'What's all that?' The pawn shop owner fretfully pats a child in the midst of a coughing fit in his arms, not giving a glance to the visitor laying out wares on his counter. For just a wee instant, Bagpipe's shocked to find she can't give the answer to his question. Right, she's more familiar with these two things than anyone. What were they again? Right, a stick and a sack. In a hay pile in County Kevin, the stench of almost-fermenting Originium slug mucus bore its way into her dreams. There came an uninvited, extremely peckish old manglerbeast, dripping saliva over her face. Subconsciously, she took that iron stick and gave its head a fierce drubbing, and that was how she lived to tell the tale. On a gravel road in County Peninsula, a checkpoint soldier dragged her out of the merchant's crate she hid in with such grip strength that her arm might've come off. Quickly and resourcefully, she stuffed her documents between the layers of the sack, and bluffed her way past by pretending she was a vagrant bard setting off into the wilds. Or, well, was it a crowbar and bugle? In a mire in Connor County, a mercenary's Arts almost shaved the tree above her flat, and her fortcracker's ammo case chose to be difficult at the exact worst time. If it wasn't for her crowbar being just sturdy enough to lever the case's handle, she'd probably be gone on the spot. On the white sands of Castshire County, a soldier gave her life before she could give any last words, the wounded commandant couldn't sound the bugle, and so the unmarked grave lay deathly silent under the beating sun. At least the instrument she had on hand was able to sound clear enough a tone, such that they could send their deceased comrade off with some kind of a decent farewell. Right. These were a crank and a set of bagpipes. It was the biggest tractor of the whole village, and the crank it came with was long as half her arm. The arm she dislocated trying to show off that she could do a quicker job than her mum at starting the engine. Sitting on the tractor on the way to the hospital, though, her laugh ended up luring half the village's burdenbeasts after her. And the pipes made of young cystybeast hide, downy tartan sewn to it by her mum. The village all knew her unique knack for spinning around while she played them. And of course, none forgot how earsplitting those wistful tones were as they echoed all through the village, back when she'd just learned them as a bairn. Shame that now, after prying a case and doing in a mangler, the crank's bent out of shape, and won't be starting a tractor no more. A dirge played and papers concealed, the pipes are leaking, and won't be playing a tune no more either. The shopkeep squints, peers, then fishes out two grubby coins from under the counter. All up until now, these were what she had left of home. But at the least, with these two coins, home can send her on her way just this once more.