kay_brooke: A field of sunflowers against a blue sky (summer)
kay_brooke ([personal profile] kay_brooke) wrote in [community profile] rainbowfic2017-08-05 04:52 pm

Argent #9, Grey #6, Silver Screen #3

Name: [personal profile] kay_brooke
Story: The Myrrosta
Colors: Argent #9 (Humanity), Grey #6 (grey matter), Silver Screen #3 (You don't understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could've been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas, Seed Beads, Graffiti (Short Films)
Word Count: 1,197
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Schemes are afoot.
Notes: Maybe a multiparter? Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.


The man was thin, shivering violently even wrapped to roundness by several layers of fur. He had trouble at first removing himself from his perch in the front of wagon, so that Chavin thought maybe the ride had killed him. Frozen to death as the winds off the tundra whipped around his wrapped face. He wouldn't be the first and he wouldn't be the last, and he didn't even have a Seenian's natural resistance to the cold.

But he did move eventually, the driver helping him rise creakily from the seat and step to the ground, legs nearly giving out beneath him. But he shrugged the driver away and took old man steps in Chavin's direction, pausing just in front of him.

"Please," he said. Only his glittering dark eyes were visible above the scarves and below the hat. Chavin wondered how much the driver knew, whether he had identified the unrecognizable man he had brought up from the bay. He looked the driver over, just a quick glance. The driver was tall and thick, wearing far fewer furs than his passenger, an enduring Seenian native. All of his attention was focused on his horses: also big, shaggy Seenian natives able to withstand the winds far better than their southern cousins. It didn't seem to Chavin that the driver's attention was false, or that he was secretly trying to listen in, and Chavin believed himself quite good at knowing the difference.

So he dismissed the driver with a word and a coin, and said to his visitor, "Let us go inside." He wasn't as familiar with the Ceenta Voweiian language as he would have liked to be, but he had been told his visitor couldn't abide by the merchant tongue, the only language approaching a common one on the continent. It was too vulgar for him, reportedly.

The building he had been brought to was long, low, and made of stone, but the doors were of a luxurious oak. An inn, the only one in town, and far too grand for what the place had become. Inside the door was the tavern, which always did good business of an evening, but Chavin led his visitor past the bar and the drinkers. He noticed the man give a wistful look toward the roaring fire, his teeth still chattering though it was warm enough that Chavin was already beginning to sweat beneath his furs.

Why did they bring this man up here? he wondered as he led the visitor through a doorway into the backroom. This had once been the inn, and closed doors still lined the long, narrow common room that made up the center. But the town saw precious few guests these days, and the only maintenance the rooms saw these days was after storms to make sure no damage had been done to the walls. The doors were kept closed so that the warmth from the common room's fireplace remained contained in the common room. And there was such a fire today, as Chavin had instructed the tavern owners. A big, roaring fire with two plush chairs set in front of it--probably the best chairs in town--and a table between them, holding two glasses and an already opened bottle of wine. Chavin had instructed no one else be in the room, not even servants.

Sighing into the warmth, the visitor began to unwrap himself from his furs, first revealing a pale, thin, clean-shaven face with a nose far too large and round for it, then the deep blue of a finely made vest, then creased dark trousers ending in high black boots. The boots were damp from their short sojourn through the snow from the wagon up to the inn, and the visitor frowned first at them, then at Chavin, as if the weather was his fault.

Chavin ignored the frown and inclined his head. "Lord Amare. Welcome." He hadn't dared use the man's name where it could have been overheard by anyone. It had been a long time since someone of the lord's stature had visited the town, and people would have talked. His brief presence walking through the tavern had already attracted more attention than Chavin would have liked, but at least for now the man was still anonymous.

Lord Amare took in his surroundings, neatly plucked eyebrows pinched close to his eyes, focusing finally on the chairs and the bottle of wine. "Is it only us?" He sounded suspicious.

"For tonight," said Chavin. "There are some others you will meet with tomorrow, but most are at home on this night. You understand."

Lord Amare's eyebrows said he didn't. "Who are these others? I expected to meet with the owners of the mine. I came up to this godsforsaken wasteland for a reason.”

Chavin bit his tongue until the urge to castigate the man passed. He already hated Lord Amare, but the man was unfortunately necessary if Chavin was going to keep his beloved town from falling into forgotten history. “I am one of the owners. My colleagues and I agreed I should greet you this evening, and negotiations can get underway tomorrow.”

“You.” Lord Amare looked Chavin up and down, clearly not impressed by what he saw. Chavin, like most Seenian men, was tall and wide, with inelegant fingers calloused by a lifetime of work and a full beard that fell below his neck. Beards had not been in fashion in Ceenta Vowei for years.

“Me,” Chavin said. He gestured to the chairs and the wine. “Shall we sit?

Lord Amare did so, though perhaps more reluctantly than Chavin would have liked. Chavin went to pour the wine, and the lord’s eyebrows rose.

“I sent everyone away,” Chavin answered the unasked question. “It’s better that not even the servants overhear. You understand.”

Lord Amare remained quiet while his wine was poured, then said, “Is it such a taboo, then? Here?”

Chavin took his seat. “It was outlawed twenty years ago, part of the conditions of the Ttarren trade agreement.” And the damned trade agreement had brought ruin to his town.

“Still well within living memory,” said Amare with a shrug. He took a sip of wine, made a face, and gingerly set the glass back on the table. “That is not, in my experience, long enough to change the hearts of the people.”

Chavin answered by indicating the room, taking in its roaring fire and its rows of doors guarding cold, empty rooms. “You are correct. So you are here. But there are those who are...enthusiastic about the law. We don’t want news getting to the wrong people.”

Amare nodded. “Not as stupid as you look, Lord Chavin.”

Chavin did not correct him. As if this frozen town would boast anything like nobility. Not that it mattered, because what Chavin once had, and would have again if he and the other owners could work out an agreement with this unpleasant little lord, was money. And that was far better than any title.

He took a large gulp of wine, not caring that Amare winced at this show of crudeness, and said, “Let us discuss the plans for tomorrow.”

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