The 80th of Winter, 513 A.V.
Wingard hated Market Days.
Unlike everyone else that seemed to revel in the wares available to purchase, or the bustling crowds of excitement that relished at spending money and seeing familiar faces, the Eagle dreaded it. The hoard of people encouraged contact; a dreadful experience where his bare skin would make contact with another which allowed disease to transfer and bacteria to fester, that literally made the Kelvic’s skin crawl. In addition, it often lead to people believing that he wished to become friendly with them, so unknown faces that he didn’t want to bother to get to know suddenly were in his personal space asking questions that he didn’t want to answer. No, to Wingard, market days were excuses for people to congregate and get into one another’s business so that when they left, they had new gossip to spread about their neighbours.
Hissing in annoyance as someone bumped him, the young rapture tried to minimize the amount of space he occupied by pressing himself against a nearby wall. The only reason he had come down here was to pick up some sparring dummies for his training session with Turrin, as well as additional rations for his depleting kit. The rations had been easy enough to purchase, Wingard stuffing them into the satchel he had brought, but he was having trouble finding satisfactory training dummies. Those he had come by thus far hardly looked worth the price that was asked for and the merchants ‘deals’ should have been considered criminal. Letting out a groan at the idea of having to brave the crowded streets once again, the rapture allowed himself a single moment to pray to whatever deity was the giver of patience. He would never consider himself needlessly violent, but if one more person tried to catch his attention to inquire about his health this season, he was not too sure if he’d be able to keep his response civil.
Sighing dramatically, he trudged back into the fray.
Wingard remembered a time when he had loved his visits to the market. When he was a child, his father would ready them for the market in the early morning, his dad’s calloused hand holding his closely as they travelled through the Inner Warrens. It had all seemed so magical then, the little fledgling’s eyes wide open as he marveled over the newness of it all. Stands upon stands were lain open for anyone’s eyes to explore; glass, metalwork, arrows and beautifully crafted bows decorating the figurative tree of celebration. Edric used to yearn to reach forth and touch everything his grubby hands could land upon, but his father always lead them to his respective booth where he would diligently help his dad set up for the day. Syna would hardly be in the sky, he remembered, and together they would work, his father directing him. Those market days together had been his favourite and the eagle had looked forward to them each morning he had arisen early.
But somewhere along the way, Wingard had lost the gleam of excitement in his eye and the presence of blood to his side and no longer did the Market appeal to him.
Waving away an inquiry about his interest in someone’s glasswork, the man trekked through the crowded area towards another training supplier. The booth he visited seemed well-equipped, he noted, his eyes flicking over each weapon with a clinical eye. Greeting the merchant, the Avora nodded his head towards a training dummy set to the side of the display. It was thick in construction, the groove in the wood creating the crude shape of a body that was covered by minimal armor. It would be perfect for hacking his sword into he figured, allowing him to aim at the general vicinity of an enemy’s anatomy that he could bring to a spar later on.
“How much is it?” He asked, his tone nonchalant. The last thing he needed was for this blighter to know that he was interested.
The merchant seemed to perk up at such an inquiry and smiled broadly, “Well there, Avora. It’s nineteen gold pinions and four silvers. But for you, I’ll give it to you for 16 gold.”
He stared blankly at the idiot. Did he really think he would pay that much for a hunk of wood? Wingard paid less for his bow for Zulrav’s sake.
“If that log was worth that amount, I’d pay it. But since it’s not, let us not waste another’s time. 8 gold pinions and two silvers.”
The merchant looked at him as if he was the robber, “Don’t you realize how much time goes into constructing these? There’s no way in Uldr that I’ll be taking that shyke of an offer.”
The Kelvic looked at him dispassionately. He had purposefully offered an abysmal offer, knowing that when it came to haggling one had to start low and build upwards towards a compromise. Or at least make it appear like he was compromising. Pasting a thoughtful expression upon his face, the hunter tapped his lip to enhance the effect and said, “What if we compromise with ten gold and I’ll purchase that wooden sword over there for another eleven pinions.”
The merchant seemed to think about the request for a moment before sighing in resignation. “Fine, fine, hunter, you win. Twenty one gold for the dummy and sword.”
Wingard easily handed over the necessary coin before thanking the merchant and bidding him a good day. Slinging the dummy over his shoulder, the Kelvic let out a gleeful cackle as he smacked some unsuspecting victim with the wooden base. Now with an acceptable weapon to deter others from coming too close, the Eagle walked genially through the crowds, knocking anyone upside the head that strayed too close to him. Next time, he’d be sure to buy such a device first, rather than last.
Suddenly, the market wasn’t feeling so claustrophobic.
