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The door to the caravan opened with a slam, the trinkets and knick knacks hung up on the walls shaking ever so slightly. “Well- that could have gone better,” Midas stepped in, dirt and grime sticking to tanned skin, his golden blonde hair sticking up in odd places, “Yeah but Dimitri just had to get his precious flower.” Wren’s voice joins him in the shared space. She shakes her head free of the sticks and leaves that caught in the red curls of her scalp, letting fall to the wooden floor with a clatter.
“Was it worth it, ‘Mitri?” She turns to the smaller boy, sharp eyes glowering, “I either let it be taken or I take it myself!” Dimitri huffs out, rubbing away the soreness in his cheek from when he fell, the freckles scattered across his face highlighted as his skin flushed. “You can’t possibly be mad at me—!” He argues, “Mischa managed to get the to-totem in the end! So- so it’s fine!” Words plagued by his constant stutter, Dimitri’s lips curve down into a pout.
Mischa, meanwhile, had been standing outside the doorway, soaked to the bone from when she had been thrown into the water, wheat-coloured hair strands sticking to her face, a puddle of water beginning to pool at the girl’s feet.
She continued to cradle the totem close to her chest, choosing to stand outside even as she shivered.
“Mischa, you’ll catch death’s gaze if you continue to stand outside.” Midas said with arms crossed over his chest, leaning up against the wall, “Mhm…” Mischa nods, but makes no move to enter. With a heavy sigh, Midas throws a towel over the girl, wrapping her up into a cake roll and carrying her into the caravan.
The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in odd swirls of orange and purples, fluffy clouds rest scattered in wisps of white. Grey smoke creeps up from a pot, a stew slowly being made. Midas stirs the pot, adding herbs and spices little by little.
Sitting off to the side on a blanket, the three rest, freshly bathed and dressed. “So where to next?” Midas asks without lifting his head, the question left out in the open. “I say we go to Inica—“
“Borskov.”
“Crowdam…!”
Mischa scribbles onto her notepad: Solaria
They all lift their heads, differing expressions of bewilderment etched onto their faces.
“Mischa, we're not going to Solaria. For the last time-“ Wren’s voice cuts Midas off— “Why in gods' name would you want to go to Inica of all places?” Fumbling with his words, Midas sputters an excuse, “It’s a beautiful kingdom with even more beautiful coral reefs!” Wren rolls her eyes so hard one might think they would stay stuck. “You just want to look at the women!” She points a finger, her accusation painting the boy’s cheeks red.
Midas’s eyes darted to Dimitri, who sat hunched with his sketchbook in his lap. “Why do you want to go to Crowdam?” The younger boy fumbles with his words, “All- all the best alchemists co-come from there!” Blubbering as he clutched his sketchbook, rocking himself back and forth. “No, they don’t. You’re only saying that because your mother was from Crowdam and Sir. Paracelsus graduated from there.”
“Solaria…” Mischa whines out, cheeks puffed out in a pout, like a little guinea pig with cheeks full of food, a rare speaking moment from the girl.
The two older children snap their heads to her, “We’re not going there.” They say in unison, “Mm…” She curls into herself, flopping onto the blanket and kicking her legs. “Moonbeam if we go there, you’ll get caught up in the religion,” Midas starts, “then you’ll join those fanatics, and then you’re going to start preaching, then you’ll shave your hair, and then you’ll become so devoted you won’t see us anymore!” He rambles, stirring the pot fast enough to send the liquid spilling over the edge. Lowering her head, a pout still on her lips, Mischa whines out a defeated “Aw…”
“We were in Borskov last winter, why would you ever want to go back?” Dimitri turns to Wren, a tilt to his head. Wren, the most composed of the quartet, begins to rant, “And? What, you don’t want to honor the motherland? Maybe you just don’t want me to see my family.” She grumbles, wolf ears pinning down.
“Oh crap-!” Midas blurts, the stew boiling over. The other three stand on their feet, doing their best to help him.
The moon hangs high in the inky black sky, a smattering of bright stars stretched across the darkness. Crickets and cicadas sing low in the forest, the lights of fireflies dancing lazily in circles.
Midas lays in his bed, staring up into the ceiling, “…I still think we should go to Inica-“ Wren smacks him with a pillow— “What in Poseidon’s seven seas is wrong with you!?” Pulling the pillow from his face, Midas sits up. Wren stares him down, “Cease this line of thinking and make it rare this instant.” Unyielding and too stubborn, Midas stares back. “And what’s so bad about Inica!?” Wren rolled her eyes once more, her voice raising, “All the Inicans I’ve met were cheaters and scammers! Do you want to get scammed?” The two begin to tussle, smacking the other with pillows.
With the racket and fight, the younger duo of the quartet begin to stir, “Midas is right, though! Inica is better than Borskov by a mile!” Dimitri joins the fray, his pillow raised to his face in protection. Mischa had taken to hitting her older brother on the back, pulling on his long hair.
Late into the night they fought, pillows being thrown or smacked onto each other’s face. Soon, all their energy had been spent, the four collapsing back onto the shared bed with aching muscles and heavy pants. “We’ll pull straws… or something…” Wren grumbles under her breath. Midas lifts his head just enough to get a few words out, “All in favour say aye…”
The four speak in unison, “Aye…” they yawned as the embrace of sleep returned.