Timestamp: 90th of Spring, 513AV
She was so, so pretty. The prettiest in the world.
The only sound was the quiet ‘shick-shick-shick’ of her sandals on the cobblestone road as she spun in place. Her skirt – the black one, with the lace overlay – rippled around her. She slowed to a stop, letting her arms, hair, and dress slow to a stop around her.
Rosela looked up at the Eyktol sun, and felt it warm her skin. She wasn’t in Eyktol, but she felt Syna knew she was looking down on a little piece of it when she shone over Riverfall. Around her was a marketplace, a strange hybrid of the Zhongjie Warrens, where she’d spent so much time after arriving in the city, and the marketplaces of Ahnatep, bursting at the seams with colored linens and spices.
There was one major change from either of these venues: she was the only soul around.
‘Shick…shick…shick’
She walked slowly down the center of the never-ending market, taking in the colors and allowing them to disappear into the nothingness behind her. There were stalls crammed with odds and ends, each more unnoticeable than the last. What was she looking for?
The very question twisted the stalls in her peripheral, and she turned abruptly to see…pottery. Ugly pottery. The single stall widened to fill her vision and she walked towards it, disgusted. Every piece seemed to be as one in its ugliness. Cracked. Dimpled. Deformed.
Cheap.
She could buy this entire stall and demolish it. Better yet, whatever simple-minded cretin had spawned these useless creations should pay her to demolish it. She leaned over the counter and saw into the chasm behind, a writhing darkness of sunburnt backs and downcast heads. They’d never look up, never see her; they wouldn’t dare. One of her hands slipped to the shelf next to her, a row of indistinguishably ugly tiny pots lining it. A single, filed fingernail tipped the shelf backwards, and the tiny pots wobbled, and fell from the shelf, shattering instantly on the table, despite their fall of mere inches. A lone pot survived the fall, rolling to the edge and teetering over the mass of slaves. She could have stopped it, could have reached out and plucked it from the edge, but didn’t. It rolled over, and broke deafeningly over one of the backs toiling below.
The slaves didn’t look up – they didn’t dare – but the noise seemed to echo like a thunderclap and Rosela immediately snapped away from the stall. Someone had heard the crack, she knew it, someone who would ask her why she’d broken it, and didn’t she care how much time had gone into it? Didn’t she know the maker was important, and why would anyone important buy the clothing of someone who broke pots?
She backed nervously into the crevice between the stalls, eyes darting at every moving shadow that held a whispering voice, and judgment. In her hands was a figurine, stolen from the pottery shelf, in the same ugly red clay as the pots. A mark on what would be the wrist showed the figurine to be an Ahnatep slave. Her own jaw jutting in anger, she slowly twisted her hand around the head and snapped it off the little clay shoulders. Grinding the pieces together in her hands, she was simultaneously thrilled by the feel of the pieces falling through her fingers, and terrified someone would see her.
She was so, so pretty. The prettiest in the world.
The only sound was the quiet ‘shick-shick-shick’ of her sandals on the cobblestone road as she spun in place. Her skirt – the black one, with the lace overlay – rippled around her. She slowed to a stop, letting her arms, hair, and dress slow to a stop around her.
Rosela looked up at the Eyktol sun, and felt it warm her skin. She wasn’t in Eyktol, but she felt Syna knew she was looking down on a little piece of it when she shone over Riverfall. Around her was a marketplace, a strange hybrid of the Zhongjie Warrens, where she’d spent so much time after arriving in the city, and the marketplaces of Ahnatep, bursting at the seams with colored linens and spices.
There was one major change from either of these venues: she was the only soul around.
‘Shick…shick…shick’
She walked slowly down the center of the never-ending market, taking in the colors and allowing them to disappear into the nothingness behind her. There were stalls crammed with odds and ends, each more unnoticeable than the last. What was she looking for?
The very question twisted the stalls in her peripheral, and she turned abruptly to see…pottery. Ugly pottery. The single stall widened to fill her vision and she walked towards it, disgusted. Every piece seemed to be as one in its ugliness. Cracked. Dimpled. Deformed.
Cheap.
She could buy this entire stall and demolish it. Better yet, whatever simple-minded cretin had spawned these useless creations should pay her to demolish it. She leaned over the counter and saw into the chasm behind, a writhing darkness of sunburnt backs and downcast heads. They’d never look up, never see her; they wouldn’t dare. One of her hands slipped to the shelf next to her, a row of indistinguishably ugly tiny pots lining it. A single, filed fingernail tipped the shelf backwards, and the tiny pots wobbled, and fell from the shelf, shattering instantly on the table, despite their fall of mere inches. A lone pot survived the fall, rolling to the edge and teetering over the mass of slaves. She could have stopped it, could have reached out and plucked it from the edge, but didn’t. It rolled over, and broke deafeningly over one of the backs toiling below.
The slaves didn’t look up – they didn’t dare – but the noise seemed to echo like a thunderclap and Rosela immediately snapped away from the stall. Someone had heard the crack, she knew it, someone who would ask her why she’d broken it, and didn’t she care how much time had gone into it? Didn’t she know the maker was important, and why would anyone important buy the clothing of someone who broke pots?
She backed nervously into the crevice between the stalls, eyes darting at every moving shadow that held a whispering voice, and judgment. In her hands was a figurine, stolen from the pottery shelf, in the same ugly red clay as the pots. A mark on what would be the wrist showed the figurine to be an Ahnatep slave. Her own jaw jutting in anger, she slowly twisted her hand around the head and snapped it off the little clay shoulders. Grinding the pieces together in her hands, she was simultaneously thrilled by the feel of the pieces falling through her fingers, and terrified someone would see her.
