Closed Color me... What?

[Vaewe]

65th of Fall He had made very little since coming to Ahnatep. No, that was a lie. Vaewe had made a great deal since coming to Ahnatep. He had made much in Uratah’s workshop. Small repairs to filamentous golden chains and minor transactions with scornful Eypharian nobodies were some of the Akvatari’s most prolific work. But Vaewe had made very little for himself. Yes, Vaewe had been given permission to pursue his own projects. But the Akvatari sensed it would not be prudent to follow his own heart blindly. He was in the shop because something about him had caught Amaunet’s eye, and she seemed to hold Uratah’s ear. Whatever he did had to eventually please either the two crafters, or at the very least, their customers. Vaewe needed a project that would not be weighed in carats or the scrupulous eyes of his mentor. He had already bought the necessary yarn and tucked it into the satchel that hung always at his side. Now he needed a color and had settled himself before a dye vendor but was very quickly tiring of the busy Pavilion. The table was too tall and each pile of pigment sprouted like colorful hills from plain, rough platters of red clay. It was impossible for Vaewe’s eyes to penetrate the rainbow hued wilderness of valleys and rises and the slightly impatient gaze of the merchant was making him uncomfortable. Or, more uncomfortable than he had been. As a rule Vaewe did not enjoy market places. It was too difficult to navigate among all of the bustling legs. There were too many merchants to disappoint with his inability to haggle. And there were far too many voices. If it was not for the voices Vaewe may have enjoyed Ahnatep’s famous Pavilion. Beneath the awnings of gilded purveyors there were so many sights and scents and new experiences. Each stand offered a new fruit Vaewe had never tasted or a piece of pottery at which he could only gaze enviously. And every new color and flavor swam through the heady scent of the Eypharians themselves. But the sights and smells of the market were always cluttered and pushed out by the pressure of sound. Surrounded by so many voices Vaewe’s senses began to drown. When he sniffed at the prickly red skin of a small, strange plant he could only smell the scorn with which a particularly dissatisfied woman was whispering (loudly) to her husband. The steeples of green and blue and pink powders that stretched up infront of him were awash in waves of changing colors. A spark of green swamped the cerulean dye as a small child wondered aloud about Vaewe’s mottled tail. When he turned his attentions to the yellows magentas, violets and chartreuse swam before his eyes. The effort of filtering through the hurricane of sensations that tickled, pricked and painted his perception was exhausting, and Vaewe rarely left a place as busy as the market without a headache. The Akvatari’s nose was beginning to tickle as someone nearby muttered their shopping list under their breath. He tried to ignore the sensation and examine the pigments.