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rainbowfic2014-07-18 05:08 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2014-07-18 05:08 pm
Cinnabar #15, Fish Blue #13, Wizard #10
Could I get a color tag for Wizard, please?
Name:kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Cinnabar #15 (mortar and pestle), Fish Blue #13 (yellow stingray), Wizard #10 (Potions)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas, Seed Beads
Word Count: 1,169
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Sabin finds herself at the periphery of a mystery.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
The men came just as Sabin finished pounding walnuts into a fine powder, and that was just as well, since it was as good a stopping point as any. Walnut powder would keep. The same could not be said for all the orders she still had to get out that day, but the men were dressed in the sea blue livery of House Shald, and they did not seem in a patient mood.
Firmly shoving aside hopes that the korenmar himself had decided to grace her humble shop with his patronage, Sabin wiped her hands clean of stray powder and gave her most courteous smile to the three tall men crowding into her small space. “May I help you, sirs?”
“You are Sabin. You make potions?” The shortest of the three men, who still stood two heads taller than Sabin, was the one who spoke. His head was entirely covered with a helmet, but the face plate was up, revealing a blunt nose and startlingly blue eyes. Such an eye color was unusual among the dark complected Fyonthi people, and Sabin tried not to stare.
“I make potions, I make powders and unguents, I make whatever salves you or the korenmar may command,” said Sabin, allowing herself a tiny bit of boldness. She folded her hands beneath her apron, the smile never leaving her face.
The short man snorted. Of the other two, one was wandering the tiny shop, peering closely at the vials and jars on the shelves. The last had taken up a post in the doorway, his presence a sure deterrent to anyone wanting to enter. Normally Sabin would have taken offense at the driving away of potential customers, but she would gladly give up a month’s worth of orders if the korenmar blessed her with his business. “Are you in acquaintance with a man known as Loem?” His intense stare seemed to pierce her.
Sabin blinked. She looked to the other two men, neither looked back. She saw her impossible hopes flutter away in the wind; it seemed these men were not interested in her, as such. “I do. He was a regular customer. He often came for redroot tea. It eases the aches brought on by cold damp.”
“Was?” said the second man, looking away from the shelves to peer at her, but the short man raised a hand toward him and he went back to his inspection.
“When was the last time you saw Loem?” the short man asked.
“Why?” Beneath her apron, Sabin squeezed her fingers nervously. “Did he do something wrong?”
“Just answer the question,” the short man snapped.
Sabin jumped a little at the man’s harsh tone. “It’s been awhile. Nearly a month. I did think it was odd. He used to come every three or four days.”
“Here it is,” said the second man, picking up a small bottle. Sabin, recognizing the yellow liquid within, swallowed.
“Give it here.” The short man took the bottle, turned it around to read the label, and frowned at Sabin. “Do you know what this is?”
She nodded, her throat so dry she feared nothing would come from her mouth but the rasp of saltmarsh cattails in the breeze. “It is made from the stingrays found around the bay.”
“It’s a poison,” said the short man. He gripped the bottle hard and shook it at her.
She was afraid of this. It wasn’t illegal to sell the venom below a certain concentration, but that part was often overlooked when the korenmar’s men got overzealous in their periodic raids for black market goods. Sabin had personally seen another woman, a dear friend of her own master, taken away for questioning. She had not been sent to prison, but the damage to her reputation was done, and she had left the city. “Yes, sirs, it is a poison, but only in very high concentration. What you are holding there is not enough to make a baby sick. A low dose like that helps with digestion. It’s a quite common and popular potion, and I assure you, I was carefully trained in its preparation. If it would help, I can refer you to my former master, who will vouch--”
“Shut up,” said the short man. “Is this all you have?”
“I have more bottles in the back,” she said, failing to keep her voice from shaking.
“Do you have other bottles, perhaps of a higher concentration?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I neither make nor sell poisons.”
“Did you ever sell this potion to Loem?”
She thought back. While he did occasionally buy others items than his usual, she didn’t remember him ever buying the stingray venom. “No, sir. Like I said, he usually only came in for the tea.”
“I heard what you said.” The short man huffed in irritation, gripping the bottle so hard she feared he might break it. He nodded at the second man, who unceremoniously came behind the counter and disappeared through the curtain leading into the back of the shop. Sabin bit down hard on her instinct to stop him. She would do herself no good antagonizing the men further. “Did you lie to me?”
“No, sir, of course not. I serve at your command.”
“Is there anyone else in the city who makes this venom?”
Sabin bit her lip. “Almost every apothecary in the city, sir, at least the properly trained ones.”
“Did you know Loem to ever visit any of these other apothecaries?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” She turned as a crash and the tinkle of broken glass came from the back. “Please, sir, I would prefer him not to destroy my wares.”
“I don’t care what you prefer. Do you know of anyone in the city who does make poisons?”
Sabin shook her head. She knew rumors, of course, but even rumors might be enough to get her arrested at this point. “I would never keep company with such people. If they exist, I know nothing of them.”
The second man emerged from the back, his arms full of bottles identical to the one the short man held. A quick count told Sabin that he had found her entire prepared supply, and she had no more raw material. “This is all I could find.”
“Destroy them,” said the short man. As the second man moved past the third man and out into the street, the short man turned back to her. “This substance is now illegal. You will make no more of it. You will sell no more of it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sabin, nodding. “May I ask why that is? Did Loem do something?” Had he bought the venom in its poisonous form? Had he used it? That hardly seemed possible; she knew Loem as a kindly, middle-aged man, full of the aches and pains of a lifelong fisherman, but a good and patient man all the same.
“You may not ask.” With a nod of his head, the short man and his remaining companion left the shop.
Name:
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Cinnabar #15 (mortar and pestle), Fish Blue #13 (yellow stingray), Wizard #10 (Potions)
Styles/Supplies: Canvas, Seed Beads
Word Count: 1,169
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Sabin finds herself at the periphery of a mystery.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
The men came just as Sabin finished pounding walnuts into a fine powder, and that was just as well, since it was as good a stopping point as any. Walnut powder would keep. The same could not be said for all the orders she still had to get out that day, but the men were dressed in the sea blue livery of House Shald, and they did not seem in a patient mood.
Firmly shoving aside hopes that the korenmar himself had decided to grace her humble shop with his patronage, Sabin wiped her hands clean of stray powder and gave her most courteous smile to the three tall men crowding into her small space. “May I help you, sirs?”
“You are Sabin. You make potions?” The shortest of the three men, who still stood two heads taller than Sabin, was the one who spoke. His head was entirely covered with a helmet, but the face plate was up, revealing a blunt nose and startlingly blue eyes. Such an eye color was unusual among the dark complected Fyonthi people, and Sabin tried not to stare.
“I make potions, I make powders and unguents, I make whatever salves you or the korenmar may command,” said Sabin, allowing herself a tiny bit of boldness. She folded her hands beneath her apron, the smile never leaving her face.
The short man snorted. Of the other two, one was wandering the tiny shop, peering closely at the vials and jars on the shelves. The last had taken up a post in the doorway, his presence a sure deterrent to anyone wanting to enter. Normally Sabin would have taken offense at the driving away of potential customers, but she would gladly give up a month’s worth of orders if the korenmar blessed her with his business. “Are you in acquaintance with a man known as Loem?” His intense stare seemed to pierce her.
Sabin blinked. She looked to the other two men, neither looked back. She saw her impossible hopes flutter away in the wind; it seemed these men were not interested in her, as such. “I do. He was a regular customer. He often came for redroot tea. It eases the aches brought on by cold damp.”
“Was?” said the second man, looking away from the shelves to peer at her, but the short man raised a hand toward him and he went back to his inspection.
“When was the last time you saw Loem?” the short man asked.
“Why?” Beneath her apron, Sabin squeezed her fingers nervously. “Did he do something wrong?”
“Just answer the question,” the short man snapped.
Sabin jumped a little at the man’s harsh tone. “It’s been awhile. Nearly a month. I did think it was odd. He used to come every three or four days.”
“Here it is,” said the second man, picking up a small bottle. Sabin, recognizing the yellow liquid within, swallowed.
“Give it here.” The short man took the bottle, turned it around to read the label, and frowned at Sabin. “Do you know what this is?”
She nodded, her throat so dry she feared nothing would come from her mouth but the rasp of saltmarsh cattails in the breeze. “It is made from the stingrays found around the bay.”
“It’s a poison,” said the short man. He gripped the bottle hard and shook it at her.
She was afraid of this. It wasn’t illegal to sell the venom below a certain concentration, but that part was often overlooked when the korenmar’s men got overzealous in their periodic raids for black market goods. Sabin had personally seen another woman, a dear friend of her own master, taken away for questioning. She had not been sent to prison, but the damage to her reputation was done, and she had left the city. “Yes, sirs, it is a poison, but only in very high concentration. What you are holding there is not enough to make a baby sick. A low dose like that helps with digestion. It’s a quite common and popular potion, and I assure you, I was carefully trained in its preparation. If it would help, I can refer you to my former master, who will vouch--”
“Shut up,” said the short man. “Is this all you have?”
“I have more bottles in the back,” she said, failing to keep her voice from shaking.
“Do you have other bottles, perhaps of a higher concentration?”
“Of course not,” she said. “I neither make nor sell poisons.”
“Did you ever sell this potion to Loem?”
She thought back. While he did occasionally buy others items than his usual, she didn’t remember him ever buying the stingray venom. “No, sir. Like I said, he usually only came in for the tea.”
“I heard what you said.” The short man huffed in irritation, gripping the bottle so hard she feared he might break it. He nodded at the second man, who unceremoniously came behind the counter and disappeared through the curtain leading into the back of the shop. Sabin bit down hard on her instinct to stop him. She would do herself no good antagonizing the men further. “Did you lie to me?”
“No, sir, of course not. I serve at your command.”
“Is there anyone else in the city who makes this venom?”
Sabin bit her lip. “Almost every apothecary in the city, sir, at least the properly trained ones.”
“Did you know Loem to ever visit any of these other apothecaries?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.” She turned as a crash and the tinkle of broken glass came from the back. “Please, sir, I would prefer him not to destroy my wares.”
“I don’t care what you prefer. Do you know of anyone in the city who does make poisons?”
Sabin shook her head. She knew rumors, of course, but even rumors might be enough to get her arrested at this point. “I would never keep company with such people. If they exist, I know nothing of them.”
The second man emerged from the back, his arms full of bottles identical to the one the short man held. A quick count told Sabin that he had found her entire prepared supply, and she had no more raw material. “This is all I could find.”
“Destroy them,” said the short man. As the second man moved past the third man and out into the street, the short man turned back to her. “This substance is now illegal. You will make no more of it. You will sell no more of it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Sabin, nodding. “May I ask why that is? Did Loem do something?” Had he bought the venom in its poisonous form? Had he used it? That hardly seemed possible; she knew Loem as a kindly, middle-aged man, full of the aches and pains of a lifelong fisherman, but a good and patient man all the same.
“You may not ask.” With a nod of his head, the short man and his remaining companion left the shop.
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Thank you for reading!
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