and horror in the halls of stone
For once, Jahin wanders aimlessly.
The weekend marketplace is a blaze of color and movement, although the vendor turnout is fewer than usual. The lack of a sovereign is bad for business, apparently. Regardless, there are still those who have set up shop, their booth tents swaying in the hot midmorning breeze. Jahin looks out of place with his spear shouldered and sober expression, but then that is nothing new. He is accustomed to the curious glances, how their eyes linger on his scars and his fading Davke tattoos but he does feel considerably more like the bull in the china shop than usual.
He wanders the aisles, glancing over the different wares. Sahar is curled on his back, hissing and spitting her tongue excitedly as she takes in the bright colors and beautiful bobbles that are sold. She has a taste for the expensive things, his Sahar. Jahin isn’t looking for anything in particular this morning, despite the wares that are pushed into his way as he passes through. Throwing knives, baskets, ornate jewelry, supple velvet cloaks.
There is nothing for him here. He’s a simple creature, needing little more than what he carries with him. Despite his disinterest in the actual goods displayed by the vendors, he finds that he is actually enjoying himself. The constant hum of conversation and the smell of baked goods is pleasant and relaxing. The sun feels warm on his back.
As he turns to exit the marketplace, perhaps to go out on patrol or something more suited to his station, a booth unexpectedly catches his eye. The booth itself is rather plain in decor, nothing but the shabby tent overhead to keep the sun from beating down on the vendor owner’s back. There, carefully arranged on a plain wooden table are intricately handcrafted journals, bound in ornately carved leather. He stares, transfixed. A young child can read better than him and he can hardly write his own name, but Jahin gazes at the blank pages wistfully nonetheless.
J A H I N
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
The weekend marketplace is a blaze of color and movement, although the vendor turnout is fewer than usual. The lack of a sovereign is bad for business, apparently. Regardless, there are still those who have set up shop, their booth tents swaying in the hot midmorning breeze. Jahin looks out of place with his spear shouldered and sober expression, but then that is nothing new. He is accustomed to the curious glances, how their eyes linger on his scars and his fading Davke tattoos but he does feel considerably more like the bull in the china shop than usual.
He wanders the aisles, glancing over the different wares. Sahar is curled on his back, hissing and spitting her tongue excitedly as she takes in the bright colors and beautiful bobbles that are sold. She has a taste for the expensive things, his Sahar. Jahin isn’t looking for anything in particular this morning, despite the wares that are pushed into his way as he passes through. Throwing knives, baskets, ornate jewelry, supple velvet cloaks.
There is nothing for him here. He’s a simple creature, needing little more than what he carries with him. Despite his disinterest in the actual goods displayed by the vendors, he finds that he is actually enjoying himself. The constant hum of conversation and the smell of baked goods is pleasant and relaxing. The sun feels warm on his back.
As he turns to exit the marketplace, perhaps to go out on patrol or something more suited to his station, a booth unexpectedly catches his eye. The booth itself is rather plain in decor, nothing but the shabby tent overhead to keep the sun from beating down on the vendor owner’s back. There, carefully arranged on a plain wooden table are intricately handcrafted journals, bound in ornately carved leather. He stares, transfixed. A young child can read better than him and he can hardly write his own name, but Jahin gazes at the blank pages wistfully nonetheless.
look at last on meadows green
and trees and hills they long have known
