The road goes ever onward. That’s what my Pa would tell me when I earned to leave town and start traveling with the caravan myself. We are a simple folks, living in a simple time in a simple place. When a child surpasses their 14th harvest, they earn the opportunity to take to the road. Seasons at a time, members of the caravan would set out from home and travel to all the nearby villages in the Provence, performaing a menagerie of entertainment to bring joy to the dreary faces of the Northern Expanse. In return, we’d ask for nothing more than a warm meal and a dry place to set camp for the night. Never staying more than a few nights, before constables chagrin boiled over.

Our first stop of the season was in Douglas. The two night afare quickly became a one night stop-over, thanks to an extraordinary boisterous rendition of “ye King of no Brains” at the Bar Man’s Inn. In the smoked fill tavern that was more fit to be a stable than an ale house, the townsfolk certainly did not hold back on the sweet wine. The song is always a fan favorite, that is, if you did not wear the purple sash of the royal administrator. There was always bound to be one or two in the crowd during our first night. Myself, the youngest of the group, did nothing more than scurry through the throngs of teetering folks with a cap in hand, collecting any coin that could be spared to continue the show. As usual, I slipped a few Silver in a hole i sewn in my tunic, just for the occasion. Certainly the group would not miss a coin or or there. I have been better at saving, but seeing that this was my first stop of the season, the Silver was better spent on a couple good pints for myself.

It was sometime between my 5th glass and dawn, where I felt the swift kick of an administrators boot in the side. “Get outta here ya Gypsey Scum” the administrator spat. Hard smarting worse than my ribs, I groaned and got to my feet before the second boot came around. The walk back to camp was not exactly short one, as we were forced to stick to the outskirts of the town, just beyond the gates. Grey clouds dampened the morning sky, as a cool layer of mist laid before me. Barefoot, the due soaked grass tickled between my toes as I trudged along the slick path. Checking my cloaks’ hidden compartment for last night’s score, I quickly remembered it was squandered on booze.

“Pa is going to kill me.” I think to myself as I stumble along. With no Talent of my own yet, I will never be more than a burden to the group. Hell, I’d be lucky if I even made it through this season’s tour of the province. Pa never said anything, but I could feel the disappointment in his eyes whenever we spoke about what the future held. When he was my age, he played the mandolin better than the devil and had a singing voice as if god dipped his tongue in sweet, late fall honey. I tried to whistle, but the pathetic sound did not even reach the amber foliage at the edge of the tree line. Not even a whistle. What kind of Gypsey could I ever become.

I paused just at the edge of camp, and took it all in. In a few hours, we would be packed up and heading out to the village on the other side of the hills. Maybe this time, I’d bring back a couple of Bronze, or even a Silver, to show my worth. Maybe, but then again, that particular IS known for its mead. Life on the road ain’t so bad. And Hey, who the hell needs to whistle anyways.