[The Great Bazaar] A Maskless Masquerade is just a Bad Party

[Alistair deGrey]

17th of Spring, 510 AV It continues to segregate people, the immense gap between those that aspire to self discovery, and those that aspire to stagnation. The abyss fluctuates daily as souls are found and lost, but it still remains. It is why I have no hope for humanity, despite my desire for its closure. People milled about the Bazaar in great throngs of peasantry. Reeking of boredom, unwashed bodies, and failed aspirations, they went about their daily business as they had the previous day. As well as the day before that, and before that, and on and on. The air was polluted with sounds of hawkers hawking, buyers buying, and the occasional shout of children. Sunlight did not reach the Grand Bazaar, but it would not have penetrated through the cloud cover in any case. The dawn had brought with it a pouring rain, startling the citizens of Syliras that had prepared themselves for good weather. As such, the streets and alleys of the Bazaar were more crowded than usual. Alistair deGrey sat on a bench, holding a sheet of copper and several parchments. Nobody approached him, and he would be hard pressed to approach them. So instead he sat in solitude with his charcoal, writing a tally every now and again. A man passed through Alistair's line of sight, Tally 31. Brown hair and balding. Overweight, serious demeanor, twitchy right hand. Scar on same hand. Has a child. deGrey's focus turned to the kid following the sulky man, Tally 32. Child, brown hair, curious (good). Short. Tries to hold father's hand, father refuses. It was an event that took all of twenty seconds before the subjects had left his vision, swallowed by the crowd. Tally 33. Woman, black hair, glaring, aggressive pace. It an exercise deGrey went through every now and again. He would find a particular area to place himself, and then he would observe. Observe the dusty corners, the bustling people, the mechanisms, the trees, what have you. Today, he took advantage of the people that swelled the Great Bazaar. Tally 34. Short woman, blonde, troglodyte, ink on hands and hair. Each person was only nearby for a few seconds before they were consumed by other interests. But the limited time made the challenge more interesting. What Alistair hoped for, but doubted he would find right here, was somebody interesting. Tally 35. Woman, blonde, slack jaw, cuts and bruises on arms. Timid pace and posture. None of these people were interesting. They lacked passion and curiosity, two things deGrey was convinced everybody needed, and quite a few lacked. That is why Alistair loved and hated the bazaar, the shopkeepers often displayed the passion deGrey admired despite the fact that a majority of their customers were slugs. It takes dedication to your craft to create a silk rug, but it only takes money to purchase it. Alistair ended the tally at 35, realigned his parchments and stood to take a quick walk through the complex before returning to his workshop.

[Aneira Haimati]

"I wouldn't have expected to see you here." The voice reached him, low and sleepy on the dank, thick air. A woman's, raised just enough to touch his ears over the murmur of a hundred other voices winding through the Bazaar. He might not have known the voice was meant for him, had it not added, as if in afterthought, "deGrey." And deGrey might not have seen Aneira there, at first, tucked amongst the clutter of other vendors. A covered cart - or a wagon, more like - rose up behind her, and almost swallowed her whole where she sat on its open edge. All around her, pinned on the canvas arch that swept up to cover the wagon, masks leered and stared, gems winking. She might have been lost, too, amongst them, with her face half-disguised by a feathered eye mask. She might have been, that was, but for the snow white of her skin that gleamed against all else about her. It wasn't sickly. It wasn't unearthly. It was just alabaster white. And white, her legs swung, a few lengths high off the ground; the feet bare, and the ankles strung with delicate threads and beads. If the eyes followed the curve of the calves upward, they would be quickly cut off at the knee by the tousled skirts of her dress. In her lap, one hand was curled, inked with a tattoo to the wrist. And the other was twined into the fur of the dog stretched out at her side, stroking absently. She doubted if deGrey would miss her voice. He was an intent man; an observant man, she thought. So she waited, head canted to one side, to see if he would come to answer her call.

[Alistair deGrey]

While I myself can see the value of masks, I could never create them as others like Aneira Haimati do. I create machines, it is my bailiwick. While I enjoy discovering other subjects, they are not my passion.[/b] The small voice reeled Alistair deGrey in, pulling him from the edges of the pulsating crowd. It seemed as if he had found his mark, somebody who was interesting. [i]Somebody with a shred of information to divulge, something to teach. deGrey scoured the crowd for the larynx that produced the voice. Sitting ever so innocuously was Aneira Haimati. deGrey approached the Vantha girl, with her dog, her masks, her cart. It was her masked alabaster face that had beckoned deGrey from the swollen mass of people. "Greetings Aneira Haimati." Alistair's appearance today differed from when the two had last met. deGrey's beard and mustache were smartly trimmed, his hair groomed. His attire was entirely black as well. A choice he would, if ever asked, justify by informing the inquisitor that it was a practical method to conceal charcoal marks. He would never have admitted that he simply liked the color. In truth, Alistair was extremely happy to see the strange girl. If his memories served him, which they did, he recalled Aneira to be a rather fascinating individual. "And why would you not expect to see me here, Aneira?" A series of questions began to formulate in his mind, deGrey's silver eyes fell upon a myriad of objects as he waited the moment or so for Aneira to answer. The cart, the masks, the jewels, her on goings, et cetera et cetera, were all silent queries begging a voice. For now, Alistair brought up copper sheet and parchment and marked a tally. Tally 36. Aneira Haimati, Vantha woman. Mask maker, pale skin, small, owns a dog. Passionate, Curious. Document for future contact.

[Aneira Haimati]

The masks which framed her in a colorful array were quite simple, truth be told. Whether carved, sewn, or molded of paper, the craftmanship of each was quite straightforward, and finely done - but with no frills. It was, more likely than not, the craftmanship of an artist who knew her limits and worked well within them. Aneira's masks certainly were not the most impressive in the Bazaar, nor were they created by the most talented of hands. In many ways, they were a result of a fiercely inspired eye that had no means to do it justice. And yet their designs were striking, somehow. In the subtle carving and rich hues of paint, there was an uncanny attention to detail: wrinkles, lashes, dappled skin. Even the most fanciful of masks, dusted with jewels or sewn from purely silk and lace, had a certain quality of life to them. Imbued, it seemed, with spirit. Strung up and beckoning, with empty eyes, for their stories to be heard. If not the most beautiful masks, they were, at least, very interesting. Aneira watched, amber eyes shining from behind the mask, as deGrey marked a note of her on his parchment. By now, she was accustomed to his habit of recording things. Even from her brief exchange with him in his shop, she felt comfortable with this quirk, remembering quite clearly how she struggled to interpret his scrawled writing. Much could be told from a person's handwriting, she thought. And from their dress. And his had changed, she noticed. Why? "Greetings, deGrey." A belated one to be given, but what did it matter? "I'm just a bit surprised, that's all. The Bazaar is a madhouse. I thought you were more of a recluse." The way it was said was simple, thoughtful, and not at all insulting. It did not occur to her that it might offend him. As she spoke, and he wrote, the flurry of the place went on about them. An auctioneer bellowed from the far end, and the patter of rain gave rhythm. A flock of scruffy children scampered through the crowd, tearing up damp earth and earning curses from those who nearly tripped over them. "Why are you here?" she continued, noting his hands - empty of purchases. "Are you looking for something in particular?"

[Alistair deGrey]

Certain professions seem so strange upon cursory inspection. While I appreciate Aneira's work, I find myself baffled as to how she discovered the calling. Of course, inventing is not exactly the most common or mundane profession either. The copper writing surface and its charge fell back to Alistair deGrey's side as he chewed Aneira's words, his small notation completed. It was an interesting query to be sure, for he was not fond of the masses that cloistered him so. They crushed him, pressed in upon him until he asphyxiated. Much more did he prefer the quiet of his workshop, or the company of Ha'na. deGrey's answer was only part of the equation, and not entirely true, "It is entirely possible, Aneira Haimati, to be completely alone in the Bazaar." Yes it was true that the inventor had the habit, or rather talent, of drowning out unnecessary noise, he had not done it this day. Sometimes, it is necessary to just still yourself as a tree, and observe the world come raining down in a cavalcade of sobs, smiles, scars, suns, serendipity. Not only did it stimulate his curiosity, but Alistair also discovered its usefulness for his inventions. While deGrey created many things to further his own self discovery, his goal was also to help people. To make their lives easier in what small way he was able. It was Alistair's secret hope that one day, the world might not disappoint him. So there he was, A third person observer tugged into the story by Aneira Haimati. "I trust..." Alistair walked closer to the cart and carefully grasped a paper mask. The bodiless simulacrum leered at him, a woman with skin to match Aneira's. "I trust that business is as usual, then?" The inventor's not so smart hands ran themselves over the new medium. He allowed the mask its place back on the cart, turning to focus more on the specimen that had drawn him to the small structure. "No, I am not looking for a particular object. Anything interesting enough is fine." His hand moved back to the paper mask and began to trace the eye with a finger. deGrey looked down at his hand's action while continuing, "Aneira Haimati, why exactly do you make masks? What draws you to them?"