(no subject)
[After this:]
There's a difference between a heavily populated area and a crowd, possibly defined by how much or how little space there tends to be between bodies. The whole city appears to be heavily populated, but this street? This is a crowd.
Cavilo hates crowds, always has; angry mobs or happy festive throngs like this one, makes no difference. Visibility limited to a few square feet, reduced to other (taller) people's backs and shoulders; jostling bodies, huge heavy masses blocking your way forward or blundering into you from behind, likely to knock you down before they even know you're there.
She pastes on a merry grin, and heads for the street like a combat drop.
Almost immediately her left hand is seized in a soft sweaty clutch, whirling her into the dance and letting go before she can identify the hand's owner. An arm cinches tight around her waist and lifts her off her feet, heavyset man with citrus and alcohol on his breath laughing into her face. She takes a double handful of his shirt front, pulls his head down to hers, kisses him hard on the lips, and twists away when his grasp loosens in surprise; whistles and whoops go up around them. A grab for the next outstretched hand she sees, and she pivots around the mark's weight and lets go, using his momentum to throw herself through a brief window in the massed bodies.
For a moment she's wading through a clutch of small children, waist- and shoulder-high to her, waving bits of candy and brightly colored ribbons and shrieking joyfully. Then she's past them, ducking around the stilt-legs of a clown towering over the parade, dodging into the wake of a trio of robed figures in enormous gilded masks, throwing up an arm to shield her eyes against a sudden barrage of confetti, almost across.
The press of people around her thins gradually and then all at once, and she slows to a walk, the fixed grin on her face relaxing into something easier.
The marketplace. She's sure to find what she needs here.
When she saunters back to the building that holds the door to Milliways, she's carrying a bright yellow handbag that just narrowly misses clashing with her emerald-green jumpsuit. The bag's loaded with gifts from random passersby: a green and silver ribbon, half a dozen bead necklaces, a hair clip inlaid with iridescent seashells, a carved wooden whistle. (People offered her sweets and fruit as well, and frequently drinks. Those she turned down, or gave away as soon as she was out of sight. There's no way she's eating or drinking anything handed to her by a passing stranger.)
Hidden under the cheap gifts, at the bottom of the bag, is a considerable sum in the local currency. One of its prior owners should be waking up with a nasty headache in about an hour. The others won't.
Creema di Leema doesn't have a police force as such -- just as well, as far as Cavilo's concerned -- but it's nonetheless time to avoid overstaying her welcome.
There's a difference between a heavily populated area and a crowd, possibly defined by how much or how little space there tends to be between bodies. The whole city appears to be heavily populated, but this street? This is a crowd.
Cavilo hates crowds, always has; angry mobs or happy festive throngs like this one, makes no difference. Visibility limited to a few square feet, reduced to other (taller) people's backs and shoulders; jostling bodies, huge heavy masses blocking your way forward or blundering into you from behind, likely to knock you down before they even know you're there.
She pastes on a merry grin, and heads for the street like a combat drop.
Almost immediately her left hand is seized in a soft sweaty clutch, whirling her into the dance and letting go before she can identify the hand's owner. An arm cinches tight around her waist and lifts her off her feet, heavyset man with citrus and alcohol on his breath laughing into her face. She takes a double handful of his shirt front, pulls his head down to hers, kisses him hard on the lips, and twists away when his grasp loosens in surprise; whistles and whoops go up around them. A grab for the next outstretched hand she sees, and she pivots around the mark's weight and lets go, using his momentum to throw herself through a brief window in the massed bodies.
For a moment she's wading through a clutch of small children, waist- and shoulder-high to her, waving bits of candy and brightly colored ribbons and shrieking joyfully. Then she's past them, ducking around the stilt-legs of a clown towering over the parade, dodging into the wake of a trio of robed figures in enormous gilded masks, throwing up an arm to shield her eyes against a sudden barrage of confetti, almost across.
The press of people around her thins gradually and then all at once, and she slows to a walk, the fixed grin on her face relaxing into something easier.
The marketplace. She's sure to find what she needs here.
When she saunters back to the building that holds the door to Milliways, she's carrying a bright yellow handbag that just narrowly misses clashing with her emerald-green jumpsuit. The bag's loaded with gifts from random passersby: a green and silver ribbon, half a dozen bead necklaces, a hair clip inlaid with iridescent seashells, a carved wooden whistle. (People offered her sweets and fruit as well, and frequently drinks. Those she turned down, or gave away as soon as she was out of sight. There's no way she's eating or drinking anything handed to her by a passing stranger.)
Hidden under the cheap gifts, at the bottom of the bag, is a considerable sum in the local currency. One of its prior owners should be waking up with a nasty headache in about an hour. The others won't.
Creema di Leema doesn't have a police force as such -- just as well, as far as Cavilo's concerned -- but it's nonetheless time to avoid overstaying her welcome.