The final preparations for departure hummed with a quiet efficiency, a well-rehearsed symphony of securing belongings and coaxing sleepy beasts into their harnesses. ProlixalParagon, his white fur containing swirls and patterns of rich black easily visible in the pre-dawn light filtering through the narrow lanes of Pella’s outer quarter, made one last check of the ropes securing a stack of intricately woven tapestries onto one of the larger Conestoga wagons. He had readily accepted Lyra’s earlier request for assistance, his curiosity about the “exotic district” now sated, though the image of the solitary Altacian woman lingered in his thoughts. Now, his focus was on the immediate task at hand: the Vermillion Troupe’s journey to Dustreach.
The air, still cool with the remnants of the desert night, carried the mingled scents of woodsmoke, canvas, and the dry, earthy aroma of the packed sand underfoot. The colorful vardo wagons, each a unique testament to the Fennicians' artistic flair, were hitched and ready, their small windows still dark. The larger Conestoga wagons, laden with the troupe’s wares – the vibrant fabrics, the theatrical props, the instruments of their trade – stood like sturdy bulwarks in the growing light.
A gentle voice called out, “ProlixalParagon, young one! Come, join us for a bit before we take to the road.” It was Nara, a Fennician woman with warm brown fur and kind eyes, often seen overseeing the younger members of the troupe. She gestured towards the rear of one of the Conestoga wagons, its canvas flap slightly ajar.
ProlixalParagon made his way over, his digitigrade legs moving with a light, springy gait. Peeking inside the wagon, he saw a cozy scene. Several of the younger Fennicians, the “kits” as they were affectionately called, were sprawled amongst the bundled supplies, their small forms nestled amongst rolls of colorful fabric and soft furs. Some were still dozing, their bushy tails curled around them like furry commas, while others were engaged in quiet games, their whispers muffled by the surrounding textiles. Nara sat near the entrance, a patient smile on her face, a watchful eye on her charges.
“We have a bit of space amongst our treasures,” Nara chuckled softly, gesturing to a relatively clear patch of bundled wool. “The little ones are still half-asleep and making good use of the comfy padding. No need for you to walk the whole way right from the city gates.”
Remembering the long journey ahead and the welcoming nature of the troupe, ProlixalParagon readily accepted. “Thank you, Nara. That is most generous.” He carefully clambered into the wagon, mindful of the sleeping kits, and settled onto the offered space. The air inside was warm and smelled faintly of lanolin and the sweet dyes used for their fabrics. The gentle rocking motion of the wagon as the beasts began to stir and shift was surprisingly soothing.
From his vantage point, ProlixalParagon could see snippets of the preparations outside. Lyra sat patiently on the driver’s seat of her vardo, the silver of her fur gleaming in the strengthening sunlight, the reins held loosely in her paws. Other members of the troupe were taking their positions, some on foot beside the wagons, others perhaps mounted on sturdy desert steeds. The soft jingle of harnesses and the low murmur of voices filled the air as the Vermillion Troupe, a vibrant thread of life against the backdrop of Pella’s walls, prepared to wind its way back into the open desert.
With a final shout of “All set!”, the caravan began to move. The vardo wagons, like brightly painted snails, pulled smoothly forward, followed by the larger, more lumbering Conestogas. The wheels crunched softly on the packed earth, the rhythm a familiar sound to the seasoned travelers. ProlixalParagon settled back against a roll of crimson silk, a sense of quiet anticipation settling over him for the journey to Dustreach.
Just as they reached the main thoroughfare, a frantic cry pierced the gentle rhythm of their departure. “Wait! Stop!”
Lyra’s experienced hand immediately tightened on the reins, and the leading vardo groaned to a halt. The wagons behind followed suit, the initial sense of forward momentum abruptly broken. A wave of confusion rippled through the troupe.
Elara, her red fur disheveled and her eyes wide with a familiar panic, came rushing alongside Lyra’s vardo. “Larka! She’s gone again!”.
A collective gasp went through the assembled Fennicians. The joyful anticipation of the road ahead vanished, replaced by a chilling sense of déjà vu. ProlixalParagon, who had been enjoying the brief respite within the Conestoga, felt a knot of concern tighten in his chest. Not again. The memory of the frantic search in the desert, the relief when Larka was found, was still fresh in everyone’s minds. The journey to Dustreach had barely begun, and already, a shadow of worry had fallen over the Vermillion Troupe once more.
The cry of Elara hung in the pre-dawn air, sharp and laced with a familiar desperation that sent a ripple of unease through the gathered Vermillion Troupe. The initial murmurs of departure were instantly silenced, replaced by worried whispers and the shuffling of feet as the Fennicians reacted to the news of Larka’s latest escapade. ProlixalParagon, still seated within the Conestoga wagon amongst the drowsy kits and a now wide-awake Nara, felt a pang of concern. He remembered the frantic search in the desert when Larka had previously wandered off.
Lyra, her silver fur gleaming even in the dim light, quickly dismounted from her vardo, her golden eyes scanning the immediate vicinity. Her calm demeanor, usually a source of reassurance, was now edged with a hint of urgency. “Elara, when did you last see her?” she asked, her voice firm but carrying a note of worry.
Elara, her red fur disheveled and tears welling in her eyes, wrung her paws anxiously. “Just… just moments ago! She was playing near our wagon, chasing dust devils with little Fippo. I turned away for just a moment to check the fastenings on our supply chest, and when I looked back… she was gone!”.
Nara, her warm brown fur conveying a sense of motherly concern, had already begun to gently rouse the kits within the wagon. “Did any of you see where Larka went?” she asked softly, her gaze moving from one sleepy face to another. The younger Fennicians, now fully awake and sensing the shift in atmosphere, shook their heads, their own expressions mirroring the adults’ worry.
Without a word, ProlixalParagon carefully exited the Conestoga wagon, his digitigrade legs landing silently on the packed earth. His white fur, containing swirls and patterns of rich black, was easily visible in the growing light. He approached Lyra and Elara, his glowing eyes reflecting their distress. “I will help search,” he offered immediately, the memory of his previous successful search for a lost child within the troupe fresh in his mind. His inherited trait of "Lunar Reflexes," while perhaps not directly applicable to tracking, lent him a certain agility and alertness that he hoped would be beneficial.
Lyra nodded gratefully, her golden eyes meeting his. “Thank you, ProlixalParagon. Your willingness to assist is once again appreciated.” She turned to the other adults of the troupe, their colorful fur now a stark contrast to the seriousness of their expressions. “We need to be organized. Some of you check the immediate area around the wagons. She may have simply wandered behind one. Others, spread out in widening circles, but keep each other in sight. The lanes here can be confusing, even in daylight.”
Several Fennicians immediately began to move, their earlier anticipation of the journey forgotten. Some peered under the wagons, their bushy tails disappearing and reappearing as they searched. Others called out Larka’s name, their voices carrying a blend of concern and hope. The quiet hum of the pre-dawn preparations had been replaced by the urgent sounds of a search party.
Elara, her distress evident in her quick, jerky movements, started to retrace her steps, her gaze fixed on the dusty ground, hoping to find any trace of her missing daughter. “Larka! Larka, where are you?” her voice cracked with emotion as she called out.
ProlixalParagon, remembering Elara’s description of Larka’s bright silver ear tips and her tendency to chase desert lizards, began to move towards the edges of the encampment, his large, rotating ears swiveling to catch any faint sounds. The outer quarter of Pella, still mostly quiet before the full bustle of the day began, was a mix of tightly packed buildings, narrow alleyways, and open spaces used by traveling merchants. The ground was a patchwork of packed earth, loose sand, and the occasional discarded refuse.
He kept a watchful eye on the ground, looking for small footprints that might belong to the missing kit. The prints of the adults and the heavier wagon wheels were easy to discern, but the lighter tracks of a small child would be more challenging to spot in the dim light. He also listened intently for any faint whimpers or the soft sounds of a child’s distress.
As he moved between two of the larger Conestoga wagons, he noticed a small, brightly colored toy lying on the ground – a crudely fashioned lizard carved from wood. Elara had mentioned Larka’s fondness for such things. He picked it up, his glowing eyes scanning the area around it. The ground here was slightly softer, and he could see a series of small, indistinct paw prints leading away from the toy and towards a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
“Lyra! Elara!” he called out, his voice carrying a note of hopeful discovery. “I may have found a sign.”
Lyra and Elara rushed towards him, their expressions anxious. ProlixalParagon showed them the wooden lizard and the faint paw prints leading into the alleyway. Elara gasped softly, recognizing the toy immediately. “That’s hers! She always carries that little lizard with her.”
Lyra’s gaze followed the direction of the paw prints. “The alleyway leads towards the back of the tanner’s workshop. It’s a dead end, but there are piles of discarded hides there… she might have wandered in, curious about the smells.”
“I’ll check there,” Elara said immediately, her voice filled with a renewed sense of purpose. She started towards the alleyway, her red fur a flash of color in the dim light.
ProlixalParagon followed closely behind, his taller stature allowing him to scan the alleyway more easily. The air here was thick with the pungent odor of tanning hides. The alley was narrow and cluttered with discarded scraps of leather and wooden barrels. The faint paw prints were becoming more difficult to follow on the uneven surface.
“Larka?” Elara called out softly, her voice echoing slightly in the confined space. “Larka, are you here?”
ProlixalParagon listened intently, his rotating ears straining for any response. The only sounds were the distant stirring of the waking city and the anxious breathing of Elara beside him.
As they reached the end of the alleyway, they found themselves facing a high wooden fence, effectively a dead end. Piles of discarded hides lay scattered about, their rough surfaces offering numerous potential hiding places for a small child.
Elara’s panic seemed to rise again. “She’s not here! Oh, Onthir, where could she have gone?” Her voice trembled, and she began to frantically search behind the piles of hides.
ProlixalParagon, trying to remain calm, began a systematic search of the area, his glowing eyes carefully examining every nook and cranny. He moved slowly, mindful of the potential for a small child to be hidden from view. He called out Larka’s name softly, his Fennician-inflected voice gentle and reassuring.
Just as Elara let out another despairing cry, ProlixalParagon noticed a small movement beneath a particularly large pile of dark, rough hides. He crouched down, his keen eyesight discerning a flash of bright silver – the tip of a small ear.
“Elara,” he said softly, his voice filled with relief. “I think I’ve found her.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Larka’s small body went limp in ProlixalParagon’s arms, a whimper escaping her lips that was far more pained than her earlier cries of being lost. Elara’s initial relief at Larka’s return morphed into a fresh wave of terror as she saw the blood staining her daughter’s small fur and the shallow, ragged cut on her flank.
“Textos’ tears!” Elara cried out, her voice laced with anguish, as she gently took Larka from ProlixalParagon’s arms. Her red fur seemed to bristle with protective fury. She cradled Larka close, her own tears now mixed with a renewed fear. The other members of the Vermillion Troupe gathered around, their expressions shifting from relief to alarm as they took in Larka’s injured state.
Lyra, her silver fur a stark contrast to Elara’s distress, knelt beside them, her golden eyes sharp as she examined Larka’s wound. “What happened? Was it an animal?” she asked, her voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of concern.
Larka shook her head as she foggily looked at Elara. Elara furrowed her brows her gaze filled with a raw grief that pierced the relative quiet of the desert evening. “No… no animal. There were voices… harsh words… they… they called her names… ‘filthy wildling’… ‘scourge of the desert’…” Larkas voice broke, and Elara clutched Larka tighter. “It was like… like when Gorin…” Elara words trailed off, heavy with unshed tears and a pain that clearly ran deep.
A hush fell over the Vermillion Troupe. The name Gorin hung in the air, a silent reminder of a past tragedy. ProlixalParagon, his large ears swiveling, sensed the weight of this unspoken history.
Lyra placed a comforting paw on Elara’s shoulder. “They targeted her because she is Fennician, Elara?” she asked, her gaze hardening with a grim understanding.
Elara nodded, her tears flowing freely now. “Yes… their words… their hatred… it was the same… the same senseless cruelty…”
A low growl rumbled through the sandy-furred Fennician who had earlier helped ProlixalParagon with the supplies. Others in the troupe murmured amongst themselves, their earlier friendliness replaced by a simmering anger. The goblin with the beaded hair clenched their six-fingered hands, their usual quiet demeanor now tinged with a fierce protectiveness.
ProlixalParagon remembered his research into the Fennician culture – their fluid gender roles, their tight-knit family units within the caravan, and the strong bonds of kinship. He also recalled learning about the goblins and the discrimination they faced as outcasts. The shared history of persecution seemed to bind these two groups within the Vermillion Troupe and likely the broader Red Fox Caravan. The armorer in Oakhaven had mentioned the Red Fox Caravan being a reclusive bunch who followed the old ways, and some whispered they had ties to the Altaicians, who also faced displacement and tension with the Kingdom of Draggor. This incident underscored the dangers faced by those who were seen as ‘different’ within the world of Ludere Online, a stark contrast to the welcoming atmosphere he had initially experienced within the troupe.
“This is not new, is it?” ProlixalParagon asked Lyra, his voice carrying a note of dawning understanding. “This violence against Fennicians… against goblins…”
Lyra’s gaze was steady, filled with a weariness that spoke volumes. “No, young one. It is an old song played on a broken instrument. We have faced prejudice in many settlements, hostility on the open road. The Amorridge Caravan, the Silverstream Company, the Crimson Wheel – all the branches of the Red Fox Caravan have stories of such encounters.” Her words painted a picture of a pervasive societal bias against these groups, a hidden undercurrent beneath the surface of trade and travel.
The goblin who had gifted ProlixalParagon the small carved bird earlier stepped forward, their large, expressive eyes filled with a quiet fury. “They see us as less. As wild animals to be scorned or driven away.” Their six fingers twitched slightly, a subtle display of their inner turmoil.
Elara’s sobs continued, each one a painful echo of her past loss. “Gorin… they said the same things about him… that he was a ‘desert rat’… that he had no right to exist…”
Lyra knelt closer to Elara, offering words of comfort in the soft clicks and trills of the Fennician tongue. Other members of the troupe began to tend to Larka’s wound, their movements gentle but purposeful. The goblin who had spoken earlier produced a small pouch filled with fragrant herbs, their nimble fingers expertly preparing a poultice. This display of care highlighted the strong communal bonds within the troupe, where everyone, regardless of their race, was treated as family.
ProlixalParagon watched, his white fur containing swirls of black a stark contrast to the somber mood. He felt a surge of protectiveness towards Larka and a growing sense of solidarity with the Vermillion Troupe. His initial curiosity about the Fennician culture had now deepened into a profound respect for their resilience in the face of such adversity.
Lyra looked up, her golden eyes meeting ProlixalParagon’s. “We will tend to Larka. This happened in the outer quarter, near the tanner’s workshop?” she asked, her mind already piecing together the events.
Elara nodded, her voice still choked with emotion. “Yes… she wandered a little ways… chasing something…”
Lyra’s gaze swept over the gathered adults of the Vermillion Troupe. “We will not let this stand. We will ensure Larka is safe, and we will be more vigilant. This hatred… it festers in the shadows, but we will not let it consume us.” Her words, though spoken softly, carried a firm resolve, a testament to the strength and unity of the Vermillion Troupe in the face of prejudice and violence. The search for Larka had ended, but a new, more somber chapter had begun, one marked by the harsh realities of the world they traveled through.
The earlier vibrancy of the Vermillion Troupe’s encampment on the outskirts of Pella evaporated with an unsettling speed, replaced by a palpable tension and a hurried efficiency. The colorful vardo wagons, which had stood as individual homes radiating warmth and artistry, were now being swiftly made ready for travel, their awnings furled with uncharacteristic haste. The soft murmur of evening preparations was replaced by clipped instructions and the more urgent clatter of securing belongings. Even the beasts of burden seemed to sense the shift in mood, their movements more restless as they were hitched to the wagons.
Elara, her red fur still bearing the faint sheen of dried tears, moved with a driven energy, her hands fluttering as she helped to pack away the family’s meager belongings. Her gaze darted around the encampment, a constant undercurrent of anxiety in her golden eyes. The image of Gorin, lost to a similar senseless act of violence , clearly haunted her, lending a raw edge to her movements. She clutched Larka close whenever the little one was near, her protective instincts amplified by the day's terrifying events.
Lyra, her silver fur a stark contrast to the agitated reds and browns around her, moved with a quiet authority, her calm demeanor a thin veil over a deep-seated weariness. She directed the packing efforts with precise instructions, her ancient golden eyes missing little. There was a stoicism in her bearing, a sense that this hurried departure was yet another unpleasant necessity in their nomadic lives, a familiar sting in the long history of the Red Fox Caravan . She exchanged a brief, meaningful glance with some of the other older members of the troupe, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken fears that now permeated their preparations.
ProlixalParagon, his white fur containing swirls and patterns of rich black a noticeable presence amidst the hurried activity, assisted where he could, his movements still carrying a degree of his earlier helpfulness. He observed the younger members of the Vermillion Troupe, their youthful exuberance from the anticipation of Pella now replaced by a simmering frustration. He heard their hushed whispers, their tails twitching with an almost angry energy.
"It's not fair," a young Fennician with bright red fur muttered to another, their voice low so as not to be overheard by the adults. "They can't just do that and get away with it. Larka was hurt because of who she is."
The other, a goblin with colorful beads woven into their short hair, nodded vehemently, their six-fingered hands clenching. "Just like they always do. Say nasty things, try to scare us, hurt us. And what do we do? We pack up and leave, like we're the ones who did something wrong."
A slightly older Fennician with sandy-colored fur joined their hushed exchange, their expression a mixture of anger and resignation. "What else can we do? If we cause trouble, if we fight back, they'll just say we're the violent ones, the unruly wildlings they always accuse us of being. It will only make things worse for the whole caravan, give them more reason to hate us." Their words echoed the feeling of the words from Lyra. The fear of solidifying the attackers' prejudiced views and bringing further negative attention to the entire Vermillion Troupe acted as a powerful restraint, stifling their desire for immediate retribution.
ProlixalParagon, listening to their frustrated whispers, felt a pang of understanding. He recalled Lyra’s earlier statement that violence against Fennicians and goblins was not new to the Vermillion Troupe or the other branches of the Red Fox Caravan. This ingrained awareness of systemic prejudice and the potential for amplified repercussions created a climate of uneasy compliance, forcing them to prioritize the safety of the collective over the individual urge for justice. He also considered his own position. As ProlixalParagon, a Fennician avatar, he felt a vicarious sense of this injustice. As Bennett, the human player, he recognized the frustrating dynamic of marginalized groups facing such prejudice in the real world, where speaking out or acting against oppressors could often lead to further marginalization.
Lyra approached the group of frustrated adolescents, her gaze calm but firm. "I understand your anger, young ones," she said, her voice low but carrying a weight of experience. "Your feelings are valid. But we must think of the safety of the entire troupe. Retaliation now would only bring more trouble down upon us, here in Pella and on the road ahead. We are leaving, and that is the wisest course for now." Her words, while not offering immediate satisfaction, emphasized the long-term survival and well-being of the community, a core tenet of Fennician family and caravan life.
Elara, overhearing Lyra’s words, nodded in agreement, though her eyes still held a flicker of unresolved pain. She knew the cost of confronting such hatred firsthand, the loss of Gorin a constant, agonizing reminder. Her silence on the matter, while perhaps appearing as inaction to the younger members, was likely born of a deep fear of repeating the past and a desperate need to protect Larka from further harm.
The goblin member, still clenching their fists, let out a slow, frustrated sigh. "But it doesn't feel right," they murmured, their large eyes filled with a helpless anger.
Lyra placed a gentle hand on their shoulder, her touch surprisingly firm. "Sometimes, what feels right is not what is safest for our family. We will remember this. We always remember. But now, we must move." Her words hinted at a long-standing tradition within the Red Fox Caravan of enduring such injustices while perhaps finding other ways to cope or survive. The focus on family and community dictated their immediate actions.
The hurried departure from Pella felt less like a strategic withdrawal and more like a forced flight, a silent testament to the pervasive prejudice that cast a long shadow over the lives of Fennicians and goblins in this world. As the colorful vardo wagons rumbled through the gates of Pella and onto the dusty track leading away from the oasis city, the youthful frustration within the troupe remained a palpable undercurrent, a quiet resentment simmering beneath the surface of their nomadic existence. Their destination, Dustreach, a smaller village on the border of the rigid Kingdom of Draggor, offered little promise of respite from such prejudice, suggesting that this hurried escape was merely a temporary reprieve in their ongoing struggle for acceptance and safety.
As the last of the Vermillion Troupe’s wagons rumbled through the gates of Pella, leaving behind the palpable sting of unaddressed hatred, a figure seated atop one of the vibrantly painted vardo wagons began to strum a lively tune on a small, well-worn lute. It was Elara, her red fur still bearing the faint tracks of dried tears, yet her lips stretched into a wide, if somewhat strained, smile .
The melody she played was jauntily upbeat, a rapid succession of cheerful notes that seemed almost out of place given the hurried and somber departure . It was a traditional Fennician air, one often played during caravan celebrations or to lighten the mood after a long day of travel. The nimble movements of her paws across the lute strings were practiced and fluid, a testament to a life filled with music and performance.
Her smile, however, did not quite reach her golden eyes. There was a tightness around her muzzle, a subtle tremor in her strumming hand that betrayed the forced nature of her outward cheer. It was a deliberate act, a small but potent act of defiance in the face of the prejudice they had just endured. It was a message to the unseen eyes that might still be watching from the walls of Pella: their spirit was not broken, their joy could not be extinguished so easily. It was also, perhaps, a balm for the younger members of the troupe, a visual and auditory reassurance that life, and their inherent Fennician vibrancy, would continue despite the ugliness they had witnessed .
Several of the younger Fennicians, who had been huddled together whispering their frustrations , looked up at Elara with a mixture of surprise and a dawning understanding. A few of their bushy tails, which had been drooping with disappointment, gave tentative little wags. The bright, resilient melody seemed to penetrate the cloud of their anger, offering a different kind of response than the immediate retaliation they had felt simmering within them . It was a lesson in subtle resistance, in asserting their identity not through confrontation, but through the unwavering expression of their culture.
Lyra, the silver-furred elder driving the wagon ahead, offered a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval, her ancient golden eyes flicking back towards Elara for a fleeting moment . She understood the power of such a gesture, the way that art and music could serve as both a shield and a banner for their people. In a world that often sought to diminish them, the open expression of their Fennician soul was a powerful statement.
The goblin member with the beaded hair, who had expressed their frustration so keenly, watched Elara with a thoughtful expression . Their six-fingered hands, which had been clenched in anger, slowly unfurled. While they might still yearn for a more direct form of justice, there was a quiet resonance in this musical act, a shared understanding that survival sometimes meant finding strength in unexpected ways .
ProlixalParagon, walking alongside Lyra’s vardo, observed this scene with keen interest. The contrast between the hurried, anxious departure and Elara’s defiant melody was striking. It offered another layer to their understanding of Fennician culture, highlighting not only their playful nature and strong family bonds, but also their resilience in the face of adversity. The public performance of music, especially a joyful tune after such an incident, stood in stark contrast to the Altaician culture where music is considered extremely intimate, akin to a deeply personal expression not meant for public display. This difference underscored the diverse cultural landscape of Prasine and the unique ways different races coped with hardship.
As the Vermillion Troupe moved further away from Pella, the sounds of the city began to fade, replaced by the creak of the wagon wheels and Elara’s persistent, cheerful melody. The forced nature of her smile might not have fooled those closest to her, but the music itself, bright and unwavering, served as a beacon of hope for the troupe, a reminder of who they were and what they carried within them – a vibrant culture that could not be silenced by the hatred of others. The road to Dustreach stretched ahead, and with Elara’s lute song leading the way, the unease of their departure began to subtly shift, replaced by a fragile but persistent sense of collective resilience.
