The Dormitory of Melodic Reckoning was eerily quiet when Calla descended the creaking staircase with her full-performance regalia billowing dramatically behind her, even though there was no wind indoors and no one to watch. Her bracelets jingled like off-tune wind chimes, announcing her departure in twelve minor keys and one rather optimistic major.
The dormitory foyer—usually bustling with students cramming for exams or recovering from interpretive sonnet-related injuries—was deserted, save for one figure stationed behind a small desk that hadn’t been moved since the Great Plumbing Reversal of Year 378.
Madam Crippet, House Matriarch and full-time enthusiasm deflator, looked up over the rims of her enchanted glasses. They didn't improve her vision, they just helped her see disappointment in higher resolution.
"Leaving again, Miss Vint?" she croaked, her voice dry enough to qualify as a region on the climate map.
Calla twirled once—because entrances and exits both deserved fanfare—then leaned on the sign-out ledger with enough dramatic weight to imply destiny. “Indeed, Madam Crippet. I go now on a quest of self-actualization. A performance piece about cosmic longing and personal metamorphosis.”
Madam Crippet sniffed. “Last time you said that, you were back within a day because your dancing shoes gave you ‘blisters of betrayal.’”
“They did, Crippet. They lied to my arches.”
“I’m sure.” The old woman pushed the worn quill toward Calla. “Sign the ledger. Try not to ruin the margins this time.”
Calla took the quill like it was a sword being handed down through generations. She signed in huge, swirly loops that ignored the lines entirely and seemed to flirt with neighboring entries. Then, for good measure, she added a wax seal made from a crayon stub she’d labeled “passion red.”
Crippet stared at it.
Calla smiled with all the sincerity of a glitter bomb. “It’s performance-authenticated.”
“Mm. Well, don’t die. Or do, but not in a way that requires paperwork.” Crippet adjusted her shawl, which may or may not have been knitted from the dreams of failed music majors.
“I shall return with stories!” Calla declared.
“Please don’t.”
But she was already halfway through the double doors, scarves flying, tambourine on her belt jangling with the certainty of someone who believed the world was just waiting for her debut. Crippet watched her go with the kind of expression reserved for moldy leftovers and former husbands.
“Experience, my left foot,” she muttered, turning back to her cup of something bitter and possibly sentient.
Outside, the wind caught Calla’s hair and scattered a few of her dance notations across the flagstones. She didn’t chase them. If they were meant to be part of her story, the universe would blow them back. Probably into someone’s face. She was off. Unsupervised. Unfocused. Unrelenting. The world didn’t know it yet, but disaster had left the dorm. And it jingled.
As the gates of the Bardic College creaked shut behind her, the entire city of Vellittara—the City of Waiting, capital of misplaced potential and aggressively confusing signage—exhaled in collective relief. Birds resumed singing. Pigeons returned to roost. Somewhere, an alley bard sighed and dared to rehearse again. Calla Vint, however, did not hear the sigh. She was too busy narrating her own opening montage.
“...and with the wind at her back and destiny in her scarf tails, the lone figure departed the institution that never truly understood her, to begin her journey of art, magic, and slightly misunderstood grace—”
A cartwheel. Right into a mud puddle.
She stood, composed herself with the dignity of a wet peacock, and declared, “Part of the piece.”
She was confident this would be different. This time, she had passed her first-year exams. Technically. Sort of. If you counted “extra credit for enthusiasm” and the unexpected evacuation of the Music Theory Hall after her attempted solo.
Her class designation—Bard (Provisional)—should have registered by now. That was the tradition: finish Year One, wait three weeks for the paperwork to trickle down through the Ministry of Vocational Alignment and Class Recognition (a division of Existential Services, overseen by Barry the Bureaucratic Badger), and voilà! Class granted. System updated. Spells unlocked. Unfortunately, somewhere between “Filed” and “Destined,” her forms had slipped into the Archive of Misplaced Realities. The folder was currently being used as a coaster by a celestial auditor who believed paperwork made excellent insulation.
Which meant, in short, that the System had no idea what to do with her. And when that happens, the Shardlands generally start to sweat. The plains outside Vellittara were quiet, save for the sounds of wind, the occasional broken lute string trailing from a bush, and Calla humming to herself in half-remembered scales. She adjusted her tambourine belt. Her scarves fluttered like confused butterflies. She had walked exactly seventeen paces when the world—perhaps in an effort to expedite disaster—delivered content.
Bandits.
Three of them. Leaning against trees with the half-bored posture of men who had tried crime not out of necessity, but out of a lack of better hobbies. One clutched a dagger like it might bite him. The second held a rusted mace he seemed more afraid of than anything else. The third, eyes narrowed in fierce concentration, was holding a scroll upside-down and mouthing the words silently like each one was personally insulting him.
“Look here,” the presumed leader said, puffing his chest in a show of authority that failed to account for the mustard stain on his tunic. “We don’t want any trouble.”
“Oh! Thank goodness,” Calla said brightly, completely missing the implied threat and folding her hands as if they’d just offered her scones and critique. “Then we’re aligned in purpose! I too, am a sworn practitioner of nonviolent solutions through experimental movement arts.”
The bandits looked at one another, visibly reconsidering their life choices. Calla reached into her bag and pulled out two scarves and one small tambourine with only three surviving jingles. “What we need is a Performance of Conflict Resolution. Just give me some space... and a moment to channel the ambiguity of your motivations.”
The leader blinked. “You what?”
Calla dropped into a full, unapologetic split.
The bandits flinched. Wind swept through the trees, dramatic and uninvited. She raised one arm, twirled the tambourine with a noise like distant cowbells dying of embarrassment, and launched into an interpretive dance she titled aloud (to no one’s encouragement), “The Agony of Unexpected Confrontation in the Face of Blunted Moral Ambiguity.”
The opening gambit was a sideways lunge that knocked a pinecone into the bandit with the scroll. He yelped, flailed wildly, and whacked himself in the nose with the rolled parchment. Blood followed. He whimpered. The scroll hit the ground with a dignified plop.
“Art imitates pain,” Calla murmured reverently.
The second bandit tried to circle behind her, perhaps to offer a warning or at least escape whatever ritual was occurring, but his foot caught in the trailing end of her scarf mid-spin. With a shriek he vanished into a low shrub and did not reemerge. By now, Calla had entered the phase of the performance she liked to call “existential unraveling through upper-body gyration.” She flung her scarf forward dramatically—completely unaware it had caught on the dagger-wielder’s belt.
The scarf wrapped twice around his head. He staggered. She twirled. He panicked, spun with her, lost his balance, and in a confused moment of scarf-induced vertigo, punched himself in the ear trying to untangle the fabric. Calla, still twirling, tripped over a root she hadn’t choreographed and went down in an elegant heap. A bird somewhere nearby applauded. Or possibly just fell out of a tree. She lay there for a moment, hair wild, tunic torn slightly, tambourine jammed against her shoulder. A smear of blood—possibly hers—decorated her lip like accidental lipstick.
“Art...” she gasped to no one in particular, “...triumphs again.”
One bandit groaned. Another whimpered. The third, the one with the scroll, fainted from what could only be described as a combination of mild blood loss and emotional fatigue. Calla rose, unsteady but triumphant, dusted herself off, and bowed in the direction of the woods.
“Curtain call, please,” she whispered, and the wind—utterly bewildered—obliged with a gentle rustle.
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> [SYSTEM NOTICE]
> Experience Points Gained: +127
> Source: Performance-Based Combat Victory (???)
> Status: Class Assignment Required
>
> Processing…
The air shimmered. A glitch passed through the seams of reality like a belch through a velvet napkin. A small ethereal exclamation point appeared in the corner of her vision.
“Wait, What…?” She started, still a bit breathless.
> Processing again…
>
> Error: No instrument proficiency detected
> Warning: Vocal output classified as “Emotional Distress Howling”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
> Alert: Interpretive Dance registered as Hostile Area Effect
>
> Attempting Class Assignment: [Bard]
> → Rejected. (System Integrity threatened)
> Attempting Assignment: [Mime]
> → Rejected. (Universe does not permit)
>
> > Initiating Emergency Fallback Protocol:
> > “Oh No, She’s One of *Those*”
>
> Confidence: Illogically High
> Artistic Output: Reality-Altering
> Damage Type: Secondhand Embarrassment
>
>NEW CLASS UNLOCKED: [Interpretive Catastrophe – Bardic Outlier (Tier 0)]
> Specialty: Chaotic Improvisation, Emotional Distortion Aura, Movement-Based Distraction.
> Warning: Results may vary. Consult your physician.
>
> You are now technically recognized by the System.
> Please don’t make us regret this.
The small ethereal exclamation point in the corner of her vision blinked again, insistent. She opened it mentally with a slight trembling emotional flourish, and another more personal system message popped up.
“Ok… I knew it would be coming as soon as the paperwork was processed…” She mumbled.
>>“Hi! It looks like you're trying to be something... artistic?”
>>“Would you like to: [Become a Bard] [Report a Glitch] [Yell at Barry]”
Calla reached out with trembling fingers. She clicked "Yes" to everything. Calla blinked as glowing text spiraled around her. She tried to hum a victory song but only succeeded in creating a sound not dissimilar to a flute being stepped on by a goat.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “The system gets me.”
Behind her, one of the bandits groaned and muttered, “Make it stop…”
She raised her scarf like a flag of declaration, spun once, and marched toward the Plaid Wastes. No plan. No map. No idea what a Class: Interpretive Catastrophe did or was. But by all the gods that used to answer prayers on time, she had a class now. And the world would never un-hear it.
****
The tavern was called The Leaky Goblet, which turned out to be a disturbingly accurate descriptor of both its plumbing and its beer. Calla had arrived just after sunset, shimmering slightly from road dust, hope, and unshakable self-confidence. She approached the barkeep like a comet of color crashing into a world built entirely in shades of brown and beige.
“I’m here to offer a performance,” she announced, arms wide and fingers splayed like interpretive jazz lightning. “A traveling bard! Fresh from the capital! I require only a hot meal, a warm bed, and three square feet of performance space cleared of poultry and loose floorboards.”
The barkeep, a barrel with a mustache named Dorge, blinked once. “You’re here to what?”
“Share the experience of transcendent emotive storytelling through the medium of interpretive movement and untuned tambourine.”
A pause. A long, heavy pause. Somewhere, a fly stopped buzzing out of sheer discomfort.
Dorge cleared his throat. “You want to dance for dinner?”
Calla nodded so vigorously her scarf slapped the nearest lantern. He sighed and gestured toward a rickety stage in the corner, already suffering under the emotional weight of being built from repurposed fence posts and unanswered dreams.
She took the stage.
What followed cannot be adequately described without risking spiritual damage. There was a spin that defied physics, a scarf toss that startled a baby, and a backbend that cracked several patrons’ understanding of art in general. A woman in the front row dropped her soup spoon and whispered, “Why is the spoon… humming?”
It ended with Calla in a full split, arms raised, eyes alight with victory and mild vertigo. No one clapped. Someone coughed in Morse code.
Dorge crossed his arms. “Yeah... no.”
“But—”
“No food. No room. Not even a crust.”
Calla bowed anyway, her optimism dented but not pierced. “A difficult crowd. Uncultured. Rattled by truth. I accept your rejection as a compliment to my radical honesty.”
Dorge muttered something about the “Health and Safety Ministry’s growing list of banned performances” and waved her out before she could interpretively thank him.
Two hours passed.
Calla, unbothered by the concept of linear time, used this stretch of inaction to “meditate,” which in her case meant contorting herself into a shape that would make a yoga instructor weep and humming a tune that was half lullaby, half barn owl with laryngitis. Her scarf was wrapped around her forehead like a third eye that had seen too much, and she sat cross-legged on a mossy stump, arms outstretched to the universe.
“I am ready,” she whispered skyward, eyes closed. “I am open to cosmic purpose, spiritual awakening, and ideally... lunch.”
There was no reply. Even the squirrels had gone quiet. Probably in protest.
She cleared her throat and stared into the middle distance with theatrical intensity, then whispered, “System? Dearest ethereal construct of divine order?”
The air shimmered faintly, as if reality had sighed.
markdown
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> [SYSTEM NOTICE]
> Query Received: Define "Interpretive Catastrophe – Bardic Outlier (Tier 0)"
> Class Status: Assigned. Begrudgingly.
> Spell Allocation: Pending. Possibly. Eventually.
> System Response: Please stop asking. Processing requires nap.
Calla squinted. “So... is that a yes to lunch?”
markdown
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> [SYSTEM UPDATE PAUSED]
> Reason: Existential Dread.
> Suggestion: Reflect quietly. Maybe knit.
She gave the heavens a patient nod and took a deep breath, which was then immediately ruined by her muttering, “I really should’ve taken that Advanced Bardic Bureaucracy class when I had the chance. But no, I took Experimental Duck Poetry instead. Now look at me. Enlightened and snackless.”
She unfolded a second scarf and draped it over her lap like a ceremonial blanket. “It’s okay,” she said gently to no one in particular. “They laughed once when the first lutenist tried to play music with a fish skeleton. But who laughs now? …Still them, probably. But I’ve got a title now. And titles mean legitimacy.”
A breeze drifted past as if trying to distance itself from the conversation.
Calla crossed her arms. “I am not a catastrophe. I am a motif.”
The silence was so thorough, even her thoughts considered excusing themselves politely. Calla, now slightly hungrier and only marginally less sparkly, was still attempting to meditate under a suspiciously aggressive elm when salvation scuttled out of the underbrush. A chipmunk—fur askew, eyes wide with either madness or revelation—stumbled toward her like it had just been informed it was fictional. It collapsed on her foot. In its mouth was a scroll.
She gasped. “Is this... a sign?”
The chipmunk hiccuped, dropped the scroll, made direct eye contact, and passed out with the theatricality of a divinely inspired nap. Calla unrolled the message with reverent fingers, ignoring the teeth marks, ink smears, and mysterious patches that smelled faintly of cheese.
It read:
It was clearly meant for someone else. But as she stared at it—eyes wide, hair tangled by fate and wind and her own lack of spatial awareness—she felt the gears of the world creak softly in her favor for the very first time.
“This is it,” she whispered. “This is my call.”
The chipmunk burbled something in its sleep. Possibly “no,” possibly “radishes.” Calla stood, chin high, scroll held like a divine relic. She turned toward the road, struck a pose that somehow involved both arms and one leg pointing in different directions, and marched with purpose.
Then paused.
Then turned back toward The Leaky Goblet, where she cheerily knocked until Dorge answered, scowling as if the door itself were disappointed to see her.
“Could I have directions to the Sandstitched Monastery?” she asked sweetly.
He stared.
“Also maybe a small snack? Something dry and compact, like a biscuit or one of those chairs no one sits in?”
“You’re pushing your luck.” He said and vaguely pointed to the left somewhere.
“Luck is the shadow of potential cast by those who dare to—”
The door shut. She turned around, eyes gleaming.
“Perfect,” she said. “The journey begins in hunger. Very bardic. Very real.”
The chipmunk, now perched on her shoulder, twitched once and muttered, “Doom.” She took that as applause, and headed for the direction that she expected destiny was urging her to go.
****
It was sometime near what the locals on the edge of the Bureaucratic Wastes called “late-ish,” a nebulous portion of the day governed not by sun position or shadow length but by how soggy the paperwork in your coat pocket had become. Calla Vint, undeterred by hunger, blisters, or reality itself, marched on with her chin up and her new chipmunk companion slumped dramatically over her left shoulder like a furry war veteran.
“Courage, Pip,” she whispered to him (she’d renamed him Pip because it was easier than calling him ‘the Possibly Divine Rodent Messenger Who May Have Rabies’). “Destiny calls. Or hums. Or mutters incoherently into the wind. Either way—we are summoned.”
Pip twitched but offered no commentary beyond a soft, hiccuped squeak that may have been a protest or perhaps the opening line to a folk ballad. The little thing was still recovering from what could only be described as a religious experience involving directional confusion, predatory birds, and a poppy field that sang. Badly.
The road stretched ahead, full of dust, purpose, and absolutely the wrong direction. She had, as fate would have it, been walking the wrong way for most of the morning. Possibly the day. There were few signs out this far, and those that existed had been lovingly vandalized by poetic vandals with poor spelling and a vendetta against cartography.
It was just past the “You Are Not Here” milestone that she spotted a lopsided wagon creaking slowly toward her, its paint peeling in dramatic curls and its banner flapping the words:
“Tinker to the Tangled, Mender of the Inexplicable, Whisperer of Sentient Doorknobs.”
The driver was a lanky man wearing a vest made entirely of tea strainers and a hat that may once have been a colander. His beard contained at least two pencils, a wind-up key, and the top half of a playing card that we will never fully explain. As they drew close, he slowed, peering at her through monocles stacked like pancakes.
“Lost, miss?” he asked.
Calla paused, hands on hips, shoulders back. “Absolutely not. I am boldly advancing in an unexpected direction.”
He nodded, impressed despite himself. “Ah. That kind of traveler.”
She offered a curtsey, which nearly dislodged Pip, and then launched into a very fast, very unnecessary introduction.
“Calla Vint. Bard-in-becoming. Walking poem. Interpretive visionary. I once performed an entire sunrise in six minutes using only scarves and rapid eye movement.”
The man’s horse—a gray, long-suffering creature with one eye and an aura of mild judgment—stamped its hoof and made a whinny that somehow conveyed the phrase, “Oh no, not another one.”
Calla blinked. “What’s her name?”
“Biscuit,” said the tinker. “She’s allergic to interpretive dance.”
“I—sorry, what?”
“She’ll sneeze herself sideways if you even think about rhythm too hard. Fair warning.”
There was a pause. Calla raised one foot, then gently lowered it again. “What if it’s… silent movement?”
“Only if you want her to reverse herself into a ditch,” he said grimly. “Happened once in the Dithering Hills. Took me two days to get her nose out of a gopher hole.”
Calla cleared her throat and straightened her many scarves. “No dancing. No humming. No emotionally resonant twirling. Got it.”
“Good,” said the tinker, pleased. “Name’s Trowbin. I fix cursed hinges and haunted pantry doors. Also mugs that scream.”
Calla tilted her head. “Why would a mug—”
“Trade secret,” he said quickly, and clicked his tongue to urge Biscuit forward. “Where you headed?”
“The Sandstitched Monastery,” Calla beamed. “Invited. By divine implication.”
Trowbin stared at her for a moment, then glanced at the scroll still partially dangling from Pip’s shoulder satchel.
“Well,” he said slowly, “you’re in luck. I’m heading that way, sort of.”
Calla’s eyes widened. “I knew the road would provide.”
“You’ve been walking the wrong direction,” he added gently.
She blinked. “A scenic loop of intentional misdirection. Classic hero’s path technique.”
“If you say so.” He offered a hand up to the wagon seat. “You can ride. But only if you absolutely promise not to perform.”
Calla climbed up beside him, solemn as a vow. “Not a single twirl.”
Pip gave a tiny salute from his perch on her shoulder. Trowbin sighed, flicked the reins, and the wagon creaked on toward the horizon—two eccentrics and one emotionally damaged chipmunk in a world too unstable to say no.
