This is part 1 of 3 of some work I did inspired by episode 10.5 of Writing Excuses. It’s set in a fictional world that I don’t have a name for, but have dabbled in building over the last several years. This story stars Dmitri, a bard I’m currently playing in a D&D 5e campaign.
It was a beautiful morning in Windcaller’s Roost as I arrived at the morning market, the air smelling of that delicious mix of salt from the sea, fish oil from this morning’s catch, and wood smoke. The marketplace was a kaleidoscopic display as merchants each brought hand-made signs and awnings, often repurposed from their previous occupations as ocean-based highwaymen. It had been long enough that the attitude that came with that particular line of work had mostly worn off, so disagreements between the merchants rarely broke down in to gunfights now a days. Though their minds have become accustomed to life on the land, their bodies still bare the signs of a lifetime at sea, with most of the men sporting deep tans and various scars.
Not unlike my own.
I was drawn initially to a stall tended by a couple probably in their late fifties or early sixties who were beginning to carve up some large fish (it might have been a marlin) in to long strips of meat to be cured over a roaring fire. There were smaller fish left whole smoking as well alongside the large strips of meat, their skin slowly tightening back as it dried out, leaving their faces contorted in to a ghoulish, bug-eyed death mask. Thankfully, the ghoulishness of their faces did not detract from their taste.
“Privyet, good morning my friends!” I called out as I approached the stall. The woman turned slowly towards me as I approached, a polite if slightly tired smile on her face.
“Hello dear. What can we interest you in this morning?” As she spoke, I noticed she appeared to not particularly enjoy the bountiful smells of this market as I did, though there was a contentment on her face that shone through that underscored her greeting. She seemed happy to tend this stall with who I presumed was her husband, the both of them settled in to a routine made comfortable with years of repetition. As we haggled over prices for some of the smaller fish (mackerel I found out; they would keep well and I could easily carry lots of them with me in my pack), I began scanning the other stalls trying to identify my target.
I was looking for a stall with an aqua awning adorned with purple beads, with a large orange vase near the back with a particular symbol carved in to the lid: a wolf’s smile with the left tooth chipped. That’s where I was to drop off my package, about the size of an apple and wrapped in grey cloth. It’s not particularly important how I came upon this package or this task, all that matters is that it settles I debt I desperately need settled.
I settled up with the woman and continued exploring the bazaar, trying to be inconspicuous while I evaluated the design of everyone’s booth. I had been meandering through the market for another 10 or 15 minutes when a stall draped in heavy purple drapes caught my eye. Despite the bright midday sun, the interior was largely dark, giving the hooded purveyor an intensely creepy vibe. The wares, however, the wares were too enticing.
Instruments!
Beautifully hand-carved lyres, pan flutes, shawms, drums, and what looked liked it might have been bagpipes made partially from a blowfish. I was in awe.
“Hello! Good morning! What a fine shop you have here!” I beamed at the figure as I approached. To my great surprise, all the other would-be patrons were giving this particular booth a wide berth.
The figure did not respond. I couldn’t see any distinct feature beneath a head-to-toe covering of dark cloth, tied loosely about the waist with a length of weathered looking rope. They were standing near the back of the enclosure, barely moving, giving the passers-by a similar treatment of non-interaction.
“Uhh…hello? Anyone…in there? I like your shop!” I inquired as I moved closer, slowing as I got within range as one might do with an animal of unknown temperament.
The figure lifted its head, and in an eerily-high pitched voice, said “Yeeeees my dear, what can I help you with?”
Their voice was like the sound of sharpening steel, which caused me to flinch involuntarily at the sound of it. It was distinctly feminine, with nearly a full life time of experience behind it. There was also a distant warmth in her voice, perhaps like the grandmother of a childhood friend; not the direct unconditional love of one’s own grandmother, but a similar tone of caring someone like that extends to all who cross her path.
“Ah!” I said, somewhat surprised at the suddenness of the response and the high pitch of the voice that made it, “yes, da, I was interested in those two shawms hanging on the side there. The ones that appear to have been driftwood in a previous life.”
She shuffled slowly to where I gestured, and managed to procure the items that had gained my interest. The shawms were about three feet in length each, both of a kind of greyish-white hue that made them look like tree bones. They both appeared to have been hand-carved from single pieces of wood and finished with some kind of clear oil coating, giving them a gentle sheen.
As she approached I said “These are beautiful pieces. May I ask, did you make them yourself?”
She placed the shawms on the counter between us and let out a raspy laugh that devolved quickly in to a cough. “No my dear, no,” she began. “I’m afraid my days of creation are far behind me. These were made by my son. I simply sell them. He’s…had a hard life, and lacks some of the people skills one needs to tend a shopfront.”
I looked about the marketplace at other vendors that I would guess to be approximately her son’s age.
Retired pirates, one and all. Not by choice, either.
“Has he spent time as a carpenter? These are exquisite.” I said, examining the shawms from multiple angles to inspect the artistry and accuracy of the instruments (hey, it can look as nice as it wants, but people don’t pay me to blow in to an art piece).
“Something like that,” she responded, somewhat tersely.
“Ah,” I said, noticing her desire to change the subject, “in any case, these are magnificent. Either would make a fine addition to my show. How much for this one?” I asked, holding up one the slightly larger one that more closely matched my physique.
After being seemingly lost in thought at the mention of her son’s former profession, she snapped back to attention at the possibility of a sale. We haggled briefly over price, before coming to terms slightly in her favour.
“Is there anything else I can help you with dear?” She asked as I began putting the newest addition to my eclectic collection of noise-makers away in my pack.
“Da, actually there is,” I said as I leaned in conspiratorially. “I am looking for a particular shop and am having a hard time locating it. It was referred to me by a.. a friend. I was told it would have an aqua awning adorned with red… no, purple beads. Unfortunately, my friend didn’t elect to tell me where this merchant usually set themselves up. Could you point me in the right direction?”
The cloaked figure stiffened almost imperceptibly as I finished my description of the booth. She drew in a quick breath and said, very quietly: “Yes, yes, I know it. They’re here somewhat infrequently, sometimes only once a month, so they may not even be here today. But when I have seen this booth, it is far in the back, near the wharves. Now go! I don’t know what business you have there and I’m sure I don’t want to. Thank you for your patronage.” And with that she shuffled back in to the recesses of her stall, deciding for both of us the conversation was definitively over.
I stood there somewhat puzzled at the suddenness of her response, but quickly regained my composure and hustled off in the direction she had indicated. I glanced back over my shoulder right before I rounded a corner that would have put me out of line-of-sight of the music shop, and caught the woman watching me, her hood barely visible against the dark purple drapes of the stall itself.
I thought about her reaction to my description of the stall, and her subsequent behaviour as I travelled through the market at a somewhat brisk pace, fast enough to get where I was going in a hurry but not so fast as to make myself look suspicious. I knew when I accepted this assignment I should not draw attention to myself, and that woman’s reaction just deepened the concern I had for my own well-being while I carried this…whatever this was around. Let me get to my destination and be done with it.
I found the aqua stall in less than 5 minutes. The market was not huge, but this corner was definitely out of the way, with most of the area transitioning back to crates, barrels, ropes, and other bric-a-brac that litters a typical port. As I approached the stall, I saw a sign which read “Back in 5”, crudely painted on a spare piece of wood.
I waited far enough back from the stall as to not seem conspicuous for a solid twenty minutes before finally steeling my resolve. I walked up as if I could have been the one to have authored the sign, and made no to-do about going around the back. I lifted the back curtain and found my target: the orange vase. I rubber-necked once, bent down as low as I could, carefully dropped my package into the vase, and hastily made my way out of the market.