You close your eyes trying to better hear a sound just on the edge of hearing. Louder and louder 
it grows until the creak of leather harnesses fills the air, soon intermixed with the occasional 
cries of "Giddyup!" (and even more occasional ones of "Spoon!" and "Lettuce!"). You poke your head 
out of the caravan window to see where you are; over the rise you can see  the next village appear, 
quiet in the summer sun. Not too quiet for long though; a small child rushes out from a hiding place 
and runs back to the village, squealing in delight.

By the time the caravan reaches the village all of the children are waiting to meet it, with an 
indulgent mother or amused father standing here and there behind them. You jerk your head out of the 
way as Breeze falls past you, stopping inches from the ground; having spent the entire trip perched 
on the roof as always. The children crowd around him, clamouring for magic; he starts doing little 
tricks and jokes about, leading to more squeals of delight.

You climb out the back door of the caravan, carrying clubs in one hand, juggling balls in a pouch on 
your belt. You stop for a second to help the unweddable brides out of the back; they pause briefly to 
straighten out their wedding dresses before heading into the waiting crowd. As you walk around the 
other side of the caravan towards the spectators, you take a moment to admire the caravan itself; the 
brilliant, gaudy paintwork, the insane fretworking, the fine pair of goats harnessed to it, and the 
way it floats so merrily above the ground. On the side in huge multicoloured letters is emblazoned 
the legend "BiSCuIt and Breeze's Spectacular Travelling Circus".

You take up position and begin your juggling routine to give the others a chance to start setting up. 
As you flick the clubs higher and higher, so does the children's excitement increase. Suddenly mid arc 
a club vanishes replaced with a large green and yellow eight sided die; from the other side of the 
caravan the sound of astonishment places Breeze as the cause of the swap. You compensate with a change 
of movement your turquoise and magenta working leathers creaking against each other, getting louder as 
you throw all of your remaining clubs and the die up in a particularly complex crossover. Moving to 
catch the clubs your arms pass in front of your face, obscuring your vision for a moment; yet no clubs 
land in your hands and lowering your arms you realise you're back with the patrol.