Itami-cho Market

Osma's carriage was made out of dark wood, hand painted with gold Stag Horns that framed the doors and windows. Pale yellow curtains hung in the windows, keeping the occupant hidden. There were two men on the driver's bench and another on the back bench. Seated at his feet was the head of a strange, mushroom pipe playing loon their mistress had picked up.

No one was very thrilled about it.

When the carriage stopped outside of the blue Land Claims tent, a collect sigh of relief was heard. Osma exited the carriage on the tent's side and began to move inside. She expected Geeeeeeoooorrrrrgeeeeeeeee!!!!, like the luggage he sat on, to stay where she had left them.

She was inside the land tent for a three hours, negotating a prime spot to set up shop. When she returned, her men were eating chunks of chicken. They bought George nothing.

"Your meal, Midwife Gaiman."

Her chest inflated with pride. It was her, and not her mother the man addressed.

She ate in the carriage on the way to check put three of the different land claims. Finally settling on one, after dragging the whole party back and forth between them. A full Osma disembarked to stretch and boss around where the claim stakes would go.

"Oh. Right." She stated upon seeing George. As if his inspide singing hadn't reminded her of his presence. "So, what are you called?"

Wow, that was surprisingly articulate. So his name is George. Kind of...normal for a guy like him. He seemed more like Hogert or Slurpbo to her.

Osma took a step back when he lifted. Old dude was flexiable. What was he? "Osma..huh, Osma Gaiman."

She wasn't smart enough to change her surname to avoid being narked on to her parents. Not that a name change after all the Stag Horn crap she sported would conceal who she really was.

"You are..." a lot of things. "First I suppose we need cloth and lumber to make a tent. Since that seems to be the current way to get things up and running. The building isnt sound yet. Rats and all."

Her eyes moved to the staff. "That huh, have a name?"

Had she asked anything about "munchitz" growing shrooms? No, no she had not.

Should she find a locked room to put him in at night?

He was protective of his stick. Not that she wanted the giant fungi. "Whatever." What task could she give him to make him go away? "Go find is a source of water and..." she took out a coin and held her hand out as far as it would go. "...buy me some wine. Red. I only drink it if it is fermented in oak barrels. None of that fruitty junk."

Osma stared at him like he was stupid, because well, he was stupid.

"WINE.Hello? Wine coolers have fruit in them. You know..other than the grapes. Tsk. Just go would you? We have work to do!"

She should probably feed him, seeinf how she basically abducted him. "Here. Take this coin and fet yourself something to eat."

She dropped the money in his direction, flung her hair over her shoulder and started to bark orders at the three semi-intelligent men also in her employ.

Osma was seated on an simple, portable chair. It was a birthing chair, with a horse shoe shaped cut out at the bottom. To the unknowing eye, it looked rather like a toilet. Thankfully, she had her clothes still on and was trying to use the skirt to hid the hole.

Her nose was lowered only because she was adtempting to file her own nails.

"You're back." She stated flatly. "Oh to joy."

George came back with wine and info on water. She looked up with interest, but doubted he was really that useful. Her hand extended for the wine, which had no label.

So uncivilized!

With a grunt, she gave in to not being strong enough to uncork it. "When will one of you come open this?" She barked to her 3 hired hands.

They looked at each other, clearly tired of her attutide save for one, who stuck out his chest and was very eager to get noticed by her.

She did not look at him nor thank him when he opened it.

The wine was red and smelled okay. She sipped it and was surprised to find that it was not bad. Not good. But not bad.

Why was the hired hand still lurking? She waved him off and turned her shoulder to him.

George did well. Her lips pressed together. She didn't want to praise him, but found a "very good, I guess you are useful afterall" leave her lips.

For a moment, she went back to filing. Without looking up, she asked: "If I asked your story, IF, would the answer only be mindless babble?"

She waited for him to say something else. The longer she waited, which she hated to do, the higher her eyebrows rose.
Was he going to do something? Anything? Turn his staff into a flute or something? Dear Goddess, he had to do something . Anything. She stared at him, trying to spy any signs of change but he just stood there. For 12 whole seconds he just stood there!

"Oh Dear Goddess man!" The nail file landed in the dirt where she threw it down. Her arms crossed. "Well? Where the hell are you from?"

Osma's nose wrinkled in disgust as dust flew from his mouth. How long had it been since he had a drink. She glanced to the wine bottle, which she had been forced to drink directly from. If she gave him a drink, she did not want it back.

His voice, his real voice, startled her. Something beyond the selfish, bored woman flashed in her eyes. She too know what it was like to hide behind a personality to avoid feeling . At least, she pretended like she did. Nothing real had ever actually happened to her. To other people in her care, sure. But never to her. It was far easier to have apathy than empathy and it was easier to be apathic when one was a selfish bitch.

"Oh," she whispered. The chair creaked as she leaned back. With an inhale of breath, the look of a sincere person was gone. "Whatever. Not like I actually care. Tomorrow we are going into the woods. The sooner we figure out what these plants can do the better off we all will be. Now, I plan to ride to the castle and speak to the King or whatever he is. You stay here and help the men set up a tent. I don't want any of you sleeping in my carriage."

George was obedient at least. Didn't change the fact that she was surrounded by morons. Poor, morons at that. With an eye roll, she wiggled to the edge of the chair and shrieked when she nearly fell out the whole carved into it. One hand gripped the armrest, which already had nail marks from laboring mothers. The other kept the grip on the window bottle.