#elsewhere

"I've come here for the event" Not a lie "Though I used to have... family in the area. Oh, I thank you but i just ate. I'm looking for Tony, anyone know her?"

If encouraged (or, to be honest, merely not discouraged,) Thistle will pepper the potters with questions - curious about clay types and cone numbers and styles of kilns and if those are pinch or coil or how they're glazed or or or or...

The woman with the braided hair nods at Gwen’s mention of family in the area. “If you had family around here, there’s a chance they might’ve been Cherokee. A lot of Cherokee people settled in this region after the Trail of Tears, though it depends on the exact area. That's my tribe, though my family settled in further east." As she introduces herself as Ahyoka, and her helper as Tayen.

The shorter-haired woman adds, “Or it could’ve been one of the Haudenosaunee Nations—like Seneca... "Here she places a hand on her own chest, "or Cayuga—but Cherokee would make sense if your family had deeper ties here. Either way, this is a good place to feel connected to that history.”

"The only Tony I know of who would be asked for by name - at least by a young lady, that's Takoda." The older woman says, and the younger gives her a knowing grin, "Well, head over to the drum circle, can't miss it." They point the way.

Thistle may choose to head to the Vendor Area to see what there is for sale, having ALSO been handed an envelope from the Baron, though a little less well padded than the one Gwen received.

Or, she might be drawn to the Cultural Exhibitions if traditional works and artifacts, including some active displays of how items were traditionally made, but not for sale.

Gwen wants to say more, that she is indeed of the Oklahoma Cherokee, those who were pushed East on a trail of tears and she knows the story well. However that would lead to talk of just who here father was, and... well, "An honor, Ahyoka," Then she nods to the others, then at mention of Tony she says "Takoda, that's her. Thank you all."

Traditional works! (Vendors are also a plan, sure, but there's something about methodology more than mercantile that appeals to her engineer's brain and artist's heart.)

As Thistle approaches the exhibit area, her sharp eyes are immediately drawn to a display featuring intricately beaded garments, including a deer-hide dress adorned with shimmering quillwork and beads that catch the light. Even though it is clearly aged and missing work in spots, it nearly shimmers in the light, as though it remembers the ceremonies it once graced now that it's being admired once more.

Nearby, a carved wooden flute rests on a stand, its surface smooth and polished from years of use. The carvings of animals and abstract patterns along its body seem to pulse softly with an energy that feels alive. A sign notes it was crafted by a master artisan over a century ago, used in ceremonies meant to honor the spirits of the land.

On another display, a collection of woven dreamcatchers is displayed, each one distinct in its design. While most seem ordinary, one larger piece stands out, catching the eye. Its frame is made of a rare wood, and its web is laced with what looks like threads of moonlight.

As Thistle scans the area, Art taps her arm and nods towards an elder quietly working at a demonstration table, shaping clay into a small figure. The careful, deliberate movements of their hands feel ritualistic, and a faint shimmer lingers in the air around them as they work - their act of creation producing subtle Glamour.

Thistle's eyes glimmer, the reflection of flame on obsidian, and her spirals are a bright sky-blue. She takes Art's hand to drag him along with her.

As Gwen makes her way through the bustling area, her eyes are drawn to a vibrant performance circle where a crowd has gathered. The air is filled with the rhythmic beat of drums and the haunting melody of a flute.

While at first it is a group dance, showing off general steps and similar outfits, after a moment those dancers part to show in their midst - a tall, striking young man, moving with the grace and power of someone deeply attuned to the rhythm of the music.

He is a handsome man of obvious full Native heritage in his early twenties, his long, dark hair flowing freely with each movement, catching the light like strands of midnight. His posture is strong, yet fluid, as he moves effortlessly with the music, his body telling the story of the beat that echoes in his chest as much as from the drums.

The Brave's regalia is breathtaking—rich, earthy tones of browns, reds, and blacks woven together in intricate patterns that speak to the depth of his heritage. Feathers of vibrant colors and beads hang from his waist and arms, each movement accentuating the craftsmanship of his adornments. His moccasins tap the earth with an almost otherworldly precision, and his eyes, focused and intense, seem to bore through Gwen as he suddenly catches her eyes - before tearing his glance away to continue with the steps.

The air seems to crackle with energy as he dances, his body perfectly in tune with the drums’ pulse.

The crowd - which does seem to have a large number of young women, she can't help but note - seems mesmerized as he spins, his body a blur of motion, the world around him seemingly fading and leaving only the beat and the dancer, one and the same.

When the dance finishes, there is a moment of stillness as the last echoes of the drumbeats fade.

There is a moment of silence the audience reacts. Quite a few visitors begin to clap, others more versed in the traditions follow a different gesture - raising their hands with palms facing forward.

A few voices call out words of praise in their own languages or English, such as “Aho!” or “Good dance, Takoda!”

Gwen is not blind to masculine attractiveness, and the SKILL is impressive. She's seen her Baroness and BLuebell dance, so she's no stranger to find dancing. But this calls to history and heritage that neither of those touch. And the garment... when his eyes lock onto hers, she lifts her chin in impressed acknowledgment and barely veiled praise. And she kens, sure he must be touching glamour

Thistle can be quiet, especially like this - gaze keen, head tilted at an angle as she studies the work. Sometimes her hands twist, echoing a gesture she observed.

And she does raise her hands with palms forward

Gladiola watches him move, captivated by a grace that sets him apart from any man she’s seen. His fluid transitions speak of more than skill—there’s an ancient, deep connection in his movements.

His dark eyes carry the weight of centuries of tradition. Their brief, unspoken exchange ignites a spark between them, before he looked away as the dance carried him on.

There’s an undeniable magic about him. His dance isn’t just impressive, it feels like he embodies the land, the very spirit of his tribe. The subtle shimmer of Glamour clings to him, unmistakable to her kenning.

Though he looks entirely human, there’s a presence that speaks of something more, a nature powerful and magical, undeniable. He’s not just a man or a dancer. He’s something born of the land and spirits. And though she’s never met one before, she knows—without a doubt—he must be a Nunnehi.

She wonders if he sees her as she really is, and then decides whatever he thinks of trolls, there is no point in hiding it as she can't. I hope I don't blow this like I've blown up everything so far.

Takoda approaches Gwen, his gaze steady as he moves through the crowd, politely brushing past several women who attempt to draw him aside, though he does accept a cloth from a younger dancer to wipe his face briefly.

When he reaches Gwen, he pauses, offering a slight nod of acknowledgment.

"Not often do I see someone like you here," he says, his voice calm and measured. "The wind carries certain things to those who listen closely."

He holds her gaze for a moment longer before stepping back slightly, allowing her space to respond, clearly intrigued.

"And I was , for some reason, expecting you to be a girl," She says Oh geez why did I say that? Correct, course correct "Though you're definitely a..." No no, that's an over correct "Pardon me, let me start over. You must be Tony, unless you prefer Takoda? I'm Gwen"

Takoda listens as Gwen stumbles through her words. He offers a small smile, a little amused but not put off by her awkwardness.

“Yes, I’m Takoda,” he says. “Tony is the name I adopted amongst the Wasichu." He nods todays a group of blond tourists walking past. "You may address me as is comfortable."

“Gwen? Yes." Eyes brightening as he recalls,. "I remember your email about the Moonflower belt,” he continues, his tone shifting slightly, becoming more thoughtful. “I suspected there was something... special about you, and now, seeing you here, I believe I was right.”

A slight pause lingers as he considers his next words. “Would you like to meet Bernice? Or perhaps, I can assist you with what you seek?” Not pressing, but the offer seems genuine.

"Well, I was... seeking Bernice's wisdom . I don't know what you know of the Belt so," Gwen shrugs "I don't know if you can help? then again I don't know if she can either. At the risk of being hated by every woman here, can we talk in private?"

Thistle watches intently as the clayworker finishes his piece. His knobbly, worn hands gently set it aside, speaking to the small group of onlookers who have gathered around.

“This here is a ceremonial jar,” he explains, his voice steady and sure. “Its design is both functional and spiritual.”

The small jar reveals itself as a work of art. Its surface is decorated with intricate patterns and symbols. The main design features a stylized horse, its form simplified into graceful curves and sweeping lines - surrounding the horse are geometric patterns.

He starts to go on, but as the other onlookers begin to drift away, he shakes his head slightly, letting out a soft sigh. Setting the jar down gently, and his hands, so sure just a moment ago, tremble slightly.

Thistle is quiet, still, and enraptured. Citrine is amusing herself by playing with the nocker's hair as it is stirred by the wind. The nocker hesitates. "What-..."

"Sorry."

The old man notices Thistle's quiet, focused gaze as she studies the jar, and his wrinkled face softens with a slight smile. As his weathered hands gently set the piece down, he clears his throat, beginning to speak.

"Ah, you see this jar?" He gestures to it, his voice slow and thoughtful. "It's not just something to hold or store, but something that carries our spirit. The horse...," he says, a finger tip tracing over the lines " Is freedom, strength, and the enduring connection we have with the earth. It’s not just art, it's a way of understanding the world—of respecting what came before us."

His hands trace the geometric patterns on the jar’s surface, the lines deep and smooth. "The design, it speaks of cycles. Life, death, rebirth. It’s a reminder that everything is connected, and that we are part of something bigger than ourselves."

Takoda chuckles at Gwen's words. "Those who would hate you for my attention are not worth it," he says with a grin. "As for a private conversation, perhaps we could step outside the crowd, to the edge of the grounds. There's a quiet spot by the trees, away from prying eyes, where we can speak freely."

He continues, "Mother will be telling stories throughout the night, with breaks for rest and meals. She’s always open to a conversation, but if you'd rather speak with her later, that’s fine too. Let me know how I can assist."

Complicated eyebrow choreography. "The making, that's part of why they have meaning, not just, like, them bein' shapes, but bein' made in the right way? Because it's an act of creation."

A soft sigh. "Though it's art, too. Beauty is life, y'know?"

"Thank you, Tokada," Gwen says "The spot by the trees sounds best. Mother? Oh, of course"

The old man nods slowly, a spark of recognition in his eyes at Thistle's insight. He looks at the jar, his weathered fingers brushing over the design.

"Exactly... the act of creation breathes life into these shapes. It’s not just about the finished work; it’s about the care, the intention, the spirit you pour into it." His eyes meet hers, artist to artist for a moment.

After a brief pause, he reaches for the jar, his hands careful as he lifts it. "If you understand this... perhaps, it should be with someone who understands the making."

He offers the jar to Thistle, "Take it, if you wish? Many here come to look, but few actually come to see." He has a small cardboard box and soft cotton to wrap it in, as it's yet unfired - or rather, baked or sun dried.

Her eyes widen. "That... I... thank you?"

“It’s not quite finished yet,” he explains, “It’ll need to be dried and fired to hold its shape properly, or it’ll just crumble. If you want to keep it for its beauty in the making, you can, but it won't last long unless it’s completed."

Blinking, she swallows hard and nods. "I'll take good care of it. I've a kiln."

"Then you understand." He gives her a smile. ""It is still a part of the earth now, but when baked, it becomes something more. Few wish to learn the old ways of crafting. Your interest is a gift to me."

"I make things. It's part of who I am. And clay..." Fond and wistful and contemplative. "Clay's the earth itself, sure, but it takes everything else to transform it. Fire and air and water. It goes from something so soft, to bein' as hard as steel if you do it right."

As they walk toward the shaded spot by the trees, Gwen notices how the people around them seem to step aside with quiet respect, greeting Takoda with nods and smiles. It’s clear he’s a familiar figure in this crowd.

He pauses first to hand off his ceremonial headdress to another dancer, and then to grab a few bottles of water from a vendor, who refuses any payment - one is offered to Gwen. His long hair, now freed from its headdress, flows down to midback.

Once they reach the shade of the trees, Takoda lowers himself to a comfortably seat, gesturing for her to relax as well.

"Thank you" She says as she is offered the water, "For your generous soul" And when they get to the spot, she joins him sitting down as well, "Okay. I am actually envious of your hair. "

The artisan nods, a quiet smile forming. "Thank you. You see it as I do."

As Thistle tucks the box away, she notices that both Art and Citrine have become distracted. Citrine flutters over to examine some sparkling jewelry, while Art stands at a booth studying intricate maps, adjusting his glasses as he becomes absorbed in the faded parchment.

She flashes a smile. "I'm Th-... Trina. It was an honor to learn from you."

They are now far enough from the crowds to avoid being overheard.

Takoda laughs softly, his smile widening as he runs a hand through his long hair, the motion smooth and effortless.

"Thank you," he replies, his voice warm. "It’s been a part of me for a long time." He says, which sounds obvious, but perhaps holds deeper meaning. He continues, "...but I think you have something of your own that’s just as striking." He considers, before starting...

“I’ve known of your kind,” Takoda begins, his tone thoughtful, “but it’s rare to meet one to whom I feel so connected. There’s something about you. Maybe it's that you do not try to hide it, or maybe it’s the way your eyes speak. I can feel it—your heart calls to the land.”

He tilts his head slightly in respect, before continuing.

“I am Takoda, son of Bernice Chasesky, but also, son of the Earth. I come from the Cherokee and Lakota tribes, but my spirit is with the Nanehi, as they are the ones I walk with. The Dogwood is my guide.” His pride is evident in his words.

He regards her with a quiet, steady gaze. “I feel there is more to you than just Gwen.” A pause, leaving the space open for her to speak.

To Thistle:
The artisan nods, a quiet smile "Thank you. You see it as I do. It’s good to know the work will carry on."

"I don’t know how many gatherings I have left, but I’m glad I met you at this one." The old clayworker nods once more before he picks up clay to start anew.

"I am Gladiola, a knight of House Daireann, of the trolls, the great giants of Euro North, and yet my spirit has wound it's way down through chance or Fate, I know not, to this life. Where I was born of a Cherokee father and Iroquois mother. When my dream dance came, this came with me" She gestures to her spear

She raises an eyebrow at Art. "My friend found something interesting. I'm glad to have met you. Thank you for sharing with me." She pauses, then takes off one of her beaded strands - glaze-fired clay, a riot of colors, several thistle-shaped in the mix. She leaves them on his table.

A soft laugh, a joyful sound that make the elderly man sound young again, and he accepts it, raising his hands to her in thanks.

A shy smile, and she ducks over to see what has captivated the sidhe.

Art stands before the booth, his fingers twitching but held firmly in his pockets, else he'd already be fingering the fragile maps spread out on display.

One map he examines is crafted on a piece of aged birchbark, its surface marked by abstract, flowing symbols. Lines, curved and sweeping - seem to be trails that connect different regions. A river is indicated by a series of circular marks linked together, the flow of water symbolized by dots that ripple outward. There are strange patterns near the edges of the map that have his attention.

She assesses, and is already digging out her sketchbook. "Whatcha think?"

Takoda nods thoughtfully, his eyes assessing the spear with quiet reverence.

"The spirits must favor you indeed," he says, his voice steady and respectful. "The Medicine within that weapon is such that I have only known in my people, passed down through generations to those we trust to guide and heal. That you carry it now, I can only say the spirits must have recognized something in you that aligns with their path."

A slight tilt of his head accompanies his next words, a gesture of respect and welcome.
"Well met, Gladiola, of the Giants of the far north and of our shared Cherokee Nation. I welcome you with open heart, as the land welcomes its own. May our paths be shared in spirit, as they were once in the earth beneath our feet."

A pause, then he grins. "Formality out of the way now, I am pleased to meet you."

"As you have welcomed me with an open heart, my own heart leaps with gratitude. We both are under the same great sky, and the Earth hears our feet as we walk together. You honor me with this trust and shall not regret," She breaks into a smile "That was pretty sweet formality, but I'm worried I'll mess it up. "