Nongpok Sepia Sheireng

Milu Bodo Troupe was a household name in Kangleipak province. They were a group of nomadic artists who flaunted philanthropic charity, grandiose carnival management and a magic-intensive staged play. To Korou, it all sounded standard; he had even compared them to Commedia dell'arte, another famous troupe, active in the western continent. However, his perception changed when his mother mumbled that they were renowned for always casting locals as actors for their plays.

By the eastern periphery of the Lamphi Bazzar, there stood six wagons adjacent to each other. Their loadbeds were nailed together in a rhombus-shaped stage. Behind it were five marquises. Its conical velvet roof was illuminated in golden shimmers. With oil lamps, glowing radiantly through the mist. Korou's jaw clattered as he tucked his chin behind his copy of 'Histories de Kangleipak'. Despite spending over eight years in the frostic winters of Lamphi, he was still not used to it.

His limbs trembled slightly, with Atla casting a concerned gaze. Ahead of her was a tall woman. She was clad in a dark-brown open gown that went up to her torso. Her pale skin shimmered under the veil of amber, while her monocle glinted as she turned towards them.

"Winters have blessed Sepia's return," Riwkah, the Wuyakuchui elf and the leader of Milu Bodou Troupe, rubbed her palms. Her elongated ear twitched underneath the gelid midnight gale. "Would you like some hot beverage while we converse?"

Atla shook her head in dismissal and motioned the older woman to continue. Korou appreciated the gesture. He wasn't keen on getting a scolding from his mother for an extended stay at the carnival.

"Suit yourself," Riwkha mumbled, her fingers tracing the rim of her monocle.

The interior of their five-tented dwelling was decorated in glistening solar ornaments. Suns, stars and the moon hung over its rotund ceiling, as a school of celestial narwhals that porpoised in quiet intervals. Behind them were scattered vermilion-neon dust reenacting the cosmos. Underneath it was the ensemble cast of the troupe. All beastment, inhaling smokes from tubular Chillam, with their backs slouched over the velvet canapé.

A lady with floppy ears, and reddish brown furred-hair, jumped towards them. Her emerald eyes beamed in ecstasy as she licked Riwkha's cheeks.

"Welcome back!" She snuggled over her neck, making a low warble.

Riwkha gave her a head pat and gestured towards the two. Korou, who was more interested in the Avian and Feline drowning in the pleasure of Wuyakuchui hallucinogen, was startled when the Canid lady leaned over his side and sniffed him.

"He smells like a pup!" The lady jumped in excitement and glanced at Atla, who nodded in approval. Korou heaved a sigh. He wasn't sure if he was even considered human by his closest confidant.

"I agree with that deduction, Akhrivi," Riwkah snapped her fingers thrice and stomped twice, drawing everyone's attention. "However, we have an emergency meeting to conduct."

Korou later learned that those of Wuyakuchui origin were Shamans by birth, and all loved getting high. Halfway through their critical summit, Riwkah rapped at the mahogany-carved table and glared at the dwarf: Zoram. He was the second-in-command of the troupe and also their accountant. He also kept them on leashes when administering Wuyakachui-grown muscaria and harmala. A type of hallucinogen believed to provide the Shamans with an out-of-body experience. Atla explained that it was done to improve mana particle control. Korou thought it was an excuse to get high.

"You are on your sixth smoke today, Riwkha," Zoram growled in dismissal. "Anymore, and you will be useless. You are our leader, carry yourself with dignity."

The red-headed elf rolled her eyes but didn't argue further.

The feline, Tuima, was blessed with the gift of speed. Through the entirety of their strained convergence, she ran over the enclosed space every few minutes. It would be to either clean a desk, do laundry, or sometimes pickpocket. Korou had been trying to pay attention to Riwkha's explanation on the troupe's imminent doom when a grey-furred appendage swerved over his nostril, drawing a sneeze.

"Sorry," Tuima winked, flipped her shoulder-length, wavy, raven-grey hair and pushed back his hand-woven Meru leather wallet. "But little pup, it's better if you pay attention even in a safe space, you never know who the thief might be." She cackled and bounced back to her seat, earning a glare from Zoram.

Lastly was the Avian, Atsung. He was dozing off the entire time, except when he had to take a smoke. Korou didn't pry much about him, and the rest seemed tolerant of his behaviour.

"Basically, you spent all your budget acquiring the Sufi saints and erecting the Genesis Pandal." Atla summed it up while listing it on her fingers. "And now, your funds are all but gone, and if this play doesn't succeed, you will have to disband and be on the run to avoid the tax collectors."

"Pretty much." Riwkha heaved a sigh and shot a glare towards Tuima. She was still bouncing and purred in the adjacent corner. Her paw-like hand played with a furred ball with mirth. "I am sure you aren't interested in the inner workings of the troupe, but at least try to show you are interested, Klepto feline."

"But you would still manage it without me, Riri," She purred and jumped to embrace the woman. She nibbed on her elongated ear and rubbed Riwkha's cheeks."You always do, and I will always support you."

"Flattery won't cut it always," Riwkha's voice was laced with rigour, but her charteruse eyes softened. "Also, can you brew some coffee?"

"Teutonic blend?" She purred.

"Raetia this time." Riwkha gave her a peck. "Thank you."

"Anytime," Tuima bounced up and shot Korou a furtive glance. "Would you like some too, little pup?"

Korou was inclined to nod, but Atla's glare and a pinch on his cheek made him choose otherwise.

"I wasn't aware you had a caretaker." Tuima giggled and winked.

"So would you consider?" Riwkha pulled up the ballad of Sepia and Nongpok—The Nongpok Sepia Sheireng—and tapped at the first and third act division over the rustic spread parchment. It was a seventh-century iteration of the play. Where the Prince, Nongpok, passed away after a dialogue with the Demiurge, Namuchi. It was Korou's least favourite translation and, by extension, Atla's as well.

"You ask, as if we have a choice," Atla grumbled and read her lines. Her eyes, despite the scowl, were radiant. Korou, thanks to his three servings of coffee in the evening, was able to follow through.

"There's always a choice," Riwkha raised her hand in theatrics. "In this world where freedom is flaunted in every alley, the liberty for an individual to choose is paramount."

"Did Grandma ever tell you?" Atla sneered. "You would have made a great politician, Godma."

Korou bit his lips, stifling his laughter. Godma?

"Multiple times," Riwkha shot her a serene smile. "But alas, the revolutionaries of the post-colonial Ukiya couldn't bring forth democracy."

"You would have run the empire into bankruptcy if they did." Tuima sneered with a purr, passing her the fragrant Raetia brew. She then slid a demitasse cup to Korou's side. "It's a quarter of what Riwkha is drinking," Tuima explained to Atla. "It won't hurt him; on the contrary, it would help him stay awake during the rehearsals."

"Rehearsals?" Korou asked in concern. It was the first time he had heard about it. "Wait, when is the play?"

"At dusk," Riwkha sipped her brew and mumbled. "Two days from now, on the final day of Cherouba"