Goblin Market -- Cross-Faction RP

[Essien]

Hamund looked up at Ashelyn from the shadow she cast over him, and his salesman's grin gentled on his lips. Were it not for the sparkle in his blue eye-- sharp as the first star at dusk-- he would have seemed a chastened soul. "And I am sure, blessed lady, that a Holy Sister of Sigmar would not beat a man in the street for making a jest," he answered, with only a touch of doubt in his voice. "Isn't there something in the holy teachings about self-restraint? Of course I'm no churchman..."

The merchant trailed off, then seemed to dismiss the matter with a wave of his hand and fetched back his golden thread with the same. "Here, madam, let's make amends." He leaned forward, deposited the weighty spool in Ashelyn's palm, and then smiled again. "You have a look at that, while I finish with your young companion here..."

Hamund followed Clarah's glance to the little coil of sky just peeking from under the garish crimson of his wagon-flap. "Ah, the young sister has an eye after all," he teased, and brought the bauble under his nose for inspection. A brief, connoisseur's frown followed. "For the thread itself, not much to be said," he rambled, half to himself. "Simple flax. This dye, though..." The man's lips puckered. "I fancy me this is hyacinth. Hyacinth, from the oases of old Araby!"

The merchant chuckled away his own boast and looked on Clarah with an avuncular fondness. "If you must have the cloth, blessed lady, I won't much finger your purse for it. Let us say two Imperial golden marks for the bolt and thread together? And much good may they do you." He offered the one-eyed girl that bright blue spool to add to her assortment of market wares.

[Aleydis]

The bright wizard succeeded in provoking Yaviel to an expression that was neither amusement or serenity-- her brows lifted as the gold was counted out into her palm, and her lips parted on a reply that went, for the moment, unvoiced. Vitorio, through his lack of haggling, rendered the elf speechless.

When the last piece was added to the others, Yaviel tested the accumulated weight of her hand by hefting it slightly. Then she inclined her head to the man, her face clearing of its previous consternation.

"You do us honor, sirrah. May your lady love return your affections tenfold." Yaviel left him then to admire his prize, retreating to the wagon's door to deposit jewelry case and the little mound of gold inside. The metal clinked as it was poured into a velvet bag; the top was secured with a twist of silk cord and then stowed in a box with a lock near as large as its body.

[Teleri | Vitorio]

Smiling with twinkling eyes Vitorio ran his gaze over his prize. He didn’t notice the look of the face of the maiden easily parting with his gold for this treasure. For a moment the necklace held him transfixed. Shaking his head he turned his smile to the elf.

“Again, I thank you. I doubt I could have found anything to rival this as a symbol of my love.” As the elf turned to deposit the gold and return the jewelry case to its rightful place Vitorio slowly turned away from the merchants wagon. He did not even notice the two priestesses speaking with the man who had been calling out the wares.

As he walked along the street his mind spun with the beauty of the gift he would give to his beloved and the plans he had for the giving. Tonight he would go and find the perfect place for a romantic sunset picnic. Vincent had sent him a message earlier in the day letting him know that the items Vitorio had requested were ready to be picked up. Now, with this gift for his darling Faustine, the evening would be perfect. Perfect.

[Stanislaw]

On most days, all of Salzenmund was humble, or at least covered in a thin coat of humility. Buildings, streets and people alike wore a thin coat of drab brown, in the form of dirt and mundane errand alike. Things were good.

And then there was market day, when merchants would roll out every flashy color they could find in the hope of lulling people out of their coins. "Come," they would say, some in more subtle words than others, "have this bauble or trinket or scrap of cloth, and believe your life better for it."

Stanislaw hunched his shoulders in a very unbecoming fashion, his oversized longcoat threatening to swallow his entire face. He hated market day. "Buncha lyin' vice-peddlers . . . "

Sigmar and His Order called the man here, blocking his path with carts and criers as yet another test of his faith and devotion. Brilliant hues were dulled by the black stormcloud he brought with him, his own personal miasmic parasol. A few merchants piped up to him in voices that only wavered slightly, but most chose their best to ignore him as he passed. He looked like the sort of man who'd throw a loud fuss, and a raving Witch Hunter was generally very bad for business.

Nothing here would make him happy. Stanislaw made certain of it. No dazzling greens or luxurious reds would trick him into thinking he needed anything more than what Sigmar gave him - a ragged coat, ragged hat and ragged boots. They covered the flesh just as well as silk, after all.

No, it was not green or red that caught Stanislaw's eye. It was white.

His feet stopped before the rest of him did, and the man had to stagger a bit to remain upright. Someone rose their voice in a scolding tone, but their words fell on deaf ears.

Many paces away, an Elf hefted one pale, gold-laden hand. Such a simple gesture, and yet her grace gave it new meaning. Stan could feel his mouth drop open, and vaguely knew he must look terribly stupid right now, but he daren't shift his attention away. He might miss something!

He felt no flushing, upon his face or elsewhere. No, the only thing the thin man in brown could feel was a heavy, tingling warmth that draped his entire body, not unlike the sweet caress of heavy drink, though it had been years since he'd had enough of anything to experience that. Her head inclined. Her lips moved. Every tiny movement and gesture was rich in meaning, and intoxicating to the eye. Hers was perfect, purposeless beauty. Like an elm bending to kiss a lake. Like desert sands curling in the wind.

And then, with immaculate steps, she slipped behind a wagon door, and out of sight.

Stan shook his head, and raised a gloved hand to rub at his eyes. "Danged Elf magic. Prolly some trick to swindle folk outta their coin."

[Clarah | Margret]

There was something about the way the man looked at her that brought a smile to Clarah's lips. As he spoke of the thread she found herself bobbing her head along in silent agreement. Flax was well and good, and that it was nothing special was fine as well, but the color! Hyacinth. The name felt awkward on her tongue as she repeated it back.

For a moment she looked down and laid the thread against the soft brown cloth, admiring the way it settled into the folds like a bright stream of water through a dusty landscape. When Hamund named the price she eagerly juggled her basket to one side and produced the two golden marks he requested without hesitation.

When the cloth and the spool were settled in her bags and she had bid the old man a fond farewell she turned and peeked up at Ashelyn. As she watched the other woman the smile faded from her face. Ashelyn spoke about Sigmar with the faith of a true believer and yet something about the woman upset Clarah greatly. She was fierce. Fierce when she didn't need to be and it frightened the meeker woman. Clarah wavered for a moment and then slipped away while the other priestess was occupied.

As Clarah wound her way out of the market she blended in with the rest of the peasantry and their modest attire. Her brown boots scuffled and dragged as she moved down the road, kicking up a little cloud of dust that dogged her heels. The priestess bobbed along, her head bowed meekly, her whole form unassuming and dull except for a brilliant splotch of sky that sat cradled within her basket.

[Ashelyn Barrows]

Ashelyn pulled some of the golden thread from the spool, wrapping it around her finger. It seemed to catch and bite into the steel of her gauntlet. When she removed the string, a fine golden dust was left in its placed, shining and iridescent against the gray of the steel. She peered down in wonder at the finest thread she had ever seen. Again, a shame she had no use for it really, but Ashelyn didn't want to spend her hard earned gold on something she didn't need.

She cupped the spool in her hand, then glanced at Clarah when she noticed that she was being stared at. She pursed her lips, looking down at the small, unassuming form before her. Ashelyn didn't know the girl very well, but she could tell that she was a push-over in ever way. Meek, probably overly so, bending backwards for anyone at a moments notice, especially Stan. If she didn't learn to stand up for herself, and fast, the girl was going to go nowhere in life.

Sighing, Ashelyn let the thought slip from her mind. It honestly wasn't her problem to think about. Her blue eyes slowly found their way back to the golden thread. The sun glinted off it as if it was a polished shield, and she could vaguely see her reflection in the bunched strands wrapped around the shaft of the spool.

Shaking her head, she looked up again, and Clarah was gone. The priestess snorted to herself, pinching her nose in a look of disgust.

Didn't even bother t' say goodbye..

Sighing, Ashelyn turned her attention to Hamund the merchant, forcing on her lips a frankly fake grin.

"Well, I'm guessin' its my turn to be served. So what can ya offer me, merchant?" she asked of him, holding the string out to him in one hand and putting the other hand on her hip.