and don't ever come back through my gate again."

He snarled and stood back from the wagon, slapping the closest kenser hard on the rump to send them trotting.

Gods, he hated wicks. Inwardly he hoped that the same law from Vienda would one day come to Brunnhold. It would be a fine day when it did.

Petra glared at the road as the kensers trotted forward. A slap to the rump couldn't really do much to a kenser but they were hers and she'd had them since they were foals. Keeping something bloody enormous with a soft mouth was very hard, thank you. How dare he hit her baby!

"Oh Buttons..." She cooed at her kenser, "May the crows shit on him."

They passed the gate in no time at all. Soon they were out on the road and in the sunshine. Petra leant back.

"What'd I tell you, nanabo, free as a bird." She smiled, braids shiftingwith the breeze.

Wendy sat up as soon as they were far enough that she no longer cared much. She stood and gave Petra hug from behind. "Mu...something."

She laughed, "No, don't scold! I'll remember eventually!" The passive couldn't keep the smile from her face, "Thank you. For everything...And sorry about the guard thing. I just can't seem to keep to myself anymore..."

Obviously.

Past the gate, Wendy could feel the fresh air pounding on her face, blown wild across the wide moors. The ground was reddish, spotted with dark green brush and patches of heather, and she could see farther than she had in years: all the way to Wraithwine in the northeast, the little town of Muffey, and the Arova in the distance.

A road led out from Brunnhold across an ancient sandstone bridge. Along the way to the bridge, there were a multitude of shacks and stables set out for the traveler, as well as a few stalled carts selling hot food and cloaks to guard against the wind. A carriage lot was sprawled outside the gates, and several weary-looking travelers milled about. The road was peppered with galdori riders on moaback and fine carriages pulled by thoroughbred horses.

Wendy let out a breath and shivered a little when the wind hit the back of her hair. All she had eyes for was...well...the space.

It was so open. She felt dwarfed by how giant the world was. Her fear didn't quite reach agoraphobia, but it was a fine line. She held on to the cart until her hands turned white and took a deep breath. New scents flooded into her nostrils-- earth, grass, flowers, rain!

She was so used to the city funk, with it's odd piss and petals smell-- a smell that came from drunk humans and the galdori who stepped daintily around them.

Behind her she could hear it. That machine like sound, the way the voices murmured and flowed like the purr of a giant animal.

There are different threads of sound, she thought, The first is green and high energy, and that is the galdori. The second sound is gold, and subtle, twined around the green. The humans. And the last, the quietest string of sound, red and just barely a whisper. And that is us. That is Brunhold...but here? There is only the sound of the wind, and the few travelers on the road. And what do they care of us? A wick and a passive. Or, two wicks.

Two wicks now.

A bit of red string caught the corner of her eye and she tugged at it, pulling the strand away from one of her hair decorations.

She let it go and her hand went to the tattoo of the key, pressing it gently.

"I think," she murmured, "I could get used to this."

I think I could get used to being free.