Post by devilinthedetails on Dec 25, 2022 3:17:44 GMT 10
Title: Scene from a Midwinter Market, 452 Human Era
Rating: PG
Prompt: Gifts
Summary: Roald and Cleon in a Midwinter market.
Scene from a Midwinter Market, 452 Human Era
It was three Sundays before the week-long Midwinter holiday began. Cleon and Roald were taking advantage of the fact that Lord Wyldon had granted them permission to visit one of Corus’s many Midwinter markets to purchase presents for their families and friends. Cleon having the foresight to refrain from dabbling in his perennial mischief this past week and being rewarded with no punishment work this afternoon.
Damp flakes of snow fell from the leaden sky. Coating gray cobblestones white. Flecking the thick cloaks, hats, gloves, and scarves passerby wore to keep warm in the cool winter winds blowing off the frozen Olorun. Whipping along congested city streets. Slicing through fabric to find and chill skin.
In the square where Roald and Cleon shopped, a snow-covered fountain stood in the center. It was switched off and still now. Would not be turned on again until spring when it would flow and froth with the melting waters of the Olorun. Pouring in along pipes first constructed by the Old Ones a thousand years ago when Tortall had been a small, conquered province of their great empire.
Around the dead fountain, carolers sang. Their voices piercing the winter air with songs of joy and peace. Songs of the hope of the radiant sun god Mithros rising again after battling gloriously for light and life against the cold dark on the longest night of the year. Songs that celebrated his strength and courage.
Evergreen garlands stretched overhead. Strewn from slanted slate roof to slanted slate roof. Brightly beribboned wreaths hung from the glass windows of every home and shop surrounding the thronging square. The glass windows proof that this Midwinter market was taking place in a wealthy district.
One inhabited by successful merchants and skilled artisans. Poorer members of the population in city and countryside alike having to make do with animal hides instead of glass over their windows. If their huts and hovels had windows at all, and not just tiny holes in their roofs to vent the smoke from their fires. Windows themselves being a luxury not all could afford. Especially in the winter when heat was a precious resource.
Feeling a prickling awareness of the comforts and privileges of his own position, Roald dropped a coin into a beggar’s outstretched bowl. Hoping that the beggar would use the money to buy a hot meal to warm cold blood and bones. As if that could make up for the fact that the beggar would likely sleep with no roof overhead in some city corner tonight.
To take his mind off the lamentable limitations of his charity, Roald drank in the sight of the rich variety of wares on offer at this Midwinter market. Jewelers hawking diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Gold and silver smiths selling their metallic products that gleamed in the wintry sunlight. Glassmakers peddling colored glass spun into beautiful trinkets.
One glassmaker’s stall in particular caught his eye. It was filled with marvelously lifelike figurines of animals. Cats catching mice. Hunting hounds captured in mid-bray. Adorably curled lap dogs reminiscent of those eternal popular with the court ladies. Prancing horses that would make any knight proud.
Gazing at these shockingly realistic horse figurines, Roald asked the glassmaker, “Do you accept special commissions?”
“I do. For an extra fee.” The glassmaker named it. It was a heavy price, but studying the figurines, Roald judged the craftsman had not overvalued his talent. It was a fair price. He was not being cheated. “An additional one if you want it before Midwinter.”
The artisans and merchants of Corus were always finding cunning ways to extract extra coppers from their customers. It was an expected fact of life and trade in a bustling city.
“I will pay you half now.” Roald engaged in some negotiation of his own. Haggling also an expected feature at markets such as these. “Half when the item is delivered to me.”
“That is acceptable.” The glassmaker handed Roald a parchment and quill. Correctly assuming that Roald could write. “Write down your address, and sketch what you wish me to make.”
Roald wrote detailed instructions for delivering the finished item to him in the pages’ wing. Beneath that, he drew a careful sketch of the ornery Peachblossom in a moment of hostile obstinance.
A posture that made Roald smile. That he hoped would prompt Kel to do the same whenever she looked upon it. Reminded of the disagreeable mount for which she seemed to possess an unfathomable affection.
“That’s Peachblossom.” Cleon whistled. Never being one to respect the private documents of others. “The nastiest horse in Tortall. More liable to bite the hand that feeds him than lick it.”
Roald returned the parchment to the glassmaker. Paid the man half of the agreed upon price. They exchanged polite farewells and happy Midwinter wishes befitting the festive season.
As he and Cleon stepped away from the stall, Roald’s pockets considerably lighter, Roald explained, “It’s a Midwinter gift for Keladry of Mindelan. I think she’ll find it amusing, don’t you?”
“The Girl?” Cleon gave an indolent shrug as they continued their walk through the teeming square. “I haven’t seen her laugh or smile in all the months she’s been at the palace. Who’s to say what she would find funny. If she would find anything funny at all.”
“Well, I think it’s funny.” A whiff of deliciously intermingled spices wafted up Roald’s twitching nostrils. Mouth watering, he grabbed Cleon’s wrist and wove an excited beeline toward a baker’s table.
“You have a strange sense of humor, Your Highness.” Cleon rubbed reproachfully at his wrists as Roald released him. Having reached their destination. “And a pincer grip.”
“Don’t sulk.” Roald elbowed his trickster friend amiably in the ribs. “I’ll buy you something to make up for it.”
True to his word, Roald ordered two generous slabs of freshly-baked gingerbread from the harried apprentice manning the table. A lad who had to be no older than Liam with hair and cheeks red as holly berries.
A moment later, he and Cleon each had a piece of gingerbread clutched in their hands as they strode away from the baker’s table. Nibbling at the gingerbread, Roald was pleased to discover that it was still warm from the brick oven in which it had baked. Its soft dough infused with ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves that danced on his tongue. The taste of the Copper Isles from which all those spices were imported.
“This doesn’t count as my Midwinter present from you, does it?” Cleon chewed at his gingerbread. Speaking with his mouth full.
“No, you greedy rascal.” Roald chuckled.
“You got the Girl a very fine Midwinter gift.” Cleon was still harping on that. Singing a very one-note tune. One that could never rival the carolers. “Far finer than anything you’ve ever gotten for Joren.”
“I’ve never gotten a Midwinter present for Joren.” Roald rolled his eyes. Exasperated with his friend’s teasing. “Keladry of Mindelan is worth every copper, and Joren of Stone Mountain isn’t worth half a penny. But don’t tell my father I said that. He’ll scold me for not being diplomatic.”
“The king and I rarely meet socially.” Cleon snickered good-naturedly. “Your secret is safe with me, Your Highness.”
Rating: PG
Prompt: Gifts
Summary: Roald and Cleon in a Midwinter market.
Scene from a Midwinter Market, 452 Human Era
It was three Sundays before the week-long Midwinter holiday began. Cleon and Roald were taking advantage of the fact that Lord Wyldon had granted them permission to visit one of Corus’s many Midwinter markets to purchase presents for their families and friends. Cleon having the foresight to refrain from dabbling in his perennial mischief this past week and being rewarded with no punishment work this afternoon.
Damp flakes of snow fell from the leaden sky. Coating gray cobblestones white. Flecking the thick cloaks, hats, gloves, and scarves passerby wore to keep warm in the cool winter winds blowing off the frozen Olorun. Whipping along congested city streets. Slicing through fabric to find and chill skin.
In the square where Roald and Cleon shopped, a snow-covered fountain stood in the center. It was switched off and still now. Would not be turned on again until spring when it would flow and froth with the melting waters of the Olorun. Pouring in along pipes first constructed by the Old Ones a thousand years ago when Tortall had been a small, conquered province of their great empire.
Around the dead fountain, carolers sang. Their voices piercing the winter air with songs of joy and peace. Songs of the hope of the radiant sun god Mithros rising again after battling gloriously for light and life against the cold dark on the longest night of the year. Songs that celebrated his strength and courage.
Evergreen garlands stretched overhead. Strewn from slanted slate roof to slanted slate roof. Brightly beribboned wreaths hung from the glass windows of every home and shop surrounding the thronging square. The glass windows proof that this Midwinter market was taking place in a wealthy district.
One inhabited by successful merchants and skilled artisans. Poorer members of the population in city and countryside alike having to make do with animal hides instead of glass over their windows. If their huts and hovels had windows at all, and not just tiny holes in their roofs to vent the smoke from their fires. Windows themselves being a luxury not all could afford. Especially in the winter when heat was a precious resource.
Feeling a prickling awareness of the comforts and privileges of his own position, Roald dropped a coin into a beggar’s outstretched bowl. Hoping that the beggar would use the money to buy a hot meal to warm cold blood and bones. As if that could make up for the fact that the beggar would likely sleep with no roof overhead in some city corner tonight.
To take his mind off the lamentable limitations of his charity, Roald drank in the sight of the rich variety of wares on offer at this Midwinter market. Jewelers hawking diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Gold and silver smiths selling their metallic products that gleamed in the wintry sunlight. Glassmakers peddling colored glass spun into beautiful trinkets.
One glassmaker’s stall in particular caught his eye. It was filled with marvelously lifelike figurines of animals. Cats catching mice. Hunting hounds captured in mid-bray. Adorably curled lap dogs reminiscent of those eternal popular with the court ladies. Prancing horses that would make any knight proud.
Gazing at these shockingly realistic horse figurines, Roald asked the glassmaker, “Do you accept special commissions?”
“I do. For an extra fee.” The glassmaker named it. It was a heavy price, but studying the figurines, Roald judged the craftsman had not overvalued his talent. It was a fair price. He was not being cheated. “An additional one if you want it before Midwinter.”
The artisans and merchants of Corus were always finding cunning ways to extract extra coppers from their customers. It was an expected fact of life and trade in a bustling city.
“I will pay you half now.” Roald engaged in some negotiation of his own. Haggling also an expected feature at markets such as these. “Half when the item is delivered to me.”
“That is acceptable.” The glassmaker handed Roald a parchment and quill. Correctly assuming that Roald could write. “Write down your address, and sketch what you wish me to make.”
Roald wrote detailed instructions for delivering the finished item to him in the pages’ wing. Beneath that, he drew a careful sketch of the ornery Peachblossom in a moment of hostile obstinance.
A posture that made Roald smile. That he hoped would prompt Kel to do the same whenever she looked upon it. Reminded of the disagreeable mount for which she seemed to possess an unfathomable affection.
“That’s Peachblossom.” Cleon whistled. Never being one to respect the private documents of others. “The nastiest horse in Tortall. More liable to bite the hand that feeds him than lick it.”
Roald returned the parchment to the glassmaker. Paid the man half of the agreed upon price. They exchanged polite farewells and happy Midwinter wishes befitting the festive season.
As he and Cleon stepped away from the stall, Roald’s pockets considerably lighter, Roald explained, “It’s a Midwinter gift for Keladry of Mindelan. I think she’ll find it amusing, don’t you?”
“The Girl?” Cleon gave an indolent shrug as they continued their walk through the teeming square. “I haven’t seen her laugh or smile in all the months she’s been at the palace. Who’s to say what she would find funny. If she would find anything funny at all.”
“Well, I think it’s funny.” A whiff of deliciously intermingled spices wafted up Roald’s twitching nostrils. Mouth watering, he grabbed Cleon’s wrist and wove an excited beeline toward a baker’s table.
“You have a strange sense of humor, Your Highness.” Cleon rubbed reproachfully at his wrists as Roald released him. Having reached their destination. “And a pincer grip.”
“Don’t sulk.” Roald elbowed his trickster friend amiably in the ribs. “I’ll buy you something to make up for it.”
True to his word, Roald ordered two generous slabs of freshly-baked gingerbread from the harried apprentice manning the table. A lad who had to be no older than Liam with hair and cheeks red as holly berries.
A moment later, he and Cleon each had a piece of gingerbread clutched in their hands as they strode away from the baker’s table. Nibbling at the gingerbread, Roald was pleased to discover that it was still warm from the brick oven in which it had baked. Its soft dough infused with ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves that danced on his tongue. The taste of the Copper Isles from which all those spices were imported.
“This doesn’t count as my Midwinter present from you, does it?” Cleon chewed at his gingerbread. Speaking with his mouth full.
“No, you greedy rascal.” Roald chuckled.
“You got the Girl a very fine Midwinter gift.” Cleon was still harping on that. Singing a very one-note tune. One that could never rival the carolers. “Far finer than anything you’ve ever gotten for Joren.”
“I’ve never gotten a Midwinter present for Joren.” Roald rolled his eyes. Exasperated with his friend’s teasing. “Keladry of Mindelan is worth every copper, and Joren of Stone Mountain isn’t worth half a penny. But don’t tell my father I said that. He’ll scold me for not being diplomatic.”
“The king and I rarely meet socially.” Cleon snickered good-naturedly. “Your secret is safe with me, Your Highness.”