Portraits of the Divine

The road east was wide and dry beneath their boots, the earlier mist burned away by the climbing sun. Rolling meadows stretched on either side, dotted with low stone fences and the occasional tangle of old trees. Willow walked a few paces ahead, her cloak slung loose, arms swinging with a slight bounce in her step. Out of nowhere, probably filling the silence, she called back over her shoulder. "So, Joren, what do you call yourself?" Joren glanced at Gus, confused. Gus only shrugged. "Call... myself?" Willow turned, walking backward now, a mischievous grin on her face. "You know, your Auspex name. You've got one, don't you?" Joren admitted. "I never really thought about it." 

Willow's eyes sparkled. "Seriously? Not even something basic? Nova-something? Starboy? Constellation Man?" Joren flushed slightly. "I'm not trying to be one of those types." Willow laughed. "Oh come on, EVERYONE has one, even I do." She twirled a hand lazily in the air. "Doesn't have to be serious, just gives the gossips something to whisper about." Gus grinned. "He's more of a 'quiet hero' type anyway." Willow smirked that devious smile again. "Fine, then I'll pick one for you." Joren groaned softly. "Please don't." "Too late," Willow teased, spinning back around. "Nova Man it is!" Joren sighed, shaking his head. "That's awful." Gus chuckled. "Could be worse." Willow's voice drifted back, playful. "We'll workshop it." 

Afternoon – The Road 

Willow twirled a long blade of grass between her fingers as she walked, gaze roaming the sky. Gus chewed idly on a strip of dried meat. Joren kept pace just behind them, the steady rhythm of boots on packed earth helping to ease the restless energy still humming under his skin. Most of the time spent was talking about whatever Willow could think of, a nice change of pace of the adventure so far. She quizzed Gus on pottery techniques; which glazes he liked best, how kilns in Glazebend compared to the smaller towns, how long he has been in the business. Then she prodded Joren about constellations, trying (with little success) to get him to admit which one was his favorite. 

The road stretched on, winding between low hills and the occasional stand of trees. The sun hung warm and bright overhead, the hum of insects filling the air. It was quiet enough that Joren found himself relaxing for the first time in days, no tension riding on his shoulders. It was just the road, the company, and the steady pace to a new town ahead that filled his day. Then, faint at first, a melody drifted toward them on the breeze. Willow paused mid-sentence, tilting her head. "...Hear that?" Joren stopped, listening a little more. A high, carnival-like tune was getting closer as they went over the small hills and slopes of the road. "Music," Gus said, perplexed. "Doesn't sound like a camp." The three of them traded glances, curiosity sparking as they wondered if a show was going on out in the middle of nowhere. 

Around the next bend, the trees opened into a small clearing beneath the wide boughs of an ancient oak. There, painted in bright, patchwork colors, stood a wagon and curtains. Its panels were streaked with faded reds, greens, and golds, the woodwork worn but lovingly cared for. Strings of pennants fluttered overhead, trailing from the wagon roof to the surrounding branches. Painted in swirling script across a hanging sign on the cart: 

"MASTER OREN'S WONDERS & MARVELS - PERFORMANCES DAILY" 

A small folding stage had been set beside it, rough boards laid over packed dirt and draped with bright cloth. At the center of the stage sat a single tall stool, on it was a thin man in a long purple coat, broad hat tipped low over his sharp eyes. One leg swung lazily over the other as he, but what caught their attention first was his hands. Both of the mans hands were covered in strange, stitched sock puppets. One, a green crocodile with a tiny top hat and oversized button eyes, the other, a crooked-nosed gentleman with wild yarn hair and a ridiculous mustache. The man's voice shifted back and forth, playing out both characters in a loud, exaggerated argument. "Sir Beansworth, how dare you steal my turnips!" The crocodile puppet snapped its cloth jaws with dramatic flair. "You'll never catch me, Sir Snappison!" cried the gentleman, flailing its stubby arms. 

The two puppets spun and bounced across the man's lap, the scene growing more absurd with every line. He was completely absorbed in the act, the strange, carnival-like melody still weaving faintly through the air around him. Willow stopped in her tracks, a grin tugging at her lips. "Is this guy for real?" Gus gave a low chuckle. "Looks like it." Joren watched, amused like he was five years old again, his eyes sparkling like stars. There was something oddly charming about the silly performance playing out in the middle of nowhere. At that moment, the man glanced up, sharp eyes catching sight of them. A broad smile spread across his face and the puppets froze mid-argument. "Ah! Honored guests!" he called brightly. "You've arrived just in time! Come, come, the grand tale is about to begin anew!" 

Late Afternoon – Oren's Show 

The sun hung lower in the sky now, slanting gold through the branches. A light breeze stirred the small flags strung above the carriage ever so gently. The music, faint and looping, still floated somewhere in the background, though no instrument could be seen. Willow gave a glance to Joren and Gus, then strolled forward without hesitation. "Wouldn't want to miss a grand tale," she said lightly. Gus followed at a slower pace, arms crossed, an amused look on his face. Joren had already run up next to the stage and sat down in the grass, excited for the grand tale from the performer. "Welcome indeed," he said brightly. "I am Master Oren, known to some as the Master of Puppets!" 

With a flourish, he brought the puppets to life again. The crocodile bobbed in greeting. "An honor!" it declared in a deep voice. The mustached gentleman tipped an imaginary hat. "Most esteemed company!" Without a word, Oren rose from his stool and stepped behind the carriage to grab something. A quiet rustle followed, and then something new emerged; a puppet booth with curtains and decorations to signify scenes. Willow's eyebrows arched. "Now he's got props?" Joren sat cross-legged in front without hesitation, still grinning. "I kind of love it." Gus remained standing behind him, arms crossed, but he didn't look away. The curtain drew back with a faint shhhhk. From the darkened space behind it, the two puppets rose up, first the crocodile with his top hat slightly askew, and then the mustached gentleman, holding a tiny wooden cane. 

The curtain swayed gently in the breeze as a hush settled over the clearing, as if even the trees were holding their breath. Master Oren's voice rang out, now deeper and smoother, more theatrical than before. "A tale," he began, "of long roads and longer shadows... of forgotten names and wooden hearts." The crocodile turned its button eyes toward the audience. "A tale," it echoed, "with teeth." The gentleman puppet nodded gravely. "And of those who have us in the palm of their hands." Oren's hand puppets moved like water, giving them a strange grace as if they were real people just like them. The painted curtains behind them shifted, revealing a crude scene of mountains under a dark sky, a crooked little village nestled below. Joren leaned forward. Even Willow had gone still, her smirk gone soft, thoughtful. The strange music drifted on thin and far away, like a tune half-remembered from a dream. Oren spoke low from behind the booth, voice barely above a whisper. "Now... let us begin."