Open The Slups Completed A Harbinger of Dread

[Thistle Brambledew]

The brazier hissed in response to the declaration, as though the fire itself took pause to consider it. Shadows flickered, but none drew close. Not yet.

Thistle gave a quiet hum. Low and even, like the start of a lullaby.

“A rare sort, you are,” he murmured. “To walk into the fire with no promise of return. Most who say such things do it to be heard. But you believe it.”

He didn’t smile, exactly, but something in his face softened.

With slow, practiced motion, Thistle turned and scanned the shelves beside him. A dozen bottles stared back. Some were wrapped in paper, some labeled, and some not. He selected a small glass vial, rounded and greenish, with a dark sediment settled at the bottom. He turned it in his paw once, then twice, gazing through the cloudy liquid as though searching for something.

Then, without a word, he placed it gently on the table between them.

“So tell me, then, gallant soul. Who is it you guard so fiercely?” His voice was soft, the cadence slow. “You said her name before. Corda.”

A pause. The air held still.

A long string of beads hanging from the ceiling gave a single, hollow clack.

“What does she need protecting from?”

He watched the smoke as it curled and folded like a ribbon over the edge of the cup between them. His gaze didn't follow it for long. It drifted back to Cordan.

“Is it something waiting ahead of her… or something that’s never let go?”

The curtain behind him swayed, just slightly, though no wind passed through.

“There’s something near her,” he added, almost dreamily. “She saw it. It stayed.”

Thistle leaned forward, placing a single paw gently on the edge of the table between them. Not pushing. Not imposing. Simply present.

“What sort of spirit follows a damsel so loyal? A guardian? A tormentor?”

A breath. Barely a whisper.

“A father?”

He let the word linger like a leaf settling on still water, his gaze quiet and patient.

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Cordan started at the invocation of that name. His hand went to his side, reaching for a rapier that wasn't there. "That foul cur," he spat, righteous indignation in every sound. "He was not content to abuse, degrade, and terrorize my sister in life, but now his shade persists from beyond the veil? Show yourself, you pernicious wraith!" he bellowed, looking up to the ceiling of the cart as if his father's ghost would be clinging there like a spider. "I slew you once, I shall do so a hundred times more if that is the cost of my sister's peace! Fade forever from memory and be forgotten, and in so doing work your first good upon this world!"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle did not rise. He remained exactly where he was, paws folded, eyes following the arc of Cordan’s voice without flinching. The rage passed over him like wind across reeds.

Only when silence returned did he move. Slow, unhurried, like a beast used to sudden shouts and louder ghosts.

“Warrior’s spirit. Fierce and loyal.” His tone was even, not cold. Respectful. “But the cart isn’t a battlefield, Cordan. Not yet.”

He reached for the green-glass vial he had set earlier on the table. With one claw, he unstopped it and tipped a careful measure into a chipped ceramic cup. Three deliberate drops. Then another, poured for himself.

From beneath the bench, he drew a slender bottle of wine. The seal had been broken long ago. He poured, slow and steady, letting the red mingle with the potion’s hue until the liquid turned a rich, dusky plum.

One cup slid across the table to Cordan.

“Not poison.” A faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. “I’d not waste good wine on murder.”

He lifted his own cup and held it just off the table’s surface, letting the rim tilt toward the flame.

“It’s a focusing draught. Scrying. For insight. For clarity.” A soft clink followed as he tapped the base of the cup lightly against wood.

“You want to see him again?” His voice lowered, deeper now. “To find where he clings, how he lingers, what keeps him tied? Then don’t swing.”

He leaned in slightly, gaze steady.

“Drink. And sit still.” He lifted his cup in quiet salute. “We’re in the war room now, hero. Let’s plan your victory.”

[OOC: the wine is real and of bottom shelf quality. The added drops of liquid are balsamic vinegar and has no medicinal benefit]

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Cordan leaned in, watching the liquid being dropped and poured. The scent of it was bitter, the wine going a touch stale. Truly, it seemed like the kind of potion a mysterious soothsayer would pour for a vision-quest. Still, the promise lingered, the offer of finding the foul shade of his father and sending him back through the Hellgates where he belonged.

Cordan knocked back the glass. The wine was truly terrible, laced with whatever bitter toxin the soothsayer used for the vision. He made a face as he slammed down the cup, trying to clean the taste off his tongue against his teeth. "I have imbibed your vile concoction, prophet," he declared. "Now, let us plan for our victory, and the final end of the dastardly Cormac LeConte."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle gave no grand reaction to the slam of the cup or the righteous declaration that followed. He only turned the empty vessel once with a finger, tilting it to catch the last smear of plum-dark residue along the bottom.

“It’s workin’,” he said quietly. “Good.”

He lifted his own cup, no rush in the movement, and brought it to his lips. The taste was no better the second time, but Thistle drank without flinching. The wine settled in his belly like stone softened in fire.

The curtain behind him rippled, though no breeze touched it. The brazier didn’t flare, didn’t flash, but the shadows it cast stretched farther than the flame should allow. One of the beads above clinked again. Just one.

Thistle set his cup down with care.

“Cormac LeConte,” he repeated. The name was not spat or cursed, just spoken. Measured. Given shape. “Father, ghost, tormentor.”

“Let’s start with what lingers.” His tone remained calm, almost meditative. “What memory still bites when you’re trying to sleep? What shape does he wear when your back’s turned?”

He didn’t press forward, didn’t lean in. He sat still, a constant point around which the questions spun.

“A ghost holds to pain. Its own. Or someone else’s.” His gaze shifted, not to the cup now, but to the space just behind Cordan’s shoulder. “So what’s he carrying? What haven’t you taken back?”

“Say his name again,” he added gently. “But this time, don’t shout it. Just speak it. Like you would to someone alive.”

He reached to the side and, with a practiced flick of his paw, whisked away the linen drape that covered the crystal orb resting at the table’s center. The glass caught the firelight and drank it in, refracting it in veins of cloudy violet.

As the cloth fell away, a soft click sounded above, and from the cart’s ceiling a hidden mechanism released a slow cascade of delicate shimmer. Fine, glinting flecks drifted down like dust kissed by moonlight. They settled on fur, wood, and glass without a sound.

Thistle didn’t speak over the moment. He only watched.

“Let’s see if he answers.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Cordan's eyes narrowed, his brows furrowing has he tried to process the mystic's instructions. What had he to fear from the shade of his father? The beast was dead, his heart impaled on the LeConte family's heirloom rapier. Surely Cordan had nothing to-

Memory flashed through him. His sister, crying and weeping, huddled in a corner as the sounds of screams and blows filled the room. Cordan remembered the moment she retreated, the moment he seized control. He remembered seizing the blade off the wall, of charging for his father-

He'd stabbed the beast through the back. His father hadn't even heard him coming, hadn't seen his death arrive. There had been no glorious fight on the ramparts, no fateful duel between father and son. Only two and-a-half feet of steel, and a beast dead with his hand still raised, before he toppled over onto the floor.

Cordan flinched visibly, the cup knocked off and onto the floor of the cart. Fortunately it wasn't a long fall and it chipped rather than shattered, bouncing away somewhere in the dark corners of the cart. Cordan looked into the orb, and he saw it. He saw the truth of it that he'd avoided. His father's face going slack, rage and malice giving way to... to what? Relief? Had Cordan freed him from his demons? Or was that last spasm one of vengeful pride, knowing that his son was just as much a monster as him? "I'm not like you," Cordan mumbled, trying to reassure himself more than defend. "I'm not, I'm not like you, I'm nothing like you!"

He clutched at his cloak, pulling it tight. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to explode-

Corda woke up abruptly. She looked about, disoriented, before pulling the hat from her head. That had never happened before; Corda always fetched Cordan when her emotions got to be too much, not the other way around. "He's gone for now," she noted, blinking away some shimmer powder that had gathered on her eyelashes. "What happened? What did he see?"

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

The shimmer continued to fall for a few moments longer, then ceased, as though the mechanism above had sensed the silence. The final flecks drifted onto the table and Corda’s shoulders, soft as frost.

Thistle didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered where Cordan had just been, his paws resting lightly on the rim of the crystal orb. A flick of his ear. A breath. That was all the surprise he allowed.

Then he turned.

“Welcome back,” he said gently.

He reached into a small wooden bowl beside him and pulled out a folded cloth, soaked with cool stream water and lightly scented with lavender. With quiet care, he offered it across the table.

“He vanished quickly.” The words were not sharp. Not puzzled. Just curious. “One moment roaring for battle, and the next, gone without a sound.”

He looked back to the orb. The smoky veins within had stilled.

“Not just him. The spirit, too. Whatever lingered… let go, for now. Fled when the knight turned away.”

He reached for the kettle beside the brazier, pouring hot tea into a small clay cup. Chamomile, lemon balm, and something sweet beneath the steam. He set it down in front of her, the scent comforting.

“But he faced it.” His voice was soft, but clear. “Looked his father in the eye. Not in a duel or a dream... but in memory. In truth.”

Thistle leaned back slightly, paws folded in his lap.

“It wasn’t the battle he expected. So he ran.”

He tilted his head, studying Corda now. Not with judgment, but with care.

“Are you alright?” he asked. “We don’t have to chase him, not yet. But if we don’t, he may come knockin’ again.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda took a deep breath, worrying the brim of the hat with her pawfingers. There was always a small period of disorientation when she woke up, a time when the world around her did not seem real, when her body didn't feel like her own. It was unnerving, going through it in front of a stranger. She focused on the feel of the seat and floor beneath her, the rough texture of the hat in her paws, the weight of the cloak about her shoulders. That incense was still burning, and she could taste a sourness in her mouth, an aftertaste of some concoction. She counted the bottles on the rack, noting their different colors, until finally the world came fully into focus.

Corda nodded in response to the hedgehog's question, still trying to calm her heart. "I'm alright," she confirmed, taking another deep breath to attempt to expunge the fear from her chest. "Cordan was afraid," she assessed, puzzled. "He's never afraid. He always bravely stood up to our father for me. Even if he stood up this time, what he saw terrified him." She couldn't imagine what could cause such fear in the unshakeable Cordan. Normally there was nothing that could do so; he'd faced their father dozens of times without fear, but this time...

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle let her speak without interruption, only nodding once when she confirmed she was alright. His paws rested loosely on the table, open and still, offering no pressure.

When she finished, he took a slow breath of his own. Something about her words had weight.

“You did well to anchor yourself just now,” he said. “When you came back. Counting, holding the hat. You knew the world wasn’t quite yours again, but you waited for it to be. That’s no small thing.”

There was a warm glimmer in his gaze. One of understanding and respect.

“And you’re right. He was afraid.”

He leaned back slightly, just enough to glance toward the orb. It offered no images. No swirling mists or signs. But the memory of Cordan, the way he had flinched and fled, lingered in Thistle’s mind as clearly as if it had been etched in the glass.

“But not of the ghost. Not exactly.”

Thistle’s voice dropped a shade softer.

“Cordan’s faced your father before. Dozens of times, like you said. Always standing tall. Always the hero. Always the protector.”

He let the thought rest for a moment, then added:

“He looked his father in the eye. And he saw more than rage. He saw reflection.”

Thistle didn’t lower his voice now. He let it carry, soft but firm.

“That’s what truly frightened him. Not the spirit. Not the memory. But the possibility that the same shadow lives in him.”

He looked back to Corda, watching her closely.

“He’s walked tall his whole life. Stood in front of you like a wall, sword drawn, chest out. But there’s a fine line between standing to protect... and charging to punish.”

His paw drifted over the edge of the crystal ball, not touching it, just tracing the arc of something not quite seen.

“That kind of fire, if left to burn without purpose, starts hurting more than it saves. And not always in ways you can see.”

Then, a small shift in tone. Softer. Steadier.

“But fire can be tempered. Forged. Cordan’s not his father. Not by intent. But there are... echoes.”

A breath.

“That’s why he fled. He didn’t want you to see what he saw.”

He settled back, gaze steady.

“But you were there too, weren’t you?”

His eyes searched hers gently, not demanding, but inviting.

“Not just when it happened, but in the vision. You felt it.”

He tilted his head slightly, quills rustling faintly.

“What did you see?”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda took a deep breath, her anxiety spiking at the question. That entire night had a sense of unreality about it; she still couldn't trust what was the tale told by Cordan, what was filled in by her imagination, and what might be unvarnished truth.

"He was so angry," Corda recalled quietly. "Father first, but then Cordan too. I remember Mother's screams, Father's shouts, the sound of him hitting her... I remember crying, terrified, alone... And then it... It all gets unclear. I remember movement, fury, hate. I remember coming to, and there was a sword in my hand. It was red. My father was on the floor. He had red on him. The carpet beneath him was blue, but it had red on it. Mother had red all over her. I knelt to touch father, to shake him awake. He didn't wake up, so I left him and went to Mother. I tried to take all the red away, to cover it with white, like I used to do when Cordan got into scrapes. She never woke up though." Her voice kept getting smaller and smaller; by the end she was curled up on the seat with her knees to her chest, hugging her legs for comfort.

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle didn’t speak right away. The hush of the cart stretched, but it didn’t feel empty. The flame in the brazier stilled, as if it too was holding its breath. A slow creak groaned along one of the overhead beams. Something turned in the ceiling rig, a hanging charm long since set in motion began to rotate in reverse.

Thistle’s paws folded in front of him. One claw traced a slow, steady circle against the table’s worn grain.

“As I suspected,” he said quietly.

He didn’t say it as an accusation. There was no judgment, no disappointment. Just a knowing. A truth placed gently on the table, beside the tea.

“But what I said still holds. He died because he raised his paw against your mother. That was a choice he made. The last of many.”

Thistle’s gaze drifted toward the curtain, watching the faint waver of shadow and fabric.

“You were a child. A soul torn in half to survive. One piece screamed, and one struck back.”

He lifted his paw slightly, fingers splayed, and made a slow, deliberate motion as if brushing dust from an invisible line in the air. A faint shimmer followed the gesture, trailing in his wake like thread catching moonlight. It vanished by the time he lowered his paw again.

“The gods, the fates, whatever watches us from behind the veil, they have a way of setting the board.”

His tone didn’t turn cold, but it deepened. The cart gave a soft, hollow pop, like wood shifting under pressure. The beads above let out a single note.

“They needed a sword. Not a soldier. Not a warrior. Just a soul in the right place at the wrong time.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“You were a pawn in a story already told. The blade was placed in your hand by grief, by instinct, by something older than names.”

Then came the smallest flicker of a smile. Not amused, but aching.

“Cordan still wants it to be a battle. A cause. Something clean. But this wasn’t clean, was it?”

He let that rest. Then, slowly, his voice dropped to something closer to a whisper.

“If you keep turning it over, keep fighting the moment again and again, you’re not just facing ghosts. You’re challenging the ones who wove the threads. And they don’t take kindly to being questioned.”

The curtain behind him stirred. A long breath of warmth passed through the cart, though nothing had opened.

“You survived. You stayed.”

He looked at her now, truly looked, with soft intensity.

“That means something.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda kept her knees close to her chest, trying to make herself small - a typical response to her father's anger, minimizing the space she took up. Even now, she realized, the fear of him was enough to make her cower. The seer was correct, though: she had survived him, and he was gone. She was free.

So why does it feel like being cut loose from a cliff to plummet instead?

The vixen considered the seer's point. She wasn't particularly religious by any tradition, but she did respect the idea that there were bigger things out there than any beast, perhaps big enough to decide the course of the world. Cordan kept getting caught up in that might because he couldn't make what he'd done fit the narrative he maintained for himself. To stab a beast in the back, even one as violent and dangerous to his family as their father had been, was dishonorable, an act anathema to his chivalric code of conduct. Until he reconciled what he'd done with the todd he wanted to be, he'd never be able to move on. In a way, Corda wished she'd had the bravery in that moment to take up a blade and slay her father herself. She could have lived with the narrative of a victim finally standing up to her abuser. Cordan had never been there for that, though...

I kept him from it, Corda realized. I needed him to live life for me, to experience happiness and freedom. Save for those few times when father became truly dangerous, I shouldered his abuse to keep it away from Cordan.

"He needed me too," Corda said quietly. "Cordan needed me to be the one taking father's abuse, because I could take it. If father had tried on him, Cordan would have fought back much sooner. That would only have escalated the abuse, until eventually Cordan would have killed our father and destroyed our family." Tears started to rise to her eyes as she admitted, "Maybe I should have let him. Maybe then Mother would be alive. Maybe by accepting the abuse, I'm the one who let it reach that point."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle did not interrupt.

He sat as he had before, unmoving and unmoved. Not with indifference, but with steadiness. As if the weight of her words belonged here. As if the cart itself had been built to carry them.

A faint click echoed from overhead, and the copper disc shifted into place. Candlelight filtered through its pinpricks, casting moving shadows across the walls and floor.

Tiny shapes began to dance across the cart. Insects. Small, twitching shadows crawling in clusters. Termite-like, aimless, circling legs and antennae forming silhouettes on Corda’s cloak and the wood beneath her.

Thistle raised one paw, slow and steady, and traced a line through the crawling shadows before resting it on the handle of a broom, leaning near the brazier.

“Your father was the broom,” he said softly. “Simple. Brutal. Built for sweeping things aside. When he struck, the world shifted. The floor was cleared.”

His paw fell still again, fingers splayed.

“And you? You were the termites on the floor. Tiny. Scattered. Skittering. Trying to survive under a force so much bigger, louder, and crueler than you.”

His tone didn’t turn cruel. There was weight in it. Recognition. Respect.

“You ran. You adapted. You made yourself small because the broom was made to crush. You survived.”

He turned slightly, glancing toward the wall where the insects gathered in a slow, growing mass.

“But Cordan… he was a different kind of termite.”

The insect shadows began to gather in a knot, condensed and crawling upward toward the shelves. Thistle’s paw moved again. The swarm seemed to follow, mirroring the thought as if the cart itself understood.

“He didn’t scatter. He concentrated. Let the heat build. Let the hunger grow. And in time?” His voice dropped just slightly. “He turned on the broom and consumed it.”

Thistle’s claw flicked. The charm rotated again, and the insect shadows vanished.

The stillness returned like a blanket. Like the silence after a storm.

“That is what your father never saw. Brooms don’t fear termites.”
“Not until it’s too late.”

He folded his paws.

“You kept Cordan from burning too soon. You thought you acted in stealth, yet he witnessed everything. You gave him space to gather. And when it came time, he struck.”

Then, gentler now:

“You weren’t the cause. You were the shield. You bore what he couldn’t, until the day you both couldn’t bear it anymore.”

He didn’t blink.

“That is not weakness. That is sacrifice.”

His tone never rose. If anything, it calmed.

“No one ever blames the broom for being swung. But they always question the termites for being too small.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“And that’s the lie he left in you.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Being compared to a termite shouldn't feel cathartic, and yet, inexplicably, as the hedgehog spoke, Corda felt the tears begin to flow freely. Somehow what the soothsayer said was enough to soothe the guilt within her, uncapping the grief she'd carried, bottled tight within her chest, for years upon years. Her sobs choked out of her, rising in small whimpers and gasps, as the emotional weight of Thistle's words crashed upon her in waves. It wasn't my fault. There was nothing wrong with me. What I did was to keep us alive, and what Cordan did was the same. A tumultuous mixture of joy, sorrow, pride, shame, relief, grief, rage, and grace spun within her, taking her facial expressions on the journey of a lifetime. It was in moments like these that she wished her brother was there to hug her.

"I hate to ask," she mumbled through the sniffles, "but... I could really use a hug."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

He rose.

With a quiet scoot of the bench, he stood and carefully stepped around the narrow table. The cart was cramped, filled with shelves and dangling charms, but he moved with practiced grace, mindful of every edge and motion.

When he reached her side, he paused only once to brush a few of his quills back with his paw, flattening the worst of their sharp edges. Then, gently, he knelt and wrapped his arms around her.

It wasn’t a show of magic. Just warmth. Presence. A real, solid hug, given without hesitation.

“Course you can,” he said softly.

The cart creaked faintly beneath their weight. One charm above them gave a lazy spin, casting a soft shimmer along the ceiling.

He let her cry. Let the years spill out without trying to stop them. And when her breath began to slow, he spoke, quiet but steady.

“There’s no one path forward,” he said. “No mold you have to fit. If you want to be strong, fierce, loud, then be. And if you want to be soft, gentle, lovely, be that too.”

He shifted slightly, just enough to catch her eyes.

“You don’t owe anyone a version of yourself that hurts to carry.”

A breath passed between them. Slow. Calm.

“Whether you walk forward as a flower in bloom or a sword at the ready... let it be your choice. Not guilt’s. Not fear’s.”

He gave her a gentle squeeze.

“You survived. Now you get to live.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Corda & Cordan LeConte]

Corda leaned into the hug, so warm and paternal - and she broke. Her sobs wracked her frame as she released all of the grief and guilt she'd carried into an embrace she'd never known, that of a male who accepted her without reservation or condition. Eventually her sobs settled into soft mews like that of a newborn pup, as she slowly regained her composure.

"Thank you," she breathed, her voice still trembling, as she straightened up and rubbed at her eyes. "I... I didn't know how much I needed to hear that." She took a deep breath, trying to gather herself up again from where her emotions were spilled across the cart, emotion poured from a split sack. "I... I wish I had more to give you," she confessed. "You gave me back myself, and I don't have anything nearly comparable to offer."

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Thistle didn’t let go.

Even as her sobs softened into small, fragile sounds, like the mewling of a newborn kit, he remained where he was. His arms stayed around her, not tight, just constant and steady. His head rested lightly near hers, his breath even and slow, like a metronome to steady her own.

When she thanked him, he gave her a small, tired smile. One that didn’t rise to show teeth or pride, but settled into the corners of his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he said softly.

He waited until she rubbed at her eyes and straightened before he slowly, carefully drew back just enough to see her again.

“And don’t say you’ve nothin’ to give.” A note of affection curved his voice. “You gave truth. Pain, unhidden. That’s worth more than coin to beasts like I and the porter.”

He didn’t mention that what she had already paid was far more than his usual readings called for. That part was irrelevant. What mattered had already been exchanged.

He sat down again beside her as a silent gesture. He was no longer opposite her, but on the same side of the path.

The cart creaked faintly, as if settling under new weight. Or maybe simply exhaling.

“This feeling you’ve got now... this release, this lightness? It might not stay forever.” He glanced up toward the ceiling charms as they slowly turned. “There’ll be days when the shadows return. Old habits. Old guilt. That weight likes to creep in when the wind changes.”

He reached out and lightly touched one of the charms above. It gave a soft, silvery chime.

“But now you know the truth of it. What it really was. And that means next time it comes knockin’, you’ll know how to face it.”

A pause.

“And each time you do, it’ll lose just a bit more of its shape. Its strength.”

The flame in the brazier flickered low but steady.

“One day, it might stop knockin’ altogether.”

He gave her a final, faint smile.

“And on that day, you’ll know you’ve won.”

@Corda & Cordan LeConte

 

[Thistle Brambledew]

Some time later...

The sun had long since dipped beneath the hills, and a hush had settled over the crossroads where the little cart had lingered these past few days. A candle flickered behind its stained-glass window, casting dancing patterns across the path as the final customers wandered off into the night, clutching charms and whispered fortunes like they were dreams held in their paws.

Inside, Thistle Brambledew moved with methodical grace. A paw passed over each jar, each satchel, each half-burnt stick of incense, flicking his claws just so to extinguish tiny embers and snuff lingering spirits back into their pouches. The cart creaked familiarly beneath him, as though exhaling from a long held breath.

He paused at the little altar shelf by the front window, straightened the figure of the half-moon goddess, and left behind a silver gilder and a sliver of ash bark. An offering, and a thank you.

"The aura wanes," he murmured, voice soft as a sleeping breeze. "The weave grows restless... and the spirits are already turning their heads toward the next thread."

A shape emerged from the mist. Tall and hunched, the porter approached without sound, the cowl of his cloak pulled low over a face that never quite caught the light. His long, unnaturally slender fingers gripped the wooden yoke, curling around it like wire or bone. As he took his place, a soft chittering sound escaped him, "chchchkt," like the distant rasp of dry leaves.

Thistle stepped down from the cart and regarded him quietly for a moment. “A fruitful stop, this one,” he said, almost fond. “Heavy with sorrow, yes, but also healing. Perhaps we left it lighter than we found it.” The porter gave no reply, only another faint "chchchkt" that could have been agreement, or merely the wind catching in his throat.

With a swish of his coat, Thistle boarded the cart once more. He turned toward the clearing, standing tall on the little platform as the lantern light behind him painted his silhouette against the fog.

“To those who sought truth, and those who feared it,” he called, his voice carrying through the still night like the last note of a song. “To those who asked for nothing, but left changed all the same, I thank you.”

He raised a paw high. A gust stirred, and mist began to gather thick along the ground.

The wheels began to roll.

Slowly, gently, the cart creaked forward. Trinkets swayed from the awning. A string of tiny bells whispered a farewell tune. And as it passed beyond the edge of the path, fog swallowed the wagon whole, softly and completely, until there was nothing left but the curl of clove smoke and the scent of dried lilac on the wind.

By morning, even that would be gone.

---

Five days later, the number two merchant’s dock at Bully Harbor mysteriously collapsed into the brine, taking four unsuspecting beasts to their untimely demise.

No cause was ever found.