* * *
COAL BROW
* * *
"Incredible! Stupendous!" marveled Van Oostenhof at the precious relics on his desk. He scooted his chair closer, adjusted his small, round glasses, then loosened his white cravat. With a quick motion, he wiped his hands on his exquisite, colorful, old-fashioned waistcoat before carefully lifting the hefty golden cross. He held it in his hands in silent reverence, mesmerized. Moments later, he switched to the ornate tome, lovingly brushing over its elaborate decorations.
Van Oostenhof snapped back to reality, suddenly remembering his guests, who sat in silence watching his antics unfold. He cleared his throat in a dignified manner and gave them his full attention.
"Now then, my dear girl, tell me about Saint Eremia's!" the gentleman inquired, interlocking his fingers in an attempt to keep them still. "Was it grandiose? Reverent? Awe-inspiring?" gushed the older man, looking at her with the clear blue eyes of a child, his white, pointy mustache trembling with excitement.
"It was... uhh... breathtaking. Unequivocally." Hellion smiled. Azazel looked at her, confused.
Van Oostenhof's usually pompous, slicked-back hair seemed to deflate, and his excitement melted into a look of disappointed surprise—like a child denied their long-awaited gift. Then he smirked, peering at her over his glasses. "Come now, my dear, I may be old, but I'm not senile yet."
Hellion gaped sheepishly for a moment, visibly caught off guard. She rubbed the base of her neck and admitted, "We... had a bit of a problem. At the end, that is."
"Alps, I presume? I did warn you—might be a couple lurking about, I said."
"A couple? I think you meant to say all of them!" retorted the lass with a cheeky smile.
The man looked at her with astonished concern, realizing the implication.
"Dear God! That many?!" He clenched his teeth reflexively, just imagining it. "I am truly sorry, my young friends! Capable as you two are, I wouldn't have even bothered organizing this bloody endeavor had I known! But here—you deserve extra for your efforts!"
With the vigor of a man half his age, the old gentleman sprang from his chair and swooped past them, shoving aside carved masks, canes, scrolls, and documents as he knelt before his small steel safe.
His little abode was a thing to behold—a large, green-and-red-striped carriage, which housed everything from his extravagant cedar desk, buried in books—with complimentary chairs for his guests—to an overflowing curio cabinet, petite wardrobe, and even a small, practical bed. It was truly Van Oostenhof's wondrous world on wheels.
The guests looked at each other with hopeful curiosity as the old man rummaged in his little metal box, coins clinking one after another in a soothing rhythm.
"Ah, and here it is!" he said, turning as he rose to his feet. "The promised amount, and something on top to boot!" The man tied shut a small, plump red leather pouch and passed it to his guest.
The moment Hellion felt the weight of it on her palm, she gawked—a look of insecure gratitude washed over her face. Before she could even form a word, Van Oostenhof waved it away with a warm smile.
"No, no! I shall hear none of your false modesty or droning gratitudes! You've earned your keep and more! One may set a price for services, but true competence is invaluable! And you—dear me, you have a hauntingly striking symbol on your hat! Is it alchemical?" He leaned in closer, adjusting his glasses, trying to get a better look.
Hellion blinked several times, trying to process. She traced the ornamented buckle of her capotain with her fingers, trying to remember what it looked like.
It was a badge of blackened silver: an intricate emblem of a double-hilted sword, its blade thrust downward, piercing through the centerpoint of a serpent coiled in an endless figure-eight, its own fanged maw devouring its tail.
A touch of melancholy crept into her demeanor. "I'm afraid I can't say, sir. It, and everything attached to it, isn't exactly mine..." she said with an uneasy smile.
Azazel's expression darkened for the briefest moment before his gaze dropped, then drifted toward the curio cabinet. It brimmed with a collection of artifacts, ranging from delicately crafted statuettes to deeply unsettling eldritch idols.
"Hmm. I believe I might have some literature on such esotericism. Would you, by chance, be traveling with the caravan? That would give me some time to find out," asked the gentleman, still ogling the insignia, trying to unravel its mystery.
Hellion's face lit up. "Could you really? I... I would definitely pay for it!" stammered the lass in hopeful excitement.
"I want to hear nothing of payment." Van Oostenhof waved his arm in a dismissive manner. "It's settled then. You shall travel with us northeast to Durchdenwald, at the very least." He leaned back, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "The road is always more bearable with pleasant company. And I'll make sure neither of you will be able to wriggle out of shearing a story or two about the monastery!" he said, wagging his finger, teasingly looking them over.
The girl smiled. "Thank you, Professor Van Oostenhof," she said, tipping her hat, as they stepped out the carriage. "We'll be back later, then."
He clasped her hand with his usual gusto. "No. Thank you, my dear Hellion!" He then turned to the demon, who tensed and jolted to attention. "And you—"
The old gentleman gripped his hand and shook it vigorously. "You have my thanks as well, my dear boy! I'll see you both later. Try and keep your master out of too much trouble until then, yes?"
Azazel hesitated, momentarily flummoxed, before replying with a slightly awkward smile. "I... will, Master Van Oostenhof!"
He bowed politely in parting as they left his remarkable carriage and continued further into the camp.
The dry dirt path crunched under Hellion's boots, broken up by the occasional thunk of her heel striking old wooden boards half-swallowed by hoofprints and sun-hardened earth. The ring of metal and the steady thud-thwack of axes on wood echoed across the frontier camp, mingling with distant shouts. Puffs of smoke curled from blackened chimneys, vanishing into the clear blue sky. From inside the cabins, muffled voices drifted through the walls, trailing off as they passed. The sharp scent of iron and meat lingered in the air, where a hunter bent over a deer carcass, methodically skinning it.
They arrived at a larger wooden building, the distinctive stone foundation accentuating its sense of permanence. A hanging, deep red sign, its brand embellished with gold, stated proudly:
Scarletstone Trading Co.
Below it, in smaller text, Hauptkontor was printed almost as an afterthought.
Hellion motioned for Azazel to wait and ascended the carved stone steps. She grasped the iron door handle and gave it a firm push. A jarring wave of heat surged out, washing over her as if desperate to escape its confines. It carried the sharp tang of sweat, tangled with the unexpected sweetness of herbal tea. The strange combination made her pause halfway through, nose wrinkling in confusion.
"Close the door! Quickly, please!" a nasally, impatient voice called from the far end of the room.
The floorboards creaked under the lass's boots as she stepped inside, pressured to comply. She closed the door behind her with a soft thud, sealing in the thick, stifling warmth.
The room stretched out like a spacious wooden corridor, dim except for the blooming glow of a potbelly stove in the far corner, its iron belly burning white-hot. To her right, a notice board was cluttered with scraps of paper—some yellowed and curling, others freshly pinned. To her left, a simple wooden bench sat against the wall, draped in a mottled-brown pelt, which served to provide some semblance of welcoming comfort.
At the far end, behind a large wooden desk, sat a middle-aged man dressed in full company uniform. He was wrapped in a thick woolen scarf that coiled around his neck and head, which did little to hide his sour expression, or the playful white gleam on his bald spot. His baggy eyes, weary and unimpressed, swept over Hellion with mild, sniffling annoyance as he took a slow, deliberate sip from his cup, slurping noisily.
Hellion tipped her hat with an awkward smile and turned toward the notice board. Her eyes skimmed over the scattered papers—company decrees, gathering notices, land claims, job postings, a handful of personal ads, and—ah, bounties.
She ran a hand over some of the postings, unfurling them as she read through them quickly, her gaze flicking between details and figures. Then, one caught her eye. It bore the company's seal. She plucked it from the board, unfolding it with a raised brow as she scanned the details.
Still studying the notice, she half-turned toward the company official.
"Err... apologies—the Myrk...skogenfell region is where, exactly, in relation to Durchdenwald?"
The man lifted his tired eyes, following her gaze to the paper in her hand before meeting her own.
"Northeastern stretch 'tween here and Durchdenwald," he replied flatly.
"Thank you. And bounties can be turned in…?" She folded the notice with practiced ease, then retrieved her leather-bound notebook from her coat pocket.
"Any company office." He watched, brows slightly furrowed, sipping on his tea, as she slipped the bounty between the notebook's pages and secured it shut.
The lass smiled. Just as she opened her mouth to offer thanks, he cut in.
"Girl?"
Hellion paused, glancing at him.
"I hope you're not seriously considering that bounty. We've lost whole wagons to that... thing—several of wagons in fact—and quite a few decent men guarding them. You'll fare no better, I assure you." He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "If you're going to Durchdenwald, there are safer routes to the city."
The young woman raised an eyebrow, scoffing lightly.
"I'll keep that in mind," she said, slipping the notebook away. "You have yourself a warm day, sir."
She tipped her hat once more and opened the door. A rush of cool air slipped in, curling through the stuffy room, souring the man's mood even further before following her out.
* * *
"Dilo, avri! Avri! While sun is out! Muro Del!"
The site at Van Oostenhof's carriage was abuzz with activity. Several figures darted about, hauling suitcases, folded tents, and clanking cookware, while others huddled in small groups, pleasantly chatting away. The old gentleman's remarkable home was now hitched in tandem with two smaller carriages, forming a makeshift land train. In front of it sat what seemed to be a strange, large fur tent, raised next to a few hay bales, which were being manhandled by a gruff-looking man.
The industrious among the congregated caravan were a handful of lively gypsies, who bustled about loading the baggage atop the carriages under the spirited direction of a man who looked—and acted—like the caravan master.
With each animated gesture, the man's beaded locks swayed beneath his colorful bandana as he barked out orders. His hands sliced through the air, haphazardly directing the increasingly confused, baggage-laden crew. He grinned mischievously under his prominent black mustache, pantomiming his crew's confusion whenever they failed to understand his, questionably clear, directions.
Van Oostenhof was busy sketching illustrations of his own—his arms trying to catch up to the tone of whatever grandiose story he was engrossing his current audience with.
One of his listeners was a wide-eyed young woman, her rosy cheeks flushed with quiet excitement. A poke bonnet of soft silk framed her white face, its delicate ribbon trailing down her shoulder, mingling with loose auburn curls.
Her short, cream-colored jacket hugged her slender frame, the row of delicate brass buttons running neatly down its front, fastening snugly over a travel gown dyed a shade of rich cognac. She held her arms close to her chest, leaning in slightly, hanging on the old gentleman's every word.
Beside her, with picturesque dignity, stood a young officer—shined boots firmly planted on the ground—framed in dark grey trousers, bloody red piping running down the seam, disappearing beneath a spotless, dark-blue woolen Waffenrock. Two rows of faux-gold buttons were drawn up in neat columns on either side of his chest, buttoned tight as a parade formation.
At one hip hung a white-handled revolver. On the other, a somewhat plain, yet beautiful in its simplicity, military sabre: a straight, light blade wielded by infantry officers. And on its austere, muted-brass hilt rested his white-gloved hands, drumming with conveyed vexation.
Beneath his neatly cropped black hair, his bushy eyebrows kept rhythm with his eyes; almost as if in a choreographed dance—one caring, questioning step toward the entranced young woman, then a twirl upward, and finally a pointed landing on the old gentleman, laced with mild annoyance.
Even his neatly trimmed beard couldn't conceal the fact that his mouth, too, had joined the waltz.
Hearing Hellion and Azazel approach, Van Oostenhof turned and welcomed them back with a smile.
"Ah! And here they are—Ippolita and Zagreio, in the flesh!" Van Oostenhof exclaimed, gesturing toward Hellion, who was walking ahead, throwing him a look of slight confusion and amusement.
"Come, come, my friends! I was just regaling Lady Von Eichenlau with tales of your electrifying escapades!"
Hellion had barely stepped beside him when the young woman suddenly materialized in front of her, clutching her hand tightly in both of her own. Von Eichenlau's hazel eyes gleamed, with pure admiration, with childlike wonder, as she locked gazes with the gunslinger, whose own eyes were caught off guard, wide in bewilderment.
"My word! My word! Lady Hellion!" she gushed, nearly hopping where she stood. "Professor Van Oostenhof has told us of your adventurous exploits—a most incredible tale! I cannot begin to explain how thrilling it is to know you'll be traveling with us!"
She leaned in, barely pausing for breath.
"Oh, I want to hear all about it again! Is it true you walked through Hell itself? Faced down bloodthirsty demon hordes with only your pistols and brave companion at your side—"
"All to retrieve sacred relics of faith from their heathen clutches?" The girl's eyes begged the perplexed adventurer for even a morsel of confirmation.
Hellion stood frozen, mouth slightly agape, unsure what to do with the sudden torrent of admiration. "Uhh...?" she managed, smiling awkwardly as she cast a baffled look at Van Oostenhof beneath a raised brow.
The old gentleman gave a casual shrug.
"Apologies, my dear—you left me little choice but to improvise." He grinned, entirely unrepentant.
"Embellish, more like…" the young officer muttered, irreverence straddling the edge of his voice. "In typical Ostegaard fashion," he added, throwing in a verbal jab at Van Oostenhof with a chaffing smile.
The Ostegaardian peered over his spectacles at his younger opponent and riposted, "Flavor, my boy—one cannot survive merely on soldier's porridge all his life." He smirked. "Even if he is Hessian."
The officer scoffed—though the corners of his mouth curved upward unbidden—as he gave the faintest of nods.
"And yet, you were after results—" he motioned toward Hellion, still entrapped by her young fan, "rather than empty aesthetics... which is why you are here in Hesse, hiring local—"
His words faltered as his eyes shifted toward Azazel, who had just quietly stepped behind his master in a clumsy attempt not to intrude.
"Aaaah!" Lady Von Eichenlau let out a muffled shriek, cupping her hands over her mouth as she recoiled in alarm. The rest of the caravan startled—heads turning at once toward the cry.
Azazel flinched, instinctively leaning back, startled by the sudden outburst.
Hellion's eyes flicked to the young officer—his hand already on the hilt of his sabre, ready to lunge. Her own fingers closed around the handle of her trench knife in the same breath, drawn by reflex.
Van Oostenhof jumped into the middle of it, hands raised in both directions, trying to defuse the moment.
"No! No! Please, I am at fault here!" He gave them a calming look, straightened his old-fashioned waistcoat, and bowed apologetically. "My dear lady… forgive me, I am entirely at fault. I may have omitted certain details regarding Azazel—but I assure you, I've greatly understated his gentleness!" He glanced toward the demon, subtly prompting him to demonstrate.
Azazel floundered, unsure of what was expected—but as his eyes met the frightened young woman's, he quickly straightened, then offered a rigid bow.
"Apologies," he said formally. "I did not mean to startle you."
Von Eichenlau gasped in astonishment, her eyes darting between the demon and his master in disbelief. Her escort stood frozen, uncharacteristically dumbfounded, for a good few moments. His hand relinquished the sabre as he regained his stiffness, clearing his throat, slightly abashed.
The lady's demeanor softened. "Oh! I beg your pardon!" she bowed daintily in return and continued, her voice tinged with underlying concern. "I did not expect him to be a... creature of such persuasion. But he speaks—and is so articulate! So civil! So—" the young lady faltered, unsure how to reconcile the facts before her.
"Well-trained, is what it is," the young officer assisted, nodding respectfully toward Hellion. "Leutnant Roland Stálbruch, at your service, madam." He stepped forward, hand formally outstretched.
They held each other's gaze. His light-brown eyes held steady, while hers—one green, one blue—stalked him up and down.
She smiled politely, one hand still resting on her knife. "Hellion. At yours." She shook his hand.
Satisfied, the young officer nodded, then turned toward his charge. "Allow me the pleasure of formally introducing Lady Liesevien von Eichenlau."
With practiced elegance, Von Eichenlau dipped into a graceful curtsy, fanning the edges of her gown with the tips of her fingers.
"My apologies! I seem to have forgotten my manners in all the excitement," the young woman said earnestly. "Truly, it is a pleasure to meet—"
"Best quit raisin' a din, yer ladyship, lest you fancy the whole caravan doin' a runner," cut in the frontiersman, who just minutes ago had been wrestling hay bales. As he approached, he dusted off his hands and jabbed a thumb toward the slate-grey, shaggy mound behind him.
For a beat, it sat motionless—then began to rock side to side, its leather harnesses snapping through the air, releasing a thick cloud of dust and sending stray bits of hay flying in every direction.
The beast twisted its hefty bulk to one side, sluggishly attempting to reach its allotted feed without getting up. Its two massive, curved horns, although undeniably intimidating, seemed as much an obstacle to the creature itself as they'd be to any would-be attacker. Its deep-crimson, meaty head lurched forward, trying to scoop a hay bale with one of its horns.
Long, pendulous ears swayed lazily as it greedily stuffed its bulging, arched face with half a bale in a single go—an almost hedonistic pleasure shimmering in its sleepy, almond-shaped amber eyes.
Swaggering forward with just a hint of a limp, the rugged-looking man slid into their little group with the self-assurance of someone who always fancied himself the final missing piece in any clique.
"Ain't wise givin' ol' Lolo a fright." His words rode in on a loud, gravel-paved voice, worn like old boots. "Else we'll 'ave a proper knees-up and five tonnes o' bollocks crashin' down on your tea set, eh?" He clapped a sinewy, tattooed arm on Stálbruch's shoulder. Stálbruch, in turn, tried to gun him down with a stare.
"But, ah, don't go frettin' that posh little noggin, yer ladyship—ain't a blighter I can't handle like a right ol' mare," declared the grizzled stranger, with the aim of soothing the young lady. She managed a cautious smile but looked away in a fluster.
His leathery, sun-baked face, permanently dressed in a five o'clock shadow, shone with a yellowish, chequered grin under his raggedy ushanka, as his hawkish gaze flitted from Von Eichenlau to Hellion, crow's feet dancing giddily at the edges of his grey eyes with a coy glint.
Then, inevitably, to Azazel.
"Oi, 'old up! What in the bleedin' hell is that?" He scratched his beard, much like sandpaper rubbing against a boot heel. The crudely tattooed wide-open eye on his forearm mimicked his own expression, over the rolled-up sleeves of his loose-fitting, stained shirt. "By the Virgin's tits—ain't never clapped eyes on your sort, an' I seen my fair share o' blighters!"
"Watch your mouth, sir! There are ladies present," snapped the young officer, anger simmering in his voice.
Hellion discreetly smiled to herself, realizing the little impromptu vaudeville she'd unwittingly become a part of. Then, with a hand over her mouth, she audibly cleared her throat and gave the vagabond a stern look as well. "He. Is a hellhound."
There was a faint, sharp intake of air through teeth from Van Oostenhof as he stepped in line with the frontiersman, just before he could open his mouth again.
"Yan, you rambunctious lout! You were sorely missed yesterday evening!" the old gentleman declared, wrapping a friendly arm around the man's rounded shoulders. "I had just opened a new cask of fine brandy and had no one to play Meiern with!"
He began leading Yan away toward his ostentatious carriage, under the biting gazes of both Hellion and Stálbruch.
"Come—let me wet your beak before we set off. Maybe this time indulgence will bring you back, since you clearly can't be trusted to do so of your own volition."
Yan boomed with a laugh that sounded more like a whooping cough. "I knew you'd be pining, you old goat! Who else can savour that poncy tipple of yours!" Like a preened peacock, he let himself be escorted toward the gentleman's abode, lured by suitably wicked promises of vice.
"Ooh, but I ain't touchin' dice when you're near 'em, you dodgy bugger!" he grumbled. "Half me bleedin' dosh last time—gone! Like a fart in the wind!"
As the two older men carried on, rocking side to side like ears of wheat in the wind, Liesevien inched closer to the young gunslinger once more, though kept a reasonable distance this time around.
"Once again, allow me to apologize," she said softly. "It was... incredibly invigorating to hear tales of your adventurous life—so far removed from my own—that my enthusiasm got the better of me. I do hope I haven't offended?"
Hellion turned to her, slightly taken aback by her naïve sincerity, and smiled. "No, not at all! Quite the contrary. I am... uhh... flattered?" Her eyes darted around, landing on each member of the motley caravan troupe. "It seems you're in an adventure of your own with this particular company," she added in jest.
Von Eichenlau beamed at the insinuation and wrapped herself around the Leutnant's arm, clinging tightly.
"Yes! Yes! It's been only a few days since we set off from Merheim and I've already seen so much! And there is so much more to see on our little, adventurous honeymoon!"
Roland smiled ever so faintly—and, in an attempt to conceal even that, traced a small chain into his pocket and pulled out a rather plain watch. He glanced at it briefly, then cast an appraising look at the tireless gypsy crew, who had just finished stacking and tying down the luggage.
"It seems we're about ready to depart," Roland said, pocketing his watch. He turned to Liesevien. "We should board our carriage." The young lady smiled in agreement.
Hellion glanced about, scanning for the caravan master, and spotted him beside two of his men. Armed with old-fashioned rifled muskets, they were securing the last of their gear onto a pair of horses—bulky saddlebags, complete with bedrolls and large waterskins. Their boss, in typical fashion, was waving them down the road with a broad gesture.
With a final flourish, he sent them on their way, then turned toward Lolo, endeavoring to coax the hulking demon up from its hay-laden sprawl.
"And we should look to secure our fare. If you'll excuse us." The group exchanged pleasantries in parting before she and Azazel stepped away, leaving the couple to their own devices.
The caravan master saw them approaching and gave Lolo a final pat on its meaty head. He dusted his hands off before spreading them wide in a warm welcome. Behind him, the beast languidly rose to its feet, like a volcano heaving itself awake—red-crowned and massive, towering twice the man's height... and then some.
It drew a quiet awe from them both, growing with every step nearer.
"Welcome, mire prala! Fellow wanderers! Saste! Mister Ostenov say you'd be joining merry caravan! You and bengalo-shap both, yes?"
His dark eyes shifted between the two of them, twinkling with vim, his broad smile curtained behind a bushy black mustache that drooped from his plump, good-natured cheeks.
The young woman was charmed despite herself, though her brow rose with mild curiosity. "Fellow wanderers?" she asked.
His eyes pointed toward the other gypsies, and his finger traced a tight circle—encompassing them, Hellion, and Azazel all at once.
"Va! Wanderers! Travelers you are! Zoran know this." He placed a hand on his chest. "Ah, don't be surprised!" he laughed, gesturing—an open palm motioning from head to toe.
"Your clothes! Your boots! The dust and the mud! The road is on you, mire prala—and you are on it. As we are."
Slightly amused, she let the folksy wisdom wash over her and decided not to beat about the bush, reaching into her coat pocket to fish out a coin pouch.
"Thank you for the warm greetings, Zoran, but on that note, tell me—how much is our fare?"
His affectionate, paternal smile quickly morphed into a savvy, mercantile one—without losing any of its wiles. "For you? Hundred groschen!"
She paused mid-rummage, peering at him bemusedly over the raggedy pouch. "That's... steep?"
"Less than others pay, miri phen, and we take care of you! We set camp, we cook, we keep you safe. Pesha and Marushka are great cook—" he kissed his fingers and flicked them outward. "You will see! You will beg to stay in vardo just for food! Ha!"
The nomad clapped, amused by his own antics, then looked at them earnestly.
"You two are strong, it is seen—zurale sen." His eyes flicked between the demon and her armaments. "But here you rest. Zoran and Branko keep you safe. We have people on road ahead too! Ah, zhalo, you have to stop sometime—rest, then go. We take care of you!"
The lass sighed, quietly admitting that she was being thoroughly outclassed in negotiations. All the right words spilled effortlessly from the nomad's mouth, and she could already see the month's worth of comfy beds and warm food fast approaching.
She counted out a few groschen for herself, pocketed them, and handed him the pouch. The caravan master took it with both hands and a polite bow.
"Thank you, Zoran—it's nice to know we're in good hands," she replied in kind, Azazel following her lead with a deeper bow.
"It is pleasure to have you! Now go—pick vardo! Speak to Branko if you have bags! Rest feet. We go in few moment." Zoran shooed them energetically in the direction of the carriages, then turned back to check and tighten Lolo's harnesses as the beast munched indolently on the last bits of hay.
The duo made their way toward the vibrantly painted wagons—the baggage strapped down, neat, tidy, and ready for an arduous journey. The two gypsy women had positioned themselves under a canvas canopy atop one of the wagons, engaged in some passionate conversation. Branko was bent over on the coachman's seat, awaiting Zoran, hungrily finishing a cigarette butt.
They cast one last look at the frontier camp before turning away and picked a carriage.
"We'll both sit next to the door." Hellion placed a foot on its steps, opened the door, and climbed aboard. "Best to—oh!"
Her eyes met three new passengers, who were staring back at her, visibly disconcerted. One was a plainly dressed woman in a cloth headscarf. The other—a burly man with fiery red hair and an imposing beard.
The last was a small boy, whose face—once he took in Hellion, her guns, grenades, and other lethalities, the equally surprised demon behind her included—lit up like a summer day. He turned to his parents with unbridled, silent joy, as though he was being gifted an early Yuletide marvel, while they responded in understated, quiet worry.
"Uhh... excuse us! Sorry to bother you." The adventurer offered a faint smile and tipped her hat. She stepped back, catching the little boy's melting enthusiasm in the closing carriage door.
Behind the next one, however, was a circle of familiar faces. Lady Eichenlau greeted them like a warm ray of sunshine as they took their seats—an effect slightly dampened by Stálbruch's tepid, condescending nod. Yan, on the other hand, was mid-swig from his dented canteen, no doubt filled to the brim with fresh brandy, and thoroughly uninterested in the comings and goings of fellow passengers.
"Ayde, Lolo! Dza! Dza!" shouted the caravan master from atop the vardo, giving Lolo's hindquarters a playful smack with a long stick. The shaggy, mountainous demon let out a deep, glottal groan—like a cauldron bubbling over in a barrel of tar—and heaved onward. Wheels creaked, groaned, and rolled forward as the land train set off northeast on its journey, leaving the frontier camp behind.