Chapter 1, Part 5

    This was it. This was the chance Sindri needed. A groan tried to work its way into existence, but was quickly stifled. Fate was dropping at this journeying mystic's feet a filthy, scrawny, starving and moneyless child to be taken care of and guided down the path of goodness. Benevolence… Propriety… The only result of these actions that Sindri's mind could project was the deprivation of scents, jewelry, tea - there would be two mouths to feed, and Sindri already consumed enough to rival a small town. It wouldn't be possible to take responsibility for the boy when there was already so much to be taken care of (Mainly Sindri)… And yet… a somewhat sour expression took over as the itinerant realized that this inner battle was lost before it ever truly began. The shame of turning away this virtuous duty would be unbearable. It was Sindri's job to teach this child sincerity, benevolence, and propriety… How could such things be taught when Sindri wasn't even able to abide by them without exception? It would be a difficult journey, yes, but a journey that must be taken. And anyways, that kid was just so damn pathetic, like a mangy, malnourished pup. The momentarily insincere spiritualist cursed a long list of things, and then focused once again on the boy standing there holding an oracle bone in his hand.

    Giving up completely allowed a broad grin to creep down past the mischievous psychic's ears, up above the pointed chin, and finally sit, triumphantly, on the pale face. A stray hand tucked white-blond hair behind an ear, pulled slightly down with the weight of the hoop.
    Intrigue glinted and danced between two ivy green eyes. "That's the wan-gu," Sindri said, speaking the last two words with a native Eastern accent. "It's considered one of the luckiest bones- that you chose it means you must be lucky too. I'll teach you to read them," The slender body twisted, unfolded and then folded again to face the piteous boy. "But only if you stop stealing. That which is gained through dishonesty is not worth gaining at all. That which is gained with hard work and virtue is worth more than anything money could buy. Unfortunately, most people here don't accept hard work and virtue in lieu of money. Would you like to eat? I'll treat you if you agree to be my assistant."

    At this Sindri paused, making faces as if suddenly tasting something bad. "Apprentice…" No, this was even less palatable. "Associate." That triumphant grin worked its way back up, and suddenly so did the fortune teller. The cards and bones were swept back into the pouch. Fingers fastened around the street rat's wrist and dragged him along as the flashy figure tromped with determination through the muck and mayhem of the streets of inner Rhelys.
    "Also, you mustn't lie. Well." Sindri stopped walking, a deep, sullen thought working its way across the expressive face. The blond gave a long sigh. "Alright. You can lie, if you choose to. The same goes with stealing. I… I won't stop you being dishonest, but if you choose to you must bear with the choice you make." The words hesitated coming out of the elder vagabond's mouth, their speaker desiring to tell the boy exactly what to do and feeling shortchanged by the obligation not to. "But you really, really, really should try not to lie or steal…" The thought that they were standing in the middle of a chaotic street suddenly occurred to the clairvoyant, who, with a quick turn, was off again with that same resolute march. "I'm working on listening more than I speak," Sindri projected over a gaudy shoulder, "So pinch me if I talk too much! There was this o-" Catching the mistake, Sindri's pale pink lips pressed shut, flickering green eyes narrowing to locate a specific destination.

    "Hello!" The vibrantly-clad wanderer called, peeking a head in the doorway. This time the eccentric fool had a victim. A scrawny boy, shock of dark curls hanging in his face. The big man at the counter couldn't help but bark a deep laugh.

    "Sindri, what poor lad are you torturing with your path to enlightenment, eh? I didn't think I'd see you back here. Come on in. That boy looks skinny as a vine! Sit down, I'll have a pot of tea out and something to eat in a bit." The man boomed, turning and stomping into a room in the back. Sindri, sporting a coiling grin, flung the grimy victim down at a table and took a seat across from him. Whether the fortune-teller's subsequent silence was intentional, allowing the boy that had just been effectively kidnapped to take in the recent flurry of events, or unintentional, a result of the thoughtless routine of pulling off earrings, massaging pink earlobes, picking at dirty nails, rubbing an aching right elbow, it lasted long enough for a pot of steaming tea to be brought out. At the interruption, those green eyes glinted, realizing that this time there was company sitting on the other end of the table instead of an empty chair. Sindri beamed, thrilled all over again with the rediscovery of this newfound companion. The contents of the sapphire silk pouch were dumped out on the table, bones and cards quickly pushed into neat little piles, and then the mystic's chin jerked up as yet another thought occurred, "Say. What do you think about caravans?"

Chapter 1, Part 4

            The sun was setting behind the taller buildings of Rhelys, casting cool hues over the dingy market street.  Blue and purple shadows stretched from the vendor stalls as their owners slowly started to pack up shop, trying to snare one last customer before the night truly fell.  The boy peered out from the alleyway, his dark skin and clothes serving as the perfect camouflage.  He wasn’t after the purses of the shop goers this time of the day, but rather the merchants themselves.  Merchants, so stupid, turning their back on their purses as they carefully packed up their wares into carts and rucksacks for the trek back to their homes. 

            Slowly, the boy slid out from his hiding spot, his bare feet silently padding across the dirt as he neared the closest of the merchants.  He never tried to steal a whole purse, no; the trick to being a proper thief was to not be greedy.  Well, be greedy, but not so greedy as to make his victims aware that they were missing their precious coins.  The man he was targeting now was an older one, hard of hearing on the left, and slow to boot…the boy had profited off of him several times in the past few weeks, never enough for more then a meal or two that he tried to stretch as much as he could.  It never lasted long. 

            He waited until the old man was turned away, painstakingly easing a clay vase into a fabric-cushioned cart, his veins standing out against his withered and ruddy hands, then the boy made his move.  He hadn’t moved five feet, however, before the merchant turned around to collect the next jar and spotted the pathetic sight of the raggedy boy with sunken eyes and ratty clothes.  The old man’s eyes softened, and he slowly reached into his bag, his withered hands digging for something.

            “Here you go lad, you look half dead.  Come here, let me help…”

            The boy stiffened.  Adults were bad, even old ones.  He didn’t mind stealing from them, but he’d never trust them.  A pang of terror racked through his body as his instincts took over.  Fight or flight.  He barely had enough strength to hold his head up, let alone fight…flight it was.

            “No…lad, I’m not going to…” As the boy retreated back into his alley the old man’s voice was swallowed by the silence of the shadows.  Expertly, he navigated the backstreets between the filthy buildings, moving parallel to the market street.  Dark forms lay huddled and slumped against the walls, several clutching bottles of some sort or another, and the stench that accompanied them was overpowering.  The boy felt his heart pounding like a drum in his chest.  He had to get out of there. 

            He emerged from another cramped alleyway, with barely enough space between shops for his shoulders to squeeze through.  Rhelad curse it, the boy thought, the bakery hasn’t baked anything fresh in hours, why does it still have to smell so good?!  His stomach throbbed painfully, partially from hunger, partially from the rats and discarded food scraps that he’d managed to scrounge the previous night. 

            A low humming tune next to him made him jump – well, he was always jumpy – and he whirled around in a panic trying to assess the source of the noise.  There, right where he had emerged from the alley outside the bakery was an interesting figure, clothed in a dusty robe of nonetheless vibrant colors, with small golden rings gleaming at their ears.  How many thalas would those be worth, the starving boy wondered, enough for months of food, surely! The person – was it a boy or a girl, he couldn’t tell – hadn’t looked at him yet, for his eyes are closed…perhaps he was blind!  Forget the earrings, if he was blind then the boy might be able to make off with a money pouch.

            He took the chance since the person still didn’t see him or seemed to be aware of his presence.  With all the skill that was honed in the education of the streets, the boy slipped his hand into the bag that hung at the figure’s waist.  He withdrew his hand with a single object grasped tightly in it.  It clearly wasn’t a coin; the texture was far too strange for that and the shape was all wrong.  He looked at it...no wonder the texture was strange, the thing he was holding a bone!

            His would-be victim opened their eyes suddenly and looked at the boy with a clear gaze.  Definitely not blind then. This person looked to be slightly older then the boy was, which kept the boy from fleeing at that instant.

            “Surprised?”  The brightly robed figure asked.      



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Chapter 1, Part 3

A curious figure: long, straight blonde hair tied back in a simple queue; thick black foreign boots, tufts of fur flying out at the ankles; and billowing behind him the sides of his bright white unbuttoned ankle-length coat as he rushed past the cars of the caravan.

His boots clomped abrasively on the red brick road, a combination of his inelegant stride and clear determination to conquer everything – literally – in his path. For while his gait shifted normally enough on the balls of his feet, and his knees bent naturally enough, his upper torso remained still, tree-like, half-paralytic in movement.

His face seemed similarly braced: firm-set blunt jawbone, hints of tension underlying his cheek muscles, and nearly-white pale blue eyes one could not quite tell if they were narrow or narrowed. There was little else one could glean from his body posture; he remained so casually stiff no one could truly pinpoint if this were typical or circumstantial.

The edges of his rebelliously white coat billowed as he stepped around the caravan. “Where is the navigator?” he demanded to the nearest human being he located, who happened to be a hunched-over old man half-buried in his own beard.
The old man snorted loudly before responding, “I dunno.”

“I need to speak to him about our inexcusably delayed departure!”

"I said I dunno, Master Rat Boot.” With a skeptical glance down at his addressee’s fur-capped footwear, the man fell silent.

“Rat boot?” With a sniff, he corrected, “These wildcat fur boots were sold to me by an authentic Rhayadan shoemaker from the northern region of mountains.” He spoke in an accent so implausibly absurd that it seemed likely to be his own invention, a distinguishing characteristic by which he tried to appear more exotic or eclectic. Still, regardless of his intent, the result ultimately manifested itself in the smirks that twitched up from others’ lips the first time they heard him speak.

His current listener, indeed, appeared more bemused than impressed by the peculiar inflection of his words. “If you say so, good for you.” And the man trudged away, leaving stiff-back Alcandor Mavros, second son of the esteemed Leonidas Mavros, no more informed, but all the more furious.

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