ira
Ira returns from the woods that evening with a basketful of minks. He does not enjoy this aspect of trapping; the procuring of the animal itself, or the way he travels to the markets to sell the skins. He has heard the nobles in Terrastella enjoy mink skin coats; just in the last several months, the price at market skyrocketed. And anyways, Ira is accustomed to the contrite that surfaces when he first pawns off the skins: he marvels the beauty of them, the sleek shining of the fur. Not so beautiful as when they were alive, Ira knows.
Then, Ira stops at the butcher. He gladly buys the meat Ira harvested, to be sold to the wild companion’s of citizens. “Bondin’ with’a horse dunnit mean a wolf won’t still eat meat,” the butcher tells him, jovially, and hands over the appropriate number of signos. Ira leaves the shop, and intends to return to his cottage on the edge of Denocte—
He tells himself he only feels restless, tonight, and uniquely so. He tells himself there must be something in the air, blowing in from the sea.
(He does not acknowledge the restlessness stems from the too-loud emptiness of his home; the way it is filled by the empty places his father once occupied).
Ira does not know what draws him to her, at the edge of the markets. She does not have a proper shop; only a wooden box, with a number of cards on display. In his life, Ira has seen stranger things on the markets. Nevertheless, apprehension creeps up his spine, like the ghost of a touch. “Hello,” he says, kindly enough. “Are you a tarot reader?” he gestures, then, towards the cards. Ira doesn't even notice the blood, still smeared on his face. Ira doesn't even notice the twigs and brambles and thorns still entangled in his long mane.
@Salome / speaks / notes
