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[Zhol]

|.10th Autumn, 514

Zhol hated Market Day.

The fact that he did baffled him at times. If anything, it should have been the time that Wind Reach felt most familiar: during the warmer seasons, weather permitting, the market assembled in the open air within the Courtyard of the Sky, and the hustle and bustle of traders and merchants hawking their wares and bartering with customers should have reminded him more of Endrykas than the underground city otherwise ever could. And yet, almost every Market Day since Zhol had arrived in Wind Reach, he had volunteered to work. He told himself that it was generosity, allowing the others at the stables the guaranteed time off if they needed or wanted it; and on some level it was true. But there was more to it than that; something more fundamental.

Zhol hated money. Specifically, he hated having money. In Endrykas, he'd only ever owned what he needed: there was no space in his life for unnecessary extras. When you lived your life on the move, every extravagance, every luxury item, was extra weight that needed to be carried with you when Endrykas moved. No books. Few comforts. Every decision was scrutinised harshly, it's merits needing to outweigh the inconvenience of transporting it around. Zhol had learned to want only what he needed, to be satisfied with the simple things, and be grateful for what he already had.

Wind Reach changed everything. They provided him with food; they provided him with clothing, and a place to sleep; and yet they still also lined his pockets with pinions every season, with an Avora's more than generous wages. You could buy a horse with what they gave him each season; he couldn't spend it fast enough, because he simply didn't know what to spend it on. Therein lay his problem with Market Day: it was simply overwhelming; he had no idea where to start.

Today was different however: he was prepared, and armed. A tiny, crumpled slip of paper was gripped tightly in his hands, the crudest and simplest list of items scrawled upon it. To an Inarta it would have been trivial: but to Zhol everything on it was so very important, not because he needed it but because he wanted it. If his experience in the warrens three days ago, his trip to the Dreaming Lady, and his new sister had taught him one thing, it was this: You aren't in Endrykas anymore. Start acting like it.

He stared at the list, mentally rehearsing the items he needed - no, wanted - to buy, trying to fathom which of the scattered stands and stalls might provide which.

• a bow + things

Zhol's shoulder had finally recovered; and more importantly, so had his body and pride after his last attempt to become more of an Inarta through archery. He insisted to himself that his shoulder was the main consideration that had prevented him from visiting the ranges since, but he wasn't sure he believed himself. Excuse gone however, determination had set in, and he refused to allow himself to be talked out of it any longer. He wasn't entirely sure what constituted the things that went along with archery - he suspected there were a great many things involved that he hadn't even heard of - but he hoped that in here somewhere would be a stall where all his options were arrayed before him.

• work clothes

The next item straddled the border between want and need. The Inarta graciously provided him - and all of their citizens - with clothing, and while Zhol would reluctantly admit if pressed that he found the loose pants and shirtless ensemble extremely comfortable to sleep in, to call it impractical for his work would be an understatement. With summer over and winter looming in the distance, the days would grow shorter and temperatures would plummet; and while yes, there were spaces within Skyinarta set aside for riding and training, Zhol was determined to take advantage of the outdoors for as long as he possibly could; he'd had his fill of feeling trapped inside Wind Reach the last winter, and it wasn't an experience he was particularly eager to repeat. He knew he needed something warm, robust, and practical; something comfortable for riding too, if he could find it. Idly, he wondered if he might spot his new sister, the seamstress, among the stalls; he supposed Drusilla's distinctive complexion would make her a little easier to spot in a crowd than most.

• book or paper

The scrap that the list had been scribbled upon was a testament to how badly that particular item was wanted. He supposed he'd need something to write with as well; and perhaps something to read even, if such things were available. Endrykas' lack of books had deprived him of access to so much knowledge and so many stories about the outside world; and while he had been exploiting the Enclave at every opportunity - and, though he was reluctant to admit it, enjoying the Inartan childrens stories he had been struggling through in the hopes of improving his Nari - the prospect of having a book that was his, written in a language that he could enjoy with ease, was far more exciting than he ever would have expected.

• something else

The last item stared at him; perhaps the most exciting and daunting thing of all. It was a challenge that he had set for himself: to buy something on impulse, something that he saw and instantly wanted. Whatever the price, whatever the item; the first thing that caught his eye would be coming home with him, if he had the coin for it.

Speaking of coin; he shifted the weight of his worn leather backpack on his shoulders. Pinions, the glass feathers that the Inarta used as currency, were heavier than they looked if you got enough of them together, and Zhol had withdrawn most of his season's pay to fund this expedition, all carefully divided into small pouches of particular value, and wrapped carefully in every scrap of rag and padding he could find to conceal the sound. That in itself added to his apprehension at being here, carrying so much of his undeserved wealth at once. It was an anxiety to which there was clearly only one solution.

He'd just have to spend it.

"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

You wouldn't have thought that walking into an Inarta market and finding a bow would be difficult; and yet somehow Zhol was managing to find it a struggle. He wasn't sure if he was lost, or simply distracted; but almost a bell had passed, and all he'd managed to do was stare in total indecision in front of a stall full of sweet treats with absolutely no clue where to begin; a stall of ornate glass blown sculptures and vases and all kinds of other artistic creations that he couldn't help but admire despite having no idea what they were supposed to be for; and get distracted by a stall selling all the weird and wonderful tack and accoutrements that riders outside of Endrykas attached to their horses, none of which he needed in the slightest considering that he didn't actually own a horse.

Perhaps I should have done that instead, he mused, his mind drifting into a mental visual of how Hansi would react to that sort of request. Why did he even need a horse, anyway? He wasn't lacking for access to them; it wasn't like it would somehow fill the void that not being chosen by a Strider had caused; the only reason to buy one at all was if he was planning to leave and, no matter how overwhelming the urge to migrate to the next campground was, he'd made a promise that he wasn't going anywhere, and that wasn't something he intended to break.

That thought brought his mind back to Khara; not that it was ever far away to begin with. It had been days since he'd seen her; not since the season had changed. It happened on occasion that their days off didn't align, and with the snow creeping closer every day, and with the migrants from Thunder Bay expected to return to Wind Reach for the Winter any time now, the hunters and scouts were under considerable pressure to bolster the city's food reserves, especially if they planned on avoiding another famine. That meant later and later nights returning from expeditions, and Zhol had run out of excuses to stay late at the stables just on the off chance that he might catch a glimpse of her walking by. They hadn't even managed to share meals together for all that time; had he realised, he wouldn't have fled from dinner so quickly the last time.

It was from that thought that the persistent sound of a voice dragged him, the same insistent phrase of Nari repeated over and over. "Hey! You there! Hey!"

Zhol turned, gaze seeking out the person responsible, a puzzled look forming across his expression. "Hello?" he questioned, gazing at the merchant - the only man it could possibly have been - in confusion, hoping that his use of Common would subtly nudge the Inartan into using a language he could understand, without making a huge fuss of it.

The merchant grinned, beckoning Zhol closer. "Come, come!" he invited, taking the hint. Zhol complied, warily, approaching what looked to be a stall filled with just about every forged and smithed item imaginable. A sign of twisted metal spelled out words in Nari that Zhol couldn't quite grasp, but he was fairly sure the last one was hammer. Either that, or llama. The former seemed more likely.

As soon as Zhol was close enough for the merchant to drop his voice from a call to a normal conversational level, his entire demeanour changed, his eyes scrutinising Zhol with gentle tuts escaping from behind his pursed lips. "Just as I suspected," he said, a grave tone in his voice, shaking his head in disapproval with what he saw.

Zhol stared blankly, too confused to worry just yet. "What?"

"That sword," the merchant replied, grimly. "You've been carrying it in that belt loop often, haven't you?"

A startled look swept across Zhol's face, and he looked down at his waist in surprise. As the merchant had spotted, his sword hung at his side, posted through a simple metal ring affixed to his belt. It was there mostly to discourage anyone from rifling through the pinions and mizas in his backpack, but thus far people had mostly given him a wide berth because he was so clearly different. That made the merchant's interest all the more surprising. "I suppose," he conceded, hesitant to admit too much until he understood what was going on. "Why?"

The merchant, Tordon, reached forward from the stall and whipped the sword from Zhol's waist in one fluid motion before the horse boy even knew what was happening. He put on a good show, pretending to study the edge of the blade, holding it at different angles and squinting with one eye. It was an elaborate bluff, all misdirection and play-acting, but Zhol was utterly oblivious. "Just as I suspected," Tordon announced, holding the sword far enough away to size up the blade, before setting it down on the counter in front of him. "It's been swinging too freely, and the sword loop has begun to blunt the blade in certain places. If you tried to take a swing at someone with it in that state, you'd probably hack their arm half-way off and not be able to get any further."

Zhol's stomach tied itself into a knot; either Tordon knew something, or that was an uncomfortably coincidental example to have chosen. Memories of that exact thing happening last Winter flashed through his mind; a grim realisation threatened to drain the blood from his skin as he realised he hadn't ever attempted to find out if his victim had survived or perished. There might have been a death on his hands, and his conscience, and he'd allowed it to slip his mind. If that wasn't a sickening enough thought, this merchant's insight suggested that Zhol's poor treatment of his weapon had put Khara in added peril when they'd first met; he hadn't known her at the time of course, but given how fickle Lhex had been towards him of late, the gravity of just how fortunate he had been that day finally began to sink in.

"I -" Zhol began, trying to muster an excuse, but Tordon was already ignoring him, rummaging through a storage box tucked beneath the stall. He appeared moments later, to place a strange looking grey stone on the surface; another rummage out of sight and he returned with two leather sheaths, sizing then both up against Zhol's sword before settling on one over the other.

Turning his attention back to Zhol, Tordon tapped the items in turn. "This to sharpen the blade," he explained, tapping the stone, "And this to prevent it from happening again. It'll be 14 pinions, which sounds a little steep; but you'll be paying nearly three times that for a new broadsword if you don't."

Zhol stared, dumbfounded. He'd never really thought about looking after the sword before; it had just always been there, and that felt like enough. Apparently though, this was yet another aspect of competence and masculine skill in which he utterly lacked; his father would have felt so vindicated, had he been here to see it. Zhol had heard mention of a swordmaster living on the edge of the Unforgiving; perhaps he'd have to pay him a visit before too long.

"Right, yeah, of course," Zhol managed to stumble out, sliding the backpack off his shoulders and propping it against the edge of the stall, he fumbled with the buckle and reached inside, loosening the strings on one of the eight small coin purses contained within; each one stuffed with fifty of the glass feathers that the Inarta used for currency. He counted out fourteen, and deposited them in a small pile in front of Tordon. The merchant beamed, handing over the sharpening stone, which Zhol dutifully tucked into his backpack before buckling it up once again and returning it to his shoulders.

Tordon waited as Zhol readjusted himself, slotting the broadsword into the new scabbard before handing it over with a smile. "Pleasure doing business with you," he offered, with a bow of his head.

Zhol managed to force a smile. "Yeah, thanks," he half-replied, still caught up in chastising itself. He took a few backwards paces before being struck by a sudden idea. "Oh!" he exclaimed, surprised by the novel concept of asking for directions. "Archery stall?"

Tordon raised an arm, aiming a finger somewhere over Zhol's shoulder. "Bulls Eye. Keep going straight. Can't miss it."

Scabbard gripped in his hand, Zhol tapped his forehead in a vague salute, and smiled more deliberately this time. "Thanks," he said again, before turning in the direction Tordon had indicated, and making his way off through the crowd.

Item CostsTaken from Price List:

• Scabbard (4 GM)
• Sharpening Stone (10 GM)
• =
• TOTAL: 14 GM

"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

Zhol fumbled with the scabbard as he walked across the courtyard, trying to fasten it around himself in such a way that hung the way he was used to. Rather than being suspended from a single point the way the sword had been in the sword loop, the scabbard attached to his belt at two points; the first where expected, and then with a second slightly longer strap a few inches further down. The combination held the scabbard much more steady and stable; but also at a far more horizontal angle than he was used to, and the way it swung and tapped against his leg as he walked was something it seemed would take some getting used to.

It wasn't all bad, though; to his pleasant surprise, he found that his hand came to rest in complete comfort on the hilt if he stood naturally; and for a moment he allowed himself to imagine a conjured image of himself with all the suave and swagger of a Drykas warrior.

That bubble quickly burst, but fortunately a distraction was in store: the Bulls Eye, utterly unmistakable when you got this close. An assortment of more different kinds of arrow than Zhol had ever realised existed hung suspended from the canopy above the stall; every spare inch of surface and wall space was stacked with bow after bow of different shapes, colours, and sizes. When he'd borrowed a weapon from the ranges in the Summer, he'd been faced with a simple choice between two; now, he stared dumbfounded at the monumental task before him.

"Can I help you?"

Zhol was fairly sure he understood the words, but he had no idea where to start with trying to cobble together a reply. "Sorry," he said, both by way of apology and explanation of his linguistic limitations; but to his surprise that seemed easily more than enough.

The greying man behind the counter perked up, his attention clearly piqued. His features were weathered, his hair greyed to the point where any red that might once have been there had long vanished from view. The deep crags and chasms that criss-crossed his features, and the neatly trimmed goatee that seemed to somehow lengthen his face, gave him the look of someone tired and weary: but his eyes shone out from beneath bushy brows with a sharpness and intensity that made a liar of his face. That piercing gaze scrutinised Zhol intensely, roaming from detail to detail of the younger man's appearance, head to toe.

"Clearly you've never owned a bow before," he uttered, a running commentary provided in majority for himself, "Else you wouldn't be gawking like a clueless Yasi. Hair isn't red enough to be Inarta; the braidwork on the sword says Drykas, but the lack of the same on your head says otherwise. You don't know enough Nari to have lived here for long though, have you?"

The man, Vincent, tilted his head and peered into Zhol's eyes. "A year or so I'd guess," he mused, gauging the pigment of the boy's skin; paler than any Drykas he'd met in person, but not faded enough to have been hidden from the sunlight in Wind Reach's tunnels for all that long. "Heard a story last winter about an Avora outsider from the stables; stuck his neck out to save one of the game scouts during the riots. Nasty business that," he mused, his frown deepening as he stared at Zhol intently. "What was it they called him? The horse boy? Saul, or -"

"Zhol," the younger man interrupted, more to stop the tirade of insights than with the intent of being helpful. Discomfort coiled his insides, and hesitation delayed his next words. "How could you possibly know that?"

Vincent huffed out an indignant grunt. "I listen," he shot back. "I watch. I pay attention." He seemed to think that was a satisfactory answer; clearly, he had no intention of revealing his observational insights with Zhol; and for now, Zhol was happy with that. "How can I help you, man from Endrykas?"

Zhol shifted uncomfortably. "You're right, I'm looking for my first bow."

Vincent's expression lit up with a smile. "You certainly came to the right place," he assured enthusiastically, a hand gesturing to the array that lay before and behind. "What kind are you looking for? Long or short? Self? Composite? Recurve?" His eyes narrowed. "Please tell me you aren't looking for a crossbow."

If Zhol understood what any of those terms meant, his mind was not forthcoming in providing the definitions. A sheepish slump weighed down his shoulders? "What's the difference?" he asked, trying to sound as interested as he could.

"What's the -" Vincent didn't even manage to finish echoing the question, a look of disbelief sweeping across his features and aborting the effort. He stared at Zhol as if he'd asked the archery equivalent of whether the sky was up or down; and Zhol supposed that for all he knew, he could have. When he'd visited the archery stores at the ranges, his choice had been very simple: he'd selected one of the taller longbows, only a foot or so shorter than he was; because he knew that Khara, who was somewhat shorter, used a shortbow herself. That was his understanding of how this worked; but from the way that Vincent's gaze scrutinised him still further, Zhol slowly began to realise that was perhaps not the case.

To his credit, Vincent launched into an explanation with more patience than Zhol would have expected. "Short answer? Power." It took a few paces for Vincent to extract himself from behind the counter and, stepping over to stand beside Zhol, he began to study the items on display. He picked up two seemingly identical bows - same wood, same style - distinguished only by one being somewhat longer than the other. "Longbow," Vincent indicated, "Shortbow. These are both made of elm from the same tree; both carved by the same tools to the same style; strung with the same string; the only difference is the length." Vincent held the longer of the two out towards Zhol. "Here. Try."

Zhol took the offered longbow and, with several reassuring nods from Vincent, shuffled it into position in his hand and, with two steps taken to move him well beyond the range of accidental injury, he tried his best to remember the hand positions he'd copied from Azira at the range, and drew the bow string back towards his cheek. It felt comfortable, familiar; the wood was a little different from the one he'd fired before, perhaps a little tighter, a little more resistant to being bent; but exactly what Zhol had expected. Not so however when Vincent wordlessly swapped out the bow in his hands; the wood responded the same, but the shortbow only allowed his fingers to draw the string back much further than his elbow. "I can't pull back as far," Zhol noted, hoping that he was understanding what Vincent was trying to teach.

The old hunter beamed. "Exactly," he reinforced, taking the second bow back from Zhol, and holding one in each hand. "Long draw, short draw; longbow, shortbow."

He turned, returning the two elm bows to their places on display, and selecting a different one this time: not as long as the longbow, but not as short as the shortbow either; and while the others had been a simple arc of wood with the string strung from tip to tip, this third bow was embellished with curls that flared forwards, the tips curving towards the direction the arrow would fly. "Those two were self bows," Vincent explained, "But this is a recurve bow. These curls, the recurves, resist the pull of the string, and allow more tension, more energy to be stored in the bow ready to fire." He handed the recurve bow to Zhol, and sure enough, Zhol found the bow considerably more difficult to draw; but the shape of the bow allowed it to draw back further, almost as much as the longbow had.

"That recurve bow was made by heating and shaping the wood," Vincent continued, "But this one is a composite bow." He spun the new longbow around, holding with the string directly upwards, close enough for Zhol to make out the three distinct layers sandwiched together to create the bow's shape. "See the way it's laminated? The core is wood, but that layer on the inside of the curve is made of bone or horn, while the outside of the curve is layered with sinew. As you draw the bow, that bone layer fights against being compressed, while the sinew fights just as hard to avoid being stretched. With the natural spring of the wood between, even more force is stored with every draw of the string; and each arrow will fire further and faster."

He handed Zhol the last example, and as Zhol tried to draw the string back he could feel the bow fighting against him; feel his muscles struggling to draw all the way back into position. It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen if he had released the string and unleashed an arrow. He turned to return the bow to Vincent, but the hunter had already retreated back behind his counter. "What you're holding there," he explained, "Is the best kind of bow I have. It's specifically designed with people like you in mind: people who want the range and power of a longbow, but at a compact size that they can carry in the tunnels, or perhaps even fire from horseback."

Vincent paused. "But you're probably wondering: why even bother with anything else? Why not just sell only those?" The hunter smiled. "There are downsides, but the only one worth mentioning is moisture. if you're off in the snowy wilds day in and day out, or if you're going to spend the summer seasons down at Thunder Bay; if you aren't going to keep it carefully stored; if you aren't going to keep it varnished and watertight; the moisture is going to seep between those layers and pop them apart like that." He snapped his fingers for emphasis. "But well cared for? Stored correctly? Treat this bow right, and you will never need another for the rest of your life."

He chuckled. "Or at least, it'll last you until you reach my age, and you can't draw the darned thing anymore, even if your life depended on it."

Vincent finally fell silent, his lesson over, and Zhol allowed what he'd learned to slowly be processed by his mind. At a guess, there was one unspoken description of the bow in his hands that Vincent had carefully omitted - expensive - but as Zhol allowed his arm to fall to his side, longbow at one hip, broadsword at the other, he couldn't quite describe the feeling that washed over him. Something else, his list had instructed; something on impulse. His fingers tightened around the grip.

"How much?"

There was a beat of a pause, Zhol's eyes drawn to the familiar roundel shapes of an archery target, the same that he'd seen used in the Inarta's formal ranges. Therein lay an enticing possibility, and an inviting opportunity to avoid one of the larger obstacles to his continued training: spectators, and one Avora huntress with breathtaking anger management issues in particular. At the ranges he would be on edge, but alone in the vast cave set aside for riding lessons during rain and the winter months? On the ground outside the stables, even? Some secluded spot in the Unforgiving? Therein lay the potential for privacy; and perhaps an unwatched novice would improve swifter than an outsider who drew everyone's gaze.

"One of the targets, too."

The old hunter beamed, but there was a twinkle in his eyes that suggested there was far more to this bow purchasing business than Zhol was currently aware. "Hold your horses there, Endrykas," Vincent teased, halting a moment as he delved beneath the counter to retrieve an assortment of supplies. The first item took the longest to select from the options available; when Vincent finally made up his mind, he returned into view with an elegantly simple wooden box of a polished wood that Zhol wasn't wise enough to identify, decorated with a diamond of a deep, rich red and a few knots and braidwork flourishes that whispered Drykas without screaming it. "We like braids here too, you know," he pointed out with a smirk; flipping open the case's clasps, he held it so that Zhol could lay the composite bow inside, waiting so that Zhol could close and latch the case himself.

"Now!" Vincent half disappeared again, and more rummaging followed several items slowly making their way to the surface of the stall. Zhol's eyes slowly widened in a mix of surprise and horror: he'd never realised that archery was such an involved process; never known that there would be so many unexpected extra things that he would need. No wonder his efforts to teach himself thus far had been a failure: clearly he'd been lacking the necessary equipment as well as the necessary knowledge and skill.

Vincent's eyes switched back to their earlier state: the questioning, probing, inquisitive stare that seemed to see far more than Zhol was comfortable seeing. Vincent offered a smile of reassurance, and it worked, mostly. His hand patted the first two items; something that looked vaguely like the vambrace from a suit of leather armour, and another that looked like a strange half-finished glove. "You felt how tough that bow was to draw? Imagine what's going to happen if your stance is slightly off, and that bow string takes a bite out of your arm." The instant grimace on Zhol's features let Vincent know that the horse boy had a solid frame of reference. "This arm guard will protect you against anything that bow can throw at you, and this glove? See these hooks? They'll help stop the bow string slipping out of your fingers while you're trying to draw and hold, so that you only fire when you want to."

His attention shifted to the next item; a small case that Vincent opened to reveal an assortment of tools, cloths, measures, feathers, coiled bowstrings, and a small vial of something that Zhol guessed was a sealant or a varnish. "Bowyer's kit," Vincent revealed, flipping it closed after only a brief glimpse inside. "Good for fletching, too. Everything you'll need to keep your bow and arrows in prime condition. Speaking of which -" He reached behind him, grabbing a small bundle of the longest shafted arrows that were out on display. "- twenty arrows, enough to get you started. As long as you're careful, don't step on them, and don't lose them, these should serve you well until you're ready to start shooting at more than just targets."

The pause before Vincent explained the final item made it clear that in his opinion, he had saved the best until last. "And of course, those arrows will need a quiver. But you're not a typical archer, are you? You aren't going to be creeping through forests hunting wild game. You're a man who spends his days in the saddle; and if you aren't careful, all of that galloping about, all that mounting and dismounting - not to mention the inevitable tumble here and there - is likely to shake those arrows right out of an ordinary quiver." His smile grew. "But not this one. It's intended for climbers in theory, but it'll serve you just as well. The base is lined with cork, that'll help grip the arrowheads and stop them rattling around; the flap closes and seals well enough that you can hang upside-down without incident, but it's a simple flick to pop it open and retrieve what you need." He demonstrated for emphasis. "All these straps and fastenings will hold it as close to your body as possible; no matter how much you move, or how much the world around you moves, this quiver absolutely will not. I can't think of a more perfect compliment to a rider and future archer such as yourself."

Zhol drank in the words, agreeing with every sentiment: yes, absolutely yes, he needed each and every one of those things. He eyed them hungrily, imagined how impressed Khara would be to see him adorned not just in the trappings of a novice, but in the finest gear that pinions could buy. He wasn't just some outsider joking around, learning archery like it was a game: these were the possessions of a man who was taking his efforts seriously.

"How much?" Zhol asked again, bracing himself for the inevitable financial sting.

Vincent scrawled a few quick calculations down on a scrap of paper before replying. "211 Pinions."

Zhol looked almost Symenestra once the blood had done draining from his face. The bulk of a season's earnings, burned through in a single purchase? It seemed absurd, and he wondered how an aspiring huntress like Khara could ever afford to by the vital supplies she needed on her lesser wage. Part of him screamed to retreat, to wait until he could buy more with his money than the trappings of what amounted to a hobby at this point. He could buy a horse - a damned good horse - for that kind of money. But it was more than that; this wasn't just about learning to shoot for the sake of shooting; this was about stepping into the shoes of the Inarta, understanding them better, and finding some common ground to slowly become less and less the outsider he was. The choice was simple: horse, or home?

He slid the pack from his shoulders, four of the fifty pinion pouches removed and handed across to Vincent, an extra eleven glass feathers added alongside. It ached to watch so much of his earnings vanish so swiftly; but then if not this, what else? As he rose to his feet, that was the resolution he pressed into his mind. I wanted this. Now I have it.

Vincent didn't bother to count the contents; Zhol supposed that with numbers that big, you could shrug it off if there was a pinion out of place here and there. He did however cast his gaze across everything that Zhol had purchased, and over the horse boy and his woeful lack of additional arms. "Shall I have a Dek take these to the commonrooms for you; save you lugging them around the market for the rest of your visit?"

"How much is it going to cost me?" Zhol shot back, only half-joking.

Vincent grinned. "Don't worry, Endrykas," he teased. "I think I can manage to waive the delivery charge this once, for such a valued customer."

Item CostsTaken from Price List:

• Composite Longbow (100 GM)
• Bow Case (20 GM)
• Target, Archer's (18 GM)
• Archery Glove (1 GM)
• Archer's Arm Guard (1 GM)
• Toolkit, Bowyer/Fletcher's (20 GM)
• 20 Longbow Arrows (1 GM)
• Quiver, Climbers (50 GM)
• =
• Total: 211 GM

"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

Zhol had wandered aimlessly through the section of the market where the clothing stalls seemed to be clustered, looking for a glimpse of the white hair and white skin of a Symenestra more than anything else, at first. It wasn't that he expected Drusilla to be here per se; from what he'd learned about her so far, she seemed like the sort of person who might be more likely to avoid a setting such as this, conscious of the way the Inarta might react to who they saw her as. That made Zhol angry: less a fire in his chest, and more a sickening twist in his gut. His opinion of himself was too deeply negative to resist any judgement the Inarta levelled at him; people like Drusilla on the other hand were so kind and pure and good at heart that they deserved far better than the shallow, superficial prejudice that the people of Wind Reach afforded them.

His search efforts failing, he had turned his attention to the produce instead; but that endeavour was no more fruitful. Confronted with a dazzling array of colours, fabrics, articles, styles; Zhol didn't know where to begin, and beyond a cursory outline of what he was looking for - "practical" - he had no idea of what it was he really wanted. Worse still was the unwelcome memory, dislodged for some reason from some corner of his mind, at how frustrated he had been the night that Khara invited him to watch the season change with her, at his total lack of anything but the same every day clothes. Granted, the need for him to own clothes to impress her had diminished somewhat, given the parameters of their relationship that Khara had set in stone and that Zhol had promised to preserve; but part of him still longed for that variety, and part of him perhaps hoped that, given enough time there was still a slim chance that slowly, gradually, that stone would erode and change.

He sighed, loitering before one of the stalls, his attention briefly snared by a wide brimmed hat made of some fabric he wasn't really sure of - felt, perhaps? His intrigue related more to how on earth it could possibly have been made: how did people take the same materials that were so soft and pliable when worn as clothing, and then transform into something rigid enough to hold such a specific shape? It had always baffled him, the same as the transformation of animal hides into toughened, reinforced leathers; of the soft waving grasses of Cyphrus into the rigid fibres of woven baskets; the transformation of malleable clay into solid ceramics; of sand into glass; of at least something in almost every craft that Zhol had tried and failed as a child. He knew most people didn't see it that way, but to Zhol, such artisans were working miracles.

"Ugh." The sudden sound caught Zhol so utterly by surprise that he panicked, dropping the hat back onto the stall in an instant. "Please tell me I can get you out of those clothes."

It didn't take long for Zhol to find the source of the voice, and as soon as he did his cheeks immediately began to burn. Her name was Leyla, though Zhol never got the opportunity to find out. Leyla the Fabulous, they called her, and had he known that, Zhol would easily have been able to tell why. On her own, she was undeniably beautiful, a perfect score on every aspect of appearance that men usually looked for in a woman; when paired with an outfit artfully chosen to emphasise and showcase everything, she was quite the sight to behold. Zhol wasn't that sort of man, and didn't look for those sorts of things; but even he couldn't help but wilt under the gaze of those intense, penetrating eyes; not when paired with those intentionally suggestive words, that elegantly arched brow, and that oh so flirtatious smile. He felt as if res had leaked from every pore and lit his entire body on fire; and he was sure his face must have already turned as red as her hair, which only made it worse.

To her credit, Leyla didn't mock or openly exploit his inability to resist her charms; she even spared him from her eyes for a few moments, though that only made it worse when they turned on him again. "How can I help? What is it you're after?"

"Clothes," Zhol blurted out, perhaps a little too quickly. "Work clothes," he clarified, not sure where this sudden flustered eagerness was coming from. "I'm one of the Avora at the stables, and with the snow on the way too, I need something a little more practical; a little better suited for the cold and all the work, and lifting, and riding than, well -" He tugged at the shirt he was currently wearing. "- this."

It felt like a good answer, but the way he'd phrased it was jarring as it played over in his head. Why had his caste slipped into there? Why was he trying to stop her from assuming his workplace would mean he was a Chiet? Why was he trying to emphasise the manlier aspects of what his job entailed? Was he really so primitively male that all it took was a pretty girl with pretty eyes smiling at him to rob him of the ability to think clearly?

Works for Khara, doesn't it?

That thought struck him like a hammerblow, and drove all the air from his chest. Fortunately, Leyla seemed not to notice; or perhaps she was just too used to inspiring this kind of reaction in young men to care all that much. "A horse Avora?" she mused, her voice heavily laced with intrigue. "And an outsider to boot? Oh my." The flirty lilt returned to his voice. "Quite the enticing little enigma, aren't you?"

She looked him over, considering her options; Zhol hoped she was only sizing him up for the sake of clothes, but the way her teeth toyed with her lower lip suggested otherwise. "Come here," she beckoned, taking a step back and waving for Zhol to join her behind the stall. The panic that Zhol instantly felt must have made itself evident on his face. "To measure you," she teased, with a playful roll of her eyes.

A little hesitantly, Zhol complied; taking the initiative, he even shrugged off his backpack, setting it down behind the stall before allowing Leyla to manhandle his limbs into the positions she wanted them, wrapping a length of tape beneath his armpits and around his chest first, and then around his waist. "Don't worry, I don't bite," she assured she circled around behind him, easing his arms back down towards his sides so she could measure across his shoulders. Pacing around to stand in front of him again, she crouched down and eased herself onto her knees, the tape measuring from his waist to his ankle, and then from his ankle up his inside leg, her hand moving with deliberate, suggestive slowness. It halted, precariously close to something else entirely, and Leyla's eyes turned upwards, meeting his anxious gaze with a suggestive twitch of her brows. "Not unless you want me to, anyway."

A split second later, she was on her feet and gone, scribbling down the measurements she had just taken onto a waiting scrap of paper, before diverting to an assortment of boxes and linen bags each labelled in some sort of strange code that Zhol couldn't quite comprehend; leaving him paralysed and rooted to the spot. He wasn't enticed by her behaviour, but terrified by it, confused to the point of being at a total loss to comprehend what had happened to him. Was this normal? Was she always like this? Was there truly something about him that had instantly caught the woman's eye - something he struggled to believe - or was this all some ploy? Some cruel game? Some tactic to trick the weak of mind into buying whatever she told them to buy?

If it was the latter, it was most assuredly working, if only because Zhol had come to the conclusion that saying yes to everything was the easiest way to allow him to get this over with and escape as quickly as possible. When she returned though, thank the gods, her face was more contemplative than lustful. She unfolded a bundle of what looked like linen, dyed a drab, pale brown. "This is ramie," she explained, holding up the sleeveless, tightly cut shirt for him to see. "A little more expensive than linen or cotton, yes; but it's absorbent, and it dries incredibly fast. If you're hard at work, in the forge, the mines, the stables? If you're working up a sweat, the last thing you want is clothes that are soaked with it; especially not if you're going to step out into the winter cold. Exactly the sort of thing you're after, yes?"

She didn't bother waiting for a response; she merely held the shirt towards him with gentle insistence. "Here, try it on."

Zhol hesitated for a moment, waiting for her to turn away before he realised that she wouldn't. Of course she wouldn't: this was Wind Reach; these were Inartans; these were people who bathed communally, on mass, with little or no shame at seeing each other in any state of undress; people whose men routinely paraded around the city in a pair of loose slacks and nothing else. His insides twisted in reluctance, but he remembered his plan: get it over with, and get away.

He tugged his shirt off over his head, and dropped it onto his backpack before - as quickly as he could without it seeming like he was trying to hide - pulling on the offered shirt. It was tighter than Zhol was used to - not enough to cling, but not enough to hide the slender shape of his torso either - and the lack of sleeves left him feeling a little self-conscious and exposed; but it was comfortable, far more so than he had expected. The shadow of Mt Skyinarta falling across the courtyard at this hour of the day, there had been a slight chill in the air, but Zhol didn't feel it, not as he had during the brief moments with no shirt at all. Surprise gripped his features, but his mind was still too flustered to form an articulate response. "Huh."

Leyla's eyebrows climbed. "Huh?" she echoed. Stepping towards him, she ran her hands down the front of his shirt, ostensibly to smooth out imaginary creases, but firm enough to trace the contours of the muscles beneath as well. Sleeves or no sleeves didn't seem to matter; she repeated the process along the length of his bare arms, as well. "Not the reaction I was going for, but it's a start I suppose."

A moment away, and Leyla returned with the next item. "Tanned leather," she explained, handing across a rugged pair of brown, boot-cut pants. Even on something as crude as these, Leyla's skill and her pride in her work was evident: every stitch was meticulous, the cut elegant in it's simplicity; suitable and practical for work, yes, but in a way that made it possible to look good in the process. An idle thought swept through his mind of how Khara might react the first time she saw him wearing it; he clung onto it, not wanting to allow it to leave, and wishing he'd waited until she'd been able to come with him and help him through this progressively more overwhelming day.

Leyla frowned at him, and the way Zhol stood there, hesitating with the leather pants in his hands. "Try them on," she urged, the faintest hint of frustration in her voice. A moment of thought, and she decided she had stumbled upon the probable reason. A slight hint of that playful tone crept back into her voice. "Don't be such a Yasi about it: I'd see far more if we were at the baths together; and so would you."

"You wouldn't, actually," Zhol countered, his voice turning timid and quiet, ashamed to make such an embarrassing admission. "I use the baths as late as possible, when I'm sure there won't be many people around."

It was Leyla's turn to have her eyes flash in surprise, and then panic; a faint hint of sadness creeping in as she realised that she hadn't even considered the fact that their might be differences between their cultures. Whether it was concern over any undue discomfort she had caused, or merely disappointment in herself for not modulating her sales tactics better, Zhol could not be sure; but that she realised at all was a relief, as was the fact that after a moment of hesitation longer, she considerately turned herself away, busying herself with the search for the next item while Zhol kicked off his boots and exchanged one pair of pants for the other.

As Zhol waited for Leyla to return with the next proposed item for the outfit they were building together, he fidgeted nervously with his wrists, and his elbows. If anything, it was those parts of him that felt the most badly exposed by the shirt; he was so used to cuffs around his wrists, or sleeves rolled up to the elbows that the lack of that familiar weight and pressure felt decidedly odd.

When Leyla returned, potential clothes draped over her arms, her demeanour had relaxed considerably. The flirt in her words not gone, but considerably lessened. It seemed like she was aware that she had pushed Zhol beyond his point of comfort already, and while she wasn't retreating from it entirely, she was certainly being more gentle with him; the smile she offered was friendly, without any hint of ulterior motives. For that, Zhol was silently grateful.

"You said 'riding'," she explained, stooping for a moment to place a pair of leather riding boots beside his feet; her hand patted the stack of fabric over her arm before she continued, "And 'cold'." She handed the first item over: a simple, loose-woven, long-sleeved shirt of an ivory colour; not bleached to the pristine white of some of the items on display, but clearly not dyed deliberately, either. "Cotton breathes so well," she explained as Zhol slid it over his head, surprised at how soft and comfortable it felt despite the loose weave, "But it's a great insulator too: perfect for the fall, but for winter -"

She handed over the last item, still partially folded. It was a jacket, but not the kind of long, hooded katinu that he'd seen Khara, the other scouts, and the hunters wear. The outside was leather, dyed and toughened just enough to make it fully waterproof while still remaining soft and supple; the inside was lined with some sort of dark fur or fleece from an animal that Zhol couldn't even guess at, short but soft, and incredibly warm and comfortable as he slipped it on. It came past his hips, but the bindings that held it closed - if he chose to close it at all - stopped at his waist, leaving plenty of flexibility if he was sitting in the saddle; but even left open, the jacket hung well, and comfortably. Instead of a hood, the jacket had only a collar, but one tall enough to be tugged up to his ears to protect his neck from the cold if he needed, but that could be folded aside if he didn't.

Leyla frowned at him; not disapproving, but not entirely satisfied. "There's still something missing," she mused, studying the way that the jacket bulked out Zhol's shoulders, wondering what extra possible insights she could draw from what she had learned about the man and his job so far. She considered the way his eyes kept falling away, his unexpectedly timid nature for a man of his stature and size, the fact that the more hidden he was, the more comfortable he felt -

Inspiration struck, and she stepped towards the stall, retrieving the hat that Zhol had been inspecting when he arrived. With a slight step up onto her tiptoes in order to reach Zhol's head, she settled it into place, stepped back, and smiled. "There," she said, ushering Zhol's gaze towards a full length mirror tucked away amidst all of the bags, boxes, and other assorted odds and ends scattered behind her stall. "Perfect."

Zhol found it impossible to disagree. Maybe it was the fact that the outfit hid so much of the way he normally looked that appealed to him; maybe Leyla was just that good. None of these items individually would have caught his eye - save for the hat and the jacket, perhaps, both of which he absolutely adored - and yet together they were the perfect combo; somehow she'd found exactly what he'd been looking for, despite he himself having had absolutely no idea what that was.

His brow furrowed, his mind teasing him with a vision of Khara spotting him dressed in this ensemble on her way out of the city tomorrow. There was the faintest twitch of sadness in his expression, over how entirely wrong his imagination probably was.

Leyla's expression quickly echoed that sadness. "You don't like it?" she worried aloud.

"No!" Zhol's reaction was an instant exclamation; it took a moment to realise just how utterly misleading such a brief reaction might still continue to be. "Gods no, I love it. It is exactly, completely right. I just -"

He trailed off, wondering how to explain his way out of this situation without revealing to a stranger a series of secrets that he wasn't quite ready to even admit to himself just yet. "It's just that I'm going to need something else as well. Something... nice. Not that this isn't nice, just, a different outfit as well, something for when I'm not at work, something -"

Insight brightened Leyla's eyes, and her expression transformed into a broad grin. "Something that'll impress the little lady you can't stop thinking about, but without seeming like that's what you're trying to do?" she guessed.

The redness swiftly returned to Zhol's cheeks. There was something about that phrasing, little lady, that wedged itself in his mind and refused to leave. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Something like that."

Eagerness danced gleefully across Leyla's face as she set to work on this new challenge. "I know exactly the thing," she announced, already diving into her stockpile of ready made garments. "Just... hang on."

Zhol had never seen anyone rummage with such determination before. Knowing that there would inevitably be more clothes to try on he began to undress, but as slowly as he could get away with, carefully folding each item item and laying it down on the stall. He was down as far as the ramie shirt and the leather slacks by the time Leyla returned; but she said nothing, merely thrusting what she'd chosen into his hands before retreating, her reluctance to turn away stemming only from a desire to see how it would all look when he was done.

She didn't say anything until he stood in front of the mirror again, explaining why she'd chosen each item. The pants were made of canvas this time, dyed a dark blue; not a material that Zhol would have expected, but comfortable none the less. The cotton shirt was black and simple; but it was the jacket that, according to Leyla, set the outfit off. The jacket was simple and cotton too, but peppered with more pouches and pockets than Zhol knew what to do with, and dyed a shade of green that, as Leyla had described it, "Will make your little lady take notice of those pretty eyes, if she hasn't already." The entire outfit looked practical; almost something he'd have been able to wear for work, even; and that, Leyla said, was exactly the sort of outfit that Zhol needed to wear. "Don't just be yourself," Leyla had offered, a piece of sage advice; "Dress to make sure she notices it, too."

She'd left him to himself as he'd changed back into his original clothes, carefully folding and packing everything. Like the old hunter at the archery stall, she'd insisted on having his purchases delivered to the commonrooms for him. The notion of forcing the task of carrying his things into the hands of some unfortunate Dek left Zhol feeling a little uncomfortable, but he was far too tired to protest: how people managed to enjoy a process as stressful and exhausting as shopping, Zhol had no idea.

Before they settled up Zhol's account and he managed to make his escape, she had one last piece of fashion advice to impart. "A scarf," she suggested. Zhol opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "Not for you; for her. You probably don't know this, but there's sort of a tradition among the Inarta, of giving a scarf as a gift as a sign of affection. If she feels the same way, maybe it'll nudge things in your favour. If not?" She shrugged, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eyes. "Remind her that you're an outsider; how could you possibly know about an Inarta custom that?"

Zhol's face flushed again, and he barely managed to do much more than mutter his gratitude, and his ascent to her suggestion. "More of an outside person, I take it?" Leyla inferred; Zhol nodded. He had no idea how she could possibly know that, unless he'd somehow done something while trying on his work clothes that had given it all away; she'd guessed it was a woman from work, perhaps, or at the very least someone who passed by the stables on her way in and out of the city. "Any particular colour?" she asked, as she began to narrow down her search.

"Red."

Zhol was surprised to hear the word come out of him with so much deliberate intent; but as his mind analysed the choice, he realised there couldn't be any other. He didn't know if Khara had any particular fondness for the colour, but with red there was significance. Back in Endrykas, his family had been part of the Ruby Clan, and Zhol had worn that colour each and every day; if he and Khara were family to each other now, it only made sense that she have the chance to wear it the same way. More than that just that though, thanks to the changing of the Wind Tower from summer to fall, and the way he'd felt as he watched it? There wasn't a single colour that his mind associated with her more.

Leyla returned with her suggestion, folded neatly and resting in her hands. "This is llama wool," she explained, as Zhol touched it gently, admiring how soft it felt. "A little pricier than sheep or goat wool -" She smiled. "- but I get the impression you think your little lady is worth it, no?"

Perhaps this was an effort in colour coordination, because Leyla's comment certainly made his face transform to match the scarf's shade of red. Flustered, but grateful, Zhol managed little more than mumbles in reply, which persisted as he paid Leyla the 35 Pinions: a few copper more than she'd asked for, but it saved him from having to convert any of his Pinions into smaller change, and her services alone had been worth far more than that. Offered his thanks, made his farewells, and made a bit for escape; but Leyla stopped him before he'd retreated more than a few paces, one last thing to add:

"If it doesn't work out," she said, her gaze indicating the scarf, neatly wrapped in paper and clutched in his hand; and by extension, indicating Khara, "You should drop by the Lost Sense. You might find me there, if you're lucky."

Zhol hadn't answered that suggestion at all; he'd just smiled awkwardly, turned very pale, and fled.

Item CostsLot of maths involved with these. I have rounded up to the nearest Copper Miza, and then rounded the total to the nearest Pinion, to avoid "loose change". If you have any concerns, please PM me for the full calculations.

Prices taken from Price List:

• Shirt/Undergarments, Ramie, Dyed (2 SM, 7M)
• Pants, Leather, Dyed (2 GM, 2 SM)
• Boots, Riding, Leather (2 GM)
• Shirt, Cotton (1 SM, 3 CM)
• Jacket, Leather, Fur-Lined, Dyed (18 GM)
• Hat, Wide-Brimmed, Felt, Brown (8 GM)
• Pants, Canvas, Blue (1 GM, 2 SM)
• Shirt, Cotton, Black (1 SM, 9 CM)
• Jacket, Cotton, Green (1 GM, 1 SM, 3 CM)
• Scarf, Llama Wool, Red (1 GM, 5 SM)
• =
• Total: 34 GM, 7 SM, 9 CM >> Rounded to: 35 GM

"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

Zhol retreated: not fleeing the market completely, but rather withdrawing to a secluded corner that the Inarta's attention seemed to be avoiding, for the most part. It was a blessed relief, like hiking through a relentless storm and finally finding a sheltered cave to escape from the wind and the rain. Zhol's body certainly ached as if that was the ordeal he was struggling through.

The stalls in this part of the market were an odd assortment, clearly less frequented than the others. Some seemed to have no specific purpose, stocking such a strange assortment of items that it was almost as if someone had been stashing odds and ends into a chest their entire life, and had merely emptied the contents onto a table and walked away. Others filled more specific needs: one sold furniture, which Zhol imagined was slow business in a city where new living spaces weren't built and decorated with all that much regularity; another sold paintings and tapestries, which were undeniably beautiful, but left Zhol trying to fathom how one would go about mounting them to a wall made of stone.

The one that drew Zhol's attention however looked as if someone had merely torn off a piece of the Enclave, and carried it out into the courtyard. It wasn't merely the fact that there were books: it was the chaos of it. There weren't shelves, or neat arrays, but scattered stacks all haphazard and off balance, with sheets of paper, rolls of parchment, and scraps of scribbled notes littering the spaces between. As Zhol meandered casually over, he spotted a few words that he recognised, but also scripts and languages that looked totally different to anything he'd ever seen. The closer he got, the more he spotted other oddities: maps, letters, lists of ingredients, sketched diagrams, something that might perhaps have been musical notes; every possible example of the written word, scattered across a table that was heaving under their weight.

"Not many books growing up at home, eh?"

The voice caught Zhol completely by surprise; he hadn't noticed the frail old man lurking amongst the papers. "No, I -" He'd begun speaking before the more surprising realisation managed to permeate through his skull. Not only had he recognised the words that were spoken, they hadn't been in Common, but rather in his native tongue. "You speak Pavi?" Zhol queried, his voice laced with pleasant disbelief.

"So it would seem," the man replied, with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eyes. Warden chuckled softly to himself. "What kind of salesman would I be if I didn't try to make my customer feel comfortable?"

Zhol's breath of laughter was far more bitter than jovial. "Sorry, but I think I've already spent enough Pinions for one day," he mused.

Warden's head tilted to the side, a fraction of a shrug. "We shall see," he countered, a strangely tuneful lilt in his voice. A conspiratorial edge crept into his words as he leaned in a little closer across the counter; Zhol couldn't help but do the same out of reflex. "You certainly look like a man who could use a good book."

There was something about the man - a scribe, Zhol guessed, judging from the numerous ink stains across his withered fingers, each faded to different degrees by half-hearted attempts to remove them on different days - that both unnerved Zhol and set him at ease at the same time. He was wary though, far too many people having inferred and exploited far too much about him already today. "I thought you weren't supposed to judge a book by it's cover," he quipped.

Warden's eyebrows climbed. "The cover?" he challenged, surprise in his voice. "My dear boy, your book is laying open, and the story is written across every inch of you: the slump of your shoulders; the pain, and regret, and yet somehow still hope in your eyes; the way time in the saddle has changed the way you walk; the way you carry that sword as if it feels too big for you -"

The old man stopped himself, edging back from the precipice of talking too much, and offered an apologetic shrug. "When you spend as much time surrounded by stories as I do, you learn to see where the journey is going before it takes you there; and you? Your story seems to be quite the chronicle."

"But what kind of story is it?" Zhol found himself asking, not entirely sure where the question had come from, or why he was playing along with the old man's strange metaphor.

Warden's face lit up. "Romance of course," he said with a kind smile, and an air of wonder in his voice, "And repentance; and perhaps just a hint of adventure."

His attention shifted, abandoning Zhol and turning to the stacks of books around him. He searched the spines, though at the speed his gaze moved the titles must hardly have registered. "Let me see, let me see," he muttered to himself as he rummaged. "What kind of book for the boy from Endrykas?" Zhol didn't even bother to speculate on how he knew; the number of times people had discerned that today, it was as if someone had tattooed it to his forehead without him knowing.

"Ah!" Warden said after a few chimes, with triumph in his voice. Carefully he pulled a battered tome from the middle of one of the myriad stacks, the spine cracked and scuffed from obvious, frequent use. He turned back to Zhol and handed it over, a hand quickly scrubbing at the dust and grime that had collected across the cover.

Zhol frowned. The fabric cover didn't reveal what the book contained; curiosity piqued, he carefully opened it to the first page, and was startled to find handwritten words of Pavi neatly scrawled across the page. The words themselves surprised him even more; his eyes widened as he read the title.

"The Prince of Endrykas?" he read aloud, unable to conceal his wonder. It was a tale he remembered, one that had been conveyed to he and his twin when they were very small, by the eldest of their many sisters. Lillah had chosen the tale because, she said, the twin protagonists had reminded her of her audience; but Lillah had spoken the story from memory, just as almost all Drykas stories and histories were told. To see it written down was baffling; it was something the Drykas simply didn't do. "How?" was all Zhol managed to ask.

Warden beamed. "You are not the only man from Endrykas to cross my path," he explained, though with an air of mystery that belied just how small an answer he was really giving. "Some of them have been kind enough to share their stories with me, and permit me to write them down."

He paused, gently closing the tome in Zhol's hands, and set another book atop it. This one was far cleaner, the pages still crisp and white, the spine completely unmarred, as if it had never been opened. A simple motif, a stylised knot that reminded Zhol of the ones he knew from home, was stamped into the cover and, a quick glance revealed, printed onto every page. "Perhaps eventually," Warden continued, by way of an explanation, "One day you'll be so kind as to share a story with me as well."

"Thank you," Zhol managed to stammer out, the only words that he could muster. "This is... thank you."

Warden's smile blossomed all over again. "Your gratitude is unnecessary," he protested, "Though I'm afraid that thirteen of your pinions are."

Zhol winced internally. Money. Of course. Tucking the books awkwardly beneath his arm, he fumbled with his dwindling reserve of glass feathers, depositing them into Warden's waiting hand. The scribe waited patiently, until Zhol met his gaze, his old eyes taking on an unexpected intensity.

"Enjoy it," he instructed, "And share it. A good story should never be left unfinished, or untold."

Those words lingered with Zhol; and as he began to walk away and back towards the chaos of the market, he wondered which story Warden had been referring to: his new book, or his own.

Item CostsTaken from Price List:

• Book, Common (10 GM)
• Book, Blank (3 GM)
• =
• Total: 13 GM

"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

Zhol could see the way out - the path that led back into Wind Reach, away from the courtyard and away from the market - but still had obstacles lying between him and escape. His books had been transferred to his backpack - underneath the pinions, of course; he didn't feel inclined to test how durable the glass currency was with so few left - but the blank tome was still very much on his mind. While a borrowed quill or a stub of charcoal was enough to scrawl on a misappropriated scrap of paper, that would hardly do for what Warden had urged. That meant ink and quills; and as he wandered, a sundry list of other inexpensive items began to pepper his mind. Better to buy everything now, and never have to return to this place again, than risk another finance-destroying visit.

He scoured the nearby stalls as he walked, with no idea where to search for any of those items; his reconnaissance was disrupted by a surprisingly enthusiastic call of his name.

"Hi, Zhol!"

It took a few moments for Zhol to work out where the voice had come from, and even then he didn't recognise the source: a non-descript man that seemed only vaguely familiar, which was odd; Zhol would have expected to have him better, given the implication of his dirty blond hair that he was an outsider.

"Pond," the man explained, as Zhol approached him with a look of mild confusion. "From the infirmary." Pond's smile faltered slightly as Zhol's lack of recognition remained, his voice becoming ever so slightly more indignant. "I helped treat you after you got beaten up by a girl?"

That choice of phrasing sparked Zhol's memories, and explained why the man was so unfamiliar: it was not he himself that was forgettable, he was merely connected to an event that Zhol tried very hard to push from his mind. Provoking the huntress Azira into anger had seemed wise at the time, and while he hoped it had offered at least some small improvement to her bottled rage, the incident hadn't done Zhol's body any favours. His shoulder, already injured by his fall, had been aggravated enough to add a few weeks to his recovery, and the bruises to his ribs and skin hadn't been particularly comfortable either; all of which he'd had to hide from Khara of course, for fear of what problems he might cause for her were he to worsen her opinion of one of the few hunters she knew.

"Sorry," Zhol apologised, utterly sincere. "Didn't forget you, Pond; just isn't a memory I usually dwell on."

"Ah," Pond replied, his expression effortlessly transforming into one of total understanding. His brow furrowed, a nod of agreement offered. "I can see why you wouldn't."

Now that Zhol thought about it, he did remember the man: older than him, possibly, though by how much he couldn't be sure; kind, non-judgemental; just questioning enough to tease out information without applying too much pressure. Zhol had heard that kind of personality referred to as a good bedroom manner, or something along those lines; Zhol wasn't entirely sure what the odd expression actually meant, but then never having had a bedroom of his own before Wind Reach, he supposed there was no reason to expect himself to. Perhaps there was some sort of expected etiquette concerning the treatment of guests in one's bedroom; or perhaps it was the gentle, non-pressuring manner of a woman's ideal man for a bedroom encounter? Zhol wasn't sure, and didn't particularly want to speculate any further.

Zhol felt a tug of guilt though for having forgotten that kindness; and it compelled him to buy something, though what he had no idea. That the stall sold medicinals was an educated guess; but what any of the small boxes, bags, bottles, pouches, vials, and jars contained was an enigma to Zhol, labelled - of course - in Nari. "Any recommendations?" he invited.

Pond's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh!" Leaping enthusiastically into his new task, the healer scrubbed a hand across his jaw, surveying the produce in front of him. "Oh, well, this is a good start," he began, pointing at one of the many pouches of dried and ground leaves. "Rugberry Tea. it's what we gave you in the infirmary; good for helping scuffs and scrapes to heal faster." Zhol nodded his agreement with the wisdom of such a purchase, and so Pond grabbed four of the tea pouches, tucking them into a matching paper sleeve. He hesitated for a moment, considering Zhol, before reaching beneath the counter for a quill and ink, loading up the nib, and scrawling the words Rugberry, scuffs/scrapes on the paper. The effortless concession to his linguistic needs deepened the guilt that Zhol felt for forgetting the man, and so he gestured for the suggestions to continue.

Pond's quick, scrutinising glances continued, running through the stock in turn and examining Zhol for signs that he might need it. "So, Iskyny Tea, which will have you asleep in no time; and this one is made for Lillian Root, great for soothing the nerves." His attention shifted to the vials and jars. "This Rosemary Ointment is great for muscle aches, like that shoulder of yours; and this is a Krolar Poultice, which will speed up the healing on pretty much any kind of flesh wound." He hesitated before he gestured to a clear pot, through which Zhol could see a nasty looking goo. "Now, this? This is pricey, but for you, with your -" He glanced about him for observers, before continuing in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. "Reimancy issues? It's a burn salve, and I have a feeling you might be glad to have it."

That surprised Zhol. He couldn't imagine how discussions of his shoulder and bruises could have led to him revealing that about himself. He might have admitted he was capable, perhaps, but the notion that he might have mentioned problems surprised him. Had Pond simply been that good at coaxing admissions out of his patient? Did he remember Zhol from previous visits, making Zhol's inability to remember him even more shameful? Or was he merely tapped into the same kind of psychic web that seemed to have allowed all of the other merchants to have read him so effortlessly today?

Regardless of the reason for Pond's inside knowledge, guilt helped motivate Zhol into agreeing to all of his suggestions, which Pond once again labelled in Common for his benefit, and he'd handed over 44 Pinions - a little more than Pond had asked for; it felt like the right thing to do - and parted ways with the helpful healer, making a concerted effort to burn Pond's identity into his mind.

As he departed from the stall however, a realisation dawned on him as he considered his purchases; particularly the tea.

Great. Now I need to buy a petching kettle.

Item CostsPrices taken from Price List:

• Rugberry Tea, 4 servings (2 GM)
• Iskyny Tea, 4 servings (10 GM)
• Lillian Root Tea, 4 servings (8 SM)
• Rosemary Ointment (5 SM)
• Krolar Poultice (5 SM)
• Burn Salve (30 GM)
• =
• Total: 43 GM, 8 SM >> Rounded to: 44 GM

"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Zhol]

|.

Zhol's shoulders slumped in relief as his trudging progress through the warrens finally brought him to the familiar corridors of the commonrooms. He had escaped the market, but barely, and not before a few more stalls had launched one last volley of assaults against his finances.

There was the kettle of course, and two cups; he hadn't questioned why there were two at the time, and hadn't considered how he was going heat the thing in the confines of his room, but at least he owned them now, and had thus far been too tired to take that line of thought any further. The quill and ink had been relatively inexpensive, and he'd grabbed a couple of pieces of chalk for glyphing, and a handful of candles to help with his meditation. All of that had been relatively painless to purchase; but then he'd found that one last stall.

Like all the others, the merchant was friendly enough; and he'd been gifted with a tongue of silver that managed to make everything sound like the most important, useful, functional purchase since the invention of trade. Granted, a lantern and oil was not an unwise idea for someone who would be working from one end of the day to the other as winter set in and dawn and dusk drew closer together; but a tarnished copper bullseye lantern, tarnished all the way to a murky green? Somehow the merchant had convinced him he was getting a good deal, and Zhol had been too tired to to dodge his mercantile manipulations.

The sighting lens was worse the merchant hadn't even tried: he'd just suggested that perhaps there was a woman that Zhol watched from a distance that the lens could help bring closer, and he'd blundered in unable to give away his pinions fast enough, not bothering to check the price until after he'd agreed to buy it, and then feeling too terrified to shy away from the daunting price.

Thirteen pinions was all that had survived the market visit intact: thirteen, out of four hundred. Yes, his food and board were paid already. Yes, he'd bought things that would - if the merchants were to be believed - last him a lifetime. But how did people do it? How was this possible? How could one live a life of luxury when everything was so petching expensive?

The sight that greeted him as he swung open the door of his room only made it worse; the Dek deliveries had constructed a fort from his indulgences, making it impossible to do much more than step in the door before you had to start climbing over every pinion he had spent. He carefully shuffled enough items aside to clear a path, and continued his trudge to his bed, throwing himself face down upon it. Petch the market. Petch Wind Reach. His stomach twisted into a deeper knot as Khara drifted casually through his mind.

Petch my life.

Item CostsPrices taken from the Price List:

• Kettle, iron (8 SM)
• 2 x Cup, 8oz (1 GM)
• Quill (3 CM)
• Vial, Ink (1 GM)
• 2 x Chalk (2 CM)
• 5 x Candle (5 CM)
• Lantern, Bullseye (12 GM)
• Oil, 1 pint (1 SM)
• Sighting Lens (55 GM)
• =
• Total: 69 GM, 9 SM, 5 CM >> Rounded to: 70 GM

"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"
This template was made by Khara. She was bribed with coffee and jammy dodgers.

[Neologism]

XP:

• Observation: +2 xp
• Socialization: +2 xp

Lore:

• Market Day Sucks
• Endrykas Culture: No need for a lot of possessions
• You no longer have an excuse not to practice archery
• Challenge: Try impulse-buying for a change
• Khara: Always in your mind
• Dull swrods are useless
• Leather Scabbard: Keeps your sword from dulling
• Bows: Length and shape determine power
• Longbow: Long draw; Shortbow: Short draw
• A good bow will last you forever
• Climber's Quiver: To keep the arrows from moving about
• Inarta: Can be pretty racist
• Men: Weakened in the presence of a pretty woman
• Inarta Fashion: Rather revealing
• Green brings out your eyes
• Inarta Tradition: Giving a scarf as a sign of affection
• You can be read like an open book
• Try not to think about that time you got beat up by a girl
• Rugberry Tea: For scuffs and scrapes
• Iskyny Tea: For sleep
• Lillian Root: For soothing nerves
• Rosemary Ointment: For muscle aches
• Krolar Poultice: To speed up healing in flesh-wounds
• Life is expensive!

Awards:

• Because I don't see a point in re-listing everything you already listed, you may simply add it all to your ledger.
• You are officially considered healed! (if you keep track of injuries in your CS)

Losses:
Please deduct a total of 387 pinions from your ledger. It isn't necessary for you to list each and every thing in your ledger, you may simply link this thread as your receipt, if you'd like.

Notes: Don't forget to edit your post in the request forum as 'Graded'.