It’s with not a little reluctance that Sterling slouches down to his first day of work, the late-afternoon sun stretching his shadow long and lean before him. The Night Markets are only just beginning to come awake, and the streets are empty of all but the shopkeepers themselves, shaking loose their awnings and setting out their wares. (Everyone interesting, Sterling thinks sulkily, must be resting or freshening up before a night of revelry. It’s what he would be doing, anyway.)
The cabinetmaker’s stall, when Sterling finds it, is small but orderly, tucked away in the less-than-glamorous Woodworking Quarter. The cabinetmaker himself is an elderly, by-the-books sort of stallion, kind but stern. As he sets about explaining the orders of business, it occurs dully to Sterling that this new job might be rather less fun and rather more work than he remembers thinking (drunkenly) when first they’d met upon the Windrunner.
By the time the cabinetmaker is through with his very thorough orientation, the sun has slipped beneath the horizon, and the markets are in full swing. Grudgingly Sterling positions himself at the front of the stall. “Stand up straight,” his new boss prods him. “Smile. Bring them to you.” Sterling puffs out his chest and musters his most inviting grin.
And it’s not that bad, he has to admit, two hours and five sales in. Sterling can be charming, when he wants to be, and there’s a certain heady pleasure in closing a good deal. The haggling feels a bit like anteing up, like winning.
The cabinetmaker steps out for a break, and Sterling lets himself lounge just a bit against the polished edge of a mahogany table. He’s got a hankering for a drink, and his jaw is getting tired from all the smiling, and if he could ride a bit of a buzz, he knows, the night would pass all the more quickly.
But then a passing stranger draws his attention, and Sterling straightens with interest. The mare has a bald face like himself—not so common, he’s noticed, around these parts—and the eye that she turns on him is startlingly blue.
“Woodworking! Furniture! Finest in Denocte!” Sterling proclaims, sidling out of the stall and partway into her path. “What’ll it be, ma’am?” He tosses his head grandly back toward his commodities, black-and-white mane flying in the torchlight. “A bookcase? A grandfather clock? Or perhaps I can tempt you with my more delicate wares,” he hums, motioning toward a table stocked with smaller whittlings. “How about a pan flute for the lady? Hand-carved, and the wood sourced all the way from the swamps of Terrastella.”
There is something magical to the way the markets come alive the moment the sun disappears below the horizon. When she first came to Denocte, she felt relieved to find out many here were night owls like her too. Insomnia is her companion most nights, much to the discomfort of Morrighan. At least here, she finds something to do for an hour or so until she might finally feel tired enough. Back at her homeland, the most she could do would be to stare at the never moving stars and be stuck listening to the damn crickets.
She sat on a hill looking down at the markets for a little while, ironically doing most of the above. The only difference here is there's more noise than just crickets. She saw all the lights flicker on and everyone rushing to put up their tents. Some were meticulously arranging their wares in specific order. Seeing how different things were here still makes her feel like an outsider at times, given how primitive Ourania had been. They had no markets, they didn't even have weapons other than their own magic. Perhaps she's spoiled now with all these new tools and treats. Her past self would probably scold her for thinking she'd no longer want to trade it for her old life.
As the night officially arrives, Morrighan gets up and strolls down into the market. Instantly it gets louder and louder as she approaches. She remembers when the sound made her ears hurt, but it all blended in together for the most part now. Occasionally she gets caught looking over at one of the merchants yelling nonsense, but never bothers to engage. Typically she gives them a look, raises a brow, and then leaves. Unless they have something that can make her magic stronger, she isn't interested.
However, there is one booth that for whatever reason gets more of her attention. There are many carefully carved wood items from what she can see and it briefly makes her think of Isra's bow. A man is lounging nearby and it seems like a contrast to how merchants typically act. Although she immediately regrets her decision when he suddenly comes alive at her approach.
His excitement bombards her and makes her feel like her personal space is being intruded upon just from the inflection in his voice. She is quick to annoy and it shows when small sparks erupt from her hooves. He doesn't get quite in her face, thankfully, even when seeing the smaller objects makes her walk closer to the table. Her eyes look over everything, but even with him throwing out all these names, she has no idea what anything is that he's selling. She doesn't spend enough time in the markets to know what's sold and she is still too much of a stranger at the inner workings of Novus.
"Are they… weapons?" she asks with a furrowed brow. If she's wrong she'll only be more annoyed, especially since she has been considering finding a weapon. Maybe one exists that can finally keep Bram away from her for good. "What can you do with them?"
The last thing he had mentioned - did he say panloot? - sounds interesting in the fact that the wood is from the swamps of Terrastella. She wonders if that makes it stronger in some way and would have more of an impact on her enemy. If the man disappoints her and says none of them are weapons or could have the ability to strengthen magic, well, he would have to go pester someone else.
@Sterling please forgive Morr and her confusion at how Novus works <3
Almost as soon as he begins to trumpet his wares, Sterling can see the annoyance flickering in the mare’s expression. Sparks dance beneath her hooves, and Sterling cannot help but raise his brows, remarking, “That’s a handy trick.” Still, for a heartbeat he feels bad for accosting her, and he half-expects her to pin her ears and pull away.
But she doesn’t, instead approaching to peer more closely at his table of smaller items—curious, perhaps, despite herself. Nothing he rattles off seems to capture her interest, though her gaze ranges over the wooden offerings, scrutinizing. Sterling is a newly-minted salesman, with less than even a full night’s work under his belt, but he’s spent enough time at the card tables to know when someone’s paying genuine attention. He smiles and edges closer, to see what’s drawn her eye—
“Are they... weapons?” she wonders, and in his surprise he almost drops the set of pipes he’s lifted up to show her. Her confusion is evident, deepening his own, as she asks what can be done with the objects in question. Does she not know music and timekeeping? Has she never entered a library, with its shelves and shelves of books? The very notion is so foreign to him that for a moment he is as bewildered as she.
“Uh—no, not exactly,” he says, his peddler’s persona flagging briefly before he musters it again. “If you’re wanting weapons, you might try over there.” He nods his head toward the shop across the way, where he himself had been admiring a number of handsomely carved bows, spears, and ash-handled knives. “This is Cadogan’s Cabinetry and Curiosities,” he adds, gesturing now toward the yellow silk banner strung above their heads. “Purveyors of fine furniture and woodworkings, since 486.”
Her gaze is still lingering on the pan flute he had started to show her, so he returns to it, his smile kind. “These are pipes,” he tells her. “For making music, you see?” And he blows a quick little melody, the notes drifting up cheerily into the night air. He tilts his head to the side and offers the pipes to the mare. “Would you like to try them out?”
AND MAYBE GOD IS JUST A COP
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
@Morrighan not at all haha, he's my first character that’s actually native to buildings and tools himself :P
Much to her disappointment, the man explains that his booth is not full of weapons. He rattles off terms she isn't familiar with and what is apparently the name of the shop. Cabinetry, furniture- it's all foreign to her and otherwise pointless. Why bother selling things if they can't be used for anything practical? At the least, he had pointed her to a booth of weapons further down the road. Her gaze follows for a moment as she feels tempted to go and take a look, but for some reason she turns back around.
The man is still trying to explain what things are as he picks up what he calls a pipe. She vaguely knows what music is, but she never tried to make it herself. It always seemed like a type of magical ability. He quickly shows her how to use the pipe and a few notes chime through the air. He then hands it over for her to try, but he had done it so fast. For a moment, Morrighan is just staring at him blankly and regretting ever stepping over to this booth. She would've been better off keeping to herself like she usually does, but here she is.
Reluctantly, the mare takes the instrument and tries to mimic what the man had done. However, when she blows air through it from her mouth, it's only hot air that comes out. It bursts into a flame and torches the entire piece. Some sound comes through, but nothing like the melody he had created. Clearly she doesn't have the same kind of touch and it only makes her more irritated.
She hits the now burning pipe against the table to put out the flame and sets it down. "I think this one's broken," she grumbles at him, scowling. Morrighan looks down again at the other items with instruments looking similar to this "pipe". There is also something that moves and makes a ticking sound with symbols all over it. "I'm guessing then that this isn't a bomb," she says, pointing to the clock (although she doesn't know its name). "What would anyone want with this stuff…" she adds under her breath and rolls her eyes. What a complete and utter waste of her time.
Sterling can feel the mare’s interest waning—she’s quick to follow as he indicates the weapons shop across the alley, and with a little mental shrug he braces himself for her departure, for another missed sale. He can’t blame her, really; he’d much rather peruse those fine-looking arms himself. What attraction can a pan pipe hold against a poleaxe?
Perhaps, if he had troubled to make something more of himself, Sterling might have been a soldier, or a sailor, or a magician. Instead he’s only a second-rate furniture salesman, with nothing but his dubious charms to recommend him. Still, the mare lingers—humoring him, maybe—and even accepts the pipes when he offers them, giving them a hesitant blow.
The result is nothing short of disastrous: the instrument erupts into flame. Sterling leaps backward, startled, and knocks over the table he’d been leaning on, sending the rest of his wares cascading to the floor.
The mare beats the pipes swiftly against the table’s edge, extinguishing them, but there is nothing to be done for the charred reeds, nor the scorch marks left behind on what was in fact a very valuable table. For a moment Sterling can only stare, horror rising in him at the thought of what the cabinetmaker would say when he returned from his break. He would be fired, Sterling was certain of it; he might even be held responsible for the cost of the ruined goods. Add that to his list of insurmountable debts.
But Sterling cannot help it—“I think this one's broken,” the mare grumbles, all sulky irritability, and he bursts into laughter. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, his legs buckling with mirth, “I’m not… laughing… at you…” And he isn’t, not really; only at himself, and the ludicrous catastrophe of his fresh start. Not even a day on the job, and things are already in shambles. Could he have expected anything less? This is Sterling, after all.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says to the mare as he straightens up at last, lest she be bothered overmuch about the damage. “And no,” he chuckles, “that’s a clock, not a bomb. I wouldn’t think you’d need one,” he adds, with a sly look at the smoke still rising into the air around her. “You’re a weapon yourself, my lady. Where did you learn to do all that?” Sterling has seen a bit of magic before, in his past visits to Novus, but nothing like what this mare has just unwittingly unleashed, and his curiosity is genuine.
As he’s been speaking, Sterling has righted the table, rearranged the spilled wares, and rubbed the ash from the table’s edge, which fortunately has come off cleanly enough. “I have a feeling Cadogan’s finest are not for you,” he says to her, with an impish smile. “But perhaps you can do me a turn instead. Are you a local? I’ve only just arrived here in Denocte, and I’ve yet to hear the current news.”
He doesn't even try to hold it back, but erupts in a fit of laughter. Morrighan glares at him, the frustration in her eyes matching the spark of flames at her feet. He claims he's not laughing at her, but that doesn't do much to help.
For some reason, the man is then interested in her magic. She feels flattered when he says that she's a weapon herself and her annoyance dissipates for a moment. Morr almost tells him she learned how to use her magic a century ago back in her homeland, but decides to leave that part out. There were not as many immortal equines here in Novus and therefore the idea of immortality became lost to some.
"It's the ability I was born with. I just did training as I grew up," she replies, also leaving out the fact that her magic had been stripped upon entering the portal. And that it's not nearly as strong as it was back in Ourania. He didn't need to know such things and could just continue feeling awed by her strength.
The man has now managed to clean up the table to look almost like nothing had happened. There are still bits of ash laying around, but the initial spot is cleaner. She's glad that he doesn't make her pay for the loot-thing-whatever-it-was because she wouldn't have done it anyway.
He goes on to say that he's only just arrived and is curious of the most recent news. It makes her laugh as he clearly doesn't know who she is, likely because he's so new. Well, it's about time he found out.
"Well, I am Morrighan, Warden of Denocte," she says, standing proudly. "I didn't grow up in Novus, but I've been here long enough to be in this position. I would say the most recent news is that Raum is dead. Surely you've at least heard of him? The tyrant in Solterra?" Morrighan looks at him quizzically, wondering just how in the dark the man may be. She also finds herself curious as to where he came from if he only just arrived. Perhaps a world without magic? If that's the case, she might even pity him.
"Where are you from then?" she finally asks, feeling skeptical again. He likely posed no threat, especially if he's here selling not-weapons and useless items. But if he came from another Court, she might be interested in hearing about the ins and outs. Not that she planned to stray out from Denocte's borders any time soon, but any information might end up being useful later.
