Return of the Glass Horse

[Anselm]

Return of the Glass Horse The Morning of the 86th of Spring 512 Marketplace in Zeltiva OOC : A sequel to Monty's Fortune and Hoarse Whispers. In Anselm's estimation Johann Calbert was one of the great glassworkers of Mizahar, possibly the greatest. Certainly the glasswork Anselm was currently looking at displayed unparalleled quality and beauty. The glass animals especially were highly evocative, as though they were about to spring to life and leap from the table. Even the more utilitarian pieces – the vases, bowls, wine glasses and so on – were works of art in their own way. It did not take him long to determine that they were not all made by the same hand. At least two, and possibly more, hands had crafted them. Old Calbert was training apprentices who would one day replace him. Their work was good but lacked the clean, elegant lines of Calbert's work. He knew that at least one of the pieces was Montaine's work. Anselm pretended not to have noticed it yet, but he had. The little cowled figure had been placed so that it stared directly at Anselm's tent. Given how carefully everything else was arranged, there was no doubt in the old Nuit's mind that the placement of this particular piece was intentional. It was designed and placed specifically to irritate the fortune teller. And it had succeeded. Nonetheless, he had to admit that it was quite good. The craftsman had somehow captured something of Anselm's personality in the robed figure. Anselm walked back to his tent, sat down at his table and waited for his first customer. He could see the glassworks display from where he sat. He could not make out the figurine from this distance, but he knew exactly where it was and he knew it was still watching him. Little Anselm watching big Anselm. He turned his table to a different angle so that he wasn't forced to looking directly out the tent entrance. But he found his head turning in that direction as though with a life of its own, and there was the little figurine, still watching him. Or so he imagined. He knew he was letting Montaine get the better of him simply by letting the figurine bother him so much. But he couldn't ignore it. Around mid-day he got up from his chair, walked back to the glassworks display and positioned himself directly in front of Montaine. He had as yet shown no interest in the figurine. But he was pretty sure Montaine knew he had seen it. In a resigned voice he asked, “How much?”

[Montaine]

This could be a hard sell. Monty had spent enough time in the boss’ company at the stall front to pick up a few business tips. One of the big ones that the old man employed was flattery, make your customer think that it would be an honour for the craftsman were they to purchase your meagre offering. Somehow, something made the glassworker doubtful that such superficial mind games would work on the implacable fortune teller. He looked across at his opponent and his mind briefly flashed back to his nightmare. What would the fortune teller make of dreams such as those? Monty inhaled sharply through his nose. No tricks. It was important to register when an opponent was smarter, wiser, more experienced in the game. He had failed to recognise that before, in the shadowy tent across the way, he had failed to identify the fortune teller’s aptitudes and due to that oversight, the glassworker had lost. No ploys, no artifice, no ruses or guile or stratagems. He had to play this straight. Monty looked at his opponent and kept his face void, ‘For you, ten chimes,’ There would be no exchange of mizas in this deal. Indeed, the sale of the figurine was hopefully but a forerunner to the possibility of further trade and the price of the statuette was just enough time for a business proposal. He should have thought more on what he would say should the old man accept the offer, he supposed. He hadn’t slept well since he’d lost his horse, his nights filled with gargantuan, rotting faces. Standing there before him, he almost expected the fortune teller’s skin to start peeling back in long, grey flakes and reveal the greenish, bloodless flesh beneath. He shook off the shivers that had crawled up and down his spine and exhaled, ‘Should you have the time to spare,’ Monty didn’t touch the figurine though. He kept his hands folded behind his back, his left wrist clutched tightly in his right palm. If the shadowy old fortune teller accepted his price, he would happily hand the piece over, petch, he’d gift wrap the shyking thing! But if he refused then the glassworker didn’t want the creature thinking him presumptuous. The air between the two was palpable enough as it was. So instead he kept as resolutely still as he could, trying to match the old man’s lifelessness, but the few niggling doubts in his mind caused his fingers to wiggle nervously out of sight, and his foot to tap impatiently and silently on the dusty ground. Monty felt his eyebrows move involuntarily upwards as he awaited the fortune teller’s response.

[Anselm]

Anselm was taken aback. The man wanted payment in time, not money. Great, he thought. Just what I need. Ten chimes of one-on-one time with a devious and sometimes hysterical idiot. But why does he want to spend that much time with me? What does he want? He thought back to their conversation four days earlier. Montaine was clearly obsessed with the idea of becoming a master glassworker. And he seemed to believe that the Nuits of Sahova could help him achieve that dream. So, now I know what he wants and why he wants it. In Anselm's view, knowing what someone wants and why he wants it is a powerful weapon. He should be able to use this information. On the other hand, Anselm generally avoided getting entangled in other people's affairs. It was too often messy and unpredictable. Anselm preferred predictable and definitely did not like messy. He had an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his head that he was about to become entangled in Montaine's obsession. This was something to be avoided. Without another word, Anselm turned and walked away. But he did not go back to his tent. He went home. Had Montaine followed Anselm home, he would have discovered that the old Nuit lives in a small house on the outskirts of Zeltiva. At first sight, it would appear that the house is in some disrepair. This is because it is. Grass and weeds threaten to take over the short path leading to the only door. The roof is smothered with wet leaves that have obviously been there for a while. One of the two windows on either side of the door has been boarded up. Clearly the owner of this domicile is not particularly concerned about keeping up appearances. Had Montaine followed Anselm home and had Anselm invited Montaine into his home, which is so unlikely as to hardly be worth mentioning, he would have seen immediately that it is a small house indeed: a single room with a fireplace, a narrow bed, a medium-sized chest in one corner, a small wooden table and a chair that looks like it is about to collapse under its own weight. The chest is secured by an intelligent iron padlock that shakes violently if anyone tries to open it without the proper password. This is where Anselm kept his collection of rare, beautiful and unusual objects. Although he would not have thought of it that way, this was his obsession. Anselm approached the chest and said, “Open Lazlo.” The lock immediately popped open, giving Anselm access to the contents of the chest. He took the glass horse from the chest, re-locked it and returned to the marketplace, where he once again placed himself directly in front of Montaine. He held up the glass horse. He wasn't sure, but he suspected he now had Montaine in a bind. Which of his two obsessions would he choose? “Trade?” Disclaimer : I took the description of Anselm's house right out of my character sheet.

[Montaine]

When the fortune teller had left Monty’s face had fallen. He had been shocked and devastated and very nearly chased after the cowled creature. It was as though all of his dreams had slipped through his fingers without even a hint of an explanation. Was this the fortune teller’s revenge? Not content with taking, stealing, his belongings the petching, shyking vagik had to raise his hopes just to dash them for one little insult about his mother? He slammed his fist down on the counter and the pieces jingled in their places. His breath hitched and he paused, waiting to hear if any of the wares were going to topple and smash. After a tick or two without that terrible sound he decided it was safe to move once more. And then it hit him. Maybe this was just a further step in the game, after all the man hadn’t returned to his tent, but had gone elsewhere instead. A little while later his theory was proved correct as the shadowy fortune teller returned and held up the glimmering prize. His horse. His glass horse. His father’s glass horse. It was within his reach, quite literally in fact. Not that he was one to snatch from an old man, a very, very old man. Besides, this was business. In fact, Montaine had to hold back a laugh and struggle to keep his face still as he realised just what they were doing. They were haggling. It might not have been bartering in the most traditional sense but that was most assuredly what they were doing. He just had to improve his offer. But first things first, ‘Deal,’ he said and reclaimed his prize, taking the precious, equine figurine from the fortune teller. He didn’t move to touch the cloaked statuette, instead kissing his horse and placing it reverently down behind the display. ‘I have something else that might interest you, however,’ he said, turning back to the creature, ‘Something more to your tastes,’ he squinted, trying to peer under the shadowy hood, ‘As a collector of rare things,’

[Anselm]

Montaine plucked the glass horse out of Anselm's hand so quickly that he didn't have time to react. But he had said, “Deal,” so Anselm made an equally quick step to the side and plucked the fortune teller piece off the table. It immediately disappeared inside his cloak. That should have completed the transaction, but now the glassworker had complicated things by mentioning the one thing that would invariably grab Anselm's attention. He stared at the man for several long moments while he vacillated between simply walking away or hearing Montaine out. Had he been capable of sighing, he would have. “You seem determined to draw me into your affairs,” he said. “Very well. Come to the Grotto this evening. At 19:00 bells to be exact.” Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked back to his tent where he sat down, folded his hands in front of himself and waited for his next customer. - - - - - - - - - - The evening found Anselm seated at his accustomed table in the only somewhat darkened corner of the social lounge of the World's End Grotto. It was a small table with only two chairs. He ordered a glass of red wine. Not that he would drink it. And not because it seemed only fair to pay for the time he would be occupying a table. Rather, because he wished to remain on good terms with the proprietor, Serra Danalle. The lounge was unusually busy on this night, which suited Anselm because he came here to observe people. Moderator Question : -2 sm for the glass of wine. But I wonder if I really need to make a deduction for what is in effect a story prop that will have no life beyond the story.

[Montaine]

The World’s End, a busy place with an established reputation yet lacking in the eccentricity of Montaine’s usual haunt. He had come here once or twice in the past. It was one of the few places in the city that actually served food on a regular basis and with the arrival of fresh supplies from Syliras the meals were being doled out anew. The glassworker found it slightly suspect how swiftly the old inn was resupplied, but it was no stretch of the imagination to place the machinations of business behind the deed. The World’s End brought commerce, it brought visitors, it brought respect. In return it received the bits and pieces, the odds and ends that it required to maintain its higher standard of service. Yet despite the popularity of the place, it still made him feel uncomfortable in a way the grim faced, crabby clientele of the Councillor’s Head did not. The place was as packed with people as it ever was but it was no trouble to find the old fortune teller. Check the shadows and there he would be. Montaine squeezed past a couple of bulky sailors and one portly government official, who smelt as though he had spent quite a bit of time at the bar already, and made his way across the floor to the dark corner table at which his competitor in this game sat waiting. He pulled out his chair and sat down. He had opted to leave his heavy bag at his poky apartment room, for fear of its likely theft in such a crowded room of potential pickpockets. In his local he knew every face and though that didn’t stop one or two of them from occasionally attempting a little light larceny he always knew the culprits, the usual suspects. Here he wouldn’t know where to start. He had however brought a long a small pouch of mizas, it was, after all, a bar. ‘You’re not going to drink that are you? Here,’ he dug out two shining silver coins and slid them across the table, ‘I’ll take care of it,’ He squinted at the shadowed figure. If he didn’t know better he might have thought him asleep, or deceased. Though perhaps there was some modicum of truth to the latter. Were they all like the fortune teller sat opposite him? Not for the first time the glassworker started to have doubts. He would have little chance even making onto Sahova, let alone wresting the secrets of their glassworking techniques from them if every petching nuit on the island was as stoney-faced and immovable as Anselm the seer. Though, of course, the decrepit, old creature wasn’t devoid of emotions, not entirely. But being able to make a single nuit angry would help little in his endeavours. Indeed, making any nuit angry on the island would be unlikely to do any good. ‘So, did you like the piece?’

[Anselm]

Anselm's gloved hands were folded together in front of him on the table. With one hand he pushed the two coins back across the table while with the other he drew the glass of wine nearer to himself. Then he folded his hands back together as before and returned his attention to a party of three sitting at a table to his left. Two men, he observed to himself. One middle-aged and the other young, maybe in his twenties. The older one has a hard look about him, as though he has seen much of the more unsavory side of life. The younger one has not lived enough to have become so hard. He looks nervous. But it was the girl who interested him the most. Young, a mere child really. Twelve? Fourteen? Plain white peasant's blouse, light blue skirt down to her ankles. Dirt-covered shoes. He noted the dirt under her finger nails and the smudges on her neck, as though she had washed her face but not gotten to the neck. The otherwise pretty skirt was badly wrinkled, as was the blouse which also had a tear on the left shoulder. When she glanced his way he saw that her eyes were dull and tired. Defeated. Without hope. The two men were drinking ale. The girl was just sitting. Waiting. Waiting for what? He turned his gaze back to Montaine. “It is a nice piece of work,” he offered grudgingly. “Apparently I have something that you want. And you spoke of something that I, as a collector, might be interested in,” he said. “What would that be?” OOC : I don't have anything in particular in mind for the two men and the girl. I just thought I'd throw them in as a possible story twist.

[Montaine]

‘You already have it,’ Montaine said and waved a hand at a woman with a tray, he looked to the fortune teller as she made her way across the floor, ‘I always figured someone of your-’ he paused, attempting to find a delicate turn of phrase, ‘-persuasions would be blessed with the time to be patient. A luxury most of the rest of us can’t really afford,’ Monty’s practiced spiel was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress. He ordered a second glass of wine and returned his concentration to the nuit, ‘Particularly someone in my admittedly delicate condition,’ the glassworker often found it hard to alter his accent, and often harder to restrain his adoration for profanity, but years working under Johann Calbert had extended his vocabulary far beyond one of his station. Calbert frequently used as florid a speech as he could create when dealing with the public and had told the young craftsman on many occasions that a certain verbosity, a loquacious articulacy, could do much to level the field when attempting to make a sale. ‘Some day that figurine will be an antique, a rare piece of artwork from days passed. As valuable a curio as any you could hope to find and you didn’t even have to search for it. An’ it’ll be something special, I tell you, ‘cause in a few years I’m goin’ to go out and see the world outside of the harbour and learn all the glass secrets there are to be learnt, I’m goin’ to be the best,’ Monty’s eyes drifted away from Anselm and widened ever so slightly, ‘An’ I’ll do it, don’t you worry, an’ I’ll do it with or without your help, but if’n you want that piece to be proper rare, I need to get out there, I need to get better, an’ I need to know all I can know about the places I’m goin’, an’ that-’ Monty was once again interrupted by the arrival of the waitress. He placed his two silver pieces on the tray and retrieved his drink, taking a deep swig from the glass. He gasped and smacked his lips as he lowered the drink and looked the shadowy fortune teller in his shadowy eyes. ‘An’ that includes Sahova,’

[Anselm]

Ignoring the man's nearly hysterical ranting, Anselm considered the implied proposition. I am in possession of a representation of myself in glass. It's monetary value is nil, or close enough. This young man dreams of becoming one of Mizahar's greatest glassworkers. If he accomplishes this, the figurine I now own will, over time, gain monetary value and may someday be worth a great deal of money. Thus he reasons that he has given me an incentive to help him achieve his dream by introducing him to the Nuits of Sahova so that he can learn the art of making golem glass. He had to admit that there was a certain twisted logic to it. Devious, really. Anselm was growing tired of the game, the banal banter, the incessant indirection, the beating around the bush. It was time to take leave of the desperate dreamer. But he did have one more question. “I have little interest in acquiring wealth,” he said. “But I am curious about something. Exactly how did you think I could help you?”

[Montaine]

Montaine’s face fell. He wasn’t going to make the sale. He was angry at himself, really, for getting his own hopes up so much, yet when faced with the possibilities that a nuit, a real, bona fide nuit, could potentially provide him with he just dimply couldn’t have hoped to resist. But now, be it through this fortune teller’s stubborn refusal to act as expected or his own presumptuous prattling, they were slipping through his fingers again. As it had happened in the fortune teller’s tent it was happening again now. Monty felt his heartbeat speed up but kept it restrained. He slid his glass to one side, no longer thirsty and tried one last long shot. The absolute truth. ‘I’ll die, if I go to Sahova without knowin’ what I’ll face,’ he looked at his hands, unwilling to stare into the dark cowl, ‘I’ve never left Zeltiva since I first arrived as a baby an’ frankly it’s hard enough survivn’ here, an’ the chances of me survivin’ out there? They’re slim to none. But I figured, I figured if’n I met someone who had been out there, who’d been to those places, I might have a chance, see? No matter how slim, I might have a chance. But no one’s been to Sahova, not from what I can find,’ Montaine sighed, ‘I figured it was worth a shot, tryin’ to see if’n I could get information ‘bout the place from you, but you’re a tough man to get to answer a straight question, you know that? But I can see you ain’t int’rested an’ that’s fine, I understand, really I do,’ Monty eased himself out of his seat, he had to get himself out of there, ‘But I’m still goin’ to go, ‘cause if’n I didn’t then what good would I be? If’n you change your mind you know where to find me,’ The glassworker turned and walked away, not waiting for a response. He felt light headed, exhausted, drained. He needed to lie down. Petch that shyking fortune teller! How could he have such an effect on him? He needed to recover, sleep it off. He resolved to himself not to return to the fortune teller’s tent, not to raise his own hopes once more. OOC : Okay you can end this thread on your next post, if you like. Monty won't be going to Sahova for a number of seasons yet, so there's plenty of time for further chance interactions, so the outcome of this thread won't necessarily be the final one.