Page 4 of Tossing the Caber

No longer composed, Beacon forgets himself. Forgets what it’s like to be admired by a crowd, instead feeling like nothing but prey, eviscerated before thousands of prying eyes.

Beacon doesn’t excuse himself again. He just flees.

Chapter Two

Laurel

On the day before Everend Market's opening ceremony, endless grey clouds span the early morning sky, and an uninspiring drizzle seeps from the heavens.

Despite the weather, Laurel Lushroot walks between the Market grounds and his workshop, pushing his cart by hand. The breeze turns the smattering of raindrops into a refreshing spray. Emberleigh, where Laurel was born and raised, has a great many places to walk, especially this time of year, so the trek isn't a hardship.

While steering his empty cart around a rock wedged into the middle of a dirt-packed road, Laurel is already taking stock of what he has to do next. There’s much to take care of before the events officially begin, and Laurel won’t have time for more intensive tasks after tomorrow.

Today is his last day of freedom.

As Laurel approaches his tiny shop, the clouds part like a smiling mouth. They release a sunshower that sees Laurel and his cart turned into a sopping mess. Like the sky, Laurel can’t help but smile at the sight of a rainbow arching over the thatched roof and plunging behind the shaggy leaflets of the bushy honeylocust tree that shadows his workplace from the summer sun.

It makes it worth the amount of water he has to squeeze out of his long, black braid before crossing the threshold.

Tracking water inside can’t be helped, but Laurel does his best to avoid getting the floor too wet by shucking his shoes and shirt immediately once inside. He is more precious while removing his pants, taking care to navigate his long, prehensile tail from the slit in the backside. Left to his undergarments, Laurel stalks to the closet—stuffed with apothecary shelves, hefty storage boxes, and pounds of sculpting clay—to fetch a smock. It’ll do until his clothes dry.

Having already set up his stall at the Market, Laurel now confronts the large pile of completed custom orders.

Laurel didn’t invent body modification among various elfin cultures, but with magic and passion, he has pushed himself to extremes. While at first this was met with alarm, his evolution piqued the interest of other elves. People who wanted to express themselves beyond the boundaries of what they thought was possible.

Somehow Laurel’s personal experimentation turned from a passion project into a business—an identity.The Anatomancer.

Years spent apprenticing at a smithy gave him the skills to make his own wares and design a marketing strategy, brand new innovations in self-expression for elves from all settlements and walks of life. Laurel has spent countless hours on research, brewing, and sculpting. Trial and error, more failures than successes. But he’s figured it out, and now, in the months leading up to Everend Market, dozens of special requests have come in.

It’s freeing, operating as the business owner rather than as a slip of an apprentice, no more than another tool. Laurel takes pride in his accomplishments as his own craftsman, and he no longer cringes at the sight of himself.

Many do not approve, but Laurel ignores them.

Mostly.

The fine wisps of his bangs have glued themselves to his forehead. Laurel pushes them back, banishing the flicker of insecurity. He fetches brown wax paper, soot ink, and cardstock, then loses himself in wrapping his custom orders, signing each one with a note of heartfelt gratitude.

Sudden knocking at the front door startles him out of the fugue.

Laurel’s father, Rodney Lushroot, stalks inside without waiting for an invitation. He takes in the clutter around the shop—normally quite tidy!—and Laurel’s state of undress.

“Son,” Rodney Lushroot says with urgency, pushing his own dampened black braid over his shoulder.

”Yes, Papa?” Laurel glances down at the half-wrapped package in his hands, palms itching to finish the final folds.

“We’ve an issue. Your clothing for tomorrow was dropped off late, and the tailor’s assistant mismeasured the linen trousers. They’re too short.”

Laurel turns back to his work bench so his face doesn’t expose him—hewas the reason the trousers were short. He made the request to remove several inches from the hem, hoping his father wouldn’t notice. “Can I wear a different outfit?” He tries not to sound distracted as he meticulously reinforces the brown paper’s folds, then tilts wax from the burning candle over the space where they meet.

Despite Laurel’s efforts, Rodney’s voice gains an edge. “This was carefully planned. Now you must come to the tailor for alterations of another garment.”

A soft gasp passes his lips. The stamp he was positioning over the puddle of wax falls from his hand, landing sideways. Laurel stares at the splattered mess, gripping his work bench with brightly-colored fingers that pale from the pressure. “Papa, we agreed I would have today to prepare my stall before the Market.”

“It can’t be helped. You can’t look sloppy the first time you meet your betrothed.”

Ah, yes. Yet another man Laurel has been expected to sacrifice everything for.

“You promised,” he whispers, so low Rodney might not even hear. It won’t matter; he’s certain his father will ignore it either way. His trembling fingers attempt to fix the botched seal.