This is part 3 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 Winter, a character destined to become the next Wolf.

---

I bunched my shoulders up under my ratty, worn, mostly-burgundy-beneath-the-mud cloak and hurried in to the market, trying to avoid bumping in to any of the adults around me. I say “adults” as if they are some kind of other, but truth be told I’m not sure how old I am. My best guess is somewhere in my mid-teens. You don’t celebrate a lot of birthday parties (or anything really) as a street kid. I’ve arrived at “mid-teens” as a probabilistic age through a combination of comparison to other kids, memories of being out in the cold for many winters, and biology.

When you don’t have much, you take every opportunity you can. That’s how they found me - desperate for, well, anything. Food. Shelter. Love. You name it. They offered me enough food to last Josie and I a month. In return, all I had to do was drop off this… object in to one of these stalls. I was carrying on me a bundle no larger than an apple, wrapped in simple gray cloth, and I was to drop it off inside a stall with an aqua awning and purple beads dangling from the front. I was told that inside this stall would be an orange vase with markings that looked like a wolf’s fangs imprinted in to the side, like an artisan’s signature.

I kept my head low and tried to remain inconspicuous as I made my way through the market, peering in to the backs of any stall that even vaguely matched the description I was given. Unfortunately, because I look the part of a street dweller, you could be forgiven if you thought what I was doing was scoping your stall out for later burglarization. These furtive glances earned me the ire of the merchants, and after about an hour I could feel the shift in the quality of the admittedly sparse local law enforcement: from indifference to careful observation. Great, they think I’m here to rob these people.

Which, on any other day, they wouldn’t be wrong. Heck, I hadn’t even decided if they were wrong today. But they were wrong for now.

Whatever, it didn’t make a terrible difference to me. I was used to being watched with suspicion, particularly around goods that could fit neatly in one’s pocket. Well, if the cat was out of the bag and word had gotten around that I was “of note”, there was no real reason to maintain a low profile. I pulled my hood back and flared out my unkempt, reddish hair, letting it fall most of the way down my back. I ran my fingers through it a couple times, trying to work as many knots out as I could, and smoothed my clothes out as much as I was able, straightening my back out as well to reach a towering five foot six.

I tried to casually scan the stalls around me, but it probably came across as more nervous than I would have liked. I don’t like being watched. I spotted a stall with an inoffensive older couple, selling various kinds of fish and seafood which smelled…shudder heavenly. My stomach growled involuntarily as I began to approach, being drawn in almost magnetically by the smell of woodsmoke drying out the catch of the day, fish oil dripping on to the logs below and sizzling.

As I got closer I wiped at the drool that had begun to collect at the corner of my mouth, and as I lifted my head I met the gaze of the older woman tending this stall. Her face was a little long, as if slightly bored and impatiently waiting for this part of her day to be over, but her eyes smiled at me as I approached. I glanced past her at who I assumed was her husband, an older man hanging smaller fish over the fire they had going. He was also cutting long strips from a rather large fish that he then hung up and smoked.

I swallowed, partly from nerves and partly from the drool that had begun to collect in my mouth and asked the woman: “E-excuse me, ma’am, I’m looking for a specific shop. W-would you be able to help me find it? It’s important.”

Her mouth broke out in a smile that matched her eyes, her face almost radiating warmth and motherly affection. “Oh my dear, yes, of course I can try and help you. What are you looking for?” She acted as if I asked for more of her special home-made cookies, in that way that grandmothers have of making you think you’re doing them a favour by enjoying something they have created for you.

I gave her the details of the stall I had been given and, as I did, she furrowed her brow slightly. “That’s a peculiar description. Most folks who come through here want what’s in the shop, they don’t much care for the colours decorating it. Do you know what they sell, dear? Do you know what the owners look like?” Her tone was one of concern, though not in a patronizing way. I shook my head in response to her questions, biting my lip slightly, mostly to contain all the drool as I stood within mere feet of the most delicious smell I had ever encountered. She looked heartbroken as she visibly wracked her brain trying (unsuccessfully) to dig up any information about this mystery shop.

“S-sorry for bothering you ma’am. I’ll be going. Have a nice day…” As I turned to go her husband let out a small grunt from the back of the stall and ambled up to the counter. He was a bit taller than me, bald but with grey remnants of what once was still clinging to the sides of his head, cut short. Skin so weathered and leathery you could bind a book with it. He peered at me with beady black eyes for a minute, scowling. I took a furtive step back as he approached, as if the force of his glare had physical properties.

His wife made a reproachful sound as she saw how uncomfortable her husband’s glare was making me. I assumed she was about to tell him off as she opened her mouth, but he began before she could get out a word: “Now why,” his voice came out gravelly, “would you want to go there?” He continued his glare, which did nothing to help loosen my tongue. I tried to answer, choked, swallowed as now fear-based saliva had joined the party, and choked again before he went on: “You have no idea who you’re working for, do you?” His glare continued, but his tone has gotten considerably lighter. I shook my head.

He exhaled a long, slow breath, and as he did, his glare evaporated. He wasn’t smiling now, but it was a significantly less hostile look than the one I had been treated to previously. He pursed his lips, looked to his wife, who gave him that mix of pleading and commanding that only married couples can use on each other, and turned back to me, leaning forward across the counter.

“Alright, miss. I’m going to tell you where to find this stall you’re looking for. But you have to promise me something: you do what needs doing and then you get out. No second looks. No dawdling. And you never contact the people who told you about this place. Ever. Got it?” I stared at him, somewhat awestruck as the force of conviction behind his words hit me like a wave breaking against the shore. Even his wife seemed shocked to silence at his intensity. I was able to regain my composure enough to close the distance between us a bit, nodding.

He regarded me for a moment, nodded, and quietly directed me to a back corner of the marketplace, close to where the market ends and it becomes proper docks again. As he was talking, my body betrayed me: my stomach growled. His wife cut across him and asked seriously “when was the last time you ate?”

“Umm, last night. Sorry. The fish smells so good…” Before I had even finished replying, the wife had bundled up two large pieces of fish she had removed from one of the strips I surmised were smoked earlier. They were wrapped in wax paper and must have weighed at least five pounds each. As she pushed them in to my hands I looked down at them with confusion and stammered out “oh no I’m sorry I don’t think I could afford this.”

She cut me off with a “Tsk tsk. It’s on the house. Look at you, you’re skin and bones. And by the sounds of things…” she glanced aside at her husband “you could use a snack.” I stared at the packages in my hand, which were probably more food than I’d eaten in a week, and contemplated the term “snack”. I bowed my head and muttered a thanks as I unwrapped one of the packages, pulling pieces off with my fingers and eating it. It was still warm. It was delicious. The look on my face and the rather un-ladylike noises I made while eating said volumes more than words ever could.

I thanked them both again as I began walking away, stowing the other portion away for Josie. She was going to lose it when she saw this. I smiled to myself a little at the thought of her tearing the packaging off and devouring large chunks of this meal from heaven. Josie might not actually be my sister, but she might as well be. We’ve been through it all together, always had each other’s backs. She was a couple years younger than me (again, assumptions, see formula above) and was my only constant in this world. She deserved a little joy.

Well, she deserved a lot of joy, but we don’t always get what we deserve.

As I thought this rather depressing thought, I rounded a corner and saw my quarry at the end of a rather empty row of shopfronts. Maybe, at least for the next little while, she will get what she deserves.

As I approached the unoccupied stall, I rubbernecked quickly to see if anyone seemed to be tracking my movements. Of the handful of people in this part of the market, none of them seemed to be paying me any mind. I kept low and moved as nimbly as I could around the back, which let out on to some kind of staging area for the docks, with a smattering of crates of various sizes, as well as barrels and ropes waiting to be loaded on to a waiting vessel. I stuck my head in to the back of the stall through a set of curtains and looked around.

It was fairly empty. Maybe a dozen vases of various colours and shapes - including an orange one bearing the mark I was looking for! The fishmonger was right! I started digging through my pack and fished the object I had been given out and dropped it carefully in to the orange vase. It made a dull thunk sound as it landed, like a stone.

As I was scanning the interior of the shop for anything valuable that could easily go missing without too much fuss, I heard someone shout over my shoulder “Hey! What are you doing in there!?” I pulled my head back from the stall and looked towards the source of the shout.

Shit. It was one of the guards (or what passed for a guard in the Roost). And he was running.

Fast.

At me.

My legs started working before my brain fully processed what was happening and I ended up back inside the stall. I scrambled over the counter and spilled out in to the interior corridor. No one acted like they had heard him, so I took off running in a straight line directly away from the stall. I chanced a glance over my shoulder and saw he had a considerably harder time getting over the counter, but he was able to right himself more quickly and was already picking up speed.

“Stop! Thief!” He was shouting after me. Okay, good thing about a society founded by pirates: they have a healthy disdain for the law. There were some half-hearted attempts to slow me down, but they came with a smirk and a wink. I kept running straight, but I knew this was a losing proposition: he was taller than me, with a longer stride, and we were heading back towards his fellow guardsmen. Their attempts would not be so half-hearted. I needed a way out, now.

There was a T-shaped intersection at the end of this corridor, and I feinted left before turning right and continuing to make my escape. Just after I rounded the corner though, I was stopped by a bear of a man standing outside of his shop. I basically crashed in to him, and while I was still trying to recover my bearings, he wrapped an arm around me and dragged me briskly in to his shop. He shoved me back a ways, shuffling his wares around to somewhat conceal me if I crouched down. I did. He gave me a shushing gesture before returning to face the front of his store.

I could hear the guard round the corner and slow down, having lost sight of me. He began questioning some of the passers-by if they had seen me, but no one seemed to volunteer any information. I was breathing hard, both from nerves and from my flight, but I tried to steady my breath and breathe through my nose as I heard the guard begin to question shopkeepers. He would make his way here shortly, and the stalls were not that big. I was no more than seven or eight feet back from the main thoroughfare.

I had mostly gotten my breathing under control as he approached the stall I was in. I tried to remain as still possible; I didn’t even look at the guard for fear the whites of my eyes would stand out too vividly against my surroundings. I heard the man-bear who rescued me converse in a low tone with the guardsman, giving him a similar treatment as everyone else seemed to have. As the guard began to reach the end of his line of questioning, he stood up a little more straight and started smelling the air.

“Is that…smoked fish I smell?” My heart dropped. Every muscle in my body tensed. I began feeling around at the back of the stall, hoping it had a similar false-back as the aqua one - no such luck. I turned my head towards the front of the stall, hoping to gain insight in to whatever the guard was about to attempt to give myself a micro-edge. As he began leaning forward in to the stall, the shopkeeper crossed his arms rather poignantly.

Something on the shopkeeper’s hand caught the guard’s eye, and he straightened up almost immediately, seemingly struck by fear at whatever he had seen. My saviour grunted “You’re smelling my lunch. What’s left of it, anyway.” The guard seemed placated by that, nodded, and quickly left the stall I was hiding in. I could feel my body begin to tremble as all the adrenaline that had been dumped in to my system started escaping.

The shopkeeper waited for probably five minutes after the guard left before turning around to address me. He didn’t say anything, he just stared down at me. He was rather tall, easily over six feet, hairless above the neck except for bushy brown eyebrows flecked with grey. He had thick arms, covered in hair of a similar colour to his eyebrows, and a good helping of scars. His eyes were grey, sort of inhuman looking…almost canine. He looked at me like one assessing if something is a rival or food.

He seemed to have settled on “not food” for now and offered me his right hand. I looked at his left one as I was standing. He had a simple ring on the pinky finger, gold, inlaid with a black stone. Well, not black per se. It was…darkness made real. Nothing I had ever seen in my life had been that dark. It looked like he had captured a region of the night’s sky far away from any stars and set it in to his ring. As I stared at it, my hands tingled a little. I thought of the package I had just delivered.

This is part 2 of 3 of some work I did inspired by episode 10.5 of Writing Excuses (You can read part 1 here). 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 Vanessa, a rogue I have as a backup character idea for a D&D 5e campaign.

---

I am not a thief, and don’t let the guards try and convince you otherwise. They have it out for me. You get caught snooping around inside an estate worth more than entire villages one time and you’re branded for life here in Windcaller’s Roost. It’s bigotry I tell you. If they had caught a guy in that manor loaded to the teeth with parchment, quills, and ink, they would have believed him.

“I wasn’t going to take anything, honest!”

They weren’t hearing it. Can you actually be accused of stealing floor plans? Apparently the answer is “yes”.

Which is why I’m here at the market today, to drop off this…thing. I probably shouldn’t look at it, whatever it is, even if it doesn’t seem dangerous. I was given this package that is about the size of an apple, weighs about as much as one, and is wrapped in greyish cloth. I was instructed to find a booth with an aqua coloured awning and purple beads hanging from the front. Around back, inside the booth, there was to be an orange vase with the Wolf’s Insignia on it that I should drop this package in to. Then I was to make like a tree and get the hell out. After that, they would expunge my record and I would be a free woman again.

Why am I working with the Wolf if I’m not a thief? Who gave me this package? Just what was I doing in that estate? What are you, the magistrate? In order: none of your business, none of my business, and working.

As I was quietly contemplating the injustices that the world had recently levelled against me, I realized I was probably near the centre of the market and had not noticed a single stall on my way in. Whoops. This Gray Apple isn’t going to deliver itself. Probably. I stepped out of the main thoroughfare, which had a goodly amount of foot-traffic in the noon-day sun. The day was warm, but not oppressively so, with a crisp, salty wind blowing in off the sea that borders the wharves this market found itself upon. I stopped my brooding to turn my face towards the sun, soaking in the rather enjoyable atmosphere of this bustling marketplace. I should bring Trish here some time.

I concluded my imitation of a sunflower and got to work examining the stalls around me, looking for the distinctive colouration my contact had given me. They had neglected to give me a general location to look for it, but I wasn’t too worried about that. Not much escapes my eye when I decide it should be seen. Given that axiom to work from, I got out my supplies, estimated how long I had been contemplating the injustices of the world, and starting sketching the area out around me. I had a couple stalls with labels like “red drapes, dark wood, rough-looking bloke with eye-patch”, “yellow and green drapes, light wood, selling fish (?), rough-looking guy with missing teeth”, and “beige cloth, beige wood, caricatures being painted by” - you guessed it - “rough looking dude with arm scars”.

I guess it hasn’t been that long since the Roost went legit. Upstanding folks like myself (stop looking at me like that) have only begun to feel safe here in the last decade or so. That was about the time all these fine fellas got muscled out of the sea and had to start meaningfully contributing to society instead of pillaging and plundering the people with estates worth more than villages (stop looking at me like that. I’m not a pirate, either).

I finished sketching out my immediate surroundings and began walking in an ever-widening, counter-clockwise circle out from where I started, filling out my impromptu map as I went. I got back to where I had entered the market, having mapped out what I estimated to be about 70% of the total area, and had yet to find any sign of the stall I was hunting for. Darn. I was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.

I marched up to the stall with the least dumb-looking ex-pirate I could find and rapped my knuckles on what amounted to a counter to attract his attention. He gave me a quick nod of acknowledgement, gesturing to the older gentleman he was presently engaged in conversation with, and effectively conveyed a non-verbal “one second, please”. I guess I wasn’t in a terrible hurry. As I waited, I inspected the wares out on display. It looked like this fellow was selling weapons consistent with his previous life: cutlasses, flintlock pistols, daggers, various accoutrements to hold the aforementioned weapons, black powder, the like. I think I even saw an épée.

“Afternoon there miss, what can I help you with?” The shopkeeper approaching me looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, though that could be the sun and wind damage to his skin making him look older than he actually was. He was shaved bald with a thick, chestnut brown beard covering most of his face and encroaching on his upper torso. He didn’t bear any of the markings of serious damage one usually acquires in his line of work, which led me to believe he was one of the lucky ones who served on a pirate vessel without having to undergo much combat. Which would explain why he had a bunch of weapons to sell instead of use.

I withdrew my map of the market and unrolled it between us, jabbing a finger down over his stall (labelled “red and white, guns and swords, guy looking not-so-rough”) and declared: “We are here. I am looking for a stall with an aqua awning decorated with purple beads along the front. It isn’t any of these stalls…” gesturing to the mapped-out area I had already covered, “Do you know where it might be?”

He seemed taken aback at both my directness and my line of questioning not related to weaponry or the procurement thereof.

“Oh, ah, ummm, aqua awning you say? I, ah, umm, hmmmm. No, I can’t say I’ve seen it, sorry miss.”

I began rolling up my map right around “sorry” when he seemed to find his mental footing and said:

“While you’re here, though, might I interest you in one of these fine swords I have for sale? Someone as determined as you are is sure to find themselves confronted regularly with antagonists. I know my loved ones feel better knowing that I go out in to the world well-equipped, I’m sure your husband would too.” He had spied my wedding band, a thin bit of silver without any flourishes.

He wasn’t wrong. Well, I mean he was wrong about one thing - her name is Trish. But that’s besides the point.

I didn’t seek out trouble, but trouble had its ways of finding me. I thought about Trish, alone in the shop, and I came up short. Dammit. Stupid merchants tugging on my stupid heartstrings with their stupid scare tactics. I turned back to his booth and ended up landing on a short steel dagger, about twice the length of my hand, that fit neatly up my sleeve (I am not a thief!) We haggled over the price and I eventually wore him down to something much more reasonable, paid him (told you), and tucked my new blade away to hopefully never be needed.

“Good luck finding…whatever it is you’re looking for in that booth, miss!” He called after me as I began walking briskly away.

Well damn. I wasn’t on a time-table, but it was starting to get late, the sun inching closer to the horizon causing the temperature to dip. Some of the stalls had begun closing up, either selling out or calling it a day as the chilly wind began driving people out of the market and back to their homes. I wasn’t sure how long my target stall would remain active; it would be a bit conspicuous to be the only stall open at a market. As I was contemplating my next move, not entirely watching my surroundings, I ran headlong in to someone walking in the opposite direction.

“Hey, watch it!” I barked out reflexively. The person who had so rudely derailed my train of thought looked to be a lad no older than 16 or 17, in a long brown-grey cloak, sporting a shock of messy black hair. He mumbled an apology under his breath and scurried away. As I watched him go I felt…off balance somehow. I began checking my belongings: Gray Apple, check. New dagger, check. Old daggers, check. Coin purse, ch…Shit. Typical.

“Hey get back here! Thief!” I shouted, without a hint of irony in the statement. I broke in to a run as I started shouting, but he had the initiative and was already a good ways down this particular corridor of stalls. I’m not super tall, and this kid had a head or so on me, which translates to a longer stride. On the plus side, I’m in better shape than most people, especially teens who haven’t yet had to start working on their physical health and could still take it for granted.

I wasn’t sprinting at my absolute fastest to try and catch him; instead I was keeping a pace that would allow me to keep up with him for an hour if need be. If I could keep my eyes on him, I could outlast him. He encountered a T-intersection at the end of the corridor, rubbernecked left and right, and took off to the right. Good. He had no plan. Every decision I could force him to make would buy me time to keep wearing him down. If he hesitated like that one or two more times, I could drop in to a full sprint and catch him.

I rounded the corner he had hesitated at and assumed he picked this way due to its lack of traffic. All the shops this far back in to the market had already closed up, and it was just him, 40 feet of open docks, and then me. I poured on a bit more speed as I saw him nearing the end of this corridor, which only had one exit, to the left. I began cheating to the side, anticipating his turn, hoping to make up time by taking the inside track. But he didn’t turn. He checked over his left shoulder as he was coming up on the bend, and I guess I was a lot closer than he had anticipated. He stared at me for a split-second too long and flew right through the front of the stall at the end of this row, his torso catching the counter and his legs flying up over his head in an unintentional front flip.

I saw the top of his head over the counter as he scrambled to his feet and disappeared out the back, through the curtains that hung there. I slowed a little as I approached the stall, careful not to make the same mistake. As I reached the stall I planted both palms down on the counter, kicked both legs out wide, and vaulted it easily, coming up on the other side in a roll.

Where I came face to face with an orange vase with a wolf’s smile imprinted in to the clay, with a chipped left tooth. I did a double-take and quickly checked out my surroundings. Aqua awning. Purple beads. No shopkeeper, no wares. I stared at this vase for a couple breaths as I realized I had inadvertently found the stall I had been spending all day looking for.

The thief.

I hopped up and stuck my head out the back curtains. I was met with the sight of dozens of wooden crates, varying in size from about two feet high to a good seven or eight. We had hit the part of the market that met with the edge of the wharf, where it stopped being a place for merchants and became one for seafarers. I figured the thief wouldn’t be able to move too rapidly through this terrain, and if I could get up on one of the larger boxes I could probably get a good view of my surroundings, maybe catch a glimpse of his hair…ahhh screw it. After buying the dagger I didn’t have much money left in there anyway. Kid probably needs it more than I do.

I pulled my head back in to the stall and took in my surroundings more thoroughly. Pretty unassuming. The vase was one of several of various colours, ranging in height from about half a foot to three or four. My target vase was about three feet tall, tapered towards the bottom, with a wide lip and open top. I also noticed a sign on the counter, leaning against one of the posts holding up the awning that had a hastily scrawled “back in 20” drawn on it. I decided I didn’t want to find out if that sign was sincere or not and unloaded the Gray Apple.

As I made way back up the row of stalls that had so serendipitously dumped me in to my target stall, I filled out as much of the remaining portions of the map I had been putting together as possible. It was almost entirely filled in at this point. I made sure to take a quick detour to the missing parts before departing. Trish would love to have a “Map of the Windcaller’s Market” to add to our catalog in the shop.

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.

This is a tribute to someone I didn’t know. Our specific relationship isn’t important. They passed away recently, and their life was meaningful to people I care about. Without going in to detail, this tribute may be giving them too much credit. Even so, I think the message is important.

To me, anyway.

---

Gus woke up to a familiar sound: seagulls squawking as the sun rose on a warm summer’s day. The smell of salty Atlantic sea air rolled in through the open window in his bedroom which, combined with the noise of the birds, roused him to consciousness. He pulled back the curtains and looked out over the ocean, breathing the smell in deeply (well, as deeply as he could).

He put himself through his morning routine, assembled a modest breakfast of toast and black coffee, and went to enjoy it out on his balcony. Gus lived on the eighth floor of a medium-sized apartment building, in a small town on the eastern coast of the United States (the specific name of which is not important to our story).

Gus enjoyed watching the maritime traffic from his balcony in the morning, before the day got oppressively hot and he was forced indoors. He saw some dinghies had already put out to the open waters before the sun had even risen, and were mere specks amongst the visual noise of the churning waters. The pleasure boats were all still moored at the docks though - their owners wouldn’t unleash them on to the waters for another couple hours.

As he finished off his toast, Gus lit the first of what would surely be many cigarettes today. He had stopped enjoying smoking years ago, but like his boat-watching, or the smell of the ocean, it was familiar. There was a comfort he took in the certainty of his routine.

Gus’ appearance was unremarkable for someone his age. He was in his late seventies, about 5’8”, somewhat stout, with salt-and-pepper black hair that he kept short, but not too short. He shaved regularly, didn’t need glasses, and dressed modestly, often in a pair of brown or tan slacks and a plain blue shirt of varying hues.

After about an hour or so of enjoying the view from his balcony, the day began to warm to an unpleasant degree, and Gus retreated to the interior of his apartment. As he shut the sliding screen door to the balcony behind him, he turned to head towards his easy chair when his calendar caught his eye. He thought for probably too long about what the date was before coming to the conclusion that tomorrow had a reminder scrawled on it:

“Jennifer - Birthday - 24”.

Like much of his life, he added these reminders to each successive year’s calendar on automatic. He would record birthdays and anniversaries for the last bit of family he had: his son, and his son’s two children, who he surmised were both now in their mid-to-late twenties. Gus hadn’t had regular contact with them for…almost twenty years? He couldn’t even remember why any more.

They weren’t part of the routine.

He stared at the scrawled note on the calendar. He could picture Jennifer clearly in his mind’s eye - as a five-year-old. What was she like now? He wondered if she took after him at all, or his ex-wife. Did she play any sports? What were her hobbies? He thinks he heard about a boyfriend when he last spoke to his son a year or two ago. How was that going?

His eyes watered slightly. He took a couple slow breaths, to steady himself. They weren’t terribly deep, but they helped quell the tide of emotion that had threatened to drag him out to sea. In that moment, he had resolved to himself: he would call her tomorrow. He would ask about her hobbies. He would ask if she would like to see him sometime. She could even bring that boyfriend.

He crossed the room with more purpose in his step than he had had in a while, and settled in to his easy chair. There was a big game today, and as long as the boys played well and those damn rookies didn’t choke like always, they should have it in the bag.

“I swear, if I had a nickel for every rookie that cost this team a title…” He muttered to himself as he scanned around for the remote. He found it, pointing himself back to the TV, and saw the corner of the calendar peeking around the edge of the TV. He smiled. Tomorrow.

…

It was past sundown and Gus was back out on his balcony, the night bringing the world respite from the oppressive heat of the day. He was whistling softly to himself, the last nub of a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He took a slow, final drag, and butted it out in the ashtray resting on a small folding table beside him.

He lifted himself from his chair with slightly more effort than usual, and made his way inside. As he turned to close the screen door behind him, he caught himself on the wall. His head was spinning. Must have gotten up too fast. He tried to steady himself, again taking slow, shallow breaths.

His arm was starting to hurt. A lot. Had holding himself upright really become this difficult? No, this wasn’t exhaustion, this was something else. He got a nervous look in his eyes and began casting around the inside of his apartment for the phone. He needed help. Now.

He saw it a couple feet away on the side table by his chair, turned, let go of the wall, and collapsed on the ground. He reached out with his good arm, but it was no use. It may as well have been on one of those dingies out at sea.

Panic began to overtake him. His one arm screamed in pain, a shooting pain driving up and down it. His chest hurt a lot; he could barely breathe. He was taking short, whimpering breaths, and began curling in to a ball on his apartment floor. He opened his eyes briefly against the pain, and looked up.

“Jennifer - Birthday - 24”.

Tomorrow.

His eyes welled with tears.

…

It was a couple days before anyone had noticed that Gus had been eerily silent, and absent from his usual routine (the parts at least that brought him briefly in contact with other people, like the super of his apartment, or the local grocer). Police had been called, and the worst had been confirmed. The body had already been removed and the apartment cleaned by professionals by the time Jennifer and her parents stopped by.

”…probably going to smell like cigarette smoke in there,” remarked Jennifer’s father as he lead their small troupe through the door. They now had the unhappy task to assess a life they barley knew, and decide what was worth keeping.

As they spread out, the first thing Jennifer was drawn to was the calendar. She saw her birthday marked, almost a week ago to the day. She looked at it quizzically and turned around to address her parents: “Why did he have my birthday on his calendar?”

She began flipping through the months. It wasn’t just hers. “Why did he have everyone’s marked? And your anniversary? Did he ever call you, or write a letter or…something?” Her dad frowned a little, and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he responded. He looked around at what was technically his father’s apartment, and saw the degrees and professional accolades his father had earned in life. They were faded, and a little smoke-damaged. He couldn’t help but look at them in a detached way, though: they were being assessed for their material value, not their sentimental value.

Jennifer made a small frowning face to herself, and looked back at the calendar.

“I wish he would have called.”