Willis strains his eyes and ears on an overlook, at the head of a sloping hill, where a worn road curves along the foot and stretch across the forest on either side. A small dust cloud approaches from one end of the road, and Willis watch as it grows bigger and bigger, carrying the sound of drumming hoovebeats, clattering wheels, and a smattering of voices:

"...250% markup for furs and salt..."
"...told you about the green gull dropping a turd in my cousin's mouth..."
"...hold on, who is that madman waving from up yonder?"

Willis yells, "OVER HERE!!!" and vaults over the precipice, digging into his heels as he slides down the slope with his back brushing against the grass. He lands at the bottom with his clothes covered in dew and he turns to look at the caravaneers but his wide-brimmed hat flops onto his head and blocks his vision. He snaps his finger and sparks leaps out of his hand into a small bush, setting it ablaze.

By the time Willis reaches the head cart his clothes is completely dry and his hat has turned into a top hat. He takes it off in a greeting and asks where these fine people are going? "Why, to the Festival of course!" Cries the coachman dressed in a fine white-and-blue vest, grinning at Willis with a huge crocodile smile. He snaps the rein of his horse and pulls over curbside to speak with Willis, allowing the carts and wagons and even a rowdy troupe of performers behind him to rumble by. "I'd trouble you for a favor, my friend, as you see I am a lost adventurer who is heading to the Festival to try my luck, can I hitch a ride with y'all?" Willis asks, patting his hat as he speaks. "I have prepared my own rations and I know my way around arms, which I will gladly lend to your defense." The coachman coughs and looks him over, "Where's your weapon?" "In here!" Willis shakes his hat. The coachman scratches his head. "Well...I reckon as long as you mind not to set my wares on fire, I'll take ya."

"Deal!" They shake hands and Willis climbs aboard the cart. He makes a cot among bundles of fur, and lies down with hands folded behind his head and his hat on his side, staring at the small strip of open sky choked on both sides by oaks. "What's yer name son? Mine's Rod." "Willis, at your service." The coachman laughs and mumbles something, before kicking his horse to action. Willis closes his eyes and sighs contently as they pick up pace. He tries to drift off to sleep, but the rough road jostle him around a bunch, so eventually he just sits back up, and reach into his hat. He pulls out a pouch of sweetened nuts and chews on them idly as he chat with the coachman. 

"Rod, how mush mowey dew you blan on maging dish chwip?"
"Rod, hab you been dew da gapidal before?"
"Rod, how shafe ish dis road? Hab you sheen any bandishs?"
"Rod, are we dere yet???" He asks this a dozen times between mouthful of nuts.