Lionel Leonhardt
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It was a hot and humid summer day in the market of the Alliran slums. What pockets of shade there was were crowded with middle-class peddler and low-born beggar alike, made more tolerant of each other in their sweltering suffering as they sought any refuge from the noon's endless heat. Farmers and apple venders lay laid-back on their carts or slouched on impromptu seats of closed crates and barrels. Their voices half-hearted as they preached their wares wearily into day. Curses echoed from blacksmiths as their already hot environment was made to be even more miserable, their harsh words pairing gratingly with the endless cry's of summer cicadas and chirping birds.
Every now and then a noble in a shaded wagon, followed by their personal entourage of sweating armored guards would stomp on by. Many were the glares of envy.
Of course, you were always welcome to take a dive into the many rivers that came through the merchant city, but most Allirian's - even Leonhardt - were sensible enough not to. These were the rivers of Aliria, and no sane folk would ever dive in, given what was often discarded there.
Though no matter how stifling the heat was, business carried on. People dragged themselves from stall to stall, from business deal to business deal, from wayward errand to routine grocery shopping, they slogged onwards. There was something to be said about an Allirian never missing a day at the market. It could be raining cats and dogs, the cobbled streets could be flooded with more water than stones, or could be suffocatingly hot and humid like it was now, if there was a profit to be made at the market, people were bound to be there.
Leonhardt wasn't about to miss a day either.
He had pulled a perfectly square crate into the circularly shaped market-center, conveniently located next to the fountain (where most people had taken to crowding, idly splashing their faces with water - or tossing copper coins in hope of a nice breeze), and had began proclaiming loudly and obnoxiously in his typical fashion.
"Aha! On such a day as this, there wouldn't happen mighty beasts that need to be slain? Any heroic quests in need of undertaking? Any . . . comely princes or princesses in need of a dashing rouge to save them? If there might be, you need but heed the call of I, Glorious Lionel Leonhardt! Any takers?"
Somewhere in the distance, as if on cue, a cicada sang.
Every now and then a noble in a shaded wagon, followed by their personal entourage of sweating armored guards would stomp on by. Many were the glares of envy.
Of course, you were always welcome to take a dive into the many rivers that came through the merchant city, but most Allirian's - even Leonhardt - were sensible enough not to. These were the rivers of Aliria, and no sane folk would ever dive in, given what was often discarded there.
Though no matter how stifling the heat was, business carried on. People dragged themselves from stall to stall, from business deal to business deal, from wayward errand to routine grocery shopping, they slogged onwards. There was something to be said about an Allirian never missing a day at the market. It could be raining cats and dogs, the cobbled streets could be flooded with more water than stones, or could be suffocatingly hot and humid like it was now, if there was a profit to be made at the market, people were bound to be there.
Leonhardt wasn't about to miss a day either.
He had pulled a perfectly square crate into the circularly shaped market-center, conveniently located next to the fountain (where most people had taken to crowding, idly splashing their faces with water - or tossing copper coins in hope of a nice breeze), and had began proclaiming loudly and obnoxiously in his typical fashion.
"Aha! On such a day as this, there wouldn't happen mighty beasts that need to be slain? Any heroic quests in need of undertaking? Any . . . comely princes or princesses in need of a dashing rouge to save them? If there might be, you need but heed the call of I, Glorious Lionel Leonhardt! Any takers?"
Somewhere in the distance, as if on cue, a cicada sang.
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