Despite the town's lively atmosphere the morning had been a disaster for Ferson and Zelnard. Despite the bustling energy that typically saturated the market square of CQ, their humble stall stood like an island of stagnation. A crushing stroke of bad luck had hindered them from an early start, the kind of misfortune that could cripple a day's earnings. Heavy, unseasonal flooding on the monastery road had delayed their departure, the nearby creek swelling its banks and forcing them to cross far higher up the treacherous hill. This detour had cost them the precious, critical window of the early morning rush, the hours when the wealthiest buyers, the most serious and fastidious merchants, and the eager, hungry patrons did their purchasing for the day.

Now, hours later, the sun was climbing toward its zenith, and the market’s peak frenzy had subsided into a languid, late-morning lull.

Their only product they were peddling was seaweed cheese....a local delicacy of the monastery, renowned throughout the nearby provinces for its potent, earthy flavour and its uniquely spongy, almost gelatinous texture. For all its fame, however, the strange, green-tinged wheels and blocks of cheese were failing spectacularly to attract any attention in the current markets’ quiet. A faint, salty-puckery scent, the cheese’s signature aroma, wafted around their stall, blending faintly with the richer smells of frying fish and spice-bread from nearby vendors.

Ferson, was an ageing but kindly Mage and he was happy to stand watch over their simple, rickety wooden cheese stall as he saw it as an opportunity for Zelnard to learn some skills at negotiation with the citizens. His presence was less about active selling and more about a comforting, familiar anchor for Z and he tried to leave as many customer interactions as he could to the upcoming mage. Though it was obvious that Ferson was anxious to sell all the cheese they had brought to the market as he really didn’t want to lug it all back home through the mud.

Zelnard, was a handsome boy who was starting to show signs of entering his teenage years. He felt the natural, vibrant restlessness of his age surging through him like an electric current and he was so proud that he was being treated like a young man by Ferson. Yet boredom was a physical ache as customers were few and far between and a dull pressure in his chest that made his fingers twitch and his feet yearn to move. All these feelings rose up as the initial buzz of being in the market started to lose its excitement.. His gaze, dark and sharp with youthful impatience, kept straying past the stagnant market stall, past the bored shoppers and the vigilant Mage, to the true, roaring centre of the town's energy: the docks.

He could see the towering, intricate masts of countless ships bobbing rhythmically against the bright blue sky, a complex, swaying forest of wood and rope. He could hear the insistent, powerful clang of anchor chains being raised and dropped, the deep, resonant calls of dockworkers and sailors, and the shrill cries of ganets wheeling overhead and the occasional fesealon jumping on the docks to steal a fish.. The air coming off the water smelled of salt, pitch, and distant, foreign shores, carrying with it a powerful, almost irresistible pull of adventure, of unknown lands and glorious potential, emanating from that ceaseless, maritime bustle. He shifted his weight, kicking absently at a loose cobblestone.

Ferson, ever perceptive despite his weary state, noticed the boy's thinly veiled impatience....the way Zelnard's posture was pent, ready for flight, and how his eyes refused to linger on the cheese for more than a second. A soft, knowing smile touched Ferson's lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes into a network of fine lines. He had been a restless boy once, too though it was very long ago...

"Go on then, Zelnard," Ferson said kindly, his voice a low, gravelly murmur, like stones rolling on a beach. He straightened up a little, a conscious, effortful movement. "I can handle things here for a while. It’s hardly rush hour; I suspect even a drowsy Mage is more than enough to guard a few wheels of unpopular cheese."

He held Zelnard's gaze, his expression firming slightly, though his tone remained light. "Just don’t go too far," he warned. "No skipping stones into the deep harbour, and no climbing the rigging of the Sea Serpent again...... and be back soon. We need to pack up before the evening crowds start thinking about dinner."  Crowds? mumbled Z with a great deal of incredulty, as he took the permission and ran towards the docks. 

Next: The Docks