(no subject)
Around this time of year, Rabanastre's markets open in earnest. With less than a month to wait for Solstice celebrations, the sudden pique of interest is mostly thanks to the varied and sundry items that are largely only in demand, thus only produced en masse, during the later months. As well, the atmosphere tends to be one that encourages a person to leave their home and browse, or simply take in the atmosphere of approaching celebration.
With this in mind, Basch swaddles Portia in a small woolen jacket, warm clothing, a hat and mittens, and the two set out for the Bazaar around Dusk.
It's partly to expose her early to the celebrations, at an age where she can actually remember them. It goes well: despite having to be chided not to grab things that aren't hers, including a brief talk about keeping her voice down where other people are talking, she's surprisingly well-behaved for a three-year-old.
They stop at a cart selling different sorts of meat; flanks, and steaks, and fillets of different fish. For a moment after a purchase Basch needs both hands free, and so he patiently explains to his daughter that she is to hold on to the cord on his belt, and not let go until he tells her to. She appears to grasp this concept easy enough, and though she ends up twisted around almost 180 to look at the different colored candles burning and the tall women with the equally tall ears, she holds on as she's told.
When Basch turns again to a somehow violently empty space after what seems like mere seconds, completely devoid of Portia, his exasperation is understandable. With his bag a little heavier and his pockets a little lighter, he embarks on a trek through the happily chatting people and snow and carts to peer around. It had only been seconds; she couldn't have gotten too far.
When five minutes pass and he finds no small girl, hiding or giggling or toddling away to look at brightly colored things (which she had been told NOT to, time and again), his exasperation begins to give way to abject worry, even fear. He calls her name, questioningly, just in case there's a place he hasn't looked in her earshot - a few people turn to look at him, then return to their conversations, unbothered.
Then, there's a tap on his shoulder. Basch whirls around; there she stands, one mittened hand in her mouth, the other hand held by a man with dark hair and a mousy kind of face and a slight, wiry build. She peers up at him with an expression joyfully devoid of the sharp, piercing worry fading into simple anger that Basch feels pervades every nook, every cranny, every open space in this Bazaar.
"She yours?" he man says; his voice is surprisingly gravelly.
Basch sets his jaw long enough to strain his voice into the tone appropriate for polite, even thankful, conversation. "Yes. Thank you."
"She bumped into me by the bread cart," the man says, still holding her hand. "She moves fast. Should be a runner."
Basch nods, and holds out his hand for her. "If there's a way I could repay you, I--"
The man doesn't offer her hand immediately; it's a lack of expected gesture that takes Basch a few seconds to parse, as the implications are mighty and should not be easily lain. "Would be a shame if it happened again and you couldn't find her," the man replies, "not everyone'd be so kind to the child of a Kingslayer."
There's a moment where Basch simply stares, and realization must dawn in his eyes, or his face must indicate impending violence or something of the sort, because the man smiles, gently, haloed by the falling snow and nearby candle glow. The man lifts her and passes her bodily, to Basch; Portia makes a small sound akin to a giggle. Stabilizing her weight is enough to throw Basch off, takes enough time to close the window for any physical action.
The man shoves his hands into his pockets, nods like that's the end of it, then turns and walks away.
From that moment on, for the rest of the evening, Basch can see the black paint washed from his house - but not his memory - everywhere.
With this in mind, Basch swaddles Portia in a small woolen jacket, warm clothing, a hat and mittens, and the two set out for the Bazaar around Dusk.
It's partly to expose her early to the celebrations, at an age where she can actually remember them. It goes well: despite having to be chided not to grab things that aren't hers, including a brief talk about keeping her voice down where other people are talking, she's surprisingly well-behaved for a three-year-old.
They stop at a cart selling different sorts of meat; flanks, and steaks, and fillets of different fish. For a moment after a purchase Basch needs both hands free, and so he patiently explains to his daughter that she is to hold on to the cord on his belt, and not let go until he tells her to. She appears to grasp this concept easy enough, and though she ends up twisted around almost 180 to look at the different colored candles burning and the tall women with the equally tall ears, she holds on as she's told.
When Basch turns again to a somehow violently empty space after what seems like mere seconds, completely devoid of Portia, his exasperation is understandable. With his bag a little heavier and his pockets a little lighter, he embarks on a trek through the happily chatting people and snow and carts to peer around. It had only been seconds; she couldn't have gotten too far.
When five minutes pass and he finds no small girl, hiding or giggling or toddling away to look at brightly colored things (which she had been told NOT to, time and again), his exasperation begins to give way to abject worry, even fear. He calls her name, questioningly, just in case there's a place he hasn't looked in her earshot - a few people turn to look at him, then return to their conversations, unbothered.
Then, there's a tap on his shoulder. Basch whirls around; there she stands, one mittened hand in her mouth, the other hand held by a man with dark hair and a mousy kind of face and a slight, wiry build. She peers up at him with an expression joyfully devoid of the sharp, piercing worry fading into simple anger that Basch feels pervades every nook, every cranny, every open space in this Bazaar.
"She yours?" he man says; his voice is surprisingly gravelly.
Basch sets his jaw long enough to strain his voice into the tone appropriate for polite, even thankful, conversation. "Yes. Thank you."
"She bumped into me by the bread cart," the man says, still holding her hand. "She moves fast. Should be a runner."
Basch nods, and holds out his hand for her. "If there's a way I could repay you, I--"
The man doesn't offer her hand immediately; it's a lack of expected gesture that takes Basch a few seconds to parse, as the implications are mighty and should not be easily lain. "Would be a shame if it happened again and you couldn't find her," the man replies, "not everyone'd be so kind to the child of a Kingslayer."
There's a moment where Basch simply stares, and realization must dawn in his eyes, or his face must indicate impending violence or something of the sort, because the man smiles, gently, haloed by the falling snow and nearby candle glow. The man lifts her and passes her bodily, to Basch; Portia makes a small sound akin to a giggle. Stabilizing her weight is enough to throw Basch off, takes enough time to close the window for any physical action.
The man shoves his hands into his pockets, nods like that's the end of it, then turns and walks away.
From that moment on, for the rest of the evening, Basch can see the black paint washed from his house - but not his memory - everywhere.