It was with growing dismay that Warwick realized what it meant to drift -- and, more importantly, to be without a clocking cart. Travel was all well and good. Better than that, even; travel was wonderful. But as days stretched away, he realized with growing frustration and agitation that, as much as he enjoyed travel, he was really growing to hate walking.

Not so fond of the time spent alone, either.

Somehow, though, despite his grumbling and an exhaustion that was probably more spiritual than physical [though his legs ached too, no denying that], he had made it across what had seemed an endless stretch of plain to the Arova River. Then beyond, to the festival itself, finally someplace familiar in its bright insanity and the wild range of colors that littered trees and streets, clothing and hair, jewelry dangling from well-adorned ears...and everywhere else, of course.

It was like home, and it also dragged up home-sickness. Warwick too his efforts to wash it away rather literally, down by the edge of the water with his head dipped under. When he came up again, spluttering water, the almost-white of his hair would be faded toward a dirty cream, the brilliantly blue stripes darkened almost to purple, all of it flattened across his head and his face. He swiped it rudely back, looking much like a wet rat, and went fumbling for his patchwork bag.

First step, from here, would be to find solitary housing; from there, perhaps he could claim his own corner, busy enough to pick up a little extra coin and fund future travels.

Maybe even enough for a cart.

"Junta, there, brother," came a friendly voice.

The nearby dock was so rickety that by all rights it should be floating downstream by now; nevertheless, a skinny figure was seated at the end, his long legs and bare feet dangling. A hat and a bushel of red hair obscured his face; he had a fishing pole in his hands.

"Fine day for a head-dunkin'," said the wick cheerfully. Warwick noticed the sign of the Laughing Sky tribe imprinted on his green jacket, which was quite clearly a stolen Seventen uniform.

"You need one?" But it wasn't a real threat, despite the face he pulled and the almost assessing way his eyes went to the distance between them, measuring and considering. It tasted more like the friendly banter of sibling-to-sibling, like something familiar and comfortable and totally thoughtless in Warwick's mouth.

Judging from the rest of him, he needed more than just a head-dunk. His clothing, many-times-repaired, was faded more toward brown than the bright colors it had once been. The water pouring down his neck soaked it through and brightened it almost immediately, streaks of blue against his shoulders, richer at the small of his back. A full-on dive in would probably leave him awash in colors to match those of the festival behind...

He straightened instead, however, shaking his head with a violence that dried it considerably, let it regain some of its wild height. Offered a smile instead of more threats, just a little crooked, "Good fishing?"

"The best," said the wick, pointing to a basket behind him. Three tiny, measly fish were flapping around listlessly inside. "Say, ye wouldn't happen to have any grub on ye, eh? Only fishin' without bait's sorta like..." He paused, trying to think of an appropriate metaphor. "Er, sorta like fishin' without bait, I guess."

He turned and grinned. Warwick could see a blue bhindi on his forehead, another sign of the Laughing Sky tribe. His face looked sunburned and honest.

"I'm Jerzy, by the way," he said. Giving his fishing pole a useless flick in a pathetic attempt to lure a fish onto the empty hook, he turned back to the water. "Ye new around here? I ent seen ye before."

"It's that time of year, isn't it?" Everyone was new; he halfway shrugged the question off, one hand in his hair and the other dragging his patchworok bag back up over his shoulder so that he could root through the mishmash of belongings inside. He walked and looked at the same time, both careless of the rickety nature of the man's dock and instinctively aware of it; wobbling and swaying in just the right way to keep himself from tumbling head-first into the water.

Warwick came up with some dried meat as he approached the man, dropped down easily to sit beside him, legs folded beneath him. Yes, it was approaching the end of his store, but it was also probably what he'd been eating on the road for the past week, at least, and he was not sorry to see it go. Held it out with his arm straight, so that it was as far from his mouth as possible. "I'm Warwick."

Couldn't buy friends, sure, but...well, it certainly wouldn't hurt, would it?

"Warwick, yer a delightful individual," said Jerzy enthusiastically, attaching a bit of dried meat to his fishhook and tossing it back in the water, wiggling the pole around in hopes of finally enticing an edible fish.

"Not here with a kint, are ye?" he asked politely. "That's some benny ink all over ye. I'da pegged ye for a Black Hand, no trouble." He spoke tentatively now, still friendly but with a very slight wary edge to his voice.

He'd had that smile on his face; bright, vibrant...and short-lived. The words like blows, one after another, drove it back to a more subdued expression, distracted and sliding toward thoughtless. Warwick settled the bag between his legs, looped arms around his knees, fingers shifting around the opposite wrist. His posture was quiet, sliding toward something more closed-off. The difference was probably less subtle than he ever would've noticed.

"Ah, nah, just me and my lonesome." A glance at the fish, and then up toward Jerzy, with his smile widening in a deliberate sort of way. His jovial, teasing tone clanged just a touch false. "Why, you gotta kint you wanna share?"

"Always do," said Jerzy truthfully. "Dze, half our tribe's jent what needed a good place to rest their boots. Laughin' Sky, y'see. We got a grand-daoa what cooks a mean hingle stew, if yer in'erested."

It didn't seem like a recruiting pitch, but more like a friendly invitation. Jerzy was clearly someone who needed no extra help from those around him; his easygoing manner was almost infectious. The Skies were always famous for being hospitable.

The wick grinned. "Ah, all this division, y'know? Stupid fights breakin' out between tribes. All the Durgs in uproar over this n' that. Silly. S'not the spirit of the caoja."

"Ah huh." Agreeable, the sound not quite a word but not quite rude enough to be a grunt, either, just quietly thoughtful with his fingers shifting where they were laced. Warwick tipped his head to consider Jerzy and his smile blossomed again, bright and genuine.

"Too many spokes coming to rest." The good cheer was infectious indeed, enough to leave Warwick groping daringly for the edges of a joke. Both of his eyebrows inched their way slowly upward, "Kint and kin alike, ehn? I could do with some food that ent half dust, though, and mayhaps we can find something I can help with round your way."

At that moment, Jerzy let out a triumphant hoot and began reeling in his fishing line, a fat herring latched onto the bait-laden hook. "Wow-ee, lookit that," he said, taking it off the hook and grinning. He stood to his full, lanky height and leaped off the dock, landing with a splash in the ankle-deep water along the shore and plopping the fish in the basket.

"Come along then, let's go see Durg Maxine," he said cheerfully. "I bet she'll be askin' ye all about that ink o' yers."

Well -- well! If Jerzy had caught a fish because of his however-old jerky, perhaps he'd done enough as it was. The hoot made him jump, the rickety dock teetering underneath his weight in a way that only dragged his heart up another notch in his chest. So what if the water was only ankle deep -- all the worse, in fact, that meant that a headlong dive could result in the end of his too-short tumbling career. But after a moment he stabilized, drew in a breath, tossed the bag over his shoulder and jumped neatly down beside Jerzy with a splash.

"Ask all she likes." If that was the price, so be it. He shook his hair, already dried out from the sun, light and fluffy again, out of his face. "Got plenty to share. Which way?"