29th of fall, 513 a.v
It was a cool day, washed in enough of the northern wind to dispel the heat that Syna had dealt so cruelly the season before. Despite the hardships of the summer, Endrykas was bustling; the season of harvest was nearing its peak, and the city was alive with trade and the exchanging of money as pavilions bought and stored fall’s bounty for the coming winter, though the cold season was still distant enough that transactions would not have the urgency that the would later. Early autumn was a time of ease and plenty, one of the few ever afforded in the Sea of Grass. And even in the calm lull, people buzzed; whispers of the oncoming hunt drifted from every corner, every conversation, of how their hunters were still the most able in Mizahar. After too much pain, the hunt appeared as a soothing balm; this was a time to celebrate, even in the wake of s much to mourn.
High noon found Shahar in the Ruby Clan, nearing the center where the tents were thickest. The crowds pressed at him from all sides, even though none touched him, and his face was a mask of unease. And yet they did not choke him, as they so often did, not today. For today he had something to accompany him, something to focus on. Something to protect.
He’d bought Namal clothes the day before and insisted without words that they be word; though he himself did not have a real concept of decency, Shahar knew full well that the rest of his people did. He didn’t want to risk offending those that he would seek help from.
Still, the hunter kept him close. Half of his attention was focused on his path, while the other half remained focused on Namal; he was constantly shifting his posture, orienting and reorienting his position in relation to the boy’s so as to shield him from the jostle of the crowd. The threat of claustrophobia was different now; it was no longer directed at him, it was directed at Namal, and the desire to defend Namal trumped the near physical pain that would so often come with ventures into the city.
It was with no small amount of relief that Shahar spotted the Whet Stone, nestled far too closely between two large pavilions bathed in red. The sound of metal striking metal sounded rhythmically from within, and the front was open in invitation. Shahar put a gentle hand on Namal’s shoulder and steered him in that direction.
Inside the front of the pavilion were rows upon rows of folding tables, each bending under the weight of metal weapons glimmering hopefully for any buyers. Shahar passed over them, sparing the briefest glance towards the table of axes, but they held no interest for him. The keeper approaching, however, did.
Hello, he signed. “How are you today?”
I need help, Shahar signed bluntly, wasting no time on formalities. He gestured to the boy at his side, and at the collar on his neck in particular. This, he said, I want it off.
It was a cool day, washed in enough of the northern wind to dispel the heat that Syna had dealt so cruelly the season before. Despite the hardships of the summer, Endrykas was bustling; the season of harvest was nearing its peak, and the city was alive with trade and the exchanging of money as pavilions bought and stored fall’s bounty for the coming winter, though the cold season was still distant enough that transactions would not have the urgency that the would later. Early autumn was a time of ease and plenty, one of the few ever afforded in the Sea of Grass. And even in the calm lull, people buzzed; whispers of the oncoming hunt drifted from every corner, every conversation, of how their hunters were still the most able in Mizahar. After too much pain, the hunt appeared as a soothing balm; this was a time to celebrate, even in the wake of s much to mourn.
High noon found Shahar in the Ruby Clan, nearing the center where the tents were thickest. The crowds pressed at him from all sides, even though none touched him, and his face was a mask of unease. And yet they did not choke him, as they so often did, not today. For today he had something to accompany him, something to focus on. Something to protect.
He’d bought Namal clothes the day before and insisted without words that they be word; though he himself did not have a real concept of decency, Shahar knew full well that the rest of his people did. He didn’t want to risk offending those that he would seek help from.
Still, the hunter kept him close. Half of his attention was focused on his path, while the other half remained focused on Namal; he was constantly shifting his posture, orienting and reorienting his position in relation to the boy’s so as to shield him from the jostle of the crowd. The threat of claustrophobia was different now; it was no longer directed at him, it was directed at Namal, and the desire to defend Namal trumped the near physical pain that would so often come with ventures into the city.
It was with no small amount of relief that Shahar spotted the Whet Stone, nestled far too closely between two large pavilions bathed in red. The sound of metal striking metal sounded rhythmically from within, and the front was open in invitation. Shahar put a gentle hand on Namal’s shoulder and steered him in that direction.
Inside the front of the pavilion were rows upon rows of folding tables, each bending under the weight of metal weapons glimmering hopefully for any buyers. Shahar passed over them, sparing the briefest glance towards the table of axes, but they held no interest for him. The keeper approaching, however, did.
Hello, he signed. “How are you today?”
I need help, Shahar signed bluntly, wasting no time on formalities. He gestured to the boy at his side, and at the collar on his neck in particular. This, he said, I want it off.
