What Do You Want? [Winter Festival; Closed]

[Liar]

44 Winter, 511 The Western Quarter seemed ablaze with banners of celebration, fresh-dyed fabrics wrapped around columns and draped over roads, washing the world in a premature twilight of color. The shops were closed, the streets full of noise; the Tempered Anvil was refreshed in paint on every wall, sewn to sleeves, scrawled on cakes, and toasted in streetwide feasts. Even residents of other quarters came to join the revelry, to worship Xannos for the blessings of creativity and diligence that shine in the hearts of every Nykan. The festival was not without the several fights that arise from any large gathering of such a people, but they were all in good fun, the worst abated by watchful monks. As if that was not enough to shake the citizenry from the hum of daily life, the gates to the city had been opened wide and the festivities allowed to spill into the quarries. The feast was all well and good, but the real celebration was the competition: a Stone Search, they called it, a battle of luck for talented eyes. The quarries and the lands around them were dotted with jewel ores, like drops of divine blood from the Mother City’s many wounds. With no price to enter (except the risk of wandering in such a place), the prize for the largest gem found was one-hundred laats—or as much as you could get home, after the mob knew what you had won. Tables full of food had been set up at daybreak to nourish the first of the contestants, replenished on the hour by generous denizens. Participants could search as long as they liked from dawn to dusk, and were allowed to return to the city whenever they wished, after emptying their pockets, of course. Monks of the Tempered Anvil happily offered a few coins for even the smallest finds at a fraction of their true worth. But this was not Laat’s day; the money was not the object. Many threw what they earned to the sky, in honor of the occasion and those who gave their food to it, let their earnings fall at the feet of any soul who could better use it. It was a donation for a donation, a small price for neighborly love. Out on the fields, some precautions had been taken. Every Xannos monk that was not otherwise assigned was made to patrol the quarries. Even some from other quarters took the outskirts, defending the festival from outside hazards. They knew what lurked between them, within their own lands; each and every one of them had seen it firsthand. But somehow, they could not guess that anything could happen out here, with so many eyes to see it... There was a peculiar smell on the air, out there. It was pleasant, like sugared walnuts or fresh apple cobbler, and easily excused for having wafted from the city entrance. The smell did not make them hungry; it made them curious. Though it was mostly a solitary task, the people grouped and began to chat as they searched. They spoke of themselves and each other, of the future, and their own hopes and goals. What could you buy with that prize money? They discussed. What debt could you settle? What lost loved one would you honor? What do you want, and how far would you go to get it?

[Ezra Crenshaw]

It was an odd looking stone. Vibrant blue in the shape of an emerald that filled his palm but something about it was off. Pressing it between coarse skin made it seem fragile, like he could easily crush it with little effort. It didn’t so much as resonate, like the genuine article always seemed to do when he recalled the emergency trips to the Blinding Light Studio in search of trinkets for his fiance's birthday. My, but that was oh so many years ago. Gazing into an emerald seemed to inspire a sense of wonder but all he got from this stone’s dull luster was a need to terminally polish it with his gauze wrapped mitts.

He wouldn’t have even found it without the help of the spotlight in the sky. The sun had reached it’s apex when he first ventured out from the safety of the workers cabin, and now it hung directly overhead eliminating the shadow under his feet. Ezra weighed the stone, passing it from hand to hand. He certainly had no training in geology but the differences to its pricey cousin were too obvious.

Ezra Crenshaw drew a wrist across the gashed right eyebrow and lifted his gaze to the sky as far as he dared, something was off lately. Maybe it was just the old age catching up with him but each time he dared out from the shade nestled in the quarry he felt winded, out of breath and strangely, paranoid. It was as if there was a dark cloud at the far edge of his vision, threatening to close in on him. If he just spun round quick enough he could catch it, but that made him dizzy. Something about the open air put him on edge.

The man was all skin and bones, ‘nothin’ but piss and vinegar’ his mom would always say before shoving another helping of casserole atop his plate. Scars ran the length of his exposed flesh, of which wasn’t much below the neck and he waddled as he walked with a spine that curved like a fish hook. The fresh winter air felt nice running through the sprouts of white peppering his scalp, and the maple scent was certainly a welcome relief from the salty odor of fish down by the docks. But there was something else he noticed as he neared the city. At first it was just a sugary smell, easily dismissed as food wafting in from the festivities by the gate, but the closer he drew to the quarry the less certain he became.

Several workers gathered in the shade embedded in the ruddy red-stained earth with a few basic essentials. The Nykshela Quarry workers muscled a few barrels of water down, and carried spare pick axes for the day's search. It was a matter of pride for them to win the prize. After all, they were the most qualified and the prize money split could still be worth a weeks worth of work for each of them. Hulking figures huddled around drawings in the gravel discussing plans for maximizing their collective manpower and forming teams to scour the gaming grounds. The quarry base made for a central gathering place for them to share stories, compare gem sizes and start the inevitable brawl or two. None of it seemed to make much of a difference as everyone would eventually turn on each other as fast as you could say ‘Praise the Alvinas’. There was something intrinsically beautiful about the Nykan people's pride, and the quarry workers were full of it. It brought a smile to his cracked lips.

He bowed his head to the men near the entrance who had grown rather accustomed to his frequent presence, he waved it off as being winded by old age. Though they busied themselves in rummaging for stones or bickering between each other, the workers seemed genuinely glad for the company. Ezra noticed the sweet smell was more pungent next to the red stone walls as he pulled himself under the shade and took a drink from his water skin. This time he could clearly make out the scent of cinnamon and spice cake. The noise from the city trickled out into the quarry, excitement and jubilation to the beat of drums and wind instruments buzzing in the air. Some of the men bobbed their heads, Ezra was sure Danel would be bobbing too.

The winter festival had been a family past time for most of Ezra’s early childhood, it was a lovely way to celebrate the end of the year. All his favorite foods spilled across tables in the Western Quarter like some city wide pot luck where everyone donated a dish. Banners streamed in a cacophony of colors, signifying jubilation for the Tempered Anvil. All the while whole crowds of people gathered together in boastful revelry. Once outside the city, the Crenshaw family would lock arms and scour the wilderness together. It was a romantic memory, Ezra was sad to let it go.

The tradition had lived on despite his absence. Only now, the denizens of the Celestial’s city took it much more seriously.

“Look, all I’m sayin’ is shouldn’t the guy who finds the stone take a bigger cut, otherwise whats to stop any one of us from just waitin’ around for the rest of us to do all the work?” Ezra overheard a nearby stone worker say to another.

“Bilte, bottle it,” came the response, “we’re not switching to a split that benefits the finder, it wasn’t what we agreed upon. We all know it’s gonna be one of us that finds it, no way a city rat would know a feldspar from fools gold.”

“Drir, you know as much as I do that the rest of these worms will turn on us the moment they get the chance. I’m only askin...”

“Fine, you want it so badly, we’ll do it, and then when I find that rock I can get the pleasure of seeing that smirk off your face. Maybe then you won’t feel so strongly about undercutting our men,” the one called Drir said with a shrug of his burly shoulders. The two looked like lumberjacks at a tea party, both were rugged, outdoorsy types and both carried pick axes on their belts to chip embedded stones free.

Ezra wondered what would happen if they truly found what they were looking for, would the amiable alliance still hold? He was relatively certain it wouldn't but why not test it. He swung the backpack off his shoulders and started to pick through his things to find the odd gem he had picked up earlier. It had fallen to the bottom of the bag, covering several pieces of his equipment in tiny blue shards. At least he was certain now, shards don’t flake off the real thing.

The two stood up to leave and Ezra tailed them as they made their way to the entrance. It was obvious that the pair was still heated over the exchange and he had to stifle a chuckle as they continued down the path towards the Quarry’s exit. Each looked in opposite directions with a comical huff.

“Beg a’pardon, lads,” Ezra clamored with a clap on Bilte’s back, “‘Sposin’ this feller be one of yours. Dropped it where you stand. Had a’mind to take it but...well that wouldn’t be th’ spirit of it now.”

With that, he produced the stone to Bilte and turned on his heel back towards the bit of shade. The two men eyed each other suspiciously, Bilte certain that Drir had sandbagged him and Drir positive that Bilte had changed the game to cheat. Ezra had to clamp down on his knuckles when the two started going at it, but when the rest of the workers joined in the raucous Ezra couldn’t contain it anymore and he started cackling as they all rolled around in the dirt. Several Xannos monks had to get between the massive men and even then the row didn't relent. Though a city rat he may be, even Ezra would know what a winning gem looked like, and with the men cleared out he had finally placed the mysterious smell.

[Jett Variona]

A spurt of blood found its way to a bit northeast of the freshly repainted anvil on his robes. Pity. He had worked so hard to clean them last night too. That one earned another punch, this time to the gut, but the man's abs were so hard that it nearly broke Jett's fist. It also didn't phase him much. The brutish quarry worker only roared and made a desperate shove with his hands at the monk. Jett oofed! and flew backwards away from the fight, losing his breath and stinging his back when he landed on the hard ground. He looked up and met the toes of his father, who had just come back from break to find his fellow workers brawling and his son making a somewhat hilarious attempt to break it up with the aid of some other of Xannos's monks. "Hullo, son." He said downwards in his gruff and disapproving tone. Jett just grinned up at him from his lowly view. "Hello Father. Enjoying the festival?" "I am. Far more than you are it seems." Jett's father grunted and folded his arms across a broad chest. "Didn't my brother ever teach you how to duck?" The monk rolled his eyes and then rolled himself up off the ground, wiping his hands off from the tiny pebbles that had lodged themselves into his skin. Duty had never been this eventful, or fun, before. Everyone had been anticipating this day for what seemed like ages, and the monks were no different. All of Xannos's were on duty, but they had been also instructed to look as fresh as the decorations. Everyone had to wash their robes (something that Jett did not often do) and touch up the sigil that marked their order on the chests of their brown robes. All the while they had all boasted to each other of how well they would keep the peace, though mostly sarcastically, and also win the contest. Well, most of them anyway. Some of the monks tended to be more reserved than others. Jett was no exception, however. He knew precisely what he would do with the Laats rewarded to the winner. Since he was unable to actually handle the money, if Jett won he planned to have the lot donated to his favorite pub. More money meant more booze, more booze meant more people, and more people meant more fun in those nights. No one lost, really, Jett thought to himself. By this time he was finished with messing around with the out of control quarry men, who were currently trying to break out of the other monks' grasps in order to tear each other to pieces. Jett lifted himself out of the dirt and pulled Agnis from her sheath. "Playtime my dear." He whispered to the hammer and gave it a little kiss, which in turn brought a disgusted groan from his father. The monk spun the weapon in his hand and gripped the handle with both hands. Blite and Drir were so focused on pummeling each other that neither one of them saw Jett get a running start and swing the hammer with such devastating force that it shattered one man's knee cap, then brought against the other's. They screamed in almost perfect unison and collapsed to their good legs, and the monks let them fall. The fight here was done. Jett had a mind to let the others deal with the rest of it here, and placed Agnis languidly on his shoulder. He bent over to retrieve the offending rock which had apparently started it all and held it up to the light. He scratched it with his thumbnail and a chunk of it came off. He snorted and turned, eyes scanning the populace who had come to watch. They fell upon a scarred figure almost laughing himself to tears, and that brought Jett's eyes to roll like his fathers. "You find this amusing, old man? Huh? You want to be next?" Jett roared, trying to sound intimidating. The charade didn't last long, and the monk had to smile. "Ezra. I take it that this is your handiwork somehow?" He said, clapping his old friend on the shoulder.

[Alderache]

Alderache was up before Syna, he didn't know why, but Alseroth wasn't a morning person. Alderache liked being able to train without his brother taking over with vigorous enthusiasm. He was out on a rocky slope, Shivara in hand, bare chest glistening with sweat. He still was far from welcomed to this town, which is why he seemed to prefer much of his days outside the walls. He had to imagine an opponent. That was one thing he missed about Riverfall, no one here wanted to spar with a man that didn't belong. He was tempted to ask a monk, but these guys didn't take kindly to strangers, or losing. He drew his Lakan, and held it in a back handed style, with the outer curve of the edge facing away from him. He pictured his enemy with twin bladed tonfa. The handles and bottoms of the clubs were a dark, hardwood, with short double edged blades on the tips. The enemy appeared lackadaisical, calmly swinging his weapons in loose fists. This told Alderache that his imaginary opponent was confident. And that the man would go on the offense. Almost obligingly, the man charged forward, tonfa rotating wildly. The first blow came high, neck level. The man had snapped the tonfa into a locked position in a fluid motion, midswing. Alderache stepped forward, forearm raised, Lakan slashing upward. His forearm blocked the wooden handle of the weapon, and his Lakan struck the handle of the other. A block for a block. But Alderache's skill didn't lie within his Lakan, like every Akalak, the skill came from the body of the wielder. And in this case, it came from his forehead. His crushed into the man's, stunning him, sending him floundering backwards. Alderache stepped to follow through with a slash across the middrift. However, he found himself slipping on some loose rocks beneath him, shattering his concentration on the fight. His imaginary opponent disappeared, and Alseroth chuckled from within. Amateur. Alderache prepared to start again, making a mental note to keep an eye on his footing. Then he saw something strange under Syna's first light. In the distance, there were tables full of food, and several people standing around, and even more walking off in search of something. Intrigued, and a bit hungry for not having had a morning meal, he walked over to the growing group. After a few simple inquiries, he learned that this was a festival. A gem hunt of some sort, and the food was for the participants. Seemed easy enough, find the biggest gem and you win a lot of money. Alseroth scoffed at the idea of this, which was a good enough reason for Alderache to take part. He felt Alseroth take a backseat, albeit begrudgingly. Alderache grabbed a loaf of bread and bit a large chunk out of it. He began looking around at the area, trying to decide how he would go about this. He saw several people just scouring nearby. He wanted to look where others weren't looking, which was likely a common tactic. He glanced around, and grabbed a basket from beneath one of the tables. He found it empty, and assumed it had been used to bring the food. It had straps for the shoulders, which he slipped his arms into, the basket now riding on his back. He began his hike into the distance, keeping in mind the rocky slopes. He stumbled along, realizing something quickly. He had no idea what he was looking for. He knew gems were quite colorful, but there were only rocks out here. Lots and lots of rocks. Whenever he saw any form of sparkle, he picked it up, tossed it over his shoulder into the basket, and moved on. The basket began to get heavy, but at it least it was a workout. He kept this up for a good while before realizing he'd just made his way back to the table he'd started at. He really didn't know the layout of this land at all. He was going to turn in his rock collection, when he slipped and stumbled again. A large rock slipped into his boot, which he ignored at first, despite the digging sensation. Alseroth continued to chuckle at Alderache's annoyance and failings. This really wasn't keeping his attention, and Alseroth's musings weren't helping. But Alderache was doing it just to prove Alseroth that not everything needs to be violent. He had to keep telling himself about the tree, he didn't want to end up as fractured... He saw some scuffling going on in the distance and Alderache felt a grin from Alseroth. My turn. Alseroth pummeled Alderache with mental force he'd been building up all day. Alseroth loved a good tussle. Once Alseroth took control, he trotted over to the growing crowd, watching as a man held up a decent sized gem. But as soon as he'd arrived, the scuffle ended. He sighed, and slung the basket of rocks off his back, harder than intended, the basket spilling their contents out. Alseroth couldn't have looked more disappointed, and relented control back to his brother, it was exhausting holding him back when he tried so hard. Their body went still as Alderache came back to the forefront. He looked at the two men admiring the gem, "Congratulations on your find, I've only come across a heavy pile of rocks and a heap of annoyance."

[Shade]

Shade was feeling a little worn out. Truth be told he was up to his knees in work at the Studio and Lynk had relied heavily on him as the denizens of The Blinding Light one by one had fallen to some sort of odd winter cough. Close quarters, one coughing monk, and it seemed everyone fell sick. Some were hit harder than others. Shadekas was no healer, but he was certain those older and more portly without much time outside in the sun were easier to sicken. For some reason, even as weak as she was in the winter, Syna's light was good for the body. And though he wasn't a worshiper of Her's, per say, he appreciated nice days when they came around.

He also appreciated the excuse to escape the studio and go rockhounding. Shadekas had always been mildly successful when looking for something specific, but always before he'd needed a sample stone to go by. To those marked with Mele, stones sang to them. They didn't need the light of the Sun Goddess to reveal their hiding places or the Luck of Ovak to walk across Semele's form and stumble upon Her offerings. No, all they needed was a good ear. He had, however, no trader or jeweler or fellow monk offering him an emerald or a turquoise or a piece of Lapis to sing to him and then for him to listen to that song. Instead, Shadekas' tactics were different.

He found the calm within himself, walked silently through the quarter and out into the area most of the contest was being held, and and listened for stonesong.

He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to bully anyone or exchanged any heated words with either other monks or Nyka Citizens. It was a holiday festival, and one he wanted to really enjoy. Instead he just wanted to hear Semele's children sing.

And listen he did.

Shade cocked his head, listened intently, and felt for the stones beneath his feet, all around him, in the very bones and core of Nyka. A symphony answered him and he smiled, though like any other search for the untargeted, it was hard to filter out one type from another. So he paced, listening for individual voices in the choir all around him and stopped to dig beneath this cluster of bushes here and another rock pile further away retrieving the singers and tucking them into his pockets. He stopped dozens of times, sometimes rejecting what he found and sometimes saving it for his own personal use. As he walked on he listened for the sweeter tones - those that sung loudest - and kept his ear attuned as he wandered, paying attention to the lay of the land and the echos of it in his mind filtered up through the black opal gnosis mark embedded in the back of his hand.

He didn't rush either. No, he took the length and breath of the contest, all the time allowed, to commune with Semele and spend time in her arms among her children listening to their songs. It always cleared out his own worries, settled his restless spirit, and stabilized him enough to keep doing his work for a while longer.

He might not of found the largest, but when Shadekas returned to the table he turned in quality things to be considered, turning in his loudest singers which by his trained eye felt like the largest in his collected stash.

[Kassan]

Kassan scoured the quarries, his search relentless. Money bought rumours. Money bought news. And most importantly, money bought people. Constantly on the search for slavers and their enigmatic caravans, Kassan saw this competition as a chance to set wheels in motion. Despite the season, there was a cool sort of sunlight filtering down on the quarry. He hoped it would help him, radiance glimmering off the ores and jewels buried amongst the stone. It was funny, when he thought about it. Some shard of his destiny might lay in this mound of rock and stone. Something so full of vitality could be born from this cold, lifelessness. The quarries were a major part of Nykan life, but he felt unsettled by the volume of Xannos monks wandering around. This was, after all, their festival. There was a monk of Xannos he had softened to, but the others... they were bully boys, out to threaten and intimidate, drinking their lives a way in the bars and taverns. The monks of Uphis couldn't be any more different. Not looking where he was going, Kassan suddenly walked into shadow and looked up, almost stumbling back. A familiar face greeted his sight. "Shadekas," he said with a nod, wondering at the coincidences of his previous thoughts, "we need to stop bumping into each other like this."

[Boris]

A small, but noisy crowd had coagulated in one of the narrow Nykan streets, forming a semi-circle around a pair of scuffling men. Someone's stones had gone missing, or someone's lineage was insulted; Boris wasn't quite sure, though that's what it sounded like from the cries of enthusiastic, fist-shaking bystanders. It was beyond Boris' understanding why humans would fight over anything that wasn't food, sex, or territory, but like so many others, she was curiously drawn into the mob if only for the spectacle.The cheering, jeering, laughing, and insults were all infectious, and soon the bald woman was joining in.

One of the men in the center fell to his knees, and a moment later took a knee to the chin. As he fell back, a third entered the semi-circle. He was more largely built than both the other men, chest hair spilling out from his collar. He threw a punch at his new opponent, who swiftly ducked.

"Hit him! Hit him! In the face!" Her glee was alight in her smile and her large brown eyes. Her fist flew in the air, alongside a dozen others, attached to a slender, but solid arm. She stood taller than some of the men, and even blended in a little, lacking some of the obvious femininity of other women nearby. Her drab gray, water-damaged jacket hung crinkled on her narrow shoulders, buttoned only twice at her abdomen. The tan shirt beneath was ripped at the collar. "No, no, you're no good at this! Kick him!"

Boris found herself rocking to the side, someone having shoved their way into the crowd. She stumbled into someone nearby, momentarily thrust against his warm body. A dark look was sent her way, but immediately softened when she laughed, delighted. Her smile was reflected, and attention went back to the scuffle.

Nearby, someone was throwing coins onto the ground. Someone else did too. "Ten laats on the big one!" someone cried out. Boris drew her eyebrows together, tilting her head. It was one of the many human mysteries, another thing she didn't understand, but knew it made sense to humans somehow.

A hand dug into her pocket.

"Twenty miza on the little one!" she shouted, tossing down a handful of colorful coins. Those who could count would know that she had only laid down seven. She got a few looks, but no one seemed to care that she had apparently just shouted a random number. A moment later, someone threw down even more coins. Boris smiled broadly, feeling truly a part of things.

Nyka was so full of life, today! She wasn't sure why, exactly. She kept hearing about stones and a search, but when she had pointed out that there were stones all over the street, no one had been very impressed.

A large fist connected with a round cheek, and a second body hit the dirt. The crowd roared. Boris laughed, even though the bellowing voices stung her ears.

Losing interest, she wandered off again in search of somewhere more quiet. Before long, she recognized a familiar head of hair. There were other humans nearby, but that was true for everywhere. One of them stood out, having a similar haircut to the kelvic. This pleased her. Boris' long legs carried her in a sudden jog.

"It's Shadekas!" she greeted jubilantly, assaulting the monk with an abrupt hug. Her weight collided into him a little more forcefully than she'd intended, but she was happy to stumble. As soon as she regained her balance, she broke the embrace and politely stood back. The unfamiliar human standing nearby had a stolid expression, but his features were handsome, so she smiled. "Hi! I'm Boris."

[Jag]

The entire world was glittering, that day. Color blazed across a russet town, twisted and spun and marked a celebration that had driven bodies onto dust-caked streets, and further, into the vast quarries that lay beyond human-made structure.

Jag had spent the lion’s share of the last bell making short, circling trips around the outskirts of the city. His keen eyes tugged him towards here and there a glint, a flash of stone licked by the sun, and he’d make sharp, dizzying turns to land and inspect the finds. Once, he’d charmed his way into a girl’s satchel with clever whistling and repeated voices, and she had offered him a finger-full from a hard roll that was taken from a table. The bird still had a beak full of crust when he took off again in a flourish of black feathers.

More glitter. More food smells. It was overwhelming, to say the least. Saccharine air wafted through him, ran its enticing fingers through his feathers, and whispered sweet promise of more than what was wedged in his beak. Lands were hard to find, in a quarry, where eaves and lamp posts were scarce, and Jag found substitute in the broad end of a hammer. Yellowed talons skittered against the weapon’s blunt end as wind was kicked up behind the head of the man who held it. Jag feared no bellowing monk; he was a bird, free to fall into the sky, out of reach; but he was also a man, able to change in a storm of light, and tower over other birds.

He tipped back his head, let the crusty bread slide down his gullet, before ruffling a collection of mottled grey-and-black feathers. “Old man!” Jett’s voice licked the backs of his ears, garbled and uncouth. “Old man!” Jag hopped across the hammer’s head, shrewd black eyes fixed on the gleaming rock in the monk’s hand.

[Liar]

ClosedAfter this post, you must PM me to join the thread. There is no posting order, but you should only post once between my posts. If you find it necessary to post again, PM me. Just beyond the grove of bickering quarrymen, skirting hesitantly on the fringe of the settling chaos, stood a small girl. Ezra could glimpse her between his friend and the recently arrived akalak, but the two men had their backs turned to her; their ignorance, combined with the sight of the pretty bird who had accepted her gift of bread not a bell earlier, seemed to comfort her as she stepped closer. She rounded toward Jett, whose clean robes and young face were a happy sight beside the terror of a gnarled old man and the giant red foreigner. She was trying to smile at Jag as she entered the monk’s line of sight, her little hands reaching for his sacred sleeve without daring to touch it. “Mister,” she pleaded, unable to meet his eye. “Mister, can you help me?” Her dark Nykan gaze darted between his associates. The other human wore strange scars and deformities that only belonged to true monks, and it frightened her that he did not wear a robe. She had never seen an akalak before, and a glance at Alderache nearly brought tears to her eyes. She stepped closer to the shield of Jett’s body, staring at the Kelvic. “My sister...” She stuttered loud enough for the crowd to hear, clutching the sides of her dress nervously. “I can’t find her. Will you help me find her?” At the city gate, the sweet scent was growing stronger, the cakes in high demand. A monk named Ahran was inspecting Shade’s findings from behind a table, struggling with his recently fingerless right hand. As he counted and examined, Shade noticed glint of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a brilliant flash in a sea of faces, a golden-eyed woman who beamed at him before she disappeared behind the moving throng. Then it was gone, seen by no one else, and after many long minutes, Ahran chose a handful from the selection and poured them into a labeled pouch for further comparison. “Semele’s boy,” he commented. Ahran eyed the monk beside him, the eerily friendly one with a sword on his chest, but his words were still for Shade. “They let you wander around because you’re a boon to the cause, but I think you ought to do your duty like the rest of us.” It was every man’s right, including the monks’, to participate in the festivities, but Ahran was feeling argumentative. He rolled his eyes when a happy civilian woman assaulted Shade, hiding jealousy behind a thin veil of annoyance. As he nodded at the next person in line, Boris saw a man wink at her from within the crowd. His smile was warm, his hands beckoning; as soon as she caught sight of him, he turned and dashed between the bodies as if he meant to be pursued. The sticky stench of sugar had become almost palpable. “Keep one eye on the people, why don’t you?” Ahran said to Shade as he began to examine the next man’s treasure. Then he glared at Kassan, mouth hanging in some competitive jape, but he was interrupted. Towards the south of the quarries, far from the gates and the gathering of quarrymen, a woman screamed. People fled the area, others stayed in awe, and still others rushed curiously toward the scene. Bilte and Drir turned their heads to get a look from where they stood. Ahran hesitated as he rose from his chair, as if he could see over the heads of the growing panic around him. “What’s going on?” He mumbled the phrase everyone was thinking. Where everyone seemed to be looking one way, Kassan glimpsed a man who retreated, skirting northward along the inside of the city’s great red wall, his face covered by a too-familiar mask... The little girl at Jett’s side did not seem to notice the rising commotion. It was clear she wanted to hold on to this man, her protector, but she was afraid of the rules about respect that she had not quite memorized. “She ran off,” she explained eagerly. “She said she saw momma, but momma died last summer, Mister. She died, but Mishka said she saw her. What if Mishka died too?”

[Ezra Crenshaw]

If only she hadn't mentioned the dead woman.  Jett had accurately seen through the subtle prank, joining in with Ezra's peculiar brand of humor after pummeling a few workers with his best girl. The monk of Xannos had been something of a kindred spirit in recent days and his daring rescue in the Aperture had saved Ezra's life in more ways than one. He felt indebted to the man, something a few rounds at the local bar would never make up for.  When the girl approached Jett with her sob story, and reached for the authoritative robe, Ezra resigned to give his friend a miss. Duty calls, after all and the monks were out in force just for this big event. This was exactly the sort of thing they were to deal with. Cat stuck up a tree? Best friend inexorably stuck in a brawl? Sister abducted by a long dead relative? Find the nearest monk of Xannos. With the bizarre aroma wafting over the quarry, Ezra was ready to call it a day following a quick nap in the shade. The girl seemed startled by the carved old man's appearance and that was enough for him to want to move on. She took to hiding behind the symbolic robes of the monk, her hands just hovering from grasping his waist. Was this another foolish superstition the Nykans had concocted in his absence?  It bored him.  Even when the pretty little thing poured out her tale he felt himself unable to stop a visible yawn. It wasn't that the grizzled old man was heartless, perish the thought. No, Ezra was a proponent of tough love, you have to carve your own way. Not even the calamity that followed a stray woman's desperate scream and the stampede of people fleeing for the gates could move him from the prospect of a quick snooze. But then the girl mentioned a dead woman, and it gave him pause. There were only two things Ezra knew to raise the dead and neither had a place so close to the red walled city. "Reckon we'll have t'find th' mum, make sure she finds a way back t' peaceful rest, it'sa fair trade at half th' price," Ezra said with a soft gesture and a warm smile. He issued Jett a knowing nod, clearly nominating him as spokesperson. It was unlikely that the girl would even acknowledge the bizarre, red monstrosity and it was obvious the girl distrusted the bandaged man's scars. Two votes for Jett so far. Ezra placed a hand against his brow to block out the sun. Craning his crooked neck as he traced the horizon in an effort to pinpoint the general direction the girl came from. It was odd, he couldn't make it out but it was no surprise with the commotion to the south. The quarry wrapped around the city like a warm blanket on a cold night, the fine grains of crunchy crimson rocks stopped at the foliage that snaked along the hilltops into the distance. Ezra adjusted the small knife hilt concealed under his waistband with a befuddled sigh, he hoped he wouldn't have to turn it on a dead woman any time soon. The aroma practically flooded out all other smells now, excluding the perspiration of the nearby and mostly tuckered out quarry workers. "Listen stranger," Ezra said abruptly, turning his attention to the Akalak while giving Jett time to converse with the little one. The foreigner struck him as prideful, he had marched past the group of angry Nykans, carrying a basket filled with rocks and slung them down carelessly. The bright red skin of his bare chest dotted with beads of sweat like he had spent all morning lugging those stones about. A strange weapon rest in plain view at his side though few other than monks carried weapons and he seemed to be striving to survive while so out of place and so close to Nyka. Ezra wasn't a racist but he was comfortable playing the part. Whatever it took to save the man's life. "This be a Nykan problem, boy," Ezra said in a private aside to the brutish man, "Alvinas take me 'fore we let a foreigner a'party to our business. Plus, you're scarin' th' little 'un. Best git gone, right quick an' fit t'split."