Closed Simple Needs

[Branimir]

3rd of Fall, 515 AV On some level, it was a silly notion to Branimir. Maybe it was simply his desire to inject a sense of normalcy into his new life here in this city of brutes, uprooted and culture shocked as he still was. Certainly, in its own way, this place was sure to be just as conservative as Zeltiva had been. But twoscore days of experience hadn't really laid the structures bare to Branimir's eye. And yet, it was a city and it functioned and if it functioned it needed delineations of influence and command, descending tiers of authority, outliers for food and structured and strictured ways that tied all of that together. In time, in time he too would see the pattern. But right now, all the young man wanted was a birthday present, for himself. While that day was still a good bit off, the change from Summer to Fall had always had that effect on him, he reminisced. The trees cleared of clutter and harvest did the same to the fields. His birthday and the meagre but certainly heartfelt present his parents would produce for it was merely the beginning of what would ultimately culminate in the blessed stillness of winter. So even though he had little appreciation for the day that his mother had delivered him into this world through a process of plausible causality which could have ended up with him being born later or earlier, his birthday still held a special place in the tiny thing that passed for Branimir's heart. And by whatever Gods were responsible for such an undertaking (Tanroah?) be damned if he didn't get what he wanted: A present, for himself. The one place in the city that was likely to present him with something he could use without him being aware of it was the Zhongjie Warren. Branimir had discovered the busy little place early in his excursions into the city, but time and lack of need had kept him from a thorough exploration of the place. Now, uninhibited by priorities, he could afford to take a leisurely stroll of the many stands below colorful canvas tent roofs and peruse the wares the many traders had laid out for their customers. And it was those wares that held his gaze, the people standing behind, hawking their baubles, haggling excitedly or otherwise engaging with the passers-by did not. People were people, the things they said prone to being unreliable to put it mildly. But these dead things... The young man sought to stifle the excitement as he imagined the stories these items might tell. Where they had come from, from whose hands and what they felt when they shaped and whittled and hammered at them: Earthenware, muscial instruments... even the weapons held his interest. Eagerly, Branimir fumbled at his gloves while he laid bare the Lykata mark imprinted on the back of his hand. Certainly, the dead things cluttering trestle tables to either side of him would not give up all their secrets as readily as he wished, but just as certainly he would cut through the webs the merchants spun with but a touch. Or else they would see and know he was blessed of the Gods and withhold their tall tales. A scarf dyed in many shades of grey held his interest for a glance, but was ultimately dismissed as too foppish by Branimir's methodical brain. The same thing happened to an embroidered cowl, though it held a hidden story of grief that lingered on his fingertips. Pitchers and plates and cups were all dismissed as too pedestrian next. The architect was looking for a gift, not everyday crockery. Maybe a coat or cloak, but he already had two of those and saw no need for another one. And again, Branimir did not seek something practical, he sought a gift. There was to be a hint of extravagance, else it was no gift at all. How hard could it be to fulfill himself that simple request? And then he saw it. At least he was very very certain he did. A wooden box, scratched and nicked but still of remarkable craftsmanship. The wood had been stained a deep red, then lacquered, the corners reinforced with blackened iron filigree in the same style as the hinges. And in that same style again, set straight in the middle of the lid, a stylized moth. A moth Branimir was certain he had seen in one of the many books he had sought to virtually devour when he was in Zeltiva. It was, he knew, the mark of Talyngerd, the great post-Valterrian tower builder. It had to be. And if it was here, then maybe he had been, too. Maybe one or all of the grand towers of Riverfall were his work. Branimir would have to go back and look for Talyngerd's mark. But first, he needed this. His heart rate went up as his gaze fully fixated on the box and as if by itself, his arm stretched out and so did his fingertips, eagerly reaching for the box. And just as he was about to touch flesh to wood...