Vignette: A Glimpse of June
Yay, we get to June's vignette! This is something I've had in the works for a long time, hope you guys like it.
The first one was honest, in his own way. A barterer.
A traveling merchant, a common enough sight over the turns, he was the one to deliver the various wares they couldn’t grow or raise themselves. Already old by the time June took control, he wasn’t nearly as repulsive as some of the men she would come to know over the turns. His face was a wrinkle or two past being considered distinguished but with a salted mustache that he kept meticulously neat. Though he would likely be labeled crabby, he always had a kind word or two for June, for as long as she remembered him coming to their area. He was a sagging paunch over spindly legs, a combination she found comical in her better moods.
She wasn’t in one of those better moods the first time. With the erratic Threadfalls becoming more commonplace than anyone liked to admit, the tavern was swiftly failing. She went out to him with fewer marks than ever before, needing flour, cloth, oil, medicine… The list always went on longer than she wanted it to. Their negotiations quickly pruned it of the nonessentials, and then of even the less crucial essentials. She still didn’t have enough.
There was something she did have to trade, he suggested, frank as that. He was just looking for a respite, a swig in the middle of his travelling draught. Nothing special, nothing abnormal. It still makes her wince, though, to think of how little she traded her services for back then; even with the extra bits he threw in, the oil, that sack of redfruits she coveted the entire time she was on her back, it wasn’t enough.
Now, she never barters.
The second she couldn’t say much more about than that he was dishonest.
She never learned his profession or exactly where he hailed from. She probably didn’t get his real name, either. And she never saw him again after.
He was just another traveler come to the tavern, with a generic round face and short-shorn black hair beginning to grow thin at the crown. She did learn, as he drank the beer she brought, that he somehow knew her merchant friend, that it was how he had heard of her in the first place.
It was such a jump for her, accepting hard marks in lieu of goods. Not only did it break down any rationalizations she may have had for her actions, it began a trend she found morally disturbing. In the end, though, the enticement of the much-needed money was too much for her to have had even a hope of resisting.
He ran her through her paces when he got her, wanted her in every position he could think of and then some, leaving her with a few awkward aches the next morning. She woke bleary from unexpected sleep, lumped up next to the man. He took his leave quickly enough, something she counted as a blessing until she discovered that her hard-earned marks had disappeared along with him. Her instincts told her he had taken them, but she had to look anyway. She spent a good part of the morning tearing apart the room in search, despair and hatred growing with every overturned pillow.
Now, she always leaves first, and checks her pockets before she does.
The third, the fourth, the fifth, and all the unnumbereds that followed them were insignificant, marks in the hand and not much more. She can’t remember the charmer’s position on her list of men, but he made himself memorable, to say the very least.
He had her enamored early on in the night, with those dimples and the effortless smile between them; she wasn’t yet immune to the allure of strong arms and chiseled features then. He was willing enough to pay, he said, and so she was more than willing enough to drag him back to one of those rooms-for-rent. He turned out to be every inch the passionate lover she imagined him to be, with a forceful bent that turned her on at the time.
He rose even before her breath had settled, laughing heartily, dismissively at her when she questioned him about the marks that were due to her. His forcefulness flashed into violence when she got up to press him further. His shove had her stumbling against the wall before she knew what was happening, he rushed to flatten her there, captured her writhing arms and pinned them painfully. She was certain that if he hadn’t just spent himself, he would have raped her right there. In lieu of that, he left his mark in red and plum purple on her cheek, in a bloody split at the back of her head, and several deeper, aching injuries. He spat at the floor, uttered ‘whore,’ as he left her there, tear-stained and slumped against the boards.
Now, she always posts a sister as sentry.
One of her last in Lemos wasn’t the only earnest one, but he was certainly the most unrelenting.
A doughy man in face and frame, he was one of the few unmarried among the tavern’s visitors and he sought out June for her keen inventions of intimacy, the smiles and caresses with which she could calm his cravings. He was the sort who would be naïve to his dying day, no matter what physical maturity his growing age lent him, so it really shouldn’t have been such a surprise when he deluded himself with the illusions he paid for.
She should have stopped it much sooner, but perhaps she herself possessed a persisting bit of naivete back then. Before she knew it, he was talking in all seriousness about taking her away, away from her work, her sisters, her home. Away from everything. He spoke of his fiery passion for her, of the life he could give her, the things he would do for her. June was too ashamed to admit to anyone that she momentarily considered it.
When she did gracefully refuse him, he only became more adamant. She has to rely on some of the other regulars, less fond but just as dedicated to their retreat, to keep him at bay. He begged and pleaded at the threshold, resorting to threats when he found no purchase. He threatened many things: to burn the building to the ground, to find a way in when the rest were gone, to injure her other clients, to injure himself.
He made good on at least one of those claims. He broke in through a window and scared June out of a dead sleep, breaking several plates in addition to that window before she could convince him he needed to go home. She never knew if he was able to fulfill any of his other promises; she made sure she never saw him again after that night.
Now, she never lets them fall in love.
The first one was honest, in his own way. A barterer.
A traveling merchant, a common enough sight over the turns, he was the one to deliver the various wares they couldn’t grow or raise themselves. Already old by the time June took control, he wasn’t nearly as repulsive as some of the men she would come to know over the turns. His face was a wrinkle or two past being considered distinguished but with a salted mustache that he kept meticulously neat. Though he would likely be labeled crabby, he always had a kind word or two for June, for as long as she remembered him coming to their area. He was a sagging paunch over spindly legs, a combination she found comical in her better moods.
She wasn’t in one of those better moods the first time. With the erratic Threadfalls becoming more commonplace than anyone liked to admit, the tavern was swiftly failing. She went out to him with fewer marks than ever before, needing flour, cloth, oil, medicine… The list always went on longer than she wanted it to. Their negotiations quickly pruned it of the nonessentials, and then of even the less crucial essentials. She still didn’t have enough.
There was something she did have to trade, he suggested, frank as that. He was just looking for a respite, a swig in the middle of his travelling draught. Nothing special, nothing abnormal. It still makes her wince, though, to think of how little she traded her services for back then; even with the extra bits he threw in, the oil, that sack of redfruits she coveted the entire time she was on her back, it wasn’t enough.
Now, she never barters.
The second she couldn’t say much more about than that he was dishonest.
She never learned his profession or exactly where he hailed from. She probably didn’t get his real name, either. And she never saw him again after.
He was just another traveler come to the tavern, with a generic round face and short-shorn black hair beginning to grow thin at the crown. She did learn, as he drank the beer she brought, that he somehow knew her merchant friend, that it was how he had heard of her in the first place.
It was such a jump for her, accepting hard marks in lieu of goods. Not only did it break down any rationalizations she may have had for her actions, it began a trend she found morally disturbing. In the end, though, the enticement of the much-needed money was too much for her to have had even a hope of resisting.
He ran her through her paces when he got her, wanted her in every position he could think of and then some, leaving her with a few awkward aches the next morning. She woke bleary from unexpected sleep, lumped up next to the man. He took his leave quickly enough, something she counted as a blessing until she discovered that her hard-earned marks had disappeared along with him. Her instincts told her he had taken them, but she had to look anyway. She spent a good part of the morning tearing apart the room in search, despair and hatred growing with every overturned pillow.
Now, she always leaves first, and checks her pockets before she does.
The third, the fourth, the fifth, and all the unnumbereds that followed them were insignificant, marks in the hand and not much more. She can’t remember the charmer’s position on her list of men, but he made himself memorable, to say the very least.
He had her enamored early on in the night, with those dimples and the effortless smile between them; she wasn’t yet immune to the allure of strong arms and chiseled features then. He was willing enough to pay, he said, and so she was more than willing enough to drag him back to one of those rooms-for-rent. He turned out to be every inch the passionate lover she imagined him to be, with a forceful bent that turned her on at the time.
He rose even before her breath had settled, laughing heartily, dismissively at her when she questioned him about the marks that were due to her. His forcefulness flashed into violence when she got up to press him further. His shove had her stumbling against the wall before she knew what was happening, he rushed to flatten her there, captured her writhing arms and pinned them painfully. She was certain that if he hadn’t just spent himself, he would have raped her right there. In lieu of that, he left his mark in red and plum purple on her cheek, in a bloody split at the back of her head, and several deeper, aching injuries. He spat at the floor, uttered ‘whore,’ as he left her there, tear-stained and slumped against the boards.
Now, she always posts a sister as sentry.
One of her last in Lemos wasn’t the only earnest one, but he was certainly the most unrelenting.
A doughy man in face and frame, he was one of the few unmarried among the tavern’s visitors and he sought out June for her keen inventions of intimacy, the smiles and caresses with which she could calm his cravings. He was the sort who would be naïve to his dying day, no matter what physical maturity his growing age lent him, so it really shouldn’t have been such a surprise when he deluded himself with the illusions he paid for.
She should have stopped it much sooner, but perhaps she herself possessed a persisting bit of naivete back then. Before she knew it, he was talking in all seriousness about taking her away, away from her work, her sisters, her home. Away from everything. He spoke of his fiery passion for her, of the life he could give her, the things he would do for her. June was too ashamed to admit to anyone that she momentarily considered it.
When she did gracefully refuse him, he only became more adamant. She has to rely on some of the other regulars, less fond but just as dedicated to their retreat, to keep him at bay. He begged and pleaded at the threshold, resorting to threats when he found no purchase. He threatened many things: to burn the building to the ground, to find a way in when the rest were gone, to injure her other clients, to injure himself.
He made good on at least one of those claims. He broke in through a window and scared June out of a dead sleep, breaking several plates in addition to that window before she could convince him he needed to go home. She never knew if he was able to fulfill any of his other promises; she made sure she never saw him again after that night.
Now, she never lets them fall in love.