Open Chronicles Under a Summer Sun

[Lyssia D'avore]

A mist rolled in off of the river. The skies remained lightly overcast, aglow from the rising sun that hide behind them and would, given time, burn them off like paper tossed into flames, quickly and completely.

Mericet bustled. it was summer time, and the city along the river was at the height of its busiest season. The spring runoff had ended, and the river lapped lazily at the docks and wharfs, shirtless men already moving with purpose between ships moored and unloading their cargo, and loading a greater amount of material back on board to be carted to the sea. Mericet exported mostly iron and other metals, with a smattering of gold and silver mined in the Spine not too far away. In other parts of the city, foundries and forges belches smoke into the sky most of the day, the heat oppressive in those places.

In exchange, Mericet brought in finer things that it could not procure from its own people. Silks, and linens from the south, as well as produce not natively grown. Fish, from the Gulf of Ryt, as well as odd exports from Molthal.

It was still early enough in the morning that it was cool, the damp air moved along by an unhurried breeze out of the mountains that dominated the skyline to the east. In the market squares, merchants set up their stalls to hawk their wares, each yelling louder than the next to attract the attention of customers and their coin. So early, and yet so crowded, for the people were in a rush to get their shopping done before the oppressive heat of the evening bore down on the city. The city was so far north that it was rarely actually that hot, but the northerners considered the heat of August to be oppressive, though most in the south would consider it a refreshing day.

Lyssia moved along the street, her diminutive frame making it easy for her to pass unnoticed. And it was just as well, for the girl really did not want to be seen today. It was not a good day, in her eyes. There had been no good days since that fated night, when the Royal Guards had crashed into her home and taken her parents into custody before turning their children out on the streets. It had begun to strange journey to this day, living on the streets and scavenging for all the things needed to keep herself alive. That she had finally found her brother - whom she had assumed dead months ago - was of small consolation. Alric had changed in the months since the execution of their parents, becoming a much harder man than the boy she had remembered.

And of herself? She did not know. She moved about among the peasants, moving in the shadows to avoid the attention of either the City Guards or the Royal Guards. Neither of them appreciated the urchins and the downtrodden, those members of society that had been forgotten. She could even remember the disdain of the aristocracy for the little man, the serf and the slave.

Chattel, they are. Living mean and empty lives, short lives, serving others as that is all they are fit for. Lyssia did not know if she believed that, anymore, but she did know that the people of the city could be mean and petty, spiteful. Small minded and lacking ambition.

She knew that today would not be pleasant, if not for what it was that she was about to do, then for all the bitter interactions she was bound to have. She clutched a wrapped object that bulged in the pocket of her oft-patched dress that hung on her small, child-like frame like a sack. The brown fabric did not flatter her in the slightest, making the pale skin and red hair more stark, but also drawing attention to the fact that it was cheaply made and in poor repair, stained and ugly in her mind. She could recall wearing silk, and sending people to do this kind of thing.

Well, maybe not that last. She was only nineteen, after all, and for a Sidhe that made her very young indeed. Her brother was in his fifties, and still only just considered capable of managing his own affairs. She would not attain her majority for at least another twenty years.

One of the cities many markets loomed ahead, already thronged with peasant and servant of the elite alike. She did not relish being handed this task, taking an heirloom of the Family to be sold for whatever it would bring. They needed resources to continue the long and arduous campaign against House Farron. The old Lord was at the very height of power within the city, carrying much of the Parliament within his back pocket. Farron was the primary operator in the downfall of House D'Avore, and removal of her family titles and lands, estates, and wealth. As well as the cold blooded murder of her parents. She saw the need for what she was doing but didn't like it.

But she was too young to stand against it, and so she did as she was told, meek as milkwater.

The roar of the crowd was almost too much to be heard over as she stepped out into the courtyard that had been set up for the purpose of purveyors of every thing imaginable to ply their trade. The scent of spicy meat mingled with rare spices, with alchemicals, and with the scent of unwashed bodies. It was all a melange that could overwhelm the senses, the noise not withstanding. Women wearing rough woolens moved about with baskets, buying things for their households while men and women in finer clothes, the livery of their Houses, moved about. They cast disdainful looks to the general press of humanity, and kept their distance as they purchased the needful things for their Lords and their Ladies.

It made her heart sink and her spirits fall. She should have been one of those, and yet...here she was.

Standing no taller than a human child would, she passed beneath the notice of most of the people there. It would have been aggravating if she had not wished to pass without a trace. She moved through the thronged passages between stalls and tents, looking for something specific. She avoided money changers, for they were all crooks as far as her Father had been concerned. it was a goldsmith that she was looking for, someone who would be able to turn her object around and send it on to its new owner. Just the thought made her clutched the little gold box tighter.

Eventually, she found one. A small tent setup with try pieces laid out on a table, cheap metal that the owner of the table would not miss terribly if stolen. Back in the depths of the little stall, she could see the glow of a little furnace, used to melt down precious metals for the forging process.

"Shove off, you welp."

She turned to see the owner of the stall staring at her with cold eyes, and almost instinctively shrank back. She considered just leaving, and coming back another day...but that would be the childish thing to do, and she was determined to prove to her brother that she was no child. She drew herself up to her full height - not very impressive or intimidating, planting her fists on her hips. "Excuse me, but you sh-" she began, but the man cut her off rudely.

"Ain't got time to deal with a beggar like you. Go bother someone else, girl." He turned away, muttering something indistinct and not very flattering as he did, ducking back into what passed for a workshop.

Lyssia stood there, dumbfounded and not entirely sure what to do.

 

[Voraak Tyrethian]

Voraak was passing through the region and decided to stop in a bustling town during its peak season. Quite a lovely picture the river painted next to the town. The Pale Sorcerer paid for a ferry to deliver him here, in this particular settlement of Mericet.

He had known nothing of the town but it reminded him of a small-scale rendition of Elbion. Merchants were tending to their wares and dockworkers were hauling crates and various cargo to be loaded/offloaded. The sun was out and there was a nice breeze dancing about. It was a moment that a smile ran across Voraak's face.

The man only smiled when something was going his way but he decided that today would be a good day for him. He had some business in the region, mainly The Spine; that he had to tend to in a few days time. The smell of spiced meats, alchemical ingredients and that of smoke from nearby foundries was enough to send him back to his hometown--where the smell was all too familiar. Quaint. He thought.

Voraak departed from the docks and proceeded to the marketplace where various vendors would try and cajole the Sorcerer to buy their wares. He was not tempted in the slightest. Voraak was here for a particular reason....a person by the name of Mordeaux, Jack Mordeaux. Jack was a 'fence' of sorts who could find items or source them for a nominal fee. Voraak was on the lookout for the primary residence and fortress once belonging to Lord Niergoth--The Frost King some have called him.

The Marketplace would be where the two would meet but alas....Jack was not in the intended spot for the rendezvous, which didn't surprise Voraak. He had come a few hours early in anticipation for delays in his venture. Many shopkeepers attempted to lure the Pale Sorcerer with trinkets, potions and fine silks but did not attract his gaze nonetheless.

A disagreement soon reached his ears....
"Aint got time to deal with a beggar like you"
Seeing a shopkeeper shove a child away, he walked over and approached the girl while the shopkeeper turned his back.

"Perhaps you have time to deal with an out-of-town customer then?"
Looking down at the young girl he motioned her to come back over and make her demands known.
"You shouldn't talk to children like that....that's not a good first impression to an out-of-town buyer like myself"

Voraak would attempt to cut the man with his harsh words but did not want to invoke a conflict. The child looked ten or eleven and had various grime marks, perhaps they were homeless but they held and object very close to them.....Perhaps a sentimental trinket?

 

[Faelin K'Abveirin]

A bustling town indeed. The dark elf did not like it at all. His sensitives ears picked up neary all of the polluting noise. But even then, larder had to be payed for. Contact with people was required.


Oddly enough a familiar scene erupted in one of the stands at the sides, where a silversmith dark elf on his little carpet debated pompous a dwarven noble.
"No, no no, this is one tenth of zinc in the brass not a quarter."
"I swear by my Axebrow blood, it is a quarter. of zinc and no less!"
"What kind of fool are you taking me for..." The dark elf muttered lowly at him as he rubbed the brass ring across the touch stone once more.

"Pah, you dainty elves belong to the forests, not mines."
"Careful, dwarf, the 'gold' on your ears is brass too." The elf then tossed the ring at the hands of the dwarf, who promptly caught it.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

The silversmith looked up from his forge and fixed the foreigner with an appraising look. The dark skin hid the wrinkles in the man's face as he squinted to make out the speaker, then spat to one side. "Brat's Lord D'Avores get," he said in dismissive, derisive tones. "Don't reckon I care what some foreigner thinks if 'e wants to be a white knight to a traitors daughter," he said, spitting on the ground again in disgust.

"Father was no traitor," the girl said, her voice high pitched. There was a certain mannerism about her that set her apart from the common stock, something in her manner of speech. She was clearly not low borne...and yet, here she was, in rags.

The smith waved at her dismissively. "Believe what you want, whelp! Man was held on trial 'fore the magistrate and Parliament, found guilty." He gave her a nasty grin that held no mirth. "Didn't even behead him. Hung him like the common swine 'e was. Now get away from my stall, you wretched traitor, 'fore I call the Royals over and have you beaten out of the square." He looked to the sorcerer. "You too, my fine, ignorant friend."

The smith looked down the row at a competitor who was in an argument with a customer, spit, and went back to his little workshop muttering under his breath.

 

[Voraak Tyrethian]

Shaking his head at the stubborn fool, Voraak looked to the young girl and prompted.

“Shouldn’t waste time on a shopkeeper like that, surely there is another merchant willing to make the sale you are looking for?”

Her retaliation and her mannerisms matched that of a non-peasant so he figured that maybe she belonged to an important family--with what the man had said, Baron D’avore?

A Baron’s daughter? Reduced to nothing but rags? That reeked of a political regime game. He didn’t know Mericet well and he still had a few hours before he needed to meet his ‘contact’. Voraak figured that he may as well help this girl and maybe she will return the favor by getting him familiar with the town or maybe pay it forward some day.

“Fine…..we are leaving then. Not here to cause trouble”

This much was true, he just drew attention to himself and he was not there to cause a ruckus. No. He needed something from someone.

“So I take it that you are the daughter of someone noble? I am terribly sorry for your loss miss.”

And he was sorry. Being alone in a world like this….you had to fight to live, else you would die. Even though Voraak could be a vile man in his own regard, he felt a kinship of sorts to this girl. Perhaps she reminded her of himself growing up--being ostracized by many. He had no idea how he could help this girl but she looked like she wasn’t fed well.

“You hungry at least?”
Perhaps food would make her day just a tad brighter.

 

[Faelin K'Abveirin]

With the dwarf gone, the eastern dark elf returned to his duty. He knelt on his small carpet and laid out an assortment of rings and silverine tabs, which he began to twist into elaborate rings before engraving them in patterns. His craft was masterful.
Though most any other client other than naysayers metalsmiths seemed to stray from this particular one. Perhaps they've never really met dark elves that would so easily show face in the middle of the market.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

She drew herself up to her full height - as intimidating as a mouse, especially given her state of dress. Maybe if she had been twenty or thirty years older, with a touch more experience of the world and its ways. Now, she was just a bedraggled creature tossed about on the stormy seas of intrigue without the slightest idea of how to handle the waves.

"I am not buying anything," she replied, the childish timbre of her voice making the words, perfectly delivered in the crisp lilt of the highborne, seem silly. She certainly seemed to think so herself, for she wilted a bit, sagging in the sack of a dress she wore. "Does not matter, anyway," she said, a touch of bitterness entering her voice. "D'Avore is a household name....one universally reviled in the city."

Traitor. That was the title that had been given to Father, and for his crimes he had been stripped of title and land, made destitute even as his sentence was carried out. Hanging.

Lyssia did not remember it, because Lyssia had not been in attendance. For a brief time, she had been a guest of the Crown, lounging in one of the many cells that lined the halls in the basement of the Royal Garrison. She had been turned loose after, and it had not been until a month ago - a full year and then some after - that she had found her brother, still alive.

"I was daughter to Duke D'Avore, when there was such a House," she said. It hurt her to admit that the Family had been torn apart. Treachery wasn't bad enough, it would seem, for the powerful members within the Parliament that had brought about the end of her family. She still did not understand the how of it, or the why. "I don't know where Mother is. Father is..."

She did not continue. Did not want to follow that line of thought to the bitter end.

She took a deep breath. "And I do not need to eat," she said truthfully. Not needing and not wanting were two different thing; as a Sidhe, she lived off of magic - quite literally. Some affectations of the world had been picked up at some point in the past, and eating was definititely one of them.

She stopped in front of a different man, a dark elf. His ears reminded her of her own, although hers were shorter, but the ears were the only similarity they shared. The smith was setting up several try pieces, it looked like, but Lyssia had no eye for them. Instead, she clutched the object in her hands all the tighter. "I just need...just need to do what I came here for, and leave. Before there is trouble," she said.

 

[bane the cat]

bane had watched the exchange with fascination the two legs were so interesting to him. most strays would cower away from such a creature as a two leg. they are loud they are mean at times but bane is a lucky cat hes only ever met nice ones. the girls emotions bane could feel and she interested him as interested as a cat can be that is.

bane hid under a table just across the girl as she spoke to some sort of sitting man, bane could feel the annoyance in the man course bane found this odd since hes a cat he wouldn't really understand two leg emotions but that doesn't mean he cant feel them. bane darts behind a barrel thats empty and tipped over he hides just inside, its near the sitting man and he can hear better this way. not that the two legs vocal sounds meant anything to him but he liked the tones.

bane peaks out to look and listen

 

[Faelin K'Abveirin]

The elf rose his head and gazed at the redhaired lass, though she seemed quite 'off' for a person, looking either like an elf or human, but showing some similarity still. odd... He placed his crafts on the workbench.
»Hmm? What service to you need?« The elf tilted his head, eyeing the girl with his usual bored attitude before briefly snapping his head towards the clutter the a cat tipped over.

 

[Voraak Tyrethian]

Her intimidating approach let Voraak know that she did not trust anyone and that was fine. Voraak hardly trusted anyone either, but this girl had a story. He wouldn’t pry but the girl’s mother had disappeared and her father was seemingly dead.

A daughter of a Duke? I sense a political regime. He thought to himself.

As the girl insisted she did not need to eat, he felt….something, like a magical aura. A girl this young having such an aura was...odd albeit interesting. Shrugging his shoulders he agreed with the girl.

“Very well. You do not need to eat then Duchess. Trouble? There won’t be any trouble….I would like to see that though--it’s been a few days since I last killed a man.”

Crossing his arms he paced down the street of the Marketplace, pondering of his chance meeting with this girl and his future meeting with Jack Mordeaux. Mericet was a beautiful enough town to meet in, but the political game was still present in a town like this.

He would have a good mind to steal into the current Baron’s house and “borrow” a few items to send him on his merry way. Voraak noticed that the girl’s interest was shifting toward another who was arguing with a metalsmith.

 

[Lyssia D'avore]

She made a face, partly of disgust and partly of pain from the loss. "I am not a Duchess," she said quickly, hoping like hell that no one had overheard that. She did not even begin to touch the topic of killing people, discussed so openly on the street. Not less than a few looked up at his professing to the desire, and they gathered their things and moved along quickly. Lyssia watched them move off with a growing sense on unease.

She clutched the object she had carried here tightly to her chest, and looked down at the dark elfin smoth, cheeks aflame with shame and not a little anger. "I...I need to sell something. This," she said unwillingly, casting a side eye at the killer next to her.

She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, before taking the parcel into a hand, and unwrapping it. A finely carved wooden box, polished and dark with age and beeswax. She seemed torn with indecession as she opened the fine thing, which was itself probably worth a fair bit of money. Within, a single pendant of gold and silver, worn with incredible age. The design of a tall tower piercing the heavens, bound on either side by the horns of stags, was worked into the surface.

It had belonged to her mother.

"Please," she said.

 

[Faelin K'Abveirin]

Faelin would scratch his nose, his face as emotioneless as a rock, unmoved by either the man's calmly stated comments of butchery. Well, the elf had little opinion of that but a man flaunting his nature for the whole world to see.
»There's lawkeepers in this town, I would keep such comments to myself.« was his only comment on that matter, giving him a rather narrow glance with his sharp eyes.

With that dealt with he would focus on the girl growing seemingly more and more unstable from whatever turmoil was haunting her.
The eastern dark elf would take the valuable out of the box while holding a part of his cloak to cover it from the view of the human. Feeling the material on his gentle hands, the chain, the emblems, the material. The touch of these elves was often a mark of high finesse and others could hardly imagine just what they were feeling. Was it intuition? Or something more.
Silver... gold, a fine union of metals. And this was real. He laid it back into the box after he finished inspecting it, holding his chin with his arm and rubbing it very lightly as he began contemplating the metal.



»Perhaps, we should do the transaction...elsewhere.« He quietly huffed out as he lowered his head, obviously aware of...some dangerous solicitor she attracted.