[Streets of Zeltiva] The Monster In The Sky (Montaine)

[Erudite]

She watched him with tired and vertiginous eyes, her body as limp as a ragdoll, silently observing with lifeless eyes. Monty had found what he was looking for; a clay mug, identical to the many stained, cracked ones that littered the floor. The Konti breathed a heavy sigh as he made a victorious exclamation, presumably due to the discovery of the clean cup. She closed her eyes just as he turned to look at her, and instead, she let her sense of hearing take control.

A loud tapping sound, similar to the bumping of wood. Had he set the mug on the counter, on the floor? Or was it something else? She opened one eye and took a peek; it was a wooden bowl. She closed her eyes once more.There was a scuffle of footsteps, fading as it went further away from her. Monty was walking. Was he going to leave her? Retrieve something elsewhere? She felt too tired to open her eyes and find out for herself. Instead, she gave up on attempting to percieve what was going on through her other senses, and decided to relax. It was amazing what alcohol could do to her mind. It seemed to ease the tension that built up with in her, that had her fearful and worrisome of the consequences of the storm.

Her mother, her grandmother, and her sister. How were they? Were they fine, were they doing well, were they safe? The questions did not affect her negatively, however the possiblities. She felt numb and devoid of emotions, she was too tired to think deeply or heavily, she was sore and weak. Defeated? No, not just yet.

The howling wind bumped against the doors, the table, and her own aching back. She could almost feel the rain splattering against her damp clothing and her knotted hair, and it was absolutely sickening. The storm hadn't calmed down in even the slightest bit, and an overwhelming feeling of doom simply would not leave her exhausted mind. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of trickling liquid, and suddenly, something inside of her rumbled and festered, something she could not place. It wasn't fear, it wasn't anger - it was more physical than emotional. Her blurry vision caught sight of Monty, who was crouching near her and offering her a bowl. She furrowed her brows as she looked at him incredulously, yet her frail fingers wrapped around the item nonetheless. "Just... case..." she heard him say, though it remained broken and unclear. "In case?" she mumbled with a pout, "of what?"

No sooner had she realized that the answer was spewing out of her mouth in disgusting chunks. Vomit.

OOCIt's short and rather weak, I was rushing a little bit. Sorry!

[Montaine]

‘There we go, let it all out,’ Monty cringed slightly as a few flecks escaped the bowl and splattered onto his shirt. Shyke. Sure it wasn’t the first time he had had sick on his clothes, it wasn’t even the first time he had had other people’s on there, but it wasn’t an altogether pleasant experience regardless. Still he grimaced and remained steady with the bowl. At least she would feel better afterwards. Maybe. There was every possibility that she would be back over the bowl in another five chimes spewing out what remained of her breakfast. He wondered briefly at how experienced she was in such endeavours. The glassworker had found himself enjoying lunch in the wrong direction far too many times as a child that it left him largely unaffected as an adult. It was just a quick bend over, up the chunks and back again, no bad feelings. The first time he’d had someone else throw up on him, now that was something he remembered. His own regurgitory beginnings were lost to the ambiguity of infant memory but the time when Banden had unapologetically let rip on his brand new linen shirt was fresh and bitterly vivid in his mind. It had been just shy of a decade ago but petch it, that shirt was expensive! The retching was slowing. Monty gently took her hands each in turn and cupped them round the bowl. Once he was confident it was secure he let it go and sat down opposite her with his drink in hand. He peered into its darkness for any tell tale signs of rogue Konti breakfast and, satisfied that his beverage remained untainted, drank from it. The storm continued to rage outside. ‘Well Miss Erudite,’ the glassworker said, getting comfortable and resting his back against a fallen chair, ‘Seein’ what as you ain’t exactly in the position to make conversation, I’ll just do it for the both of us,’ he smiled at her, perhaps him talking would take her mind off the storm and the torrent of half digested meal remnants that had just made their way from her stomach to Gadger’s largest bowl, ‘If’n you’re new to Zeltiva, I s’pose you haven’t had much of a look round, but the place I found you, it usually has lots of stalls, old wooden stands far as the eye can see from the end o’ market road right down to the docks and along the shore. The bits down by the sea are the fish markets, they’re bigger than the other parts ‘cause it’s our largest home trade, fish. We ain’t got the land to make much else, see? If’n it weren’t for the big ol’ school up on the hill we wouldn’t get any trade at all. Me? I’m in glass, we got a stall not five chimes from this here pub, and a proper workshop ‘n’ things up westwards. We sell bits ‘n’ pieces from there too, sell lots to the university actually,’ Monty drank again and cocked his head as he looked at the fair doctor, ‘How’re you feelin’?’

OOCIf 447 words is short and using 'vertiginous' is weak, an Erudite epic must rival Paradise Lost!

[Erudite]

She couldn't remember the last time she vomited.

It could be another one of her first's, at least, she wanted it to be. This felt like the first time she felt so vulnerable and trapped by the forces of nature, and this was definitely the first time she'd ever drunk. Whenever she thought of vomiting, nothing close to home ever came to mind. She'd never met a heavy-drinking Konti, nor had she ever met with a hungover one, or one retching into a wooden bowl. It was another first, indeed.

The very burn that clawed the back of her throat induced her to cough out every single bit of her breakfast. Her tongue burned with an unmistakable bitterness that could only be attributed to vomiting out partially digested food. Her stomach churned painfully, as if it wanted to empty out even the organs attached to it. She groaned, her shivering hands almost ready to drop the bowl, only to have them steadied by Monty.

"There we go, let it all out," she heard him say, in a voice and a tone that shock her quite a bit. It didn't sound like him to her, the words didn't seem to match the ones that he'd been using around her ever since they first met. It was refreshing, and it seemed to calm her quite a bit. Saliva dripped out of her mouth as her stomach found itself completely empty and unable to expel anything else. Her body stopped convulsing and her hands went still as Monty moved away and assumed a comfortable position in front of her. Sighing, she closed her eyes and rested the bowl as far away as possible, clearly unable to handle the sight of her own vomit.

"Well, miss Erudite," she heard Monty say. She curled up and rested her legs against her chest, wrapping her arms around them in a tired embrace. It felt nice to hear her name, as she wasn't much of a fan of the honorific that he had been using on her a while ago. He'd paired it up with another one, but at least he was calling her by name. She lifted her chin up gingerly, sore eyes barely catching Monty's gaze as she blinked away the burning pain in her chest. Vomiting was horrible. She felt just about ready to collapse, to faint, to black out and forget that the morning ever happened, that she ever sailed to Zeltiva or met the man who sat in front of her. Her eyes threatened to close, she lost the taste of pennies in her mouth, and was just about ready to go limp, when she saw him smile.

She was a stupid girl, a stupid young girl. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed, hidden beneath the pair of ivory hills that were her knees. Feigning dizziness, she quietly listened in as the man continued to speak. His words, coupled with his smile, warmed her heart and eased her angry muscles. The storm didn't feel so bad anymore, in fact, it felt more like just another ordinary rainy day with a good friend. He was a great companion, a great person, it seemed, and she couldn't help but develop a little bit of a crush on him.

He was telling her more about Zeltiva, about his home, and what he did. "Glass," she mouthed, silently grateful for her legs as they covered the majority of her flushed face. She eyed him curiously as he took another sip of his drink, wondering to herself how he handled his alcohol so well. Furrowing her brows and pouting, she wished that she had the same willpower. It could undoubtedly lead to less disasters, though, it wasn't completely necessary, either.

"How're you feelin'?"

The question made her jump. Her eyes scanned his features as she drank in his words and the way he pronounced them. The subtle accent, the hint of a slur; she found the way he spoke rather charming and eccentric. She wasn't used to it, it was new to her, and new things have always had a way of pulling at her heartstrings.

"Fine," she managed with a throaty grunt, her words muffled and soft. She pressed her bitter lips against her bare knees and sighed through her nose, hoping quietly that if the storm were to let them live, that she would have the chance to meet with Monty again.

"Thank you," she added with a shy squeak, her eyes immediately chasing the fleeting shadows that raced around the dimly lit bar, suddenly unable to meet eyes with her companion.

[Montaine]

For such an observant fellow the glassworker could be terribly oblivious to what presented itself right before his eyes. He was observant, of course. He had spent the majority of his youth confined to his room, living vicariously through the infrequent glimpses into others lived provided by his seat by his father’s window. He would identify their quirks, each passer-by’s particular foibles and wonder just precisely where they came from. There was one woman, he recalled, who had a laugh so distinctive he could tell that she was coming down the road before she even came within view of his watch post. She cackled and guffawed with such a screeching ferocity and at the slightest instigation. In the mind of the little boy that watched her pass and listened to her riotous laughter she was the daughter of merchant man and a kelvic owl and as she grew up she developed a laugh reminiscent of the mother that had carried and cared for her and it had persisted into her adult life. There was a man. The man would pass by every five days at precisely seven bells past the day without fail for every year he could remember. He was heavily cloaked no matter the weather or the time of year and always had a permanent grimace plastered across his pasty, greasy features. But one day, in early summer 499 AV, he failed to turn up at seven bells. It didn’t turn up at eight bells, or nine bells, or at any time that day, nor five days later, nor ten. In fact, it was the last time he had ever seen the suspicious man, but in the head of the little boy a story blossomed and bloomed. The man was having a raucous, devious affair with the wife of a night working council official, every fifth night he would meet her and in the throes of passion declare his love but every fifth morning he would be forced to slink away, disguised by his heavy cloak, before her husband returned home. He spent many years suffering the heartbreak each fifth morning brought until, in early summer 499 AV, she finally succumbed to his desires and the two of them eloped, fleeing across the continent from her husband’s cuckolded wrath. As he matured, however, Monty learned to separate the fact from the fiction. It was enjoyable to invent back stories to the strangers and passers-by yet more often than not the truth was just as interesting. That wasn’t true in all cases, of course, Mory was dull as dishwater. Yet despite this predilection for identifying idiosyncrasies and tells in his conversational sparring partners certain things always slipped him by. Blushing young women, for instance. ‘So,’ he started, ‘You must’ve come a long way yourself if’n you’re from that island you ‘n’ yours have, what is it, Mura? I’ve never been out of the harbour, not since I were too young to remember it anyhow, I always imagine it must be awful diff’rent out there,’