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As related by Sharia of the Sarista gypsyfolk
by Colin Chapman
Today is a good day. The Greater Sun radiates the warmth and color
of life-giving blood, and the Lesser Sun hangs low in the sky;
a golden trinket for the gods. The verdant paved streets of Cymril
are warm through the soft felt of my boots; the lightest breeze
a soft caress rippling through my dress and hair.
I pause, marveling at the magnificent metropolis which surrounds
me: at the finely carved green crystal archways; the twisting
spires and elevated walkways; the emerald domes that glitter softly
in the light of the twin suns. Only a city of sorcerers could
conceive such an edifice.
Stopping before a bottle-green crystal wall, I check that my appearance
will serve today's pilfering purposes: lithe; full figure; ebony
cascade of hair, entwined with bangles of gold; eyes of deep emerald
set in a sensuous face. Enough to drive most men to distraction.
The promenades are hectic with the bustle of cosmopolitan life
as I make my graceful way towards the bazaar, and the bountiful
stalls and purses awaiting me there. With Fortuna's blessing,
I will relieve a few bloated merchants of the burden of their
gold.
Tall, slender Cymrilians stride along their city streets; a dazzling
array of bizarre fashions, colors and styles. One of these magically
enamored cosmopolitans floats slowly towards me, standing erect
on an invisible cushion of air. His head is buried in an ornate
tome, engraved with shimmering filigree; the pages turning of
their own accord. He is but one of the many magicians in a city
of magic, and a distracted one at that. Fortuna does smile on
her favored children.
Feigning a stumble, I step into the path of this engrossed mage,
and allow him to collide gently with me. Startled from his reverie,
he drops his book with a squeak and gazes with befuddlement at
my sudden presence. Smiling benignly at his confusion, I politely
retrieve his book for him as he mutters a stream of apologies
and gratitude, before continuing on his way - less the good companionship
of his purse. Of feather-soft red velvet it feels pleasingly weighty.
This will be a good day.
The streets become more animated as I near the bazaar, the warm
air carrying a mingled cornucopia of scents; of spices, exotic
fragrances, sizzling food and strange beasts.
Walking past the softly shifting golden sand-dunes of Kasmir Park,
a pair of Jaka stalk past. Lithe and predatory, their feral, animalistic
features, sleek black fur and silver-gray manes mark them as both
dangerous and exotic. Skilled and canny hunters, they are adept
with sword and bow, although much of their quarry consists of
wanted men. Superstitious as the manhunters are about magic, they
must be on edge here in this city of enchantment. Best to give
them a wide berth. Fortuna may smile on the Sarista, but she frowns
on fools.
The bazaar is an explosion of sight, sound and smell, as colorful
tents billow in the breeze, and people from many cultures bargain,
haggle and argue.
Young Cymrilian children - their green skin and hair as yet unadorned
with pigment or style - gather in rapt fascination as small wind-up
automatons march and dance across the stall of a Yassan technomancer.
His flat, metallic-gray face is stern in concentration, while
his six-fingered hands move with ease among the complex mechanisms
of a clockwork prosthetic arm.
Emptying a handful of gold Pentacles onto his worktop, I purchase
an automaton for the children, and watch with delight as they
scamper off to play with their new toy. Fortune is there to be
shared.
A pair of Thralls march past as I make my way through the sea
of people. Vigilant in their policing duties, they are remarkably
colorful in appearance, but altogether dull in character. Tall,
powerful and muscular, these hairless albino warriors are all
identical, save for the many colorful tattoos that adorn every
inch of their skin. Still, I have no desire to test their innate
strength or skill, so my trade is best plied away from their vicinity.
The smell of alcohol lingers in the air as I approach an ale-tent,
and I cannot suppress a grin, for drunkards are among the easiest
of targets.
The tent itself is busy, but shaded and cool. Several Thralls
jostle at the bar, downing huge drafts of flaming Fire-ale from
red-iron tankards. A handful of the amazonian Danuvian Viragos
sit quietly to the side, nursing a few drinks, as merchants sip
expensive aquavit and wine. The Danuvians; tall, powerful, bronzed
and handsome female warriors, watch the surrounding men with utter
disdain.
Doddering to his feet, a portly but well-attired Zandir merchant
staggers towards me; bottle in hand, and lecherous smile on his
bearded, turbaned head. Smiling seductively, I embrace him and
almost gag from the wretched fumes of alcohol on his breath. Isn't
it only fair that I take some recompense for this inconvenience?
He will barely miss his purse in his current state of inebriation.
As he paws clumsily at me, I whisper that the Danuvians should
be shown a good time by a real man. By him. Eagerly nodding drunken
agreement, the sot totters off towards them, as I move away back
into the main bazaar, smiling. My grin only widens as I hear the
resounding thud of fat Zandir merchant impacting forcefully with
the green-stone floor.
A crowd gather around a nearby stall of alchemical produce, behind
which stands a rather bored looking Sindaran. Standing over 7'
tall, stick-thin and emaciated is natural for his race, the dual-brained
genius plays dejectedly with the curving spur of cartilage growing
from the chin of his sandy-hued face. I have never stolen from
a Sindaran, nor do I advise it. They are simply too intelligent
and aware to trick or deceive.
Sweeping onwards, the earthy smell of fresh animal dung causes
my nostrils to twitch as I approach the beast market.
A Djaffir merchant stands arguing heatedly with a Kasmiran over
the price of a three-humped tatra. Garbed in loose robes, with
an intricate leather fetish mask obscuring his features, the Djaffir
shakes his finger furiously at the smaller form of the purple-robed
Kasmiran. I don't blame him either. The short and miserly Kasmirans
are as tight with their finances as they are wrinkled and ugly.
The beasts nearby shift restlessly under the heat of the twin
suns. Equs with smooth gray reptile-like hides, long graceful
necks and limbs, shake their black manes and favour me a small
smile. Few, save the Sarista, are aware of the intelligence of
these 'steeds', and the Equs prefer it that way. They have no
desire to jump through hoops for a master who discovers that not
only can they speak, but they are actually more intelligent than
he is.
Nearby, the three-humped, ungainly looking reptile-like tatra
stands among a handful of one-humped ontra and two-humped batra,
as unmindful of its possible fate as only these stupid and stubborn
desert-dwelling beasts can be.
It's then that I notice a small, rodent-like Ferran approach the
Kasmiran nonchalantly, eyes on the miser's leather purse. The
poor deluded fool.
As his dingy-furred paw slips around the purse he lets out a curdling
cry of pain, grabbing the attention of all in the vicinity. Clutching
his injured paw, he bolts, right into the clutches of a pair of
alerted Thrall guards. That's when all the hells break loose,
as the Ferran kicks up a stink. Literally. Emitting a truly repulsive
odor from hidden glands, both bystanders, merchants and Thralls
alike, stagger, double-over and vomit, wracked with nausea as
the Ferran darts away and makes good his escape. In future he
will be wary of Kasmiran purses, for the paranoid pentacle-pinchers
specialize in the crafting of traps, including purses protected
with fiendish devices such as spring-needles. I hope for his sake
they weren't poisoned, as I move on rapidly, for several new purses
have made my acquaintance during the confusion.
The aroma of delicate spices makes my belly rumble as I round
the next tent. A child-like Gnomekin, barely over 3' tall stands
near a large spit, roasting a peppered and spiced fish of vast
proportions. Having not yet eaten, I approach the diminutive cook,
noting the crystal shortsword at her waist. Brushing back her
silky black mane from the nut-brown skin of her fore-head, she
greets me cheerfully with a soft purring voice, and large amber
eyes.
She modestly informs me that she defeated this 500lb carnivorous
lungfish in pitched combat, and that a portion will costs me the
trifling sum of 1 silver piece. I heartedly agree to pay without
haggling, for these good-natured subterranean folk and universally
fair and trustworthy. Eagerly accepting a generous potion of the
spiced, roasted fish, I eat it with aplomb, telling her that it
tastes delicious. She smiles and softly proclaims that such is
Terra's bounty. Too contented to argue, I bid her thanks and get
back to work.
Feeling considerably more satisfied, the sound of haunting music
ahead draws my attention like a magnet. A large audience has gathered,
watching a Muse performer at work, skillfully drawing forth an
exquisite melody from his carved wooden gossamer-harp. A vision
of beauty, he flutters his large, pastel-colored butterfly wings
behind him in obvious pleasure.
A tiny, green-skinned, butterfly-winged Wood Whisp, standing only
a hand tall, struggles at the Muse's feet, hauling around an open
cloth purse to collect money from the fascinated audience.
Nearby, a Blue Aeriad, one of the highly-strung Creator-worshipping
humanoid avians stands behind his stall, clucking to himself in
anger that the foul music is ruining his business. Irritably arranging
his bolts of Viridia linen, and woven vine pots, he explodes into
outrage when the Wood Whisp makes an obscene gesture in his direction.
I prepare myself to reap a few profits of my own from the distracted
crowd. Fortuna is in a generous mood.
Leaving several careless bystanders considerably lighter around
the belt, I decide it's time to retire for the day. Fortuna is
a mercurial mistress, and I have been lucky enough.
Exiting the bazaar, I become aware of an angry voice, and glance
over at a nearby podium to locate the source of the disturbance.
A dour Aamanian stands, clad in a plain white robe, shaking his
fist at the passersby, ranting about their 'sins', and railing
how the Ever-Watchful Aa will only spare the supplicant from his
cleansing wrath. Clutching an iron amulet of a single unblinking
eye in his amber fist, he turns his hairless head in my direction,
and spits his hatred out, spewing forth dire imprecations about
the corrupting power of my folk and our dabblings with witchcraft.
Turning my back on his venomous gaze, I invoke a minor malediction
as I leave, smiling as his rants are drowned out by the loud,
grotesque sounds of his sudden, inexplicable flatulence. Today
has been very satisfying indeed.
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