#just wanted to write Hootsie bonding with all of her uncles

[cthulhusstepmom]

Four Times Hootsie Ran Away to Join the Circus

There’s a certain hustle and bustle that comes with being the most important person at the Carnivalé, or so Hootsie has come to learn while observing her father. There’s always one thing or another that pops up and rears its unpleasant head. Whether it be the other people that work for him or the many beasts that he cares for. Today that was talk of an Oliphaunt, a word that made her Dad incredibly excited so it had to be a good thing. Unfortunately it seemed to be one of those good things that meant a lot of work, which translated to a lot of time spent playing with her fly-pad while her father directed the hands about. Though there seemed to be a problem with Uncle Kremy, the details of which are lost on Hootsie, but some form of one sided argument wherein her dad is too busy bouncing with excitement to listen to words like “wrong account” and “fucking sales tax Gricko”(oops a bit late on the ear muffs there). 

So at the very least it was a good day, which is never a bad thing, bad days aren’t fun; but, something Hootsie has learned in the wisdom of her(from her point of view) impressive age, is that good days can be just as un-fun as bad days if there was nothing to do. So in the spirit of making a good-but-un-fun day into a good-and-very-fun-day Hootsie took the liberty to slip under the loose flap of the beast tent and out into the grassy area where all of the horses grazed. Taking no mind of the panicked whickers and snorts of the fickle ponies, she sets her beak to the breeze and treads up the worn path out to the stand of trees currently obscuring the staff wagons from view. 

The air of the Carnivalé carries with it a bombardment of different smells. It’s always overwhelming whenever they set up at a new location, adjusting from the relatively constant scent of the carnies and the wagons, their beasts of burden and their cargo, but they’ve been here a few days and already her brain has worked to filter the new sensory input to make it more manageable; such that it’s a simple task to zero in on the deep aroma of parchment and canvas and something distinctly feline. An even simpler one to follow it. 

Uncle Frosty has shared space with her and her Dad for as long as she could remember. Whether it be tents or tavern rooms or most recently their nice wagon, where one is the other follows. They balance each other, Hootsie thinks. The stoic tiger and her effusive father, one always preventing the other from swinging too far into their respective extremes. Both kind hearted and wise beyond their years, each in his own way. Though she is just a little owlbear so really who is she to say. 

Regardless it is he who sits calmly in the center of the small space, legs crossed and eyes shut on a small mat he keeps with his many meticulously organized belongings. Hootsie tries hard not to make a sound and disrupt the serene atmosphere but she trips on a half carved block of wood and triggers a concentrated avalanche of clothes and band memorabilia from the interwoven clutter of her father’s side of the room. Thankfully it all finds its own way to the floor carefully and in a much neater fashion than it had previously been, due in large part she suspects to the mind magic she has come to associate with her Uncle. Her suspicions are confirmed when she feels a gentle not-quite-there pressure scratching behind her ear accompanied by the crisp scent of chilly mountain air. 

“I apologize I don’t have any rat snacks for you right now, but if you will wait until I am finished meditating perhaps we can go and find some.” 

Offering an affirmative Chirr in response, Hootise moves to a plush owlbear bed(definitely not just a big dog bed) set against the wall. Old and worn, with more patches than original fabric, the bed is nonetheless plump and slightly overstuffed as she circles three times before laying her head down on her paws. More often than not she just sleeps in bed with her Dad but he says it’s important for her to have her own space as she grows up(even if it does take up almost a quarter of the floorspace of their wagon).

Uncle Frosty had tried to explain the concept of his meditation to her before, something about emptying your mind and becoming at peace with the universe, but truth be told she had just nodded until he gave her a rat. Regardless, it's more peaceful than the chaos of the beast tent and her toys are here: an army of little wooden figurines her Dad had made her: detailed carvings of all of the characters from Sea Cucumber Robert Rectangle Trousers, an ever expanding cast of monsters each of which her father had named and taught her the significance of, and a wooden representation of her strange family(though to a little previously orphaned owlbear it’s not that strange at all), complete with a painstakingly accurate Hootsie made of aromatic pine. 

Later, one Gricko Grimgrin rushes about the Carnivalé in a state of utter panic. Searching for his wayward adorable-lovely-perfect daughter. In all of the excitement of being waylaid by Kremy and then almost trampled by an agitated Oliphaunt he’d somehow lost track of her and after searching the entirety of the beast tent, the big top, and the rigged games he’ll admit he’s started to lose his famed collected and indifferent demeanor. 

“Hootsie! Hootsie! Hootsie, where are you?” Not pausing for so much as an answer, the flustered goblin continues rushing through the rows of canvas and out towards the collection of brightly painted wagons. Bursting through a green and red painted door he shouts: “Frosty you gotta come quick! Hootsie is missing and I can’t find her anywhere!”

“Careful Gricko, you’re about to cross the picket line.” A cool voice cautions. 

Taking a moment to examine the scene in front of him, he sees a variety of wooden figures placed purposefully about the room. On Frosty’s side of the rug stands little wooden Kremy and Gideon and, is that Necky? As well as (he thinks) Mr. Lobster and the sea cucumber himself under a building made of stacked books. Outside, a line of figures hold tiny parchment-scrap signs, at their forefront being tiny birch Frost and Hootsie. Speaking of; his daughter herself sits, enraptured by the tableau, a paper beside her covered in colorful scribbles under a pristinely penned headline reading ‘Notes’. 

“We’re learning about ethical labor practices.”

“Uh-huh. You know the last time I brought that up I woke up in the back of the wagon on the way to a farm.”