Another day, another set of her usual routines. Warm wash, vocal checks, morning melody, tea steeping by the window. Life, in its simplicity, had rhythm. Myrrh liked rhythm.
But something new awaited today. When she stepped outside to collect herbs and check the weather with her eyes, she noticed a cluster of parchment fluttering on her fence. A cluster of letters. Far more than she’d ever received in a single day.
Her brows lifted. A small, soundless gasp escaped her lips. She gathered them with care and brought them inside, setting them on the table.
Before reading, she looked at the clouds. Fluffy. Scattered. One looked vaguely like a harp drowning in a cup of tea.
She chuckled and pointed at it.
“I choose you” she whispered playfully, grabbing the top letter.
It was about Redmere. The commotion. The accusations. The noble’s outrage. The minor stir in courtly gossip. Myrrh only blinked.
Lucky for her, Redmere sat in the Kingdom of Durleighia. She, however, was safely nestled in the soft-green arms of the Flokwarian Empire. An empire that actually valued and encourage its artists. Redmere’s complaints held no water here. Not with the Empire’s tradition of sanctuary for the inspired.
She hummed in relief, folded the letter, and moved to the next. And the next. And to the next. It didn’t take long to notice a pattern. There are two types of messages in the letter.
The first are invitations from the famous lake town where the Grand Celebration of Bloom was about to be held. There will be songs, dances, myths whispered across silver waters, and supposedly, the shadow of a beast that stirred only when music was true.
The second are formal invitations from the Kingdom of Caldonia, northeast of her Empire and southeast of Durleighia. Requests for performance, festivals, and something else beneath the ink. A desire to know the bard who had riled a noble with nothing but a song.
Two options.
"Fame, or mystery?" She voiced dramatically in her mind.
"Roots, or branches?" Followed by an impression of one of her favorite speakers.
She looked to the sky again, her lips pressed together in thought. Her face scrunched adorably, brows squirming, a soft series of frustrated mm-mm-hmm noises rising from her throat.
Then, dramatically, she dropped her head against the windowsill. “I’ll ask the birds, then,” she muttered, voice thick with mock despair.
So she whistled. Once, twice, three notes in a pattern she knew by heart.
And sure enough, a small brown bird fluttered onto her sill, its eyes already tracking the breadcrumb pouch she pulled from a drawer.
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“Which one?” she asked gently, laying out crumbs as if they were voting markers. “Empire lake... or Caldonia’s hills?”
The bird stared blankly at both, then began eating. Indiscriminately. Like a tiny, feathery fool.
Myrrh sighed again—this time from the soul—and leaned on her elbows, letting the morning sun pour across her cheek.
Then, after a beat, a smile cracked through.
“To the Graun pits with it,” she declared with newfound glee. “We’re going to the lake!”
---
Myrrh sat cross-legged atop the wagon, her reed instrument cradled gently between her fingers. The rhythm of the caravan—creaking wood, soft hoofbeats, and the occasional groan from Kiòll?’s back—formed a quiet accompaniment. Dust swirled in the warm breeze, sunlight played on the path ahead, and behind her, the faint trail of her melody floated in the air like thread spun from dreams.
Kiòll?, the driver, squinted toward the horizon, muttering something about rut-filled roads and how "horses don’t like poetry." Verlaine, the mercenary, walked alongside the cart, her hand on the hilt of her blade, eyes scanning the tree-lined edges of the trail. She didn’t say much but every now and then, her head tilted slightly, as if catching the thread of Myrrh’s tune and letting it loop through her thoughts.
They were three days away. Two, if Kiòll?’s stubborn optimism proved true, to Cambridge, the nearest town to the south. Beyond that, another stretch would carry them to Fadington, a lakeside town.
Myrrh let her fingers dance. The reed in her hands hummed gently, then opened into a soft tune. It's tune, bright but not loud, like the laughter of clouds drifting overhead. Then, in a clear, lyrical tone, she sang.
“Clouds above with cotton crowns,
Waltz along the blue-wide bounds.
They watch below with painted eyes,
And cast their smiles on earthbound lives.
A fox, a hare, a shepherd’s sheep,
They grin above while all things sleep.
Even rain, when soft it plays,
Feels like kisses from their gaze.”
When the last note faded, Verlaine gave a quiet huff. Not a laugh, but something near enough.
“You write that just now?” she asked, not looking up from her pace.
Myrrh nodded with a little flourish of her reed.
Kiòll? spat to the side of the road. “If clouds ever smiled at me, it’s probably just before they piss on my head.”
Myrrh giggled quietly.
The ride continued on.
---
It was the second day of their journey, and Myrrh already had a new companion. A scruffy little bunny with one torn ear and a twitchy nose that somehow won her heart at first sight. It had hopped beside the caravan for a good half-mile before she scooped it up with delighted squeaks and declared it hers. She named it Button, because of course she did.
Kiòll?, ever the worrier, glanced back with a frown from his seat on the driver’s bench. “That thing’s too bold. Wild rabbits run from people. That one’s followin’ us like it owns the road. Could be a bad omen.”
But Myrrh just shook her head with a smile as she nestled Button in her lap. She gently brushed its ears with her fingers and began to recite, voice soft and musical, like the lines had been waiting just behind her lips.
"It was the second day of our little ride,
And a bunny came to hop beside.
Kiòll? said it’s cursed, but I—
See only trust in its big brown eye.
So here I sit, and pet this cutie...
Uhm... I can’t think of the next lines..."
She paused, a tiny frown forming on her face. Her eyes grew glassy at the corners as she turned toward Verlaine, who was perched nearby, sharpening her blade with slow, practiced strokes. Myrrh’s bottom lip trembled ever so slightly, and she looked at Verlaine with the kind of pleading, sparkling gaze reserved for those asking impossible favors—or forgiveness after stealing dessert.
Verlaine groaned, letting her whetstone fall to her lap. “You’re lucky you’re adorable.” She sighed and leaned back against a crate. “How about… ‘He nuzzles close when skies turn moody’? Sounds like something you’d write.”
Myrrh gasped softly, eyes widening in joy. She scribbled the line down with a flourish, then picked up where she left off:
"...He nuzzles close when skies turn moody,
Soft and round and oh-so-woozy.
A noble steed? A knight in fluff?
No sword, no shield—but brave enough!"
Button sneezed.
Kiòll? flinched. “See?! That’s a warning! I told you!”
Verlaine smirked and shook her head. Myrrh only giggled, rocking gently with Button in her arms. Their ride continues.
Info Dump #10:
- The Empire values artists the most among the states of the continent. Myrrh belongs to the Hundred Emperial Artists, a ranking of top 100 artists in the Empire.