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