(In front of the Mobile-Dome is its owner: Bete Brightmold, a scholarly-looking cyclops and member of the sentient fungal species known as Gnomes. She sports a pith helmet with her curly copper-red ponytail pulled through its top and a khaki vest and cargo shorts ensemble, the standard uniform of members of the Scholar’s Union with an appropriate identifying patch of their heraldry sewn into the breast pocket. Before her is a perfectly-set pyramid of sticks gathered from the local fauna for kindling, one of which she is rapidly rotating to heat it into ignition, before striking it with her standard-issue firelighter and a sharp piece of flint, and struggling as it stubbornly refuses to light
(Pushing open the Dome’s pressurized-adhesive door-flap with one plush arm is the tent’s other occupant: Octa Quardkid, a girl of the Faesprite, or just Sprites – a typically-humanoid species originally descended of the world’s natural spirits, and who therefore come in many shapes and sizes. This one is round-sized and friend-shaped, her only points being on her ears, and visibly earnest and approachable despite being clad all in black with skin of paper white and wearing the standard attire of more wicked varieties of spell-casters: A large – and drooping – witch’s hat tucked over and blending naturally into a messy birds-nest of black curls tied in a loose ponytail, and a sleeveless, ankle-length black dress draped over a naturally plump frame seeming almost matronly carrying a equally-black cast iron cauldron. The closed pot lid is overflowing with brown broth and vegetables – while the witch’s own palms have a more loose grasp on the heavy cookware, an obviously magically floating broom holds the pots handle more firmly with a pair of moving, wooden hands.)
OCTA: Hey, Beets. I’ve got the stew all mixed up… Um, Bete? What are you doing?
BETE, smirking a little: Your observational skills never fail to astound, my friend. I am building a fire, or attempting to at least. What did it appear I was doing?
OCTA: It ‘appeared’ you were doing it the hard way. Here, let me-
(Octa produces a small flame on the end of two fingers with seemingly little effort, magic asked for and given freely by the Id: the core of Witch Magic. Octa wanted a fire, and it was so.)
OCTA, extending the flame: You know how easy this is for me, right?
BETE, evasive: I know ….
OCTA: Or I can call in Tempest for a quick thunderbolt.
BETE: Well, I had considered that. I was concerned Tempest would ‘rain’ on the wood … as a practical joke.
(The scholar looks down at her uniform before tipping up her helmet to look back at Octa)
OCTA: Okay, fair point. But my point is you don’t always have to get everything done by yourself. Me? I never got anything done by myself.
BETE: I take your meaning. However, I was only attempting to keep my skills sharp. Survivalist training in the Kneecap Peaks was long- *yipe*!
(With a quick flash of lighting and incredibly close boom of a thunderclap, Octa’s spirit partner, Tempest, capricious and wild Spirit of the Air and Weather sprints into view from the open sea and sky over the cliff they camp upon. Ze poses with great pride, flexing as zir thick-yet-airy ‘biceps’ of long, electric muscles crackle and the pockets of air within zir “joints” pop and release. )
TEMPEST, flexing: Oh yeah! Somebody call for a thunderstorm?
(The Witch and Scholar turn to the now roaring fire, lit from the burst of lighting that heralded the air spirit’s arrival, along with several tufts of turf around their campsite, which Bete wastes no time in frantically stomping out)
OCTA, raising a thumb affirmatively: No notes, Temp! Great work! (She proceeds to uncork a canteen and spread a small amount of water on the dying burn outside the fire-ring)
TEMPEST, visibly deflating: Aw man, I wanted to wet some wood….
OCTA, sifting the last of the ash and smiling, looking up at her friend: No worries, buddy. I’m sure you’ll get your chance. Like the next time there’s a fire, for instance!
BETE, warming her hands by the fire: You may get that chance sooner than you think … Do you feel that? (She shivers, despite how close she is to the fire)
OCTA, sighing, kneeling to stir her stew: Yeah, Beets. Unfortunately, I’m very familiar with that particular chill….
(Indeed, a supernatural chill has touched the air – a frigid wind blows across the fire which shrinks in the face of it, and the moist, mushy grass of the clifftop meadow suddenly freezes to stand straight up at attention. Further, at the treeline, they can spot the origin of the sudden temperature drop, a visibly frosty and growing cloud of mist spreading out and over the meadow and winding dirt path that passes for a road in the Glades. An obviously supernatural, even ‘witchy’ cold – which is of course why Octa knows it so well. She raises the spoon halfway to her lips, but it magically lifts in a neat-if-chunky beige stream the rest of the way as she samples it, smacking her lips)
OCTA, disaffected: Hmm. Needs more pepper. (Taking two spice containers, a pepper grinder and container of chili dust) Bete, will you crack some of these in and stir for a few minutes? We- (looking to Tempest, who grins) will be right back.
BETE, taking the utensils and cracking the pepper: Of course. Are you … sure you don’t need any other help?
OCTA, eyes on the cloud: On the contrary: I’m sure I do. (She turns and winks at her friend) But for the moment, just don’t let that stew stick, okay?
BETE, looking down and shivering as she stirs: If you say so ….
(Octa rises to her feet and, holding her broom carefully before her, creeps as she carefully approaches the treeline...
It opens into a winding path trough the red-violet boughs of tendril-like trees lashing in random directions over the dirt road and obscuring it with their cool-green leaves. The mist has spread into an even thicker fog over the ever-deepening forest stretching away from the sea. Pearrows peck at the thicker trunks and pull gumbeetles from the bark, cawing as Octa passes by into the mists.)
OCTA, mockingly: Oooh, I’m such a scared little girl wandering through the forest! I hope no mean, nasty witches pops out from nowhere to curse and hex poor, little, ol’ me! … (aside, but not hidden at all) Hey Temp, give me some ambiance!
(A crackle of thunder suddenly bursts into a full-on humid downpour, warming the surrounding area significantly against the equally-supernatural cold breeze pushing against it. Tempest makes a windy, mournful wail in the sudden breezy conditions which ruffle the fringe of Octa’s dress.)
UNSEEN, (v/o): You never were as funny as you think you are, Third.
OCTA, folding her arms and smirking: Oh – I know, Septima. I’m even funnier.
(In a spiteful reaction, the cold breeze upon facing competition suddenly sharpened into a single blade-like current and launched itself directly at the young witch. Eyeing it without concern for only a half-second, Octa whoops excitedly before just as quickly splashing into a newly formed shallow puddle – far from merely kicking up rainwater, she has vanished into it entirely. On the surface of the small pool, Octa has formed a DONUT HOLE, a small magical portal allowing access to the “offstage” dimensions of the Realms. It closes just as quickly as it opened, and a complementary one forms in the person-sized knothole of a nearby waywillow tree, Octa walking out onto the thick branch beneath it and continuing as if uninterrupted.)
OCTA, arms folded behind her and turning about theatrically as she carefully searches: But on the subject of ‘not funny’, my former-fellow coven-mate, this hide and seek game you have going doesn’t amuse.
(Another cold snap strikes the underside of the flat bough Octa walked along, severing it in all but name, while she gracefully drops once more, taking hold as she falls and swinging upon the rapidly falling branch before dropping back to the forest floor just as it does with a crack, Octa continuing casually)
OCTA: You wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of giving yourself away in a big cold cloud if you didn’t want to be seen, now would you? So why don’t you come out here and talk to me like a peer – or at least like a grown-up. I’ll even give you a bowl of the stew we have cooking!
(This is apparently the last straw, the cold clouds part and out springs the menacing scowl and blood-red crystalline broom of Septima, SECOND OF THE COVEN OF THE HAT (fmr.), turquiose robes over a dark dress and an equally sky-blue pallor to her pale visage. Vampire-like fangs bite at her lip as she races forward with her broom in a sword-like strike.)
SEPTIMA: You will never be my peer, Third.
(The blood-crystal collides with Octa’s own broom, having now taking on the size and scale of a comically-large cricket bat, absorbing the weight of her strike and holding her fast)
SEPTIMA, glaring and gritting her teeth: And to hecks with your stew.
OCTA, standing firm behind her broom: And yet, somehow, I’m sure I’m going to get an ear-full of everything you have been stewing about – am I right?
TEMPEST, popping behind Octa with a fizzling crackle: How many times do we gotta walk through your tragic set of grievances and personal traumas before you get with the program, Sevens?
(Her scowl breaking into a sneer, her fangs and the eyes hiding beneath her blood-red circular lenses turned down under the brim of her hat to hide her features)
SEPTIMA, breaking off her broom-lock: Just like you to refuse to confront your own problems by hiding behind your so-called friends. Real individual of you, Third.
OCTA, scoffing: Really? Do you need me to admit that I can’t beat you on my own in a straight fight, Sept? (She shrinks her broom back down to it’s usual length and width, spreading her arms wide and open, but leaving it floating before her like an out-turned dagger) Fine! I can’t, it’s true! Do you feel any better?
SEPTIMA, firmly: No.
OCTA: What a shame. Cause I feel great! (Takes the broom and points the tip directly at Septima) Wanna know why?
(Septima merely roars in anger before taking another swing at Octa with the strange “broom”, the large and awkward weapon failing to connect any of her unfocused strikes as Octa smugly bobs and weaves around her. When she does finally come close, to striking her rival she does collide with a wall of static suddenly projected with a wave of Tempest’s hand, knocking her backwards and her broom from her hand)
OCTA: I don’t have to beat you all alone – funny how that works! Feel lonely, Sept?
(Septima lurches forward, broom returning to her hand to attempt another strike, but the paralysis from static has left her too weak to swing properly)
SEPTIMA, exhausted, growing more distraught as she continues: Perhaps I wouldn’t if some ungrateful little welp of a third-seat bench-warmer hadn’t ruined everything!
(She swings once more with her scream, but this time in the middle of a dodge, Octa leaps onto the large crystal and perches in a squat on the back of the “blade”, looking deeply into her former superiors eyes as Septima flinches)
OCTA, resigned at first, then frustrated: Ah, the heart of the matter. Come on, buddy! Lay it on me, let your feelings out! You’re among friends here!
SEPTIMA, infuriated: Rrragh! (She tries to swing once more, to no avail. She tries again, only to forsake dignity and begin pulling on the handle desperately, but finds the broom will not move at all as Octa continues to glare at her, but her disappointed glower finally breaks into an amused chuckle.)
BETE, (o/s): Stew’s on, Octa.
(From behind Octa, panning to see her fully, Bete has directed the beam of her ZERO POINTER, a gravity gun model standard-issue from GNOMINAL TECHNOLOGY usually applied in construction rare mineral extraction – currently holding the otherworldly mineral ‘blade’ of crystal in place.
(Beside her is a tall canine figure, bronze and copper with a rust finish, and a single, red visor-like eye regarding Septima with barely-concealed contempt. They carry the cauldron that adorned the camp fireplace on their metal back. Via the spade-like tail with a thumb-like gripping appendage on its end, they pass a stoneware bowl full of thick, creamy stew with a small spoon tucked into it, which Octa takes gladly, stepping down idly from the motionless weapon. She nods wordless acknowledgment to Tycho – Earthen Golem of Cabazza, whose servos whine appreciatively)
OCTA, exaggerated, taking out a spoon and a slurp before smacking her lips rapidly: Mmm! Just right! Good work, buddy!
BETE: Everything I learned about cooking in a cauldron, my friend, I learned from you. (She approaches Septima and cheekily presses a similar bowl into Septima’s hands, as they are unable to grip her weapon) Here you are, Second Septima. Oh! It may behoove you to know that, as our friendly neighborhood dark lord is no longer rendered immobile by hunger, your numerical odds are even more precipitous than they appear.
SEPTIMA, too confused to react: Excuse me?
BETE, tutting: My apologies, I always was too wordy. Let me make it simple: (She grins menacingly with a matching fanged smile) Run.
(Septima’s glasses fall to the end of her crooked nose and her already austere features grow somehow more pale. The crushing thuds begin with ironic immediacy, the sounds of flattened earth and clinking black iron that has heralded the misery of millions of mortals over millennia – heralding VULKER, THE BLACK DRAKE … or rather – as Septima knows very well in her mind but in neither her heart nor her knees – both his long-dead ghost and whichever of his DRAGONKIND descendants and kin has chosen to take up his LEVIATHORN AXE and don his accursed ETERNABLACK PLATE ARMOR to take on his terrifying visage. Shadows and mists part around them as they move, the enchanted [and quite visibly haunted] armor fuzzy around the edges and so deep in its dark color that it swallows light around it, ultraviolet fire pouring slowly from each end of the helm’s eyepiece.)
VULKER, gazing down at Septima, either in pity or contempt: Hello again, little bloodsucker.
(Their voice booms as they approach, but as they speak, it is less one ghostly voice manifestation, and more an uneven unity of two voices – one aged and refined yet rugged, and the other filled with more youthful energy veiled in a heavy rasp)
VULKER: Did you come to us for another lesson in humility?
SEPTIMA, chuckling fearfully as the thudding gets closer: I- uh, might just -em … take my leave and – ehm-
(*WHAAAMM* – racing forward, the armored fist of a youthful, scaled hand mantled in ancient dense alloys lands two solid clothesline punches into Septima’s cracking features and her suddenly-released broom both with a deceptively experienced and sturdy form, flexible plate placed soundly and solidly on the earth with almost as much force as just set Septima reeling back through the frosty mists with a soft *poff* before she disappears entirely)
SEPTIMA, blasting off: THANK YOU For the stewwwwww…. (A distant crash and sudden silence)
TEMPEST, pogging and arms overhead: Wooo! Five star team beat-down!
TYCHO: *revs motor excitedly and deliberately, celebrating Septima’s misery*
OCTA, shrugging and looking to Tycho and Tempest: Graceful in defeat! Just how I like her best.
(She turns to her massive companion, easily several heads over her and more than twice the diminutive Bete’s height. The tall, spindly horns emerging from the squat, round and face-concealing helm do not fit properly, almost rattling at the edges of the apertures tailored to another, more ancient drake. But the armor itself is bonded to the form of it’s current wearer as an almost preternatural extension of their own self, and the familiar fire burning within the helm’s visor would quiet any question as to the wearer’s … or the owner’s, identity.)
OCTA, sheepish, stuttering: Thanks, Vulk-thanks, Maul-thank you! Very much!
MAULIE, returning to a resting stance: No problem. Sorry we were slow to start.
(The first voice, while young and feminine, is coated in an almost self-conscious gruffness covering the traditional noble accent of the Principality of Monsters, common among drake nobility descendant from Vulker. It is that of Maulkir, Great-Grandaughter of the Black Drake himself, Maulie to her friends)
VULKER (v/o, he is a ghost after all): Hrmm. Were you not so busy whining about your stomach, we would not have been so delayed.
(The second voice is the drake himself, Vulker, founding monarch of the Principality of Monsters, The Scourge of Flornian, and The Prince of All Drakes, the most powerful unblooded Dragon to ever live, here in every aspect except the flesh. His eyes take the form of the ghostly smoke around the view-port of the helm, flowing with fire-like energy and having the same sharpness that shaped and forged an empire free of the influence of his Draconic forefathers. His soul is clearly still burning, cursed though he is to live for an eternity trapped within the armor that protected him in life. As Septima just painfully discovered, when that armor is in possession a wearer, such as Maulie, he remains one of the most potent combatants on the face of the realm of Flornian)
MAULIE, flippant: And how long has it been since you had a stomach to fill, Old Man?
(When they work together and get along, of course)
OCTA, distracting Maulie: Uh, seconds, Maul? (Holds out a bowl of soup from the cauldron)
MAULIE, appreciative, anger forgotten: Ooh, thank you. Don’t mind if I do…. (Pours the bowl down her mouth incautiously and hums, satisfied)
VULKER, dissatisfied: What a disgraceful encounter. If the witch came here for a stand-up fight – she certainly wasn’t ready for one. (Softer, to Octa) Unlike some witches I could mention.
OCTA, chuckling: Calling me ‘ready’ is more of a complement than I deserve, sir.
VULKER, firm: Do not sell short your progress. You’ve learned much – more than this former Second of yours.
OCTA, folding her arms and biting her lip, pondering: Maybe. It is just like my old coven-mate to ambush us on a beautiful evening and call ‘me’ a wiener about it. She has a … ‘twisted’ idea of honor, shall we say. (Sheepish, an awkward admission) You also – uh .. never hit me quite that hard. I probably would have flown pretty far too.
(Vulker merely chuckles, while Maulie turns to face her)
MAULIE: Maybe so, bud. But the difference is you also are always ready to come back for seconds.
OCTA, wistful for a moment: Maybe… Hey, speaking of seconds, gimmie my stew! (Takes another ladle full into her bowl)
(As he group re-approaches the camp, Octa spies a small, fluttering figure emerges from the Mobile-Dome’s door flap, before perching aloofly atop the Dome’s attached “ Scholar Survival Kit” branded awning sheltering the exterior. The round shadow glares out at the sea with a single, familiarly Gnomish eye. Even more familiar is the slightly more ornate witch’s hat – in a royal lavender with a white gossamer trim, squat upon the round head but it’s point perfectly vertical. Her barely visible expression is sour, dour, and condescending as she spies those she resentfully calls her “traveling companions” approaching. She is Cesta, FIRST OF THE COVEN OF THE HAT (fmr.) and mentor to Octa (even more fmr.) )
CESTA, hollering: What’s all the hubub about! What became of the awful gruel you call a supper?
OCTA, hollering back: Do you want some or not, you hateful old bat?!
CETSA: What did you say, you loathsome young brat?
OCTA, stopping short before sighing: Not worth my effort.
TEMPEST, exasperated: Are you joking? She’s perched on a metal rod.
OCTA, raising her brow: Did I say anything about your effort?
TEMPEST: *grins, waves zir arm aggressively*
CESTA, following the boom of very-close thunder: Yee-OWWWCH! You miscreant maelstrom!
TEMPEST, proudly, placing zir chin upon zir hands: Ain’t I a stinker?
CESTA, beyond words: Ouurgh….
(Despite her cadence obviously being that of a mortal, as a remnant of her and her students final duel against one-another, Cesta holds the shape of an owl – a spherical Hendwhing barn owl native to the much more frigid lands of the COXAN MOUNTAIN RANGE far to the north of the realm. While her transformation does not impede her calling upon her power as an experienced witch, her form as a bird renders her permanently vulnerable to Tempest’s chief domain over the air, or even a good sweep from Octa’s broom. The spirit of the air in particular acts as her eager bailiff, keeping her from departing the Party or antagonizing them, to a degree. The irritated bird flutters off to a more grounded position under the awning)
(The group surrounding the huge armored figure all reassemble around the Mobile Dome’s attached picnic-bench table, those with more substantial physical bodies (Bete and Octa) sliding in, Tycho grounding themselves beside Bete while Tempest hovers about nearby, and the much larger drake planting themselves at the benches ‘head’ on the ground and folding their legs criss-cross. They continue eating and placing their finished dishes in a nearby container with a Gnomish minimalist design labeled ‘DISH WOOFER 3000’ as they discuss their path forward)
OCTA: Your ‘gruel’ would have been available to you a lot faster if you would dare show your face to your erstwhile pet apprentice. Too afraid to face your own Second, Master Cesta?
CESTA, inbetween loud beak-slurping: My former pet apprentice – whom still would be – if a certain jumped-up Third hadn’t-
OCTA, speaking over her: Wow, I’m catching blame for everything today! How nostalgic!
(Bete sits at the fold out table and spreads her hands along the large roll of paper maps, looking between the two as she hovers over the gird of landmasses and coastline)
BETE: Ladies, if you please; may we table the old business in favor of new?
OCTA, propping her arm on the table and smiling: Fine by me. What’s new, Beets? My cartographic friend?
CESTA: Do I not get a vote?
OCTA, not looking away from Bete or breaking her smile: Nope.
BETE, smirking herself as she unfolds her map: As it stands, if we’re to continue on the Fairy Low-way Route-64, right here (traces a line with her claw), the next village in our path is a tiny settlement called ‘Duoma’ –
OCTA: Anything in the big guidebook about it?
BETE: Help yourself, we may have a look together.
(Bete reaches into her Hypercube and produces first only the lip of the cover, distorted inward at the aperture in such a way that should either crush the spine or break the cube itself, before removing the whole of the much larger book in a second swift motion, handing it to the awaiting witch. Octa plops the heavy parchment soft-cover volume labeled Flornian Travelling and Tourism Handbook Region G – Southern Ridgelands and The Eternal Glades – Edited by Scholar Perieges Spokepatch)
OCTA, humming for a moment as she finds the page: Hmm hm hm, Area Zone code … ‘D’-’D’-’D’-Duoma! Here we go, settled on top of some of the older Overgnome Underhills in this area … and in one of the bigger wogdeen trees.
BETE: Branches, or trunk?
OCTA, turing the image sideways in confusion before giving up and showing the picture: Well, uh, both. The town sort of splits the tree down the middle.
(She holds down the page and points: The diagram shows the town and the tree just so: wooden fronts are built into the hillside that the roots run through like a tangle of thick noodles over and through the whole of the town. The buildings encircle the tree like a spiral staircase, terminating in a fountain square with a freestanding chapel and the two hills which house Overgnome hollow interiors)
OCTA: A lot of towns in the Glades are like this – the wogdeen trees offer natural defenses and resources, and if you harvest them right, they can grow back sustainably. Towns, in turn, water and enrich the soil – the usual mortal way, and they form a nice little symbiosis. When you balance right, of course.
BETE, amused, propping her elbow on the table: That isn’t just information straight from the page. Just how did a sheltered Academy witch learn so much of the local Glades culture?
OCTA, flippant, pointing with her thumb over her shoulder at Cesta: Tch, blame her.
CESTA, sardonic: Did you believe we were a bunch of tired old crones in their magic castle? Totally ignorant to the affairs of the realm?
BETE, flat: I don’t have to believe it – my eye works perfectly fine, thank you.
(Cesta just grumbles and glares, Bete follows Octa’s lead and ignores her)
OCTA: But the guidebook does say that it’s primarily a trading town these days – with the trees and the terrain being as choppy as it is, it makes for a naturally defensible intersection for most of the local trade routes.
VULKER, attention raised for the first time: Meaning it will be a breeding ground for rumors, or better still, refugees fleeing from the forces or the effects of the Outer Powers in this region-
MAULIE, cutting him off, eyes turning the opposite way: Or. People, who need our help for purely pedestrian reasons.
OCTA, conciliatory: Sure, goes without saying. But, if we wanna look at the big picture here-
CESTA: The “Big Picture” is that we require compensation for any work that we take on – our needs require just as much care as the realms, do they not?
OCTA, pointing and jeering: Check out the freshly-hatched altruist over here.
CESTA, equally pointed: Do you intend to take on an Outer God with nothing but your bare fists?
MAULIE, grinning: Yes.
VULKER, stoic: Yes.
CESTA, with a groan: Ugh – it is an imperative that we grow stronger – and wealthier – for the tasks ahead. If you wish to rush into a battle unprepared once more, we may as well cut our losses and part here.
OCTA, getting heated: Or, call me crazy here: we do both: help people and get stronger? Why do we have to talk like these are mutually exclusive goals?
CESTA: Because the day may come when it might be just so – and you would do well to prepare for it.
OCTA: And guess what? Sometimes, it is that easy. We’ve already seen it – like with the elder bugs at the Inn last week.
TEMPEST: Yuck-a. Hate bugs. And Inns.
BETE, oddly reluctant: It is ... debatable if those creatures were of the Outer Powers.
OCTA: What? Why does it matter?
VULKER: It does not. The creatures were most certainly from outside the Known Realms, if not Eg itself.
MAULIE: It’s worth keeping track. For score-keeping.
OCTA, raising her brow: Really, Maul? It’s not a competition.
MAULIE, oddly insistent: Course not. Because if it were, I would be winning.
OCTA,realzing, leaning in: Seconded.
MAULIE, confused: Hm?
OCTA: All those in favor of acknowledging Maulie in leading the team in Outer God related defeats, say aye.
ALL, indistinct, after a beat: AYE.
CESTA: Nay!
OCTA, looking down on her: You are truly the worst! Motion passes – despite opposition.
(Maulie folds her arms and appears quite pleased with herself. Cesta does not. Vulker loudly huff to communicate his choice to say nothing.)
OCTA: Now, Bete – what the hecks were we talking about?
BETE, smiling wryly: Are you sure? I can be very patient.
OCTA, gently: By all means, my friend, then let’s hurry up and decide what in the realms we’re actually supposed to do next.
BETE, looking to the map: I’m afraid that geography rather dictates out destiny, here…
(She gestures again to the approximation of Route-64 on the map, her claw tracing the line of the path between the deep and steep forest and the even steeper cliffside overlooking the ADJETEVEAN SEA.)
BETE: The cliffs are inhospitable enough, even without the cliffgrazers – and traveling off the main path in parts of the Glades of this thickness … well, it is just about as ‘not recommended’ as you can get without a skull and crossbones. Not to mention it would be additional time to deposit us in exactly the same place.
OCTA: Right! All those in favor of not doing more work for no benefit, say ‘aye’!
ALL: Aye!
CESTA, loudly: Nay!
OCTA: Insufferable! Motion passes! (raps the table with her broom handle like a gavel)
VULKER, amused: Hm... your notion of democracy seems to irritate you just as much as it does me, little witch.
OCTA, pointedly looking ton Vulker and away from Cesta: Maybe if I had more leeway to punish certain constituencies for voting wrong….
CESTA, condescending: Hoot, hoot. (takes her broom in her talon and flutters off)
OCTA, false aside: I guess that means ‘meeting adjourned’! (Genuine) Good talk, everybody!
BETE, hesitating a moment, glancing up and around: You do know you cold have left her behind at the Academy.
OCTA, feigned shock and scoffing: Scoff, I say! And deprive her of this sublime misery?
BETE: She was transmogrified and humiliated in front of her peers. She would have been just as miserable.
OCTA: And so would a younger generation of witches that I’d be inflicting her on. Trust me, it’s safer to keep her where I can keep an eye – or two (she leans in towards her)– on her.
BETE: Well, three eyes are better than one.
MAULIE, breaking her relaxed posture, hands behind her head and leaning forward: Am I not in on this one?
OCTA, jesting, lightly frustrated: Maul? I trust your judgment – If you ghosted her yesterday I’d have thought you were doing the whole Realms a favor. Don’t let me stop you from committing to mentor-cide.
MAULIE, concealing enthusiasm: Really?
BETE, cocking her eyebrow: Really?
(Vulker himself stays silent)
OCTA, after a beat of biting her lip, and sighing: No….
MAULIE, only a little sour: Noted. (She returns to her original position and closes her eyes. Vulker’s are still open.)
BETE: And what about Septima? Would you not feel safer if she weren’t able to wreak havoc without your consent?
OCTA, catching on: -No! Maybe … Probably.
BETE, nodding slowly, her point made and turning back to the others: Regardless, since the rest of us agree, there is no need to spend the remainder of the night arguing. Shall we reconnoiter at first dawn?
(Maulie only shrugs slightly and Vulker continues his wisdom in saying nothing besides a small grunt as the armor begins to move. They both rise slowly, the heavy armored footsteps slumping off to a soft patch of grass beside the cliffside and the panorama of the rapidly setting twin suns of Heria and Vania and the riding of dimmer nighttime star of Noria)
OCTA: Rrrright... thanks, boss! Roar if you need anything! (She grins cheekily before it collapses like a thatched roof, looking to Bete despondently)
BETE, unsure, looking back between Octa and Tycho: Does … anyone else in our little group choose to sleep indoors, or is it just you and me?
(Tycho beeps to the negative and folds their legs in, rolling outward in their usual nightly watch and patrol)
OCTA, holding up her hands defensively in protest: Look, I’m nobody’s dad, here.
TEMPEST, shocked, attention drawn at last: *gasp*! You aren’t m’Dad?
OCTA, hesitant then consoling: No, Temp. I am most definitely not in charge of you.
TEMPEST, mood totally changed, chuckling deeply: Heh! Charge. That’s a relief!
BETE, fumbling through her HyperCube storage: On the subject of “charges”, Tempest? There is something I wanted to ask your opinion about…
TEMPEST, folding arms: I dunno. Forming an opinion sounds dangerously close to “thinking”….
BETE, sheepish: Well, it’s nothing serious, I know better... it’s more of a gift really, just something to make you feel more at home around the dome….
TEMPEST, ecstatic: A present for me? Aww, Beets, ya big nerd – I didn’t know you cared so much!
(She removes a rectangular prism, half-again as big as the HyperCube itself, encased partially in a rounded metal cage – a Gnominal Technologies Hi-Energy Insect Attraction Eliminator Unit.)
TEMPEST: A Bug Zapper?! (Ze suddenly surges forward and embraces Bete in a suction-tight aero-static hug) That’s so funny I just have to try it!
BETE, muffled, her cheeks being squeezed by an invisible nylon blanket: Don’t mention it….
TYCHO: *wary chirping*...
(The face and body of Tempest suddenly compress themselves into two streaks of pure indigo and white before angling and projecting themselves into the device. The small battery on the product quickly voids its own warranty with a shudder and begins a herky-jerky dance for a few steps before it shatters the peace of the evening by erupting into flames. Bete backs away sheepishly)
OCTA, uncorking her gourd full of water once more: Well, I do admire the effort!
(The water from Octa’s gourd flows out from the upturned mouth in a smooth, snakelike stream as she moves it over the small fire to smother it, pulling the air out from the area around it with her other glowing hand. Tycho releases a small stream of off-white foam onto the zapper itself, which envelop the fire and harden accordingly. In not too long, the only remains of the fire are the ashes still on the sheepish Bete’s face. Tempest pops back out with a crackle and pop, none the worse for wear, and poses heroically hands-on-intangible-hips before ze begins shadowboxing and flash-stepping as the area around them crackles with spent energy)
TEMPEST: Woo! That felt great! Puts me right in the mood for an evening constitutional!
(Ze suddenly booms off with a sudden gust before vanishing entirely in another, unseen direction)
TEMPEST, (v/o): Later! See y’all at suntimes...!
VULKER, still facing away on the cliffside: DO you young-ins mind? Old folks are trying to sleep over here….
MAULIE: Speak for yourself, gramps! That was awesome!
BETE, head in hands, quietly: I … will be mindful of that. I suppose.
OCTA, placing a hand on her shoulder: Hey, ze appreciated it, too. And so do I.
BETE: I hope that appreciation was worth the 25 ducats that I spent on the portable incendiary device
OCTA, chuckling: Let me sleep on that, alright?
(Both the witch and scholar retire for the evening, gathering their belongings from the table and setting the Dome into its secure night-mode as they lock up. Vulker and Maulie remain at the cliff’s edge, as is often a drake’s preference to sleep near the open sky. Tycho hums along at an even pace around the perimeter, listening carefully for danger and hearing only the distant joy of a lightning spirit. And over the canopy of the forest, Cesta hoots ominously at the other creatures of the forest, no stranger to their languages even in her true form, and takes advantage of the setting sun for optimal hunting and haunting hours in the Glades)