"What about impressing the chieftains? So far in our court we have a band of mercenaries who kind of like us...and that's it. Maybe if Mr. Wamblee 'Wins all the time and is still annoying' keeps winning tournaments, some of the chieftains will remember him the next time we come around."
"One of our reasons to show up here was to see if we could garner aid against the Dark.", Wamblee offers.
After Iniga tries a few unsuccessful overtures, Marianne says, "Leave Wamblee to it. Who needs some weird pollen dance? If Samoon were here, he would suggest getting beer, so in his absence it falls to me." She pauses, for effect. "Ok, let's get beer. You're welcome to come too, Samen."
"I hope that you enjoy your beer and your evening.", Wamblee adds.
Wamblee, you leave your siblings and cousin to whatever the evening holds for them. You walk away from the wagons and animals, toward the center of the Meet, toward Matashe, the Standing Stone. Near the edge of the river, you see oreads gathering for the dance in the shadow of Amatshe.
Suddenly, your arm is taken by an oread ele, the one who caught your eye after the race this morning. She keeps an easy pace with you, and you notice she is nearly the same height as you. Her hair runs down her back like soft green vines, showing a handful of orange blossoms. Her amber eyes--nearly orange, like the blossoms--hold a hint of mischief.
"My name is Chapawee. Tall Oaks."
Wamblee turns to face this sudden seizure - and relaxes.
"Wamblee Firenze. Cedarsmoke. You look lovely, Chapawee. Let us walk in."
Iniga shrugs dismissively. "Fine, lets get a drink then"
Marianne claps her hands lightly together in delight. "Álainn!" The use of the phrase reminds you all sharply of Marianne's mother.
She frowns, and the moment is gone. "No more of that sour oread stuff. I bet there's at least one ifrit merchant around here who's selling some normal beer. Coming Samen?"
He nods. "Sure, why not? Sobriety hasn't brought me fortune, so I might as well try carousing, eh?"
Wamblee, Chapawee smiles at your short answer. "So you are light on your feet, Wamblee? Does that hold for the dancing grounds too or just marathons?"
"Honestly, it has been some time since I tried dancing. So we will both see shortly.", he says with an odd lightness of heart.
Samen and Iniga, Marianne makes a show of observing the various brewers about the Meet, grumbling when she finds more and more jugs of sour umqombothi dominating the tables.
After half a candle, she says, "Finally, a sylph! No more drinking sediment."
The establishment consists of a simple wagon, with the detached wagon wheels acting as tables for guests. The sylph, surprisingly pudgy, comes over smiling and says, "Aye, travelers! The pale, the dark, or a nice brown for you today?"
"I could do with something dark I guess" Iniga responds in a relaxed voice, glancing around at her surroundings.
"Me too!" Marianne bounces a little on her toes, still trying to calm down after the morning marathon. She quickly walks to one of the wagon-wheel tables to await the drinks. "What does oread culture have against chairs, anyway? Why do you have to stand everywhere?"
Wamblee, you make your way down the gentle slope of the valley, arm in arm. You see that the dancing grounds are covered in large dark circles, wooden hoops perhaps, but you are still too far to make out any more.
"And when last did you dance, Wam-blee?" Your name sounds different from her lips, both syllables drawn out just a bit in the Tall Oaks accent.
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"My last dance? A festival at Root, some three years ago. I got it into my head to show some movements. And you, Chapawee?"
Samen orders a dark too.
Wamblee, Chapawee shakes her head, green vines and orange blossoms sent on short, arcing journeys. "What, Wamblee, have you led such a stoic life that you have felt no need to express your joy? For three years?" Her tone is light, but the remark still cuts.
She laughs, holding your gaze. "Wamblee, I find a reason to dance every single day."
Iniga, Marianne, and Samen all receive their drinks from the bartender. The beer is, indeed, dark, with a generous amount of foam on top. It is a true sylphan stout - the hint of caramel takes the edge off of the bitterness, but only just.
Marianne takes up the glass--which seems large in her smaller sylph hands--and raises it. "I like my beers just like my family. Bitter, never sour. Cheers." She takes her first drink, leaving a ring of bubbles near the top of the glass.
Wamblee returns Chapawee's gaze.
"I often express joy in more subtle ways. But in that light, it does seem a strange omission. I get focused on what I strive for."
Closer now, you see the ground is indeed littered with hundreds of wooden hoops, just about as wide as you are tall. You see dozens of couples have already claimed hoops of their own, close to the center of the dance.
No hesitation, Chapawee steps into a hoop near the edge of the dance grounds. She turns around to look at you. She wears simple traveler's gear, like yourself, her only ornament the marigold accents in her hair. "And what do you strive for, Wamblee?"
Wamblee deftly steps into the same hoop as Chapawee, not taking his gaze off her.
"I strive for a path for the oreads, a way of peace. I grew up seeing the ways of the ifrit and their all-too-common hunger for dominance and wealth. I found some peace in Root but it was insufficient, even before it was overrun. Now, I seek to stem rising chaos with my kin."
Realising how that might sound, he tries to refocus on the ele before him.
"But now, we dance."
"Cheers" Iniga responds enthusiastically before drinking her own stout.
"To brothers, both brainy and brawny." She takes a second drink. "You have a toast, Samen?"
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He thinks for a moment. Nobody had ever asked him to make a toast before. It should be something important. Something meaningful.
Something that would make people think and enjoy their beer. "Er, uh... To running from the futility of life! May our understanding not precede us to our end!"
He takes a big swig.
Nailed it.
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There is no signal that you see or hear, but some unconscious cue hushes the crowd of oreads. A moment of silence, then stomp. As one, oread els and eles make the ground shake with the first dance step of the evening.
The drummers, interspersed through the field of hoops and dancers. begin, pounding loud and strong. The dance is a frenzied thing of passion, faster now, and Chapawee looks across to you, smiling, her hair whipping about her head.
"Wow. Cheers." And Marianne glugs down the rest of her beer, leaving three foamy rings near the top.
Sensing the mass of movements before he realises it, Wamblee has his legs and feet and head follow suit.
Wamblee smiles back, feeling the vibrations.
Wamblee, the pollen dance is a matter of endurance, like so many orean pursuits. After the fast introduction, the drummers and dancers alike shift into a median pace that feels somewhat like jogging, or hunting.
And while the drummers set the tempo and the pattern, each pair of dancers can do as they please with the movements. It is a call and an answer, el and ele. Twirls and claps and stomps, whirls and taps and romps within the confines of a wooden hoop.
Your world is narrowed to a circle and an ele. Drums move your feet. Dribs go by, then candles. You dance on.
Wamblee realises that his motions are drawing similar to Chapawee's - or hers to his. He does not know the fine distinction and he does not care.
Why did I not just go a tribe, instead of Root?
The thought intrudes, and then he dismisses it, reveling in the now.
Marianne waves her hand for a second beer. She points the glass at Iniga. "What about you, Knees? Samen set the forge pretty low."
Underneath all that stomping and dancing in the distance...you swear, just for a moment, like a mountainous warthog you hear-
the behemoth Amatshe stirring in its sleep-
but then the moment is gone, and you are unsure if it is your Sight or the beer that is making the ground quake beneath you. No one else seems to be reacting to it.
Iniga shrugs dismissively, not being particularly interested in making various toasts as opposed to straightforward drinking.
"To friends and family, may they continue to offer support during the difficult times ahead" she toasts, picking a phrase at random.
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"Yay family! Especially mom and dad who are dead, and Samoon who left. Again." After another long drink, she is nearly done with her second.
Wamblee, a few candles later--too short!--the drummers suddenly stop. There is ringing silence in the absence of the furious percussion. Chapawee is watching you, breathing hard, a thin sheen of sweat on her skin despite the cold. "As a dance partner, you do not disappoint, Wamblee."
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Iniga rolls her eyes "Yes but they still offer support yes? They still live on, in our memories, challenging us, motivating us, encouraging us, supporting us. Besides, being negative never makes drinking any easier or more enjoyable."
Marianne's brow clouds as she attempts to argue this, but finds no flaw. She sighs deeply, flopping back into her chair. "Damn. When you're right, you're right. Ok, last toast of the night, but I guess it's more just a wish, how I'm feeling." She raises her glass. "I hope mom and dad are together, wherever they are." She drinks, sets her glass down. Her gait is mostly smooth as she makes her way to the merc wagon to start drinking water instead of beer.
Iniga nods and drinks again before swiveling around to watch her cousins progress to the wagon. Their family always attracted trouble and it didn’t hurt to be alert.
Wamblee replies, moving close, a sheen visible on his stony skin:
"Neither did you, Chapawee."
Samen grunts out a cynical laugh. "Nope. They're dead. Saw 'em both. All that's left in us is our own projections, hopes, and fears. Someday, perhaps soon, they'll be gone too. Who will remember us?"
He scowls into his beer, as if to blame it for his attitude.
With Marianne on her way to the wagon and Iniga following, the beer is your only listener. You notice you have only had about half a beer thus far.
Wamblee, Chapawee whispers a few words in your ear.