On time and set up, Sally's expectations of today are basically-- whatever happens happens. As it stands, and the slow trickle of a crowd begins to build, the stall she's set up for herself and her sister do not seem to be doing too badly. They fit right in with the products on display, neither the most boring in the space, nor the most elaborate, but she has two deadly weapons in the form of cute children who seem rather happy to engage and hawk the products set up on the table blanketed in a cool green cloth.
On her end, the theme seems to be organic beauty and healthcare products; corked bottles of home made shampoos and conditioners, rustic slabs of soap in the expected colours of clear ambers through to milky blues and greens, lavender and rose and jasmine visibly embedded as texture, hand creams and face creams in jars of different sizes, brightly coloured bath bombs, body scrubs, shaving creams, some candles of various sizes and scents for frivolity-- almost anything that can be made by one woman over the course of however long she has been here. They seem relatively mundane and innocuous, until the ingredients menu on display (to prevent people running into stuff they're allergic to) tosses in a few unexpected components, and outlines purposes that go beyond hygiene and guiltless organic purchases. Emotionally therapeutic things, confidence enhancers, glamour touches, and all listed so pragmatically that it doesn't come across as especially new age and dippy.
Sally is a bit like this as well, herself. She handles cash with the skill of someone who does, even with the disarming change of Baedal currency. Her hair is braided back with flower-clips, and an off-shoulder sweater is cinched around her waist with a braided belt over skinny jeans. She keeps one eye on her daughters, and has a bright smile for those that come by, ask questions, take things home.
At the other end of their shared stall, Gilly has set out a selection of dyed cloth bags tied tightly with pale gold ribbon; in front of them, she's placed a placard with the key for the color code, handwritten with flair in thick black marker. Remedies, luck charms, little bags of mischief and other miniature examples of the kind of work she's willing to do on a larger scale from the comfort of the Owens' kitchen - it's sort of like sample advertising, except none of the samples are free, not even the tiny witch figurines that she found in a second-hand store for cheap and repainted, crafting tiny cauldrons that accommodate a reasonably sized incense cone.
Those, she's not selling, but with a smile and a sale she'll point interested parties a couple stalls down to where a new friend of hers is.
Owens Stall
On her end, the theme seems to be organic beauty and healthcare products; corked bottles of home made shampoos and conditioners, rustic slabs of soap in the expected colours of clear ambers through to milky blues and greens, lavender and rose and jasmine visibly embedded as texture, hand creams and face creams in jars of different sizes, brightly coloured bath bombs, body scrubs, shaving creams, some candles of various sizes and scents for frivolity-- almost anything that can be made by one woman over the course of however long she has been here. They seem relatively mundane and innocuous, until the ingredients menu on display (to prevent people running into stuff they're allergic to) tosses in a few unexpected components, and outlines purposes that go beyond hygiene and guiltless organic purchases. Emotionally therapeutic things, confidence enhancers, glamour touches, and all listed so pragmatically that it doesn't come across as especially new age and dippy.
Sally is a bit like this as well, herself. She handles cash with the skill of someone who does, even with the disarming change of Baedal currency. Her hair is braided back with flower-clips, and an off-shoulder sweater is cinched around her waist with a braided belt over skinny jeans. She keeps one eye on her daughters, and has a bright smile for those that come by, ask questions, take things home.
At the other end of their shared stall, Gilly has set out a selection of dyed cloth bags tied tightly with pale gold ribbon; in front of them, she's placed a placard with the key for the color code, handwritten with flair in thick black marker. Remedies, luck charms, little bags of mischief and other miniature examples of the kind of work she's willing to do on a larger scale from the comfort of the Owens' kitchen - it's sort of like sample advertising, except none of the samples are free, not even the tiny witch figurines that she found in a second-hand store for cheap and repainted, crafting tiny cauldrons that accommodate a reasonably sized incense cone.
Those, she's not selling, but with a smile and a sale she'll point interested parties a couple stalls down to where a new friend of hers is.