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Orual · 01-26-2003, 10:27 PM

"Ay, Arethin! Heave that up here, aye, there's a lad!"

The Dale Market was busy and loud today, filled with people and noises and smells. Mothers and their small children stopped by almost every booth in the market and chatted amongst themselves, merchants bellowed at the tops of their lungs, hawking their wares, traders haggled over prices. The aroma of food wafted from the small diner-booths that lined the market, mixed with the scent of animals from the auction down the way. Young teenagers, playing hooky, ran and played, bobbing and weaving through the throngs of people.

Arethin threw the heavy bundle of merchandise at his awaiting friend, who caught it well in steady hands. "Keep them coming!" the young man shouted.

Arethin smiled and complied. He wiped the perspiration off of his tanned forehead, swiping at the damp strands of blond hair that were falling into his eyes. It wasn't so very hot, but Arethin had been working all day. He grabbed the flask of water and took a quick drink before tossing another bundle up to his friend.

"Ari!" called one of the older men who Arethin worked with. "Take a rest, son. Go listen to that storyteller." He flashed the young man a knowing smile. "Though we all know how little you care for stories of old, don't we?" he finished with a flourish, directing the last bit at the other workers, who all erupted into laughter appreciatively.

Arethin grinned shyly and went over to the storyteller. The truth was, of course, that he loved old stories. Stories, songs, history, and most of all dead languages. He often went to listen to the storyteller. Today, as usual, most of the listeners were children. But there was also a girl, a little younger than him, with dark, curly hair. He seemed to remember her from somewhere, but he didn't know where, and he didn't give it another thought. He paid all of his attention to the storyteller. He knew the style of these stories: they were often simplistic, though good. But this time one of the teller's sentances caught his attention:

Still it contained all the secrets, happenings, spells, and medicines of that ancient race...

The young worker startled. Medicines! He sat on his heels behind the children and listened carefully, hanging on the storyteller's every word.

Arethin was twenty-four years old, and the provider for his family since his father died ten years ago, and he had begun working for Avaran, a merchant, once his father's own trading business had gone belly-up shortly after his death. His mother was a painter, but she had fallen very ill only several years ago, leaving the entire burden of the family's welfare on Arethin's shoulders. Paying for his mother's medicine was difficult enough, but it was made worse by the fact that it never worked. Never. But this...

No. He shook his head. It was far too early. Who was to say that this story was even true? "I can't believe it, not yet," he muttered to himself, leaving.

He walked slowly back to the booth, his feet dragging, his head down in reflection. "Problems, Arethin?" a voice asked, and a strong hand gripped his shoulder. Arethin whirled around, and saw Avaran, his broad face smiling gently at him. "Need to talk?"

"Oh, ah, no, sir, not really," Arethin said with an apologetic smile. "I'm just thinking about my home life."

"Ah," Avaran said noncomitally. His expression invited Arethin to elaborate, but he didn't. "Well." He fiddled with the hilt of his sword. "Oh, Arethin, why don't you go see if that sword order I'd placed has come in yet?" he suggested, pointing to the smithy. "It'll give you something to do."

"Yes, sir," Arethin said, and went over to the shop.

He entered, and saw two people in the shop: a younger man with spiky blond hair, and a girl with sharp grey eyes--the girl he had seen with the storyteller! Curious, he went up to her. "Excuse me," he said softly, "I'm supposed to ask about an sword order, for Avaran the merchant. But there's really another question I'd like to ask, to be honest." He let out a little, embarrassed laugh, and rubbed his left arm. "Well, I saw you earlier today, with the storyteller. Might you know more about this book of which he speaks?"

[ January 26, 2003: Message edited by: Orual ]

01-26-2003, 10:27 PM	#3
Orual Speaker of the Dead Join Date: Oct 2002 Location: Superbia Posts: 868	"Ay, Arethin! Heave that up here, aye, there's a lad!" The Dale Market was busy and loud today, filled with people and noises and smells. Mothers and their small children stopped by almost every booth in the market and chatted amongst themselves, merchants bellowed at the tops of their lungs, hawking their wares, traders haggled over prices. The aroma of food wafted from the small diner-booths that lined the market, mixed with the scent of animals from the auction down the way. Young teenagers, playing hooky, ran and played, bobbing and weaving through the throngs of people. Arethin threw the heavy bundle of merchandise at his awaiting friend, who caught it well in steady hands. "Keep them coming!" the young man shouted. Arethin smiled and complied. He wiped the perspiration off of his tanned forehead, swiping at the damp strands of blond hair that were falling into his eyes. It wasn't so very hot, but Arethin had been working all day. He grabbed the flask of water and took a quick drink before tossing another bundle up to his friend. "Ari!" called one of the older men who Arethin worked with. "Take a rest, son. Go listen to that storyteller." He flashed the young man a knowing smile. "Though we all know how little you care for stories of old, don't we?" he finished with a flourish, directing the last bit at the other workers, who all erupted into laughter appreciatively. Arethin grinned shyly and went over to the storyteller. The truth was, of course, that he loved old stories. Stories, songs, history, and most of all dead languages. He often went to listen to the storyteller. Today, as usual, most of the listeners were children. But there was also a girl, a little younger than him, with dark, curly hair. He seemed to remember her from somewhere, but he didn't know where, and he didn't give it another thought. He paid all of his attention to the storyteller. He knew the style of these stories: they were often simplistic, though good. But this time one of the teller's sentances caught his attention: Still it contained all the secrets, happenings, spells, and medicines of that ancient race... The young worker startled. Medicines! He sat on his heels behind the children and listened carefully, hanging on the storyteller's every word. Arethin was twenty-four years old, and the provider for his family since his father died ten years ago, and he had begun working for Avaran, a merchant, once his father's own trading business had gone belly-up shortly after his death. His mother was a painter, but she had fallen very ill only several years ago, leaving the entire burden of the family's welfare on Arethin's shoulders. Paying for his mother's medicine was difficult enough, but it was made worse by the fact that it never worked. Never. But this... No. He shook his head. It was far too early. Who was to say that this story was even true? "I can't believe it, not yet," he muttered to himself, leaving. He walked slowly back to the booth, his feet dragging, his head down in reflection. "Problems, Arethin?" a voice asked, and a strong hand gripped his shoulder. Arethin whirled around, and saw Avaran, his broad face smiling gently at him. "Need to talk?" "Oh, ah, no, sir, not really," Arethin said with an apologetic smile. "I'm just thinking about my home life." "Ah," Avaran said noncomitally. His expression invited Arethin to elaborate, but he didn't. "Well." He fiddled with the hilt of his sword. "Oh, Arethin, why don't you go see if that sword order I'd placed has come in yet?" he suggested, pointing to the smithy. "It'll give you something to do." "Yes, sir," Arethin said, and went over to the shop. He entered, and saw two people in the shop: a younger man with spiky blond hair, and a girl with sharp grey eyes--the girl he had seen with the storyteller! Curious, he went up to her. "Excuse me," he said softly, "I'm supposed to ask about an sword order, for Avaran the merchant. But there's really another question I'd like to ask, to be honest." He let out a little, embarrassed laugh, and rubbed his left arm. "Well, I saw you earlier today, with the storyteller. Might you know more about this book of which he speaks?" [ January 26, 2003: Message edited by: Orual ] __________________ "Oh, my god! I care so little, I almost passed out!" --Dr. Cox, "Scrubs"