Roly Poly Pumpkins

It’s almost as if the gourds are creating nests out in the Field. Tall grasses rustle here and there, and then the fuckers come out of nowhere to attack ankles and feet. It’s more a nuisance than anything else, but Wessex has become rather bored with simply dispatching them via a swift kick, sword stroke, or arrow. She saw a couple of Outlanders kicking one around and though she didn’t know the game, it gave her an idea. There’s a cleared area, a sizeable firepit, multiple stick bundles, and plenty of roughly head-sized pumpkins hanging by their stems from a nearby small tree. Wessex picks up the stick bundles and arranges them in a group, making sure they stand up straight. She then goes to retrieve a gourd, cutting the string with a knife, and carrying it by its stem. Standing a good couple of human-lengths away, she takes aim at the sticks and half rolls, half pitches the gourd towards the group, hoping to knock some down. It’s a nice effort, but her technique is way off. The orange ‘ball’ rolls helter-skelter and then comes to a rest to the left of the bundles, chittering angrily at her. Wessex chuckles until it tries to take off into the darkness, at which point she has to chase it down and hurls it towards the stick bundles once again. This time, it hits a couple of them on the edge, and then explodes, knocking another one down. Well. That was satisfying. She sets the sticks up again and goes to get another pumpkin, ready to try again. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

Rory

Rory was passing through the Fields—on his way to or from somewhere, as always—when he saw something interesting: a lone woman, who seemed to be doing something incredibly specific. Intrigued, and obviously not in a hurry to wherever he was supposed to be, he angled his path towards her, trudging along with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his greatcoat, shoulders set against the wind and cold.

When he came closer he recognized her as the outspoken woman from the Festival of Lights. She had a cleared area, a firepit, some sticks stuck in the ground, a pumpkin she'd recently picked up off the ground. And she hurtled it at the sticks.. and the sticks went flying... and Rory just stood there, rather dumbstruck, head tilted to one side.

"What are you doing?" he heard himself ask: he was curious, not judgmental, his gaze drawn to where she had been headed. Several trapped gourds hung by their stems from a tree, an obvious and ready supply for whatever game she was playing.

 

M E L I T A

---

Melita wasn’t sure what to make of the pumpkin situation at first. Based on previous observations, they seemed to be a rather annoying, irritating cluster of things, rolling around with eerie eyes but incapable of bringing treachery or outright harm. They didn’t give off quite the same demonic appeal as the residents of the Rift, but she’d still been cautious around them, grabbing hold of their stems, waiting for something dreadful to happen, and then launching them off into a safe distance. A portion of her childhood had been devoted to destruction and melees surrounding ominous quandaries, but the more she watched others, the more they all seemed to settle into a pattern, a routine. Some had even conformed to games - and the nymph was quite taken with the latter.

She’d stumbled upon just such a scene, and became witness to a woman (who looked every inch a warrior, an Amazon sprung from the jungles, the fields, the deserts) fashioning some sort of makeshift amusement with sticks and gourds, knocking them askew with a rolling pumpkin. It might’ve been easier with a smoother sphere, but that likely wasn’t the point. Caught up by the idea of some entertainment (because she couldn’t recall the last time she’d laughed), the girl grabbed a few stray pumpkins and sprung towards the shield maiden’s direction, waving to both strangers (for now there were two – and despite the complete unknown entities around her, she threw caution to the wind, to the air, to the sky, plunged again with all her might and ferocity).

“Hello!” She called before she got closer and closer, all sound, motion, and movement, light and airy, ethereal and mercurial, a nature of whimsy and force if given the opportunity. The pumpkins in her hand dangled in her grasp, banging back and forth against one another, too stunned to do anything but remain motionless and dazed. “That looks like fun! Can I join you?” Her smile was a contagious, bright, blossoming thing; might’ve been made from petals and leaves if her eyes didn’t indicate audacity and wildness.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she retorts with a little snort. It’s not just rhetorical! Wessex really wants to know what it looks like she’s doing, cause she’s kinda just playing it by ear. Tossing the smallish pumpkin she has in her had towards Rory, she then gestures towards the re-set bundles of sticks. “Go for it.” No further instructions. Nothing but a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as she squats down and waits for the leatherworker to play the games. He just has to figure out which ones he’s signed up for and what the rules are. Hint: there are no rules. Yet. Movement catches her eye and she turns a bit to see a small, red-headed girl beckoning to the two of them as she walks closer. Her smell tells Wessex that this teenager is an Outlander and she growls ever so softly. No. She doesn’t want to let this innocent little thing join the game, doesn’t want anything to do with their damned invasive species after they so rudely dishonored the Festival. But again, Rory is here. Resentment flares up ever so slightly towards the other Natural, though logic tells her that it’s not his fault he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time, wrongly keeping her from exacting vengeance (or just violence) on whichever Outlander crosses her path. Oh. An idea pops into her head. When Melita is close enough, Wessex puts on a smile and shrugs and one again gestures towards the stick bundles. “Sure. If you can knock ‘em all down in one go. Ehhh… well, let’s say two. These things have a mind of their own.” WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

Rory

Like, fun and Wessex were not two words he'd ever thought to put in the same sentence. She was always very professional when they interacted, and there was a hardness to her that he found daunting.

And he could so vividly remember her face in the firelight; how fierce she looked.

Perhaps that was what had sparked his curiosity, once he had recognized her silhouette. She was a bit of a mystery, fascinating as a feral animal, yet far more easy to get close to. “What does it look like I’m doing?” Rory's mouth formed a complicated shape. He had no idea what it looked like. He didn't know if playing games with Wessex as a good idea in any way. She was, simply put, terrifying.

But as she threw the pumpkin to him, it felt like more than an invitation: it felt like an honor. He was okay enough in Wessex's books to play with demon-gourds with. Rory caught the thing, and turned it over in his hands. Snorted a little at it. "Very well," was all he said, stepping closer to where Wessex had stood originally. Mostly because if he was going to send an uncooperative pumpkin rolling over the ground towards a set goal, he wanted a clear path.

How did you throw a pumpkin at some sticks anyway? He tested the weight of the thing in his hand, scowling down the length of his arm as he tried to figure out the aim. How did you even..? How much force was needed? It was a whole damn science and after a couple of seconds he realized he'd never figure all of it out.

So he said fuck it under his breath and did a passable job of sending the pumpkin rolling; it went in the right direction, for the most part, knocking over the outermost stick on the right before coming to a stop in a tuft of dried grass. It sounded quite upset over its treatment if the gnashing was anything to go by.

Rory looked at Wessex and grimaced, but before he had a chance to say anything a voice called out. It was unfamiliar to him, so he spun around, spotting a young red-haired girl. She smiled, readily, and Rory found an answering smile spreading over his face—yet he did not answer her request. It was, after all, Wessex's game, and soon enough the woman gave her answer. Knock all of them down? Rory raised one eyebrow. Considering how awfully it had gone for him... Well.

Hopefully she had a better aim. With a sweeping motion of his arm Rory gave the lane over to her, then went over to the sticks to reset the one he had knocked over.

 

M E L I T A

---

She should’ve known better, she should’ve learned something from the ways of the Rift, from the blinding, sinking talons, from the merciless weight of a shadow’s gaze, from the way corruption simmered and smoldered across flesh and bone. Instead, she bent herself towards ferocity, became riveted by its dangerous elements, by its scabbard intricacies, by lending her soul to its bombardments and munitions. Wessex was dangerous, she could see it now with a visible clarity – eyes widening ever so slightly – because she embodied the air and ether of monsters, of demons, of bestial beings Melita had seen over and over again. This wasn’t a game, but a challenge, and there was half a second where the girl could sense she was being invited to failure, to ineptitude, to parlors with spiders and flies. In her childhood, she might’ve stepped back and away, but now she was far too gone, stretched out across the abyss of emboldened, resolute, stubborn tenacity, jutting out her chin, sedition and fearlessness beckoning her straight into strife, ruin, and mayhem. Some of it was confidence, some of it was arrogance, some of it was blind sedition and upheaval, seeking to accomplish the task simply because someone thought she couldn’t. You don’t know me, she wanted to laugh, to spread mercurial, fey whimsy with a sword in her hand and fire in her heart. You don’t know what I’m capable of.

But this was truly a game, one she’d never played, one she’d never even seen. These notions didn’t exactly stop her – the solid, determined set of her eyes wandered from Wessex to the other stranger, watching as he attempted to take part in the diversion. Her study was quick, swift, wondered if she used more power, more control (a joke; Melita was probably the living, breathing embodiment of impulsive, irrational actions), then she could topple a few more (all) of the sticks. “Fair enough,” she stated, accepting the terms, grabbing a firmer hold of the pumpkin in her grasp, wandering closer and closer to the marks, towards the sticks, closing her mouth and inhaling, exhaling, smoothly from her nose. This is nothing, she chanted to herself, as if she were back on the battlefield, maneuvering through the shadows, hunting before she became the hunted. You can do this was a repeated mantra, and they went in cycles, blending together until she thought they could be truth.

“Thank you!” She spoke to the man as he reset the sticks, waited for him to move out of the way, and in one last breath, she lowered the pumpkin, and hurled it with a vicious might. The honeybee child had always been a little feral, a little potent, but in this case, she required precision, strength, and domination; defects she’d rather not voice aloud. The vegetable managed to roll haphazardly along the lane, crashing into four of the sticks, before bounding into the tall grass. Not enough.

Look. it ain’t easy. Wessex never seems to do anything the easy way, unless it’s stealing food or whatever; those days are behind her now, but the hardened will to survive will never leave her body. Her last breath will be taken in defiance as she struggles to hang on to those last, shiny threads of life. Anyway, his attempt is a decent one, she chuckles good-naturedly as Rory grimaces at her, shrugging her shoulders as if to say, ‘the fuck do I know about this game I’ve just invented?’ “Two points?” she suggests in a wry manner. As for the girl, Wessex knows she’s being a jackass. She also knows neither of her companions are likely to say anything about it, just pretend it isn’t happening because, well, they have manners and class and she doesn’t. It’s amazing what she can get away with by pretending she was raised in a barn. Her mother would be appalled. Standing quietly to one side, the Ascendant watches while Melita eagerly takes up the challenge. Even in the face of poorly disguised passive-aggressiveness, the Outlander girl is determined and poised. Wessex has no idea what the red-headed little bird is capable of, but she is eager to find out, if only because she is amused by pluck and puffed-chest courage. So rather than dismiss her outright, Wessex trots silently over to the misshapen ball and tosses it back. There are four more stick sentinels standing. “Again,” she says, though not unkindly. The thing about surviving in Caido is that you have to be patient, persistent, and skilled. Giving up after one go when she was given two is a sign of deficiency to the Natural woman. If Melita were her child, this would be a teaching opportunity: think outside the box and find a way to win, especially when you don't know the rules. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm

Rory

[ Have the worst post of the century because I feel I need to post to this. ]

He thought that two points for one knocked-down stick was rather charitable, but he found himself thinking that he'd gladly take zero points just to hear her chuckle. It was like the setting had unlocked a previously hidden version of her, and he found himself oddly hungry for it.

"I'll take it," he said with a grin. Two points for his laughable throw was a blessing, honestly.

But then the stage was Melita's. She accepted Wessex's terms without a single complaint—which not only saved the atmosphere from becoming strained, but earned her bonus points in Rory's books. He wasn't so sure he would've managed to tackle it in such a positive way.

He stood by the side of the lane, having given the girl a smile in response to her thanks, and watched as she hurtled the first pumpkin towards the sticks. It, rather neatly, knocked down half of the sticks, and to Rory's surprise, Wessex herself collected the pumpkin ball, tossing it back to the girl. He tilted his head as he watched her, wondering how her final bout would go.