WHAT IF DEATH IS JUST ANOTHER
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
PAIR OF HANDCUFFS
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.”
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.”
AND MAYBE GOD IS JUST A COP
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
THAT WE CAN FAST TALK
@morrighan <3
