PC's: Devmond Incarnata, Victor Lark
Timestamp: Spring, AV 500, Day 13
Even years later as Devmond grew in the last of his adult fangs, he would never forget that a human was responsible for his own father punching out his first on that wet morning of spring. It was during a business trip to Ravok when their family still dealt in the trading of Kalinor silk. Against a natural shyness and fear of the surface, Devmond had been dragged along by his father when he was still young enough that many things were left unnamed. He was told that experience was a way for him to become a better man, but Devmond stayed silent as his soles wore thin. After a few months of traveling, a few days before that fated moment, they were boarding a ship from The Southern Trading Post to a southern point at the Docks of the city’s edge. It had taken four days for their papers and goods to be inspected and approved. They were lucky to have at least one contact, the Crespi family, who had a good reputation from entertaining parties that a nonhuman merchant, a Symenestra at that, could pass through without too much jostling.
It also helped that Mr. Passiflora-Incarnata had an appearance that made him appear outlandishly foppish if not simpleminded. His father dressed, in Devmon’s secret opinion, like a circus clown. White dress pants that always carried pockets full of sugar snaps to hand to his business partners’ children. The black boots were polished to reflect those stripped pink and purple knee-highs. A casual smile balanced on a silk tie with pink and white dots. Today, he was embarrassing his son further by toting a lightning patterned umbrella, matching lime cane, and white top hat plumed from exotic birds. He even dyed his goatee the same purple dye he used on the tips of the curled locks on his head.
If Mr. Passiflora-Incarnata showed any attention to the fresh remarks that his presence enticed, it was a sideways grin that showed pearly canines that was as generous as it was terrifying. His father had taught his son that their family name was that of an exotic jungle plant that’s perfume and fruit were displayed proudly, heritage of a fearless nature. Devmond, not as romantically metaphorical, preferred the quiet array of the dark. These preferences were never practiced, as he quickly learned what a lashing tongue his father hid behind that fenced smile. The small boy was dressed each morning like a doll by their servants at his father’s direction.
Embellished in a long riding jacket and silk ribbons, the only thing young Devmond did not regret wearing was the miniature parasol that he could hide his blushing face from the blank, searching stares of the other passengers. It had been issued to hide the delicate Symenestra skin from the rays of exposure, the thick clothing to hide inhuman features; it was Mr. Passiflora-Incarnata’s intention to ‘hide in plain sight’ against the xenophobia that ran pulsing along the canals from the Temple of the Black Sun. Those adult concerns were lost on the boys’s turbulent heart that issued a thousand curses of wrinkles on the tall man beside him. He was at the age that doubted everything about the once polished image of his parent, but also because of the insignificance he felt in the shadow of an eccentrically forceful character.
“You know, Dev, it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more cheery, you know this city is not the kindest to strangers.” his father said under his breath as they walked down the docked boat’s ramp. The order was given to their attendants to follow behind with the bolts of silk fabric, while they would continue to the residence of Salvo Crespi where they had been cordially invited for warm beds and plentiful entertainment. His father led him to the Crespi’s private dock where a Ravasola emblazoned with the name of their host, and seated a slave woman who beckoned to them with a slender oar. It did not escape Devmond’s notice that his father winked flirtatiously to their pilot as they pushed off into the muddied water. Glowering, the child sat with arms crossed and continued to bore a hole in the leaky bottom of the gilded craft with all his concentration.
“Hey,” his father’s voice sharp next to the lapping of the waves, “Did you know how they find slaves in this city?”
“No, father, I do not.”
“You see the Ebonstryfe-. You remember what I told you about Ebonstryfe, son?”
“They’re the militant force in the city.”
“Yes, well, more specifically they are the militant arm of the Black Sun. In any case, the slave market is supported by them. They have agents everywhere, lying in wait to snatch victims for profit. There’s a key point though in common with all those they choose for slaves, can you see what it is?” Devmond followed the pointed finger to a crowd of people gathered in front of a large stage. Instead of costumed performers, were bedraggled paupers all chained together looking neither comedic or tragic but had the blank faces of those no longer feeling even your pity. “Can’t figure it out?” his father continued. “Well, see they were unhappy. As ironic as it sounds, everyone who is a true citizen here can only smile under the protection of the god of evil, Rhysol. Only strangers or those who pose harm to the city would dare not feel his influence. The moment an agent spies someone with a face like that, they put the shackles around him.”
The words were spoken with such calm, unbroken rhythm that Devmond’s eyes widened in panic. Something was passed between a look from Mr. Passiflora to the slave woman, and she turned to the child and nodded with solemnity. Leaning back, his father watched with clasped hands and an amused smile as his son stretched his face to put a strained smile in the center of the twitching muscles. “Better.” he said, giving the boy a pat on the head.
They arrived at the Crespi villa in the afternoon just as the hot sun was beginning to relax from its stiff place in the center of the sky. The boat had pulled into the dock, where their hosts had come out to meet them. Mrs. Crespi was wrapped so tightly that curves bulged and jiggled in every direction as though trying to escape. She shuffled so excitedly towards him in four-inch heels that Devmond was left flustered from a whirlwind of kisses and giggles. His father had to prod him forward with the parrot at the top of his cane as they continued into the opened doors.
“What was that?” Devmond muttered dazed.
“That’s what you call a trophy wife.” his father whispered.
“Why don’t we have one of those?”
“They have very expensive upkeep, and need replacing every so often.”
Mr. Crespi might have heard them because he gave Mr. Incarnata a sly smile below a large bumpy nose that looked pickled. He walked next to his father, contrasting the Symenestra’s airy walk with a gate that was as stiff as a mechanical toy soldier. Guided to a sitting room carved out of velvet and cherrywood, Mr. Crespi steered the conversation immediately to topics that were lulling Devmond to sleep. They discussed rates of miza exchange, politics, money, and money. As he sunk into the plush armchair, he felt a manicured hand rub his shoulder. Mrs. Crespi, saying that she had no interest either in those ‘man talks’, asked if would like to accompany her on a walk. Thankful that it did not become a showy tour of her possessions, Devmond was taken to a balcony that overlooked a lower veranda filled with potted flowers and an open view of the noble’s district. Whether it was his increasing exhaustion or the beauty of the setting sun that lighted the fine buildings in a glow of Syna’s glory, he barely heard the lovely woman talk of some gossip about their neighbors, the Larks, and a mischievous son that was about Devmond’s age. He only nodded, trying to brush sleep from his eyes, as she prattled about another party they were hosting that next night. He was gone into the softness her arms when she asked about dinner.