is it better to out-monster the monster
or to be quietly devoured?
or to be quietly devoured?
H
e visits the markets at the first light of dawn.It is a habit of Caine's, whenever his mind aches with unanswered questions and mistaken calculations. The aimless wandering offers him a reprieve he desperately seeks.
He weaves slowly through the maze of canopied stalls, stopping every so often to gaze curiously at the wares being peddled — a bolt of cloth brighter than gold, a necklace of pearls from the depths of the deep, a sword that still bleeds every time it is polished.
The satchel of coins slung heavy at his hip begs to be spent. Caine ignores it, though the temptation certainly lingers. There are better things to be found, he consoles himself, the deeper you wander towards the market’s heart.
It has been a little over a year since his arrival to the kingdom of sun and sand and blood. He has never regretted his decision — there is nothing left for him in Vectaeryn. A flash of pain courses through Caine’s forehead when he recounts bitterly his return to the familiar smoking coasts, just a week before. Has there ever been? Something left for me?
The stall of glimmering weapons calls to him before he reaches an answer.
The ornate silver dagger tucked securely in its sheath, worn just behind his wing joints, reminds Caine that he does not need another weapon. None will ever be as light, as sharp, as much an extension of himself as the Taeryn-forged blade is. Agenor had made sure of it. It was the only gift he had ever bestowed upon the boy. Well, Caine corrects, none too fondly, the only pleasant one.
He strides, silver eyes shadowed, towards a table boasting a whole armory’s worth of bows and unstrung arrows. He skims its offerings distractedly, not knowing what he is looking for. Fia’s jewel-bright, mismatched eyes stir in his memories, along with a recollection of the steel arrow she had wielded like a spear.
Caine remembers his oath to her, sworn on the blade of his dagger, and almost smiles. I wonder where she got that arrow from. Solterran steel is rare to come by.
"It’s you,” comes a familiar, feminine voice to his right.
He wishes he can say that he’s heard those very words spat at him (in the same accusatory way) many a time before — but he hasn’t. No one ever recognizes Caine for what he is, ever calls out to him when he passes. At least, they never had.
He turns to his right, wary, and is greeted by the sight of a spinning ax.
“Who?” comes another voice, equally sharp, equally accusatory, before he can even blink.
Isn’t that, Caine thinks with a hint of indignation, something I should be asking? The blade spins unnervingly near. Caine sweeps the ends of his hair away from its bloodthirsty tip and withholds a sigh.
He sidesteps the ax easily, and with his path clear, finally sees her. Them. Elif, the girl with eyes as green as spring grass. And right besides her, glowering, stands Apolonia. Acton’s young daughter. His gaze darkens for half a heartbeat when he remembers the death of the magician.
"Elif,” he greets, a half smile — bordering dangerously close to a smirk — fluttering across his lips. "And Apolonia.” He aims a cursory glance down at the weapons they stand in front of.
"A pleasure,” he offers with a tip of the head, even when it truly isn’t. At least, not to them. He ignores Apolonia’s hurlbat (he knows it is hers, because he has met the girl once before; he wonders if she remembers — he had been masked at the time) and strides casually towards the shorter of the two.
"Picking a weapon?” He looks thoughtfully at Elif. Considers her lean frame and hawkish gaze. "Have you given daggers a thought?” He picks up a silver stiletto from the table — sleek and simple and wickedly sharp — and tests the heft of it in his grasp.
"They’re light, agile. Deadlier than swords, in the right hands.”
He offers the hilt of the blade to her.
@Elif @Apolonia | "speaks" | notes: loving this shopping trip already
