multiversallogs | A day at the market!

Entry tags:

A day at the market! :: OPEN

Who: OPEN, NPCs if needed.
What: A guided trip to the Aspic Bazaar
Where: Aspic
When: Coardi ~~Wednesday~~ Morning
Notes: OOC post here.

It's spring in Baedal and the Bazaar in Aspic is full of life. The sun shines on colourful buildings, bleaching tentweaves draped over market stalls. The air is full of shouts and animal noises, customers haggling with merchants and tradesmen striking deals. Children of different species rush back and forth, unattended in the crowd.

There are a lot of things on display in the market. Local produce and wares sit next to strange and exotic bleed-through goods, all of which the sellers are quick to guarantee the genuineness and legality of. Less honest characters also visit the market, it is generally known as an official stomping ground for one of the city's more notorious criminal enterprises. The city is aware of this, of course, and while Militia presence here is not as keenly felt in other place, it may be noticeable in the cares some people take.

It's still considered a safe place, or as a safe a place full of haves and havenots in a strange city can be. It's certainly considered a safe enough place to send newcomers for quick introduction to local sights and economics.

The (more recent) residents of the Valhalla Inn and anyone on the CeidaryBlue523 Node have been encouraged to visit the place. They have also been encouraged to not go alone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

At least Mal is clean-shaven and washed -- and he will never not bath every night if he can help it because sometimes he still looks down at his hands and sees rusty red and mud dried into the grooves of his skin -- with neatly pressed clothes. It's just too bad his clothing choices are a faded and drab olive-grey shirt with black pants but at least it makes Cassandra's clothing look much ore whimsical and bright in comparison.

The medic has one hand shoved deep into his pocket while his other hand keeps hold of the strap of his medical bag and it's this shoulder he shrugs, smiling at her. "Seattle Washington originally; s'a city like this one and the market is similar though I was never allowed down in it."

Mal's eyes move steadily around them, watching everything that moves too close or might be armed. "Haven't been there in two years, anyway. And what about yourself? S'not a style of dress I'd find anywhere on Earth."

"I'm from Earth," Cassandra replied with a slight shrug. "These clothes, however, are not." Sighing, she ran a hand through her wild, untamed curls. How many times had she told her story now? It was getting ludicrous. "This is the third time I've been abducted to another world. The first time was two years ago, to a place called Rowan. The second time was about ten months ago, to a place called Willaknapp. These clothes are from Rowan."

She actually was rather fond of them. There was something delightful about being able to wear trousers. They were easy to move and run in, less clumsy than her old chitons. The only problem was that the corset did not leave quite enough to the imagination, but Cassandra had moved past caring about that too much.

"I've never heard of Seattle," she mused. "But judging from your accent, I'm guessing you're not English. I've met a lot of English people. Are you an American?"

"Not having a bit of luck on that front at all, are you?" Mal's expression reads mildly amused and cautiously horrified all at once, though he smooths it out to give her a reassuring smile as he hitches his bag more comfortably against across his shoulder.

Dark eyes slide slowly across her face and over her shoulder (He keeps his gaze firmly trained on the neck or above whenever he looks at her) before they widen slightly as a ...something ...lumbers away behind her carrying a load of carpets.

"Uh." He utters and then his eyes shoot right back to her face. "I am. Actually. Yes. I mean, I've been to England but yeah. American. What, uh, where are you from if it's not to presumptuous to ask, Miss?"

Cassandra glanced over her shoulder, spotting the carpets. Quickly, she stepped out of the way, ducking her head just in case. She knew that the marketplaces back home had been just as busy, but she had never actually been in one of them before. She had thought about it, dreamed about what it might be like to walk among the people. But thinking about it and dreaming about it had never really made it a reality.

Yet one more reason she was glad to be free of Troy.

And as that thought flashed through her mind, he asked her where she was from.

Well, this was fast becoming one of her favorite parts of meeting new people. Cassandra sighed wearily. "I come from a city to the west of Persia," she mumbled. "Called Troy."

Hey, a question asked is politely returned; Cassie has only herself to blame.

Mal reaches out a hand to hover about her shoulder in case steadying in the jostling crowd is needed as he quickly and quietly goes over this information in his head, his expression politely blank and calming.

After a few seconds he mentally shrugs; he's held a rational conversation with a magical peacock at dinner a few nights ago and he's more then a little sure he'd seen a bright red hell-spawnish creature wandering around the Inn -- walking classical literature shouldn't pose a problem to his already (obviously) unstable mental health, right?

He smiles carefully, hand still hovering protectively, voice holding only the slightest lilt of question. "Your English is certainly better then my Greek, then."

Her reaction to his hand was automatic. She flinched, pulling away, just out of his reach. Of course, he probably didn't mean her any harm, but Cassandra had problems with being touched. Especially by men. Especially by men she didn't know. Especially by men she didn't know who hadn't asked her permission first. All of this flashed through her mind in a second, but she quickly relaxed, offering what passed for a slightly apologetic look.

That was, until his crack about Greek.

"I don't speak Greek," she said, keeping her voice even. "The Greeks always referred to us as barbarians. They thought our language just sounded like someone going 'bar-bar-bar.'" She rolled her eyes. "Most of them were fools."

Well, at least he hadn't asked her if she was that Cassandra.

Yet.

Quickly treading back three steps, Mal spreads one hand wide while pressing the other to his bag (even in surprise he has trouble with the thought of thieves stealing what goods he has in the tiny medic's satchel). Still, he smiles again -- he hasn't smiled this much in months and it's making his face ache in ways that's just sad to think about -- attempting to convey understanding.

"I'm sorry; that was downright stupid of me to joke about. I wouldn't like it if someone made a reference about myself speaking like a Kraut with only half-remembered schoolhouse knowledge to fall back on."

A deep breath. "How about we forget what a jerk I was, we see if we can find something even close to tobacco in this mess of stalls for me and something interesting for you. Deal?" Silently he includes an offer of making sure nobody else gets close enough to make her flinch while keeping his own one-pace distance.

Cassandra allowed a slight smile. She found his clumsy kindness endearing, enough so that she was willing to overlook his attempts to touch her. As for the commentary about her speaking Greek...well...she really had no idea what a Kraut was, but sensed that he had somehow been the victim of such misunderstandings in the past. She had the capacity to forgive. An oddly human flame still smoldering inside.

"All right," she said. "But there's something I need to know first." She flushed a little. "What is tobacco?"

"It's a plant. You dry it and then roll -- well, here." Mal flips open his satchel, digging about in it until he pulls out a slightly crumpled rectangular package with 'Lucky Strike' emblazoned on the side. With quick, sure tap to the bottom, one cigarette pokes out and Malcolm offers it to her with one hand even as he taps out the lighter and juggles that into his palm with the other (talent for sure but one he'd taken to in Bastogne. One less hand fiddling with cigarettes was one less hand flailing around for longer then it had to in the cold).

"Some people just tap it into a pipe but cigarettes are more common now'a'days. You light it up and breath in, hold the smoke in your lungs and mouth a moment before breathing it back out." He quirks a smile. "It's therapeutic as anything."

She took the cigarette curiously. "Therapeutic," she repeated, testing the word out, letting it roll off of her tongue. "Meaning...it makes you fell good?" Well, that seemed bizarre. Cassandra had been around plenty of fire in her life, inhaled smoke. She had never found that terribly comforting. Then again, in those instances, she had been afraid for her life. Perhaps she simply hadn't taken the time to consider the smoke. Context was a heavy thing.

"I've never heard of that, although, now that I think of it, I seem to recall some of the western tribes smoking a hookah. I think it's a similar sort of thing." Still, she hadn't heard the word tobacco in that context.

She glanced up at him, her eyes dark and appraising. "Lucky Strike? What makes them lucky? The fact that they make you feel good? Therapeutic?"

Mal laughs, a slient huff of air and shaking shoulders, ducking his head down to his chest. "You know, I've never much bothered to think about where the name really comes from. Maybe as a lure to those hoping to strike it lucky in life. It doesn't actually have that effect, though, you're right."

"I'm actually craving a smoke right now if you want to see what the fuss is." He waves the lighter, nickle-plating flashing in the light. There's a second to consider and then he laughs again, self-depricating. "But I don't suppose it actually sounds appealing when described does it?"

Cassandra shrugged slightly. "No," she admitted. "But then again, there are quite a lot of things in this world that don't sound terribly appealing when described." Sex was the first to come to her mind, not that she would ever say such a thing out loud. Well, maybe to Apollo. But certainly, she wouldn't say it to a virtual stranger.

Her curiosity was really getting the better of her. Cassandra wanted to know what all the fuss was about. "Show me how it works," she said, handing him back the cigarette which, she imagined, might well be very precious to him, especially if he could find no proper imitation or substitute in this city they were trapped in.

The medic nimbly plucks the smoke from her hand, placing it between his lips as he looks around. Not really seeing any place in the immediate area that sells drinks, Mal shifts his bag around and unclips the top of his canteen from where it sits on his belt.

"Alright, first thing first." Mal grins around the cigarette, letting it dangle a bit loosely from his lips as he talks. "Don't inhale. You want to hold the smoke in your mouth not your lungs. Not at first."

Mal flicks the lighter to life, pulling it close and cupping the flame and tip with one hand and breathes in. He makes a point of holding it in his mouth a couple of seconds before he inhales a little deeper before clicking the lighter closed and pulling the smoke free, letting the smoke stream out between his lips after it. The final little bit he rounds out his mouth and makes a few tiny rings in the air.

"Don't inhale too deeply your first few tries and then inhale the smoke that's already in your mouth down before letting it out again. Alright?"

Cassandra watched him with wide, curious eyes. She was especially fascinated by his lighter. It seemed a far more efficient way to stoke a fire than some of the more traditional methods with which she was accustomed. After all, rubbing two sticks together took a very long time. He had created fire within two seconds.

She listened to his explanation. It still sounded a little peculiar, but she supposed she'd understand better if she tried it for herself. "I think I understand," she told him after a moment. "Hold the smoke in your mouth, not your lungs."

Malcolm is a little in love with his lighter too; it's made life a lot easier the past few months. He's going to be so upset when he runs out of lighter fluid and wick.

"First step, anyway." With a sort of doubtfully amused expression, Mal hands the smoke over, nodding in agreement.

He hesitates and then in the interest of full discloser he adds. "Most first time smokers end up coughing up a lung no matter how prepared. Just. You know. So you're aware."

He has the canteen all ready to go!

She took the cigarette, a bit uncertain how to hold it at first. She was afraid of burning herself. Then again, she supposed, that might come with sucking on the tip. Nodding slightly, she took a drag...

And immediately started coughing.

Well, at least Malcolm had warned her.

Cassandra leaned over, feeling a bit like her lungs were on fire. There was definitely nothing lucky about those Lucky Strikes. Maybe Malcolm was crazy. She hadn't paused to consider that.

"Perhaps that's not for me," she said, handing it back to him.

Mal has the canteen unhooked completely and ready for her in a bare minute, his other hand calmly accepting back the cigarette so he can lay it back between his own lips.

The effort to keep himself from actually laughing is enough that it leaves his face crinkled up into amused lines so over-taking that you can barely make out the black eyes. "Perhaps not." Is all he says in reply, however.

"Take a few sips and you can keep the canteen for now; you'll probably want a few more as we go along just to help remove the taste." The medic looks up and around again, performing his now-routine scan of the area, puffing in and then continuing to speak on the exhale in a rather draconic manner. "I don't think we'll find what I'm looking for today so perhaps we should take a wag around for what you want."

Cassandra accepted the canteen, taking a healthy sip of water. She immediately felt better, if not a little bit embarrassed. "Well," she said, once she could find her voice again, "I've always wanted to try everything. This is just something else to cross off that list." In truth, it had never been on the list, but that probably had something to do with the fact that cigarettes didn't really exist in Troy.

She let her eyes dart around the market. "All I really need is some fabric. I can't spend the rest of my life in these clothes." She took another sip of water. "The man...or...well...thing at the employment office seems to think I can find a job in a tailor's shop." It wasn't exactly appealing, but it was better than living on the streets and starving. Or worse yet, having to move in with someone. A particular someone.

"What about you?" she asked, pushing that thought aside. "What sort of trade do you practice?"

"I haven't made time to see the employment office yet." He probably should but he's still trying to get his mental shit together while maintaining an outward apperance of calm and fortitude.

It's an effort that's sort of exhausting him.

He gestures forward towards some stalls fluttering with fabric, keeping a decent distance to the side of Cassandra as he starts walking. "I've been a medic for what feels like forever but, jeez louise, it can't really have been more then two years. Before that I helped about in my father's tailoring business and mother's flowershop while I watched the little monsters and went to school."

It sounds like a lot all at once but Mal's compacting his life from age nine up to now into one sentence. "We have something in common with the tailoring then."

"You watched monsters?" she asked, a bit incredulously. That had to be some figure of speech with which she was unfamiliar, right? Otherwise, Malcolm had suddenly become a lot more interesting to her.

And even if it was just some cliche, it was often she heard of a man tailoring clothing. That was interesting too.

"A medic is a type of healer, is it not?" she mused, walking up to one of the stands and running her fingers over a bolt of fabric. It was absolutely exquisite, scarlet with a pattern of leaves and flowers in gold thread. Far too expensive for her, of course, but she couldn't help but look. "Sounds like a useful trade. I'm sure you can find work here. People always get sick."

From that tone of voice, it's pretty obvious that Cassandra is considering taking him at the literal level and both of Mal's hands fly up, waving in front of himself lightly, as if to ward off the mere idea of that as gently as possible. "No. Uh. No, no. Not real monsters; my younger siblings is what I meant. Sometimes they just act the part of monsters."

Realizing he's still waving his hands about like a fool, Malcolm shoves them back into his pockets. "A medic is a basic healer, yes'um. We're not even supposed to stitch up a wound but, well, I've always been a neat hand with a sewing needle and can at least identify what you shouldn't eat or what can sooth."

He can send messages with flowers too! He's like the worst sort of jack-of-all-trades ever. "Do you know anything about plants for dyes or the like?"

"A little," Cassandra said. "Although I could never really master the art of blue die. The plants are very rare where I come from. I was never able to make enough of it. We had to buy blue thread from the east."

And speaking of blue, her eyes fell upon a gorgeous bolt of blue fabric. It was cobalt blue, like the color of Helen's eyes. There was a pattern of spirals in the thread, of the same color, but going against the rest of the stitching. She ran her fingers over it, luxuriating in the feel of it. This was something she would definitely have to return for, once she has some more money.

"How many siblings did you have?" she asked, turning back to Malcolm. She could actually understand the monster comment. She had quite a few younger brothers and sisters herself.

"Two." And he misses them fiercely, although that at least he masters a non-commental expression over. Not that it matters, since he's fairly obvious about it as soon as he opens his mouth but it's the thought that counts. "James Carmicheal should be turning nine soon, maybe a month if my times aren't all out of wack. He's a sunny little dork; really into the proper ways to dig up dinosaurs and the like. And Patricia! She was thirteen when I left and cocky with it!"

Malcolm reaches forward to tug the material sharply between his hands, looking for a weakness in the weave as he continues, turning to roll his eyes deliberately and expressively at Cassandra. "The big dark eyes routine never worked for me, you know. Too gawky otherwise. But Patricia Lorriane? Gawky just looks sort of long-limbed on her so the big black eyes on her stupid face just get her her way with everyone."

Giving another few bolts of fabric a look over he makes a few faces at Cassandra. "What about you -- any siblings you miss?"

In a few minutes he's going to start asking the merchant questions and making faces like they're shockingly over-priced.

Cassandra had no idea what he meant about the 'big dark eyes routine,' but she suddenly felt a bit self conscious and found herself averting her eyes from him. Was there something wrong with having big, dark eyes? Certainly, she had never been told such. On the contrary, Othryoneus used to say that her eyes were her most attractive feature. She would have to find a way to learn more about that one.

But another time.

For now, Cassandra could relish one of her favorite comments. "Oh, I had fifty brothers," she said nonchalantly. In the past, she had gotten a variety of reactions to that one, along a continuum as entertaining as the reactions she got when she said that yes, she was that Cassandra. "And eleven sisters," she continued. "I suppose I miss my youngest sister, Polyxena, the most. She was sixteen."

He certainly meant none of the horrible things Cassandra is fretting about -- his own eyes are ink-black and fairly wide -- so if there is some sort of negative stigmata he's unaware. Therefor her sudden need to avert her eyes just confuses him.

And then she hits him across the face with her siblings and Mal ends up choking on his cigarette and forgetting all about the lack of eye-contact. "That's. Christ Alm-- I mean jeez." Malcolm coughs a bit more, although this is mostly to cover for his nearly taking the Lord's name in vain in front of a lady.

"I thought grandma had it tough with thirteen children. Is that. Well." There is no polite way to ask how many women someone's father has screwed so Mal just hurries on past that. "She a sweet girl, your sister?"

The poor merchant is looking a little frazzled over the fact that Malcolm seems to have forgotten he's clutching samples of fabric.

A day at the market! :: OPEN

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Trufax, I made a smoker-friend of my explain this to me X3

no subject

no subject

no subject

Livejournal. Stop eating my posts. Thanks.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)