It had been nearly a month since their exit on the Skybridge, but Faramaureá and Percival arrived in front of the hills of Granigeleb, just three hundred units from the Castle of Chameleons. The Castle's walls rose in grandeur, twenty units of vertically stacked dolostone which defended the villagers in times of assault. They are nothing compared to the walls of our home, though, thought Percival, his mind filled with images of passageways and corridors carved and meticulously sculpted out of sandstone and obsidian.

As his mind wandered, Faramaureä waved a hand in front of his face, and, assuming that he had fallen into the realms of Martamo, she reached up and seized the reins of the horse they had taken from Le Elyanme. As she coaxed the horse onward, she thought to herself: A new home, a new day, a new opportunity, and most importantly, a new escape from Gary Gygax. She shivered at his name, and the motion of it drew her brother back.

"Sorry, Percival. I did not mean to wake you."

"Wake me?" Percival took hold of the reins with a puzzled look toward his younger sister. "I was not asleep."

She returned his look, not in disbelief, but in bemusement. "Well, awake or not, you clearly were not conscious of our surroundings. I managed to get ahold of the reins without you noticing." She cast her eyes upon the carvings around the gate. "It always amazes me how simplistic the artwork is here. Its beautiful in its own right, but they changed so little."

Percival looked and saw that it was true. Around the gate was a very simple vine spiral which followed the natural arch of the rounded-top door. The doors were perpetually open, in fact, it had been theorised that they were impossible to close anymore, due to rust and warping. He shrugged, "I will be the first to admit, Faramaureä, doubt I would have given the artwork a second glance amid our struggles."

She smiled at his words but shook her head in incredulity. "Unlike you, I have not lost my ability to see the beauty of our surroundings. You live in the past and future, but rare are the times that you acknowledge the moment."

"It is hard to acknowledge the moment when I am trying to plan to continue our lives, Faramaureä."

"A life is not worth living unless you spend your time living it. If you spend all of your time planning; you will never actually apply those plans to the present."

Percival shook his head in amusement. "I try to save your life and you criticise me. Maybe I should let you lead us."

"You think I am incapable of doing so?" Faramaureä chided him facetiously. 

"Incapable? No. As capable as I am," Percival gave her a cock-sure smile. "No."

She gripped the reins in false indignation, and urged the horse forward with a "hrumph," for emphasis.

As the horse entered the gates, they got a better view of the party that was occurring inside of the city. Dismounting,  Faramaureä led the horse into the stables to their left and grabbed her bag, while Percival tied up the horse. She walked out into the city square and looked around.

Everywhere she looked, there were colourful garments and flamboyant dances; the citizens appeared to be dancing around a float printed with hundreds of faces. What is this festival? She walked into the crowds, and her hand was promptly seized by a young girl, who began whirling her around the cobbles of the square.

"Wha-" was all Faramaureä had time to say, before the girl left her mid-spin, leaving her lost in the crowd of drifting changelings. She got ready to call her brother but she stopped. What would I call him by? I certainly cannot afford to use his real name, nor can I use our Drakorian names. 

As she was considering that, Percival was having an intriguing discussion of his own with the stablehand. "You said your name was Skye?" The stablehand nodded, so he continued. "What is this festival? It seems," he paused, as though pursuing the word he wanted to use, before, as instantaneous as the striking of a match, it came to him, "boisterous."

"All of our Funerals are," He stated in a heavy accent, reminiscent of the slithering of a snake, but containing an aspect of a babbling brook. It was fluid and moved with progression, yet every word contained notes of inflexion and variance between its syllables. 

"My apologies," Percival hazarded, looking out amongst the crowds. "Did you just say this was a funeral? It looks more like a celebration."

Skye looked at Percival as though confused. "Are funerals not celebrations where you are from?"

"No," Percival whispered, his voice low but clearly dictated. "In Meneltarma, a funeral is a period of mourning." He thought back on his mothers funeral, for the first time in a long time. Clearing his throat, he explained: "When a person dies, it is a great loss to their family. Thus we mourn their passing."

"Ah," Skye mused. "You make it about yourselves, not the person. I see."

"Well, I would not go that far, but—"

Skye cut him off. "Are they sad?"

"Er-No?"

"In pain?"

"No."

Skye smiled like a man who knew he had proven his point. "Then they are not mourning so why are you?" He laughed at Percival's chastened expression. "Hey, that is quite alright, friend. We all do things differently wherever we go." He leaned against the wooden fence that held the horses in, and gazed out over the ceremony. "Here, we celebrate the person; we do not worry about our feelings. The day is about them, and all they have done in their lives. We'll party until sunset falls 'aneath those mountains, and then they will be removed from their cairn, and laid to sleep in the crypts, as it has always been."

Percival turned to follow Skye's gaze, running out over the town where the people danced. He saw two little girls and their mother dancing around each other in a cyclical form and pointed to them. "Do you know those three?"

Skye scanned the crowd for the targets of Percival's question. "The three near the cairn? Two females children and a female adult? Aye, I know them: That's Moldart, Culloden, and the oldest is Lochiel, my mother."

"Your mother," Percival acknowledged softly. "Who is in the cairn?"

"My father," Skye answered simply. 

Percival was surprised by the utter, not indifference, but lack of sorrow in his words. It was not as though Skye did not care that his father was gone, but he was far from mourning the fact. Percival cleared his throat and concluded: "I should go find my sister. Thank you for the conversation, Skye."

"It is no problem..."

Percival considered the option before him, but eventually, he decided that he could trust the lad. "Percival Estelondo."

Skye tilted his head in curiosity. "It is good to meet you, my friend; good luck finding your sister." Percival went to turn around, but Skye called him back. "Get that mournful look off your face, Percy; there's no need to look so dour at a funeral."

Percival laughed. "I do not believe anyone has ever called me 'Percy' before."

As Skye picked up his pitchfork and went back to mucking out the stables, he waved Percival out with: "That's better, lad. And get used to it. We, changelings, tend to shorten names; only so much time in a day should be spent saying someone's name."

Percival walked out into the dance, and due to nothing but pure coincidence, Faramaureä was spun right into his path. He watched her laughing and spinning, among a crowd of the young changelings. Let her go a bit longer, Percival. She deserves a moment of happiness.

The moment he was decided, a changeling man looked over and shouted out, "Come and join us, friend. There's no need to be so apart from the crowd." Percival was swept up and whirled around, and he admittedly was a little less enthusiastic than his sister, but as time went on, he relaxed and whirled around like a spinner top from his childhood.

It was nearly three hours gone by when he heard a voice behind him. "Having fun?"

He turned again, and Faramaureä stood behind him, grinning. "Always, Faramaureä. Are you?"

She stepped forward, meeting him in two strides, and grasped his hand in a moment of pure emotional intensity. "This is what I meant about living in the moment. It is of penultimate importance that you remember to live this life, rather than just continue it."

Percival shook with laughter; if anything, this festival had amplified his emotional reactions because he had for the first time in a hundred years, truly let his wall down. "I have duties that must come first, but I think you may be right, Faramaureä." For the first time that day, he noticed exactly how late it was. "Well, we made an effective use of our first day here. We were supposed to get jobs and a place of residence."

  Faramaureä grinned knowingly. "I actually accomplished both. How are your math and history skills?"

"Decent. Why?"

"I may or may not have orchestrated our job into becoming teachers, which will allow us to stay in the old schoolhouse just outside the city walls."

"That is fantastic, dear sister, but why Math and History?"

"Oh, that is simple, dear brother," She released her grip on his hands and turned back into the crowd, which was now gathering around the cairn, a group of fifty males and females were lifting the cairn up, as the last of the sun's yellow rays disappeared. "I already laid claim to science and geography, as well as music."

Percival followed her, and together they watched as Lochiel, Moldart, and Culloden entered the cairn with a man who he did not recognise. Moments later, the man and Lochiel came out carrying a sheet wrapped corpse, and entered the cairn with it, followed by the two children. The people stood watching the cairn entrance, in a vigil that was solemn compared to the frivolousness and serendipity they had witnessed earlier in the day. 

A horn sounded from inside the cairn, a loud, low sound, which bleated out its cry three times, one time clearly longer than the other two. On the last cry of the horn, the people raise their left hand toward the cairn, and in near unison exclaimed "Achen Lureim Joklis Derunm!" The festival was clearly over after that, as the people meandered home; though due to limited sobriety levels, it was more like stumbling for some.

"That was not Elvish," Faramaureä stated. "What does it mean?"

"I have no idea," Percival said, but a voice behind him spoke.

"Achen Lureim Joklis Derunm," The male changeling said. "Life, Love, Laughter, forever. It was the cry of the founders of this city when it was first created years ago. Exiles, they were; kicked out of Meneltarma by King Nesbitt the Cruel. They founded the city on the principle that everyone would be accepted no matter what, and that they would always be granted those three things. Life, Love, Laughter, forever."

The man walked away and Percival and Faramaureä stood there, watching the family take apart the cairn piece by piece, and pack it into wooden crates. Despite knowing that they would not mourn the loss of Skye's father, Percival's heart went out to them, and he sprinted over. "Would you like some help with this?"

Lochiel looked up at Percival with amber eyes. "My mother always told me to never decline help when it is offered. She always said: 'It is a criminal act to deny an act of kindness; a person should never slap the hand of the good.'" She stepped over to make room for him, and Percival began to work at removing the individual photographs, pulling them off carefully, and handing them to Lochiel and Moldart, who were looking at each of them before placing them gently into the boxes. Occasionally, a photograph would make them laugh, but never did they weep, each photograph put a smile on their faces that was untouched by loss.

It took them nearly an hour to take it all apart, even after Faramaureä started to help, but when they were done, and the cart was loaded, Percival held out a hand to shake hers, but she shook her head. "We do not shake hands among family." With that, she embraced him and climbed onto the cart, which Culloden was driving. "Farewell, my friends." The cart rumbled away, and Percival felt Faramaureä slip her hand into his. 

"Come and away, Percival. It is time to go onto our new home."

. . .

The next day, they had hung a sign on the city door, on which "School returns tomorrow, the 17th of March." The day after, Percival opened the door to his bedroom, and the room outside was full of small children. Stifling a curse due to his surprise, and incredibly grateful that he had gotten dressed in his bedroom, he began his lesson with a question: "Is this math or history?"

A student in the front exclaimed excitedly, "Math!" and Percival nodded, trying to play it off as though he had known the entire time, and that he was just trying to test them.

"That is correct..."He paused, waiting for a name, but the student just sat back down, apparently not used to the convention. "Alright then; I am going to assume that by your midteens, you can do basic operations, and probably some basic algebra, so we are going to move on to geometry." He drew a triangle on the board. "Do you all know what this is?"

"A very poorly drawn triangle?"

He chuckled and looked at the student. "I must affirm your conclusion, but please remind me to have a talk with you later about tact." He drew a circle on around the triangle so that the points of the triangle rested on the circle. "The triangle, or a very poorly drawn variation of one," he smirked at the student who had made such a claim, "Is going to be your best friend in this class. Do you all have a notebook and writing utensil?" 

By the time the class was over, an hour and a half later, Percival had finally ensured that the last of the students understood the theorems of triangle congruence. "I believe that you are now all moving on to art class, with my sister, Faramaureä. Whatever she says, do not tear up your notebook for this class, or History. Otherwise, have fun. You are all dismissed." The students all stood to leave, except the one who he had asked to stay behind for a discussion on tact.

In the next classroom over, Faramaureä was having a discussion with a female student in the front of her class. "What do you mean he said you were not to tear up your notebooks? We do not need them either way, so just put them away for now, and I will talk to him about that later."

She walked up to the front of the board and wrote down what she was saying "My name is Mrs. Estel." Before she could go any further, the same student raised her hand. "Yes, Ms..."

This student did not realise that she was supposed to give her name either, but she was determined to point out: "The other teacher said your name was Faramaureä, not Estel."

 Faramaureä shook her head at Percival's carelessness. "Yes, my name is Faramaureä Estel. You may call me by either. Or teacher. Or Ms. I am not altogether as picky about it as some people are. Now then, if you would all be so kind as to move your seats against the walls; we are going to draw some flower." A student pulled his notebook back out, but Faramaureä stopped him. "We are not drawing them in our notebooks, young one." She sat on the ground and pointed downward. "We are going to draw on the floor." 

The students collectively looked at her as though she had three head, which was impressive, considering that if they wanted to, any one of them could grow three heads and pass it off as a casual act. "Come along, Children. This is far from the weirdest thing we are going to do in this classroom." Faramaureä pulled out a quill and began to draw; her ink pots filled with golden yellow and emerald green, and her quill leaving the faintest scratches on the floor that ensured its permanency. "The trick is to use small, simple strokes, and to make them add up into the bigger picture. Many people like to visualise the image and put it on their canvas of choice, but I prefer to just let the artwork flow. So, each of you, pick a tile and just draw. Do not worry about the image coming to mind, just let it flow through you and your quill." She pulled back her hand and admired the yellow flower she had drawn, before sparing a glance at her students' artwork.

All but one student had sat and begun to draw, and the results looked promising, but it was the one lad that was far from participating in the exercise that drew the elven princess's gaze. "What is your name?" She asked him, standing and going near to him.

"Daeron," he answered quietly.

"Why are you abstaining from participating? I doubt your classmates would say anything about anything you could draw as far as quality goes,"  Faramaureä said, drawing a mixture of scathing and hurt glances from the others.

"I do not have a quill, Ms Estel." The child murmured, his hands clasped behind him as though he was begging.

"Why did you not mention that at the start of class? No matter; I shall fetch you one." She sprinted over to her desk and began rummaging through it for a quill. Where are they? Oh well, time to improvise. In the corner of the wooden room, there was a pile of dead animals that had been stuffed by the previous caretaker of the classroom. She had taken them down in disgust, saying to Percival: "It is one thing to kill an animal for food because that is survival; the natural flow of things. But it is a different matter entirely to kill animals for sport. That is wrong in every way." Walking over to the pile of animals, she plucked out a feather from a stuffed vulture and handed it to the child.

"Now, go draw. You are already behind your classmates."  Faramaureä closed her eyes and felt the life around her. She loved children, seeing them as the conscious races most natural point; before they had obligations and control. She saw them as what all of the world's people should be. But there was something else. Someone, an adult by the energies she felt, was sneaking away from the school.