#now what...

Working title. Likely to change. Das and Dorian, years later in Rivain.

Dorian has just recently found out that rumours of Das’s death had been, as they say, greatly exaggerated and that his amatus is alive and well in Llomerryn.

Not beta-ed. Thought I’d ask you guys to be my betas - if you feel so inclined. Spot anything that doesn’t quite work or could be worded better? Would anyone even like to read the rest of it?

Anyway, here goes...

The Isanan enclave was anchored just offshore of Llomerryn. By no means the only elven enclave around, it was definitely one of the larger ones, a massive nest of ships the size of a village. In addition to three barques, Dorian counted four galleasses and about forty smaller ships of varying sizes and designs, all interconnected through a network of planks, gangways, ladders and rope bridges and abuzz with life and activity. Dorian had little doubt that the whole floating cluster could disassemble and get into a battle ready formation at the drop of a hat. He had never expected it would be so bloody easy to get here.

But apparently, the whole upper deck on one of the larger ships served as a bazaar and anyone with some coin or interesting goods was welcome aboard. Isanans ran the ferries and they kept close tabs on who was coming and leaving, but they turned few people away.

The bazaar was a busy, lively place, overwhelming to the senses at first – as bazaars tend to be. There was the silver cling of coins, chirping and whistling of birds, a volume of voices both male and female, hoarse and nasal, ingratiating and intimidating, arguing, laughing, haggling, joking, singing even, there was the squeal of a badly tortured two-string fiddle accompanied by a shawm and a couple of flutes, and hissing of oil and crackling of a hundred little fires, mewling of cats and barking of dogs, barefoot taps and heavy-booted thuds; there was the endless flow of robes and veils and flutter of scarves, ribbons and feathers, gleams of steel, glimmer of gold and silver and every other precious metal you could think of, there was dazzle of jewels and precious gems, and the stalls overflowed with all kinds of goods, from expensive fabrics and furs to leather aprons, from porcelain dolls to porcelain earpicks, from gold-inlayed sabres to fruit knives, from fine teas, coffees and tobaccos to sunflower seeds, from silk robes to chainmails... A sweet looking little lady just a few steps away was selling hairpins and the old man next to her had a wide selection of mirrors. A glance to the right and there was an ancient woman beaming a proud smile over a display of silk pouches and purses. No matter where the gaze fell, there was some kind of invitation or temptation awaiting there. Dorian drew a deep, calming breath and dived deeper. The air about him grew thicker and heavier with every step he took as most food stalls were concentrated at this end of the deck. His stomach was tying itself into knots, raw and sore with nerves - so he quickly steered away from that place and its overwhelming smells, wove a path through the crowd, his eyes wandering about. The Isanans were easy to spot. Their tattoos varied from one person to another, but they had a unifying style – elegant, minimalistic, with straight, clear lines.

It was hard to tell a fighter from a mage at first sight – but Dorian knew what to look for: patchworks of scars, rune-covered weapon handles – and the tell-tale gleam of claw-rings on their thumbs. Damned blood mages. The sight of them was giving him all the wrong chills. And it mattered not that they were nothing like the maleficar back home. A blood mage is a blood mage. And perhaps the most unsettling thing about their open, unabashed presence was how unbothered by it everyone else seemed to be. It was—unsettling, to say the least. Like an ugly, discordant background noise beneath the otherwise pleasant, invigorating buzz of the bazaar.

Dorian's heart was loud and heavy in his chest and his blood's panicked roar deafening behind his temples. His legs seemed to weigh a dozen stones each, while his head felt so light he'd swear it was going to float up like a soap bubble. The sending crystal in his pocket was giving off a faint vibe, coming alive after lying cold and buried under layers of silk for many long months. It remembered its former owner, the symphony of tones that was Dasahngaris... And it was calling to him now, because he was near.

Perhaps for the very first time, the reality of it all truly sank in. Das was alive. And, for whatever reason, he wanted Dorian to believe otherwise. It was—confusing. Heartbreaking. Infuriating. It hurt.