La Fantasque
10-17-08, 08:16 PM
Closed to The Forgotten!
Even as the sun dipped into the seas, even as the light of day waned with the ebbs and tides, the dockside market still was bursting with life. People bustled about the old, chipped railings of the pier, gazing fondly at the blazing horizon while their youngest children tottered about, pointing ever so curiously at that great big slice of tangerine in the sky. Countless stands were erected along the waterfront, their hawkers laughing and gesturing as they made their sales of fresh lobster, seasonal fish, produce of all kinds and whimsical straw hats. Tykes with bruised legs bumped into strangers, apologizing profusely before walking away with a big-toothed smile and shiny new coins in their pockets. Near fired-brick walls, destitute men with wine-red noses and earflaps of the brightest yellows sat in the grunge, toasting by themselves from crumpled bags in homage to the caw of gulls, the puffing heat and women wearing short, frilly skirts. All the city was aburst with a zest for life: it was the heart of summer in Scara Brae, and the sweat of a hard day’s work was only fuel for their smiles and for the night to come.
Stacks of crates were being piled near one of the port’s iron bollards, various labelled imports fresh from the cargo of an Aleraran tradeship. The dwarves that made up half the crew struggled down the gangplank with boxes of steel and iron ingots, reserved for use by the Scarabrian blacksmiths, while the men and drows breezed their way to the streets, taunting their comrades as they carried straw-packed crates of porcelain and a variety of other lighter breakables. There, they waited for the shipments to be picked off, trading casks of spiked ade while the dwarves drowned their beards in bottles of malt beer. Chariots whirred and clicked away as customers returned home satisfied, until only half a dozen crates remained. It was common occurrence: sometimes, clients would forget or mistake the shipment and arrival dates. This sometimes burned holes in these seafarer’s pockets, but tonight, only ordinary baubles and catchpenny knickknacks remained unsold.
“I doubt they’ll be coming,†one of the crewman said at last, fiddling with the corncob of his pipe in boredom. “What do we have left, in any case? I doubt it’s worth much… maybe we should just cut our losses and hit the taverns.â€
“Speak the trade, my swarthy friend,†one of the men answered, eliciting a roar of laughter from the crewmen. “Though I whole-heartedly agree. At worst, we can drop by the porcelain dolls to the shop, and I’m sure us men can find a use for those military rapiers.â€
“Pickin’ our teeth, fer one – though it’d be tricky if they snapped!†bellowed one of the dwarfs in answer. The drows roared incensed, motivated by their patriotic pride and one too many a quaff of alcohol, but they were quick to deflate and soon joined with the euphoric laughter.
“But wait, does it not… makes five crates?†asked the first in tradespeak as per his captain’s suggestion, though with an obviously broken accent. “What is last one?â€
“You know, that’s a good question.†The captain sat up, handing the flask to one of his subordinates as he turned and leaned over the crate to inspect it. “It isn’t marked. How come it isn’t marked? Lars?†Only a shrug from his second in command. “Darvius?†Quite expectedly, the drow only rolled his shoulders. “That’s odd… are we sure this is one of ours?â€
“Well if it wasn’t, it is now,†said the jokey dwarf, “what with the smell o’ yer cheeks marked all over it.â€
“Hardy har har, but let’s be serious. No one’s come for it yet: maybe we should just open it.†There was a chatter of approval from the drunken sailors, and the captain returned his focus on the box as one of his men handed him a crowbar – Crowbar Sally they called him, who never left his cabin without one, oddly enough.
Before he could even jimmy the beaks under the lid to pry it open, it slid away to clatter noisily onto the paved streets. All stepped back, the captain now holding onto the iron crow as if it were his sole lifeline.
“The crate is possessed!†cried one of the men. “Elgg ol xuil chath!†said another. “Huh? Kill it with fire?†a dwarf repeated, perplexed. “Anyone have a match?†Chaos broke loose among the seafarers, until two had the strange reflex of spraying the insides of the crate with the contents of their flasks. “What are you trying to do, inebriate it to death?†the captain sighed as he approached and threw a squinted glance into the wooden case, the iron bar raised in preparation. “Shame in hell, that liquor cost a fortune...â€
One fair hand clasped the coarse ridge, closely followed by another. A smallish grunt came from the shadowy bottom, and moments later did a figure in white pull itself out, dress soaked through and through with the stench of alcohol. Passersby came close, at first attracted by the commotion but then bewildered by the apparition. One of them brought a lantern’s flame and hefted it over the silhouette to enlighten them all. “Someone... ordered a girl?â€
The captain had gone so mute his tongue felt nailed to the roof of his mouth, and his crew was stricken by very much the same affliction. The girl turned in the light’s direction, feline eyes of grayish blue squinting from their intensity. After a while, she grabbed the drenched folds of her dress, then wrung out as much of the dark-brown stuff as she could. Carefully, she passed a slender leg over to the other side, one boot clicking on the stone until it was followed by the other. Long fingers ran through her wavy blond hair, letting the nightly breeze waft through as they cascaded back to her shoulders. After a breath so long it could have been her very first, she turned her dreamy gaze to the market lights.
Elliot smiled that absent smile, then walked into the city with a bounce in her step.
Even as the sun dipped into the seas, even as the light of day waned with the ebbs and tides, the dockside market still was bursting with life. People bustled about the old, chipped railings of the pier, gazing fondly at the blazing horizon while their youngest children tottered about, pointing ever so curiously at that great big slice of tangerine in the sky. Countless stands were erected along the waterfront, their hawkers laughing and gesturing as they made their sales of fresh lobster, seasonal fish, produce of all kinds and whimsical straw hats. Tykes with bruised legs bumped into strangers, apologizing profusely before walking away with a big-toothed smile and shiny new coins in their pockets. Near fired-brick walls, destitute men with wine-red noses and earflaps of the brightest yellows sat in the grunge, toasting by themselves from crumpled bags in homage to the caw of gulls, the puffing heat and women wearing short, frilly skirts. All the city was aburst with a zest for life: it was the heart of summer in Scara Brae, and the sweat of a hard day’s work was only fuel for their smiles and for the night to come.
Stacks of crates were being piled near one of the port’s iron bollards, various labelled imports fresh from the cargo of an Aleraran tradeship. The dwarves that made up half the crew struggled down the gangplank with boxes of steel and iron ingots, reserved for use by the Scarabrian blacksmiths, while the men and drows breezed their way to the streets, taunting their comrades as they carried straw-packed crates of porcelain and a variety of other lighter breakables. There, they waited for the shipments to be picked off, trading casks of spiked ade while the dwarves drowned their beards in bottles of malt beer. Chariots whirred and clicked away as customers returned home satisfied, until only half a dozen crates remained. It was common occurrence: sometimes, clients would forget or mistake the shipment and arrival dates. This sometimes burned holes in these seafarer’s pockets, but tonight, only ordinary baubles and catchpenny knickknacks remained unsold.
“I doubt they’ll be coming,†one of the crewman said at last, fiddling with the corncob of his pipe in boredom. “What do we have left, in any case? I doubt it’s worth much… maybe we should just cut our losses and hit the taverns.â€
“Speak the trade, my swarthy friend,†one of the men answered, eliciting a roar of laughter from the crewmen. “Though I whole-heartedly agree. At worst, we can drop by the porcelain dolls to the shop, and I’m sure us men can find a use for those military rapiers.â€
“Pickin’ our teeth, fer one – though it’d be tricky if they snapped!†bellowed one of the dwarfs in answer. The drows roared incensed, motivated by their patriotic pride and one too many a quaff of alcohol, but they were quick to deflate and soon joined with the euphoric laughter.
“But wait, does it not… makes five crates?†asked the first in tradespeak as per his captain’s suggestion, though with an obviously broken accent. “What is last one?â€
“You know, that’s a good question.†The captain sat up, handing the flask to one of his subordinates as he turned and leaned over the crate to inspect it. “It isn’t marked. How come it isn’t marked? Lars?†Only a shrug from his second in command. “Darvius?†Quite expectedly, the drow only rolled his shoulders. “That’s odd… are we sure this is one of ours?â€
“Well if it wasn’t, it is now,†said the jokey dwarf, “what with the smell o’ yer cheeks marked all over it.â€
“Hardy har har, but let’s be serious. No one’s come for it yet: maybe we should just open it.†There was a chatter of approval from the drunken sailors, and the captain returned his focus on the box as one of his men handed him a crowbar – Crowbar Sally they called him, who never left his cabin without one, oddly enough.
Before he could even jimmy the beaks under the lid to pry it open, it slid away to clatter noisily onto the paved streets. All stepped back, the captain now holding onto the iron crow as if it were his sole lifeline.
“The crate is possessed!†cried one of the men. “Elgg ol xuil chath!†said another. “Huh? Kill it with fire?†a dwarf repeated, perplexed. “Anyone have a match?†Chaos broke loose among the seafarers, until two had the strange reflex of spraying the insides of the crate with the contents of their flasks. “What are you trying to do, inebriate it to death?†the captain sighed as he approached and threw a squinted glance into the wooden case, the iron bar raised in preparation. “Shame in hell, that liquor cost a fortune...â€
One fair hand clasped the coarse ridge, closely followed by another. A smallish grunt came from the shadowy bottom, and moments later did a figure in white pull itself out, dress soaked through and through with the stench of alcohol. Passersby came close, at first attracted by the commotion but then bewildered by the apparition. One of them brought a lantern’s flame and hefted it over the silhouette to enlighten them all. “Someone... ordered a girl?â€
The captain had gone so mute his tongue felt nailed to the roof of his mouth, and his crew was stricken by very much the same affliction. The girl turned in the light’s direction, feline eyes of grayish blue squinting from their intensity. After a while, she grabbed the drenched folds of her dress, then wrung out as much of the dark-brown stuff as she could. Carefully, she passed a slender leg over to the other side, one boot clicking on the stone until it was followed by the other. Long fingers ran through her wavy blond hair, letting the nightly breeze waft through as they cascaded back to her shoulders. After a breath so long it could have been her very first, she turned her dreamy gaze to the market lights.
Elliot smiled that absent smile, then walked into the city with a bounce in her step.