#lunarcaravanlore

You have been travelling for hours, now, when you see the city. Moonlight twinkles on waves that do not move on the shore of a sea you have no name for. A tsunami, hooked and about to crash stuck still as glass. Buildings made from driftwood are pushed into its surface, hanging without bobbing or sinking. 

The Merchant, not ungingerly, steps out onto the water, using his staff to support himself. Each footstep feels close to wet sand, sinking a little into the surface of the frozen waveforms, onto a ramp formed from the prow of a ship. The city has many floors, and steps and ramps and rope ladders, and each street has one side with buildings and the other in the open air. The water is cool and salty, and the air fills your lungs (if you have them) with a deep clean feeling, and your belly with hunger. 

Your machines, carts and animals stay on the shore, tended by members of the Rorsarch Troupe. They wave to you as you mount your way up into the city, and when you look out, you see them casting huge shadows in the fire, acting out fierce battles for the delight of the inhabitants of the city.

The people of this city are wildly different, but the native inhabitants are the Mara; collections of stone and coral used as a humanoid shell for a collection of polyps that work together to move their inanimate bodies as if it were a shell. A single head pokes from between sodden shoulders, a single eye and many stalks that open and close with changes in emotion. 

The gangways converge in a single, giant door; eight walkways leading to (what you realise) a giant squid, wrought from the carcasses of boats. The Merchant bangs his staff against it, making it reverberate like a drum. He passes one of the letters through an open crack, and the door creaks open, slowly. 

Inside, a hall juts outwards towards the back of the wave. Many artists have canvas’ and easel set up, and each are painting something in fine, extraordinary detail. At the end of the hall is a huge window that changes view every few seconds - the sky, a volcano, a sunken palace, and beneath it, a ship in a bottle. 

The Dream Merchant

Height: 5′8

Pronouns: He/Him 

Personality: Sanguine and fond of sharing stories, the Merchant has recently taken a turn for the positively jovial. Whatever news he has received that has sparked his desire to organise a Caravan, it has left him in high spirits. He is fond of children and the elderly, and there’s always another space around the campfire for those who wish to rest.

Background: The Merchant, or Komercisto to his friends, has traveled far and wide; and seen many weird and wondrous things. Only one things nags him, a thorn in his soul - long ago, he sold his name, and now no name will stick to him, no matter how hard he tries. 

Kash and The Merchant.

The dryad placed each careful step in front of the other, robe trailing on the swept tiles of Tephra Square. A rustling quiet spread out from them, like ink in water, silencing the hubbub as all eyes turned to watch them approach the caravan. They towered over the Merchant, even when they were hunched over, and their veil of weeping willow did not part when they spoke.

"Leaving soon, Komercisto?"

The Merchant, pushing himself to his feet, nodded, and Kash bowed deeply to pull something from their large bag.

"You asked me, months ago---" they said, in a voice like autumn winds "---what I would ask of you to give you passage to the Endless Peak. I ask of you no gold, nor spice, nor even dream, little merchant." A wooden hand, ornately garnered with rings made from precious, polished stones set directly into the bark, pressed a bundle of letters into the Merchant's hand.

The Merchant asked who they were for, and Kash, Bishop-Of-The-Ways responded "there are six letters, one each for a guardian on your path. I trust they are safe in your hands, little dream bee...?" The Merchant assured the Bishop that of course they would be safe, and he tucked them in among the folds of his voluminous robes. The moment was quiet, and then Kash laughed, softly. It sounded like rain drumming on a hollow log.

Height: 5′4

Pronouns: She/Her

Personality: Armada tries her best to be enigmatic, to be aloof, to be mysterious. It is unfortunate, then, that she is easily excitable, has no sense of personal space and the delightful ability to ramble for hours. She can be found in either the driving seat of the Walking Tent, or in her wheelchair, attending to the caravan. Background: Armada was born without legs; when she was young, a disease took the nerves in her eyes and gangrene her arms. It is fortunate, then, that the temple city she was raised in was the hub of limbcraft. Her prosthesis are all by her own design, and she has no interest in making them look natural when they could look fun. 

Trade: Armada is a limbcrafter, a maker of magical prosthesis, and it is by her magic that the Caravan moves at all. The Walking Tent’s legs are by her tools and craft, and many of the stranger vehicles in the Caravan walk, crawl or swim because she animates them.