Family Outing (Uncle Monty)

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

OOCFires...? FIRES!?! I'm offended! As if Tock would EVER!!! ...She'd use an axe to take the place down. Fire would ruin all the good salvage. "Darn right I will," Tock said to the comment about cutting off the frills. She was holding up a shirt with so much lace on the cuff that she was sure it would cover someone's hand! How could someone hope to get any work done wearing something like that. She glanced over towards another customer who was wearing a similar shirt and said, "I betcha ain't don't never lifted a finger ta does yer own work a day in yer life?" She shook the shirt at him, and then tossed it back into the messy pile. Another clerk appeared, eying the mess, and stepped up to Tock, shaking a measuring string at her. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "Are you a customer," he looked her up and down with an expression of clear doubt and disgust, "or have you simply decided to come in here and ruin all of our fine garments?" That was about the end of Tock's patience. "Oy, now yous listen 'ere!" she said, stepping up and snatching the string out of the man's hand. "I done 'ad 'nough o' 'is, aye? My friend's 'ere spendin' good money, an' it done been 'bout time someone taught ya 'ow ta pull 'at stick out yer arse!" She grabbed the man by his arm and led him sputtering and protesting out the door. "Madam, I say!" he cried out in protest. She stopped him on one of the stone steps that led up to the building entrance. "What is the meaning of this?" "What's 'is?" she asked him, kicking the step he was standing on. He looked down at it and sputtered, "Whatever are you talking about?" "'Is," she tapped the stone with her foot again, "whazzer called? What's she made out of?" The man rolled his eyes and said, "The steps? They're made of stone." "Wrong," Tock said, planting her fists on her hips. "Alabaster. I done thought you was a smart guy? Don't know somethin' simple like 'at? What's 'at made outta?" she pointed at the sign above the shop door. The man stared at her like she was crazy. "The sign? It's wood..." He clearly had no clue why she was wasting his time like this. "What KIND o' wood?" she asked, tapping her knuckles on his forehead. He batter her hand away and said, "How should I know? Oak?" "Ash," Tock educated him. "Oak's a lighter shade. 'Ow's ya s'posed ta think yer better 'an me, if'n ya can't done answer some simple questions." She shook a finger in his face and asked, "'Ow ya calculate the area o' a triangle? O' the volume o' a sphere?" The man just stared at her, his mouth working as he tried to think how to answer. "I... don't know," he admitted. "Dunno math neither?" Tock asked, throwing her arms up. "What DOES ya know? 'Istory? Philosophy? Oy, 'ow 'bout Ala'ean war practices? Rituals? Religious sacrifices?" The man seemed completely lost, but all these things had come up in Tock's University studies. She crossed her arms and stared the man down, "So what DOES ya know? Huh? Done there been anythin' what ya done knows what I don't?" She waited, while the man licked his lips and searched for an answer. Finally, after a moment, he straightened his shirt, raised his chin, and said, "I know fashion." Tock laughed so hard she nearly fell over. By now the argument had drawn quite a bit of attention from passerby. People were staring, and the clerk seemed very uncomfortable, though Tock just didn't care. She slapped the man jovially on the arm and said, "Oy, good one, bloke! Tell ya what, ya keep yer 'fashion,' aye? I'll take my architecture, engineerin', 'istory, philosophy, an' magic over 'at, aye?" Still laughing, she shook her head and stepped back inside, leaving the man there to scoop up the pieces of his shattered pride.

[Montaine]

It was a short while before Montaine managed to shoehorn himself into the clothes the tailor provided. The man had insisted that the clothes were designed to fit someone of his stature and build, and that snug fitting was the height of fashion in what passed for high society in a post Valterrian world. The glassworker had stripped down to his undergarments, which were treated to just as derisive a look as the rest of his apparel, and the tailor had insisted on taking his measurements before finally permitting him to squeeze into a pair of brown velvet breeches, a supposedly appropriately sized shirt and a red brocade waistcoat that compressed his stomach most uncomfortably. The tailor brought him back out into the front of the shop, to a tall, full length mirror and presented him with his reflection. Monty subconsciously brushed the hair from his eyes as he looked at the man mirrored in the glass. He glanced over at Tock, his forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows arched as he searched her for any sign as to how he looked. His thoughts flashed back to what Tock had said outside, something that shows off your attributes. He patted his stomach through the waistcoat and turned around to look at himself from behind. The tightness of the breeches certainly wasn’t subtle in that area. Would he like it? He felt his face heat up and attempted to disguise it with a cough, ‘Whatchya think, Tock? Seems alright to me. I ain’t not never worn nothin’ this soft before. Think I could go’n get anythin’ worthwhile in this?’ It certainly wouldn’t hurt if he managed to attract a temporary suitor. It had been quite a while since he had last irritated old Mrs Nolty with loud, late night shenanigans. It was understandable, he told himself, he was in mourning, to an extent. But perhaps, just perhaps, he was ready to practice his carnal charms once more. Maybe it would help to get the petching sailor out of his head for a few bells. Probably not.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock was still snickering when she came back inside, hounded by an eager Naily who had been hanging by the door wanting her to come back. He rolled between her feet so rapidly she nearly tripped, but she was in a good mood and knew he was just being playful, so she just crouched down and petted him, scratching him behind the claw. She then retrieved Bitey who was fairly tangled up in a couple of shirts and having a hard time crawling his way to freedom. She looked up at Monty when he emerged, and snorted out a short laugh. It was funny seeing him all dressed up... though he actually looked good. The outfit seemed to suit him, and it was fortunately not frilly enough to need her to berate him about it. "Ain't gonna be no good fer workin'," Tock said, looking over the outfit. It was so tight she wondered if he could bend over without splitting the pants, to say nothing of how much the movement in his arms would be restricted. "Butcha sure is 'andsome." She stepped up to him and unbuttoned the waistcoat, then guided his hands to push back the flaps and plant his hands on his hips. It gave him a more casual look, wearing the waistcoat more like a loose vest and helping him be able to actually breathe. "'At's better," Tock said. "Makes ya look dignified, but ya done still looks like ya knows 'ow ta getcher 'ands dirty, aye? Maybe roll up the sleeves a mite, 'at'd 'elp too..." She would be damned if she let her friend (one of her only friends) go all the way up to full scale posh and pomp. There had to be a balance where he could look well to do without losing touch with his common roots. Tock wasn't sure where that point of balance was, but as long as she was here, she might as well help him achieve it. Once she got his sleeves rolled up a few inches, Naily rolled up and bump into Monty's foot. He leaned his head back and his axle squeaked in approval. "'E likes it," Tock said with a nod.

[Montaine]

‘Still got me linens for workin’ in,’ Montaine said, hands on hip and head cocked as he continued to consider the reflection that possessed his face yet beheld a certain refinement he had otherwise never seen in himself, ‘I’ll take two of each, I think, but you got the vest in green?’ The tailor nodded, and carefully stepped over Naily with a grimace, ‘Might I also suggest, sir, that you purchase a silk variant of the shirt? Velvet is, of course, cheaper but doesn’t fare so well in the heat,’ Monty contemplatively scanned the shop until his eyes fell on his hefty bag lying, where had left it, by a pile of shirts. Petch it, he’d come out to spend it, hadn’t he? ‘Yeah, go on then, throw one o’ them in as well. I ain’t never had clothes this fancy before, if’n I’m goin’ to get some they might as well be proper,’ In the past, he had found himself unable to comprehend the obsession of the wealthy with objects such as these, trifles that held little more relevance in life than to provide status in all its intangibility. He had never understood why something so incorporeal could be seen as so valuable to those who otherwise seemed to enjoy all the luxuries and necessities everyone else struggled and strived for but perhaps, perhaps that was why they felt the need to adorn themselves in such ridiculous frippery as the frilly monstrosities that hung here and there, perhaps that was why they felt the need to live in such grandiose houses and eat such silly foods and look down their noses at the poor folk who hadn’t yet achieved any right to such pomp. It was sad really. They had nothing to live for, nothing spurring them on, beyond the further and greater accumulation of wealth and status and things. The glassworker counted out his mizas on the tailor’s counter. Though these people had time to waste, he supposed, time he and his shyking body didn’t. And these people didn’t have dreams, wild, brilliant, unachievable dreams, like Tock’s city and his glass ideals. Dreams that would consume the heart and thoughts of the dreamer and spur them on and inhabit their very selves until the day, the day they died. Without such dreams it was understandable, if not quite so excusable, that people like Calbert, like the Foglehorns, or Mercer, it was understandable that they would cling so fiercely to what they already possessed. They wouldn’t be happy in Monty’s squalid little flat, or raggedy linens. The total purchase came to forty-four gold mizas all told, and unwilling to squeeze out of the confines of his new accoutrements he unceremoniously bunged his linens in with the rest of the clothes in his bag, much to the tailor’s muted disapproval. The glassworker, the garrulous gadgeteer and her golems left the shop and the tailor visibly relaxed, letting out a great sigh of relief as the door closed behind them. Montaine turned to his friend and cracked his knuckles, ‘Right, fancy a bite? I’m right peckish, on me?’

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock's eyes went wide at all the money Monty doled out for his new threads. Forty four mizahs? For two of each? Crikey, she could practically build an addition onto her house for that much money! She shook her head at Monty and said, "Ya maybe been 'angin' 'round too many stuffed shirts, mate. I done weren't 'spectin' ya ta go 'AT far..." Going that extra mile to look fancy was one thing, but SHEESH! Then he went and offered to buy her lunch, and she shrugged. "Oy, 'long as yer tossin' the cash 'round, sure," she said. "'Ell, if'n yer 'at intent on blowin' all yer 'ard earned dough, 'en buy me some new tools an' a cartful o' iron while yer at 'er, aye?" she laughed and punched his arm, shaking her head. She could only imagine how he'd be throwing his money around if they really got their claws into him. Next thing you knew, he'd be throwing fancy parties, drinking cognac, and rubbing elbows with people quite fascinated with the smell of their own arses. And he'd forget all about Tock, because people like that didn't mingle with the common folk... She frowned and watched the ground as they walked, cuddling Bitey. He wouldn't forget her or leave her. She'd programmed him not to.

[Montaine]

Together the animator and the artisan strolled back down West Street the way they had come and emerged on the main market road. It was a good day for the stall holders and the streets were busy as ever, the discordant music of haggling and touting and buying and selling filling the air, the sound of commerce. It was a wonder anyone could hear themselves clear enough to effectively carry out their business. Aside from the occasional squeak from a passer-by narrowly avoiding Naily, however, Tock and Monty made little noticeable effect on the noise of the market. Until, that was, Montaine spotted something out of the corner of his eye. The vegetable market was barely a market in and of itself, being so small as to exist as nothing but a periphery of the larger food markets and great fish market a little closer to the shore, as almost all foodstuffs of a botanical nature had to be shipped in from elsewhere and rarely fared the trip well. Yet occasionally, very rarely, it was possible to stumble upon a treasure. ‘Apples! You’ve got apples! Tock, Tock! They’ve got apples, see? Da bought me an apple once, for me birthday, how’d you get apples? Weren’t that long past we were in a full fledged famine,’ he bounded up to the fruit seller with a broad grin splitting his face. His brief foray into the delicacy that was apples had been a great number of years ago but he still remembered the taste, the texture. How it split beneath his teeth, filling his mouth with such sweet juices, and made such a delightfully crisp crunch to his ears. To his inexperienced little mouth it had been the sweetest tasting thing ever to pass his lips. The shop keeper, smiled a practiced smile, ‘Yep, weren’t easy guv, but I got me ways an’ you won’ find beauties like these cheaper else in all o’ Zeltiva, believe you me, ‘cause I’m the only one ‘oo’s got any, I’ll give you one each fer you an’ yer lady friend fer a shiny sun a piece,’ Monty snorted, ‘A gold? For an apple? You’re petchin’ in the wrong beds, five silvers,’ ‘Seven silvers, leave it or take it,’ ‘Three silvers,’ Monty’s eyes narrowed. ‘What? You can’t do that, you’re not s’pposed ter go down! I’ll give it the five, like y’asked,’ ‘Nah, three,’ he folded his arms in defiance, ‘I can go lower,’ ‘Listen mate, I don’ need this, I got kids back ‘ome needin’ feedin’, four,’ ‘Three. If’n your kids’re so hungry feed ‘em apples, but they won’ last much longer in this sun,’ The shopkeeper growled and begrudgingly nodded, receiving the six shining silver mizas from Monty’s bag in exchange for two bright green apples. He sniffed them. Yep. They were apples alright. He tossed one to Tock and smiled, nodding. ‘Try it, you won’ regret it, me Da said he had ‘em back home once an’ never forgot ‘em, an’ I want to thank you for comin’ with me today,’ he took a bite from his prize and closed his eyes, absorbed in the taste and the memories of the child who’d been so transported by it the first time, ‘I want to make two stops still, still got some o’ these left,’ he said, jingling his bag.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock raised one eyebrow and just stared at Monty as be started going off about apples. Apples? Really? All she could do was snort and shake her head. Of all the things to get excited about... Of course, she hadn't grown up in a place were starvation was so common, and she'd traveled around enough the last few years to get a taste of just about every type of cuisine the Syliras region had to offer. Why, just imagine how Monty might react if they found strawberries. She ate the apple without it being anywhere near the orgasmic experience it was for the Glassman. When she was done she held up the core and said, "Ya like 'er so much, find someone what knows growin' stuff, an' plant 'is. Couple o' years down the line an' ye'll done 'as yer own tree, aye?" Tock would never have the patience to grow her own tree. She'd end up cutting it down one day when she was short on supplies and needed the wood for a project. When he mentioned wanting to make more stops, she nodded and said, "Aye, sure. Jus' 'ope ya ain't blowin' the 'ole stash what on nothin' friv'lous. Ya don't least buy somethin' practical, I may jus' 'as ta smack ya one." She'd do it, too. It was her duty as his friend to smack some sense into him, if he needed it.

[Montaine]

‘Practical? Aye, I think I can jus’ about manage that, but the stop’s a little out of the way, so bear with me,’ Montaine guided his friend through crowds, weaving in and out of the stalls with the knowledge and awareness found only in one who had been doing so since they were young. Monty hadn’t left his room much before he was eight but after the fateful meeting in the summer of 498 he took frequent opportunities to elude his father and sneak out into the city. Of course the shadows were dangerous, every city had its crime after all, but Zeltiva’s largest larcenous operation tended to be in picking pockets and cutting purses on busy market days. That was not to say that there wasn’t the occasional back alley mugging and so it was still safest to avoid the side streets if you wanted to go home with your purse and limbs intact. But the fastest way to navigate the town was by alleyway every now and again and the glassworker led the gadgeteer swiftly up those he thought safe enough to risk and avoided those that looked a little too shady. The pair of them, with Tock’s golems in tow, made their way gradually north, north west, moving further and further from the market road. The cheerful atmosphere and plentiful commerce of the Zeltiva they had just left faded into broken cobbles and run-down buildings and sickly looking citizens. There was no glass in these windows. More than a few didn’t even have paltry wooden shutters. There was a groan from a slim gap between two houses and the sound of something breaking, shortly followed by a gasp and a yell. ‘Monty! Monty! Whatchya doin’ back? Y’ain’t s’pposed to be down these parts no more, yer Da said-’ Monty laughed and cut him off, ‘An’ when did I ever do what me Da says? Tock, this is Ralph, hey Ralphy, where’s Edie got to?’ ‘Ah she’s off whorin’ down at docks, hey, seein’ as yer down ‘ere can youse give me a loan? I’ll sings fer it,’ Montaine blanched at the idea of Ralphy singing, ‘No, no, no i’s fine you jus’ take it, here, I’m feelin’ generous, have a Leth an’ one for the missus,’ the glassworker dug his hand into his bag and rooted out two silver coins, Ralph’s face lit up as he caught them, ‘Now you spend some o’ that on food, now won’tchya? An’ beer don’ count none, y’hear?’ Ralph nodded and scurried back up the alleyway. Monty gestured for Tock to keep walking as they made their way up the road. It was not a wealthy part of town, it wasn’t even poor, simply destitute. It was a terrible place for anyone to live and yet Monty couldn’t help but smile. They eventually stopped outside an old building with grass growing up through the cobbled road outside. He suddenly felt apprehensive. It had been far too long since he’d come back here. Since he’d returned home.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock followed Monty through the twists and turns of the alleys, and soon was quite thoroughly lost. The alleys made her nervous, to a degree. In Sunberth, the darkest alleys were where the worst of the worst hung out; thieves and prostitutes, and murdering thugs who didn't care much who you were or who might hear you scream. And if you were a young girl, they might have something worse for you than a knife. Zeltivan alleys were quite tame by comparison, with the worst they encountered being a few drunk homeless people. Still, she kept a hand on Grippy at her hip, just in case. Even Monty'beggar friend didn't phase her none. As they left the man behind she shook her head and said, "Beggers what offers ta sing fer a 'andout? I ain't some never gonna get used ta 'is place..." Back home the offer would have been the coin in exchange for being allowed to walk away safely, and the beggars tended to travel in packs. When they reached the run down house, Tock scratched the back of her head and looked around. "What we doin' 'ere?" she asked. It sure didn't look like a shop. She couldn't imagine what was here that would make Monty smile like this. The idea that home was something to make someone smile was so foreign to her that she would never make that connection. She looked around at the other houses, wondering if she was missing something. "If'n yer 'ere ta done picks up a 'ore, I thinks maybe ya didn't need ta bring me 'long, aye?"

[Montaine]

Montaine laughed, ‘If’n I was goin’ to pay for sex, you think I’d bother with all the fancy clothes? Nah, this is where I-’ He was cut off by someone shouting his name, ‘Monty! Ma! It’s Monty!’ The glassworker braced himself as he was suddenly hit by forty kilos of diminutive girl, ‘Oof. Lissa, easy on me girl, you’ve grown an’ I ain’t grown in years, you’ll do me a mischief,’ ‘Aw, but I missed you sommat ‘orrible, Monty, an’ you look so posh in yer rags, I jus’ ‘ad to ‘ave an ‘ug didn’ I?’ the girl suddenly noticed the presence of another, ‘Who’s she? You ain’t with ‘er are you? Tell me you ain’t, ‘cause that ain’t right Monty, you ‘n’ the sailor, you told me! You ‘n’ Pa-’ Montaine clamped a hand over Lissa’s mouth and gritted his teeth into a smile at the gadgeteer, ‘No Lissa, this is Tock, she’s a friend, ‘n’ we didn’ come all this way to see your grubby li’l face, so here,’ he removed his palm and opened up his bag, reaching once more past his purchases, which caused the girl to ooh and aah considerably, and retrieving a handful of coins, ‘Here, Lissa, know what this is? This is a gold miza, and these ones, they’re silver, just ‘cause o’ the colour though, I doubt there’s any real metals like tha’ in there, now you take these and go give ‘em to your Mam,’ Lissa gawped at the mizas in Monty’s open hand, it was more than her mother made in two dozen days, ‘I-I ain’t s’pposed to go beggin’ no more, Ma and Uncle says it ain’t respect’ble, an’ we don’ accept no charity,’ she shook her head regretfully. Monty got down a knee and pressed the money into the girl’s hand, ‘Yeah, well, I’ve known you’n your Mam since you was a babbie ‘n’ if’n she’s got a problem takin’ money from me then she can come’n tell me off to me face, now run off, I gots to go talk to me own,’ Lissa stared at her closed palm for a good few ticks before running off back to her own hovel, as the glassworker looked once more at the rickety old door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knocked. There was a sudden and great amount of shuffling and complaining as the occupant of the house made their way to the door, ‘Ah, who is it? Who is it? If that’s little Dougal from down Treval Street I’m goin’ to wring your cerulest little neck you petchin’-’ The door opened and the man stopped silent. He was tall, broad shouldered, a build that suggested a life’s hard labour and a creased forehead that suggested a life’s worries. His clothes were old, but well kept and clean, a man who cared greatly for the way he presented himself. He stood a good head and a half taller than the glassworker, his whole shape different and yet his eyes were the same, dull blue, the exact same blue. ‘M-Monty?’ ‘Hello Da,’