[World’s End Grotto] Working to Learn or Learning to Work? Zeltiva Day 7, Winter 516 AV, Afternoon Un-hooded, Salara stood firm against the winds that always seemed prevalent in coastal towns although these winds whipped more wildly than usual. Two long thin braids, wrapping remaining loose locks into two tails trailing behind her ears to nearly her waist, swayed in a controlled fashion. Her dark cloak does a teasing dance with each gust exposing a simple white gown which takes freedom’s advantage by whipping ‘round her sandal wrapped ankles until being captured and contained again by dark folds at each windy lull. Lifting her nose to the air she felt the potential of an atmospheric change. With this unseasonal warmth it could only mean rain was on the way. Amongst the smells of salty sea and clean forest the wind changed bringing - Salara inhaled deeply - the smell of horses corralled at the World’s End Grotto. Should anyone stand close they might see her eyes become brighter and her attention more focused as she gazed over the colorful combinations of horseflesh captured behind the fence. She approached to rest her sharp-nailed hands on the wooden fence’s top rail. Being near hooved creatures always seemed to sharpen her mind; and of all times, now was a good time for clear thought. Shifting winds again bring that nearly imperceptible - almost instinctual - tingle of too much moisture that meant life would become tougher yet in Zeltiva. With the gust the horses in the corral make a snorting racket running to the back in a kaleidoscope of colors as far from her as possible. A heavy thump and pair of equine squeals call her attention to a particularly small spotted roan that had just let loose with a mighty kick at a nearby companion. Their distressed sounds bring a stableman through the open barn doors. His baggy leggings and chaff flecked shirt press in the wind against his body as he looked out across his charges. One hand lifts his hat as the other runs through greasy brown hair. She offers an innocent smile and shrug as he looks to her trying to figure out what was stirring the small herd. She recognized the roan mare right off as it stood more firmly than the others not really seeming to fear her but certainly not trusting. Salara reaches out her fingertips with a chirrup from her lips to see if she could coax the mare closer as the stableman returned to the darkness within. She thought back on the hunt she’d interrupted two days back. Times were tough as now it seemed that everyone in the city with any skill to hunt had been tasked to provide their own food or sell it to the merchant’s guild. Already local game was scarce and rain would complicate the ability of many to get to farther regions where more could be found. She may have advantage if she chooses to dare the coming wet. Her nose wrinkles in distaste at the idea of stalking prey in the rain. The nail of one forefinger begins unconsciously picking at a wood splinter. Something large as a deer would feed her once for days and the rest she could parcel out for mizas. ‘Mizas,’ she growls under her breath remembering her encounters at the tavern days earlier. Whatever had behooved her to tip that barmaid sixty copper mizas when a handful should have sufficed? Or would it have? It had taken her a few days to realize that all she had learned from the woman was what she would have found out had she only taken the time, put forth a little effort and just listened to the locals. So, the university was opening enrollment and the Navy was causing some kind of political friction. Something was mentioned about a persecution of Vantha? She had learned the merchants’ guild was paying for venison and coneys. Oh, and don’t forget, all the animals were off kilter because some god forgot to change the weather or was it the season? Really? Perhaps the barmaid wasn’t the best to approach and how accurate was rumor after all? Head shaking bemusedly her thoughts of that night turn to the Kondi woman she had met. Weren’t Kondi known for being powerful seers and diviners? She’d heard they seemed to know personal things about people they had even just met. A niggle of an idea being born is lost as the winds shift her way yet again and the hot scent of horseflesh causes a grumbling snarl in her tummy. A point-toothed smile springs to her face seeing that the little roan had advanced a few steps her way although she would never consider eating an acquaintance. Perhaps the bold mare sensed it? The thought of eating reminds her of the reason she prowled this corral searching for the clarity of mind her feline-self provided with prey near – mizas - she needed a job. By season’s end her living expenses alone would get her evicted with less than a copper. Yet so many others with more skill were vying for the same opportunities. She had posted a job request with the establishment amongst a choking amount of city declarations. Every one required her to claim her Kelvic heritage and nature. She had applied for opportunities as Thief, Investigator, Mercenary, Falconer - she chuckled at the thought of the governing representative’s reaction to that one - Information Broker or Guard. Her skills in Larceny and Subterfuge lent most qualification to thieving. A scowl wrinkled her forehead. No matter how she tried it seemed fate repeatedly put her on the same path just to survive. So she needed to find a way to use those skills in a more positive fashion. Although they were enrolling students she couldn’t afford the university and it was unlikely she would be granted the work she wanted. What she needed was a patron - someone who might see her eagerness, intellect, and inherent skills and use them accordingly. Nodding decisively her gaze crosses the much more splintered fencepost under her fingertip then lifts to the horseflesh in front of her. Teeth flash again seeing the entire herd more settled than it had been having perhaps grown accustomed to her ever re-appearing scent on the winds. ‘Well, we can’t have that,’ she says in amusement. Just before turning her back on the herd her form changes within a flashing sparkle of light into a billowing pile of lumped cloth. Not only does her enhanced scent send the horses into renewed frenzies but also her deep-rumbling growl, disappearing from her throat as she shifts again in a flash, sends them into a virtuoso of panic. She doesn’t see the stable hand run from the barn as she readjusts her clothing but she mock-grumbles in slighted complaint as two patrons exiting the tavern at the horsey hullabaloo bungle against her. She knows if she keeps it up she won’t be able to come here much more often to think. Insistent belly rumbles send her in seeming innocence into the tavern for a bite. Vigilant gaze travels around the room as she finds a seat to the side near the door. Broke would be broke after all. What’s another silver or two for a bite of rare meat and water? Especially if the barmaid gets only a copper for her effort. Perhaps over dinner she could start considering ways to make herself and her skills noticeable – in a more positive fashion. |