Chapter #5From Whence Didst the Merchant Come? by: hedkrakka   "... I know a guy. But he's a little... weird."
Tori cocked an eyebrow and cast a sidelong glance at her feathery friend. "Define weird."
"He's a merchant who comes into the bakery sometimes. I've never seen his face; he's always wearing this weird bird mask. Can't place the accent either. He's definitely not a Groblander, that's for sure. But he sells magical trinkets and alchemical agents from his wagon, and is a whole lot cheaper then the average wizard. If anyone has a magical means of helping you put on some weight, it'll be him. His name is..."
*** *** ***
The hour was late. Torgher pulled her cloak tighter around herself in a vain effort to keep the night's chill from her soft, lightly tanned skin. An owl shrieked as walked past, and she could vaguely make out the black forms of bats circling above her. A cold and pale moon hung low in the clear sky, as if mocking her discomfort. Tori cursed as her one hoof slipped on the loose gravel, catching herself on a half-crumbled wall before tumbling to the ground.
"Who... in their right... mind!... sets up... so far... from the market square!?" Tori mumbled between panting breaths as she made her way up the steep hill towards Old Town. Old Town rested on the far eastern side of the Serf's Quarter, and if there was a bad corner of the town, this was it. Were it not for the grain bins along the grand lane, it's doubtful there would any reason to ever venture there. Home to rundown shacks, rotten taverns, and seedy gambling dens, only those of ill repute ever spent much time there.
"And I'm willingly going there. I must have been born stupid," Torgher thought as she continued on her way. Emily had said he went to her bakery each morning, but after a couple glasses of wine, she'd been unwilling to wait that long. She'd pestered Emily until she finally gave up where he liked to set up shop. Apparently the weirdo even preferred to work at night, so he'd doubtlessly be awake.
However, now that the alcohol was starting to wear off, she was really beginning to regret not waiting until the morrow.
Her hoof caught another loose stone, and she stumbled with a curse. It seemed that the Light Keepers didn't like to venture this far either, as maybe every fourth street light was lit. The sound of something scuttling across the ground drew her attention. A rat, perhaps? Such was her focus on her feet that she did not see the figure in the shadow of a great wagon before he spoke, and barely kept herself from screaming in shock at the sound of his raspy, whistling voice. His head bobbed slowly side to side as he spoke, first one red eye then the other, focusing upon her with a mechanical whir.
"I hold in my hands... a jar... and a tube. You may buy... my jar, or my tube... for thirty silver. I am... Mikhail of the Dying Lands... and they are all I have."
Torgher's hand was clasped tight over her mouth, eyes wide, struggling not to scream. The figure before her was cloaked all in black, rendering him nearly invisible in the long shadow in which he stood. He was a tall, gaunt figure, easily a head taller then Ajax and towering over the short Satyr. He wore a large, wide brimmed hat, and his red eye pieces glowed from underneath. A large bill with an odd assortment of holes protruded even beyond the rim of his headgear, and it clicked and buzzed as it moved sporadically. His proportions were completely off, far too long in his back and arms, and Torgher shuddered as she realized he had three legs bereft of feet, and ending in large, spiked claws, like those of a black crab.
He moved forward with a steady tap of peg-leg claw on stone. The wan light of the moon scarcely illuminated him better then the brazier on his wagon, and as he approached, Tori was nearly overwhelmed by the smell of roses and posies, of all damned things. Gold and silver shone from his night-dark cloak, and holy symbols of all the Gods of Fate and Death. Others, she didn't recognize, and they hurt to look upon for too long.
A buzz and a click sounded, and the nightmare figure turned his head so his right eye, the larger of two, was a scant few inches from her face. With a whir, the metallic scales within tightened his focus, and Tori shook like a leaf in the first frosty wind of winter. "Would you like... to buy... my jar... or my tube?"
Every instinct in her head screamed at her to run away, but she kept her hooves firmly planted on the ground. She forced her hand away from her mouth, and willed her teeth to stop chattering. Inhaling deeply, nearly gagging on the stench of flowers, Tori managed to force out, "My friend Emily said you could help me."
"Ah, yes. The Harpy... on the winding way. Such... pretty feathers. She makes... good bread. Come... to my cart."
Mikhail pulled back, seeming to move as a shadow more then anything corporeal. Tori's hands still shook, but her nerves were slowly calming down. The sense of foreboding still hung in the air, but she perceived she wasn't in any true danger, and followed the strange merchant to his wagon.
He walked around the front towards what she thought was a team of horses. With a start, she realized that it was not a pair as she expected, but rather a scaly black mare with two heads mounted on impossibly long necks. The "horse" stamped its six hooves as its master approached, and nuzzled him lovingly once he was within reach. The merchant saw his customer's look of surprise, and let out a series of short buzzes. Torgher came to the realization that he was laughing at her.
"This,,, is Moonless Night. My... oldest and dearest... friend. She came with us... from the Dying Lands. Her mother... abandoned her. And I... took her... in." He reached into his coat and pulled out a pair of white cloths. Unwrapping them, Torgher saw they contained two loaves of bread, and Mikhail fed one loaf to each horse head. "Moonless... likes rye bread. And Night... likes white bread. Both... hate the brown. Picky old girl."
More buzzing laughter as they left the horse for the other side of the wagon. The side panels were open, revealing his wares. He reached across to his lone brazier, moving it to better light his merchandise. The lamp smelled strongly of ash wood and pipeweed, and Mikhail held his beaked face over the billowing smoke. He inhaled deeply with a horrid sucking sound, like a man gasping his last mouthful of air. He exhaled, smoke flowing from myriad holes in his mask.
"I, though... do not eat... I buy the bread... for Moonless Night. And... I buy... the cheese... because I like... to hold it... in my hand," Mikhail said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. The merchant drew a third white cloth, opening it slowly on his hand, which Tori now noticed was instead a raven's talon. The cloth contained a slice from a wedge of cheese, and as the two spoke, two fat rats, one black and one white, and a mouse with red and blue striped fur, crawled from his tattered sleeve to feed on the proffered dairy product. All three rodents had bright green eyes, staring quizzically at their guest.
"So... what do... you seek... from Mikhail of the Dying Lands... little Satyr?"  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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