It was the third day of their journey and the caravan creaked as it rolled onto an old stone bridge, its wheels clattering gently against weathered stones. Beneath them, the river hummed a low with a lazy tune. Its water clear, flowing over smooth stones, dappled with sunlight and shadows from the arching trees along its banks. Dragonflies darted in spirals.
Myrrh leaned out from the side of the cart, her fingers clutching the wooden railing, hair fluttering in the breeze. She watched the water glitter and swirl beneath them, enchanted by how it reflected the sky. It's like a liquid mirror rippling with a mysteriousness. Button peeked from her lap, sniffing curiously at the scent of the river and fish.
Kiòll? slowed the horses slightly. “Bridge’s old,” he muttered. “Don’t trust the look of those mossy edges.”
Verlaine, seated nearby with arms crossed, eyed the weight distribution. “Looks sturdy enough. Stone bridges outlast kings.”
Myrrh tapped her reed once on the edge of the cart, her way of saying that she trust it. Then, with a sudden burst of joy, she brought the reed to her lips and began to play a light, flowing melody that mirrored the water currents below. The notes danced across the bridge, soft and carefree, like the footsteps of invisible children running beside the group as they walked across the bridge.
Verlaine closed her eyes for a moment, letting the music carry her thoughts somewhere far. Kiòll? just grunted, though his shoulders relaxed a little.
As they reached the middle of the bridge, Myrrh stood carefully, reed still to her lips, and played a higher, rhythmic series of notes. She spun once—slowly, like a leaf on the breeze—and stopped just in time to catch a gust that blew her hair like silk behind her.
Button thumped its foot twice in approval. And they crossed safely.
Beyond the bridge, the road curved gently down into a wildflower meadow buzzing with bees and warm sunlight. Myrrh let the final note of her song fade naturally, like a sigh. Then she sat, cheeks puffed in satisfaction.
Verlaine raised an eyebrow. “You gonna serenade every bridge we cross?” Myrrh just gave her a smug little nod and patted Button.
Kiòll? muttered, “At least if the bridge fell, we'd’ve gone down with a soundtrack.”
And so, the journey continued with the river behind them and the sun ahead.
---
The sun hung low as they crested the last hill, casting long shadows ahead of the caravan. Cambridge sprawled beneath them in a patchwork of tiled roofs, rising chimneys, and glowing windows. Market flags still fluttered in the breeze, though the vendors were beginning to pack their goods. The scent of roasted nuts and coal smoke drifted up to meet them.
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“Myrrh,” Kiòll? called back, “we’re almost there. Hold onto your bunny.” His tone was amused, but tired.
She peeked over the cart’s edge, eyes wide at the view. With one hand cradling Button and the other clutching her reed, she soaked in the moment. The sky was beginning to shift. The golden wash of day bleeding gently into oranges, magentas, and purples. The clouds were painted strokes of coral and soft crimson, like brushstrokes too gentle to be made by any hand but divines.
Verlaine tilted her head toward the horizon. “Not a bad timing,” she murmured. “Shops are still open. Taverns’ll be alive.”
Myrrh, meanwhile, was squinting down at a small notebook in her lap. Her lips pressed together in concentration as she scrawled another line with a piece of charcoal. The poem had been dancing in her mind since midafternoon, but the words were still forming, still swirling like the very dusk she sought to capture.
The sun retreats like blushing flame,
Behind the hills, it hides its name.
The sky becomes a shifting sea,
Of lilac, rose, and reverie…
She tapped the page thoughtfully, chewing her lower lip. Then she glanced up at Verlaine and pointed at the page with a questioning look.
“Mm,” Verlaine hummed, giving it a glance. “Bit too dreamy. It needs grounding. What about something about chimney smoke? Or horses clopping on stone?” She gestured loosely at the town.
Myrrh nodded slowly, mouthing chimney smoke to herself. Then she scribbled it down.
Kiòll? gave a little chuckle. “You two poets now? Thought one of you was a sword, and the other a flute.”
Verlaine gave him a sidelong glance. “We’re... complicated.”
As the cart rolled into the town's outer streets, the sky continued to shift, settling into deeper indigos while the first stars blinked awake. Myrrh was still writing, even as she held Button close and let the sounds of Cambridge wrap around her like a shawl. Of laughter, clinking cups, distant lute music, and the murmur of life settling in for the night.
They didn’t speak much more after that. Not because there was nothing to say, but because dusk had done what dusk always does. Dusk invited a quiet wonder.
And so, Myrrh, poet of the reed and silent songs, was still trying to find the perfect final line.
---
The sun had already climbed past its peak, draping the road in a soft, mellow light that made the grass shimmer gold. Birds chirped somewhere above, unseen among the trees. The caravan creaked and rattled as it rolled along the dirt road southward, the distance from Cambridge now just increases.
They came upon a T-junction nestled between a line of birch trees and an open slope of wildflowers. There was no signpost, only two paths diverging like questions waiting to be answered. Myrrh leaned forward from the back of the cart, eyes brightening at the sight.
She pulled out her little notebook again and began to mouth the words as she scribbled.
Two winding roads from where I sit,
One to sun, one into mist.
The left may lead to whispered glen,
The right, perhaps, to beasts or men…
But before she could even finish the rhyme, Kiòll? clicked his tongue and tugged the reins, guiding the horse down the right path with the ease of a man who's made this journey a hundred times.
“Wha—” Myrrh flailed slightly, caught off guard, her reed nearly tumbling from her lap. She turned, eyes wide, holding up her poem in protest.
“Shortcut,” Kiòll? said simply, not even turning around. “Don’t get poetic about forks.”
Verlaine snorted a laugh from her seat, arms crossed lazily. “Guess fate isn’t waiting around for verses.”
Myrrh puffed her cheeks, pouting like a child being denied of dessert. She scooted to the corner of the cart bed, wrapped herself in her traveling cloak, and plopped Button in her lap. Hugging the bunny close, she leaned her forehead to his and whispered something only he could hear.
“…but what if the mist led to stories untold…”
Button blinked his wide, blank eyes. Myrrh sighed, giving his ears a gentle flick before settling down, hugging him tighter. The road kept on rolling, and the poem, left unfinished.
Info Dump #15:
- Cambridge is nestled in the middle of Imperial lands having roads connected to different towns from all dirrections. Because of its geographical location, it in one of the well-known Imperial trading towns.