Deep in the Hedge, two well-worn paths collide around a drift of pink roses. The Vizier seeks such places by knowledge and instinct, a long-legged stride upon her toes evincing her bubbling excitement. As she lengthens her gait, her speed near enough increases. Further signs peek out, addressing all sorts of wares and shops. If the cacophony were insufficient to identify their destination, those brilliant flowers and meandering stalls thrown together clearly should. A marketplace, overshadowing a hob village.
Zhar-Ptitsa is a soundless presence riding on Zhenya's wrist, the arrogance of the firebird on full display. Her tail feathers crackle purple and her talons massage a stray petal rudely ripped from a passing rose that offended her considerably. Where her claws shred pieces, the bruised fragrance of deep damask floats upon the air.
"Things we need," she says in Russian, preferring the old cadences. "Spiderweb dew, blue pine resin, the hunger of a hibernating bear."
Beren is agog, brown eyes half-lidded in bliss. The scent of roses is an intoxicant to him, and there are shell-pink petals stuck to the leather of his nose, not yet snorted away. He's without his service dog vest, but has a set of dog packs on his back. Just incase they need him to carry something home. The curled tail is waving jauntily.
Kiril, as ever, is a far less cheerful presence, but he's pleasant enough as he walks by her side. Dressed in hiking gear, black bamboo staff in hand, mostly empty pack on his back. His long hair is pulled back by an arrangement of leather thong and titanium beads; the finial bead at the end is a tiny silver Predator. This is only a shopping expedition in a relatively tame part of the Hedge, after all. "Okay," he says, agreeably.
Only a shopping expedition, which is entirely why she carries a pair of guns probably somewhere on her person and another knife in ready reach. The firebird's crackling tail-feathers shed mild sparks here and there, and Zhar-Ptitsa preens slightly. "No meat, no thorn, no bone," she intones in her warbling chirp.
The blooded thorn pressed into the belt under Zhenya's long coat serves as a means to find her way home. The Telluric's starry eyes are even wilder here than usual, stargazer orbs spackled in a dizzying churn of cosmic dust and smoke. Her usual smoky dresses are replaced by something more suitable for roaming about. The first of the carts earns a lazy look; a contract is easily enough touched to affirm the value of any of the special components sought, and maybe they just need something to freshen up the house with. "Do you need anything?"
"Not me, not now," he says. Laconic to a near fault, save when she hits the magic button and the words pour out of him. A tendency to stoicism, with fissures of sudden, impassioned eloquence, striding easily at her side. Beren, on the other hand, offers, "Could we get rosehip jam?"
For her, silences can last days or mere minutes. Once Zhenya practiced making no noise except one keening shriek of a banshee for a fortnight to fulfill the conditions of a vow. Not signing up for that one again.
Nodding, the wild-tressed Fairest reaches out to almost touch one of the signs. It jerks back from her, tightening tendrils clinging to the wooden post. Well, apparently the 'Tactile Joy Company' is unwilling to share its experiences. Needles poke out from two of the lumpy shapes on the corner of the cart, and the merchant scowls. Moving right along again. "We could have jam. Too much is not good for you. Your stomach might ache."
"We could buy a jar," muses the Malamute, finally licking the petals from his nose and then fumbling with them with his tongue for a moment. "And Kiril could make toast with butter and put a little on, and we can all eat it that way." For someone who enjoys rolling in carrion, his palate is surprisingly refined. "If you want," replies Kiril, lazily. Beren's spoiled as much as he dares, considering the amount of help he gives the others. The Wizened is limping a little, as he often does, but doesn't seem too much bothered by it.
Buttered rosehip-jam on toast, something fancier than the millennials with their love of smashed avocadoes. Imagine how decadent that must be. Zhenya idly nods while the firebird dips her beak and snaps up the rose-petal snack entirely. Her clacking is almost albatross-like for a moment, embarrassingly loud, and the burning raptor eye dares nayone to complain about that. "We make tea, too," says the bird. Her contribution is admittedly refined.
She halts to turn and face Kiril, pulling him closer as he draws near. A swift move, only by pulling on his jacket. Eyes narrow slightly as she sweeps a blind look across the marketplace, measuring ogre presences as much as the hobs serving up their treats. "What do we intend to pay with?"
"I've got some stuff," Kiril says, hesitantly. Consumables in little sacks, oddities. Tiny silver bell charms from a craft shop. Tears of frankincense and myrrh. Green tea infused with the scent of lotus. Raw sugar in packets. And, funniest of all, black eyeliner pencils. Not exactly the twentyfour dollars in beads that buys Manhattan, but...
Close enough to count. She nods. "Seeds. Two ornaments made of glsas, and one shaped like a child's hero. A kazoo." Because the hob with the kazoo rules the world, and chances are good to high the Gentry will be sent running for the proverbial bushes to get away. "Spoon and fork from a good restaurant. These may be worth something." She taps them off, and then presses her fingers to the corner of her mouth, silence sworn. Let them begin again to one of the makeshift shops surrounded by roses. Jam might be a possibility there, and the resin.
The kazoo makes him grin. He holds out his hand for it, as Beren perks his ears with interest. Should she yield it, he manages a few bars of the Imperial March, before handing it back. Hey, he proved it worked, right? Beren's got his nose up, sniffing the air. "I smell the pine stuff. This way," he announces, cheerfully, before reorienting and trotting towards one of those first booths.
Behold that, a kazoo. Of course he would want it. Kiril's expectations exist to be broken and exceeded. Not a sigh escapes the Fairest. Her hand slips into the pocket of her coat, finding the secret space knotted with a flap just so. Fingers curl around the plastic submarine of sorts, and she yields up that gift. His choice of music, however, attracts the curiosity of a pair of flat-faced green hobs with a bearing like trolls on a far more diminutive scale. They trail right along, dancing awkwardly to the melody, all elbows and knees and extra joints.
When he stops, a disappointed groan caroms out of their throats.
Zhenya is already on her way for that booth, following the toucan wizened.
Kiril bows a little to the dancers. He strongly suspects busking here might be illegal without permit, so that's all he offers, before trailing after her. A little caravan, Beren leading the way like a fluffy drum major in front of a marching band.
Everything is illegal without permit unless the rules are too weak to enforce against a potentate, really. Zhenya's bearing tilts disturbingly in the direction of the Gentry, and it shows here, though not to a point excessively outlining her absent humanity. Small blessings; still, they defer a little to her. The bird tucks her head beneath her wing in contempt, or simply because the trailing troll-kin are of no interest to her. A tiny warning of sorts. Below the stoop of that smallest booth, the flap scratched in green threads on yellow lead them into a world of smells. All smells, and cut wood trinkets all around, by the looks of it. Touch not; urushiol leaves a nasty rash.
Beren is a whirlwind of sniffs, but oh so careful not to touch anything with the sensitive nose. Kiril hangs back a moment, letting his eyes adjust. Expressionless, as he so often is.
The darkness within holds the trove of bits of wood, much finished, many things not. Statuettes are not common compared to carved cups and other attainable gewgaws to decorate the house with. Bowls and spoons in wood, strange tangled shapes like sticks wrapped around kelp. Look as thou wilt, purchase as thy wish. Outside the mutterings at the troll-kin to hurry their asses along grows louder, another changeling merchant hissing, "Get outta here! You're bad for business, cheapskates."
The very thing that prompts Zhenya deeper, slipping sideways.
That has Beren's ears flattening. He lets them catch up, heeling at Kiril's side, as if his wont. Even though this is a realm where he may talk with relative freedom, he's gone quiet. Kiril's gravely examining the various wares, but showing no particular interest in any one.
The troll-kin grumble an dglare. They puff. They have no luck whatsoever, forced off by a show of irritation and a touch to the truncheon at the merchant's belt. Wherever one big problem lies, there's always a nastier solution to absolve the shopper of their bad ideas.
Zhenya frowns slightly, but she does not intervene. Neither does the stall owner, whittling away at another piece. Nothing very exciting for them, all things said and done. She shakes her head and gestures, moving on to the next spot. Her arm is extended slightly, so her elbow brushes Kiril's.
He rests a hand on it, lightly. Content to walk with arms linked, if she wants. A smoothly moving little quartet, man, woman, dog, and bird. Smiling a little, though. Pleasure in her company.
"Find me the handful of rose petals. I will look for the hunger." A glance to Beren. "And the jam." Rosehip jam is breakfast in a jar, and perhaps the two culinary elements can be found together. No doubt some place in here contains the secrets of whatever Zhenya needs for her pantry. All said and done, she skims long digits upon Kiril's forearm. They have to separate at some point, but not that moment. Let them wander a while through the roses. The bird shuffles to her shoulder, head popping back up, balefire eyes sleepy and grumpy.
Beren's testing the air as solemn as a bloodhound, weaving his wolfy head this way and that as he seeks just the right place. Then he reorients himself in a funny trot-in-place maneuver, and goes ambling for another of the stalls. "Guess that's it," says the Soldier, laconically.
Trust the schnozz. Pupper nose, he is a transformative figure rather than relying on the natural senses. Zhenya trails after the pup, a bright shadow for the melancholic soldier. Beautiful thing, the way the flowers roll into the chaos of commerce and art, blended into a badly fitted mosaic. An exhibition like no other, working life interrupting pleasure and the wild poetry of the moment.
Not mundane or simple pleasures - even the mildest joys of those touched by the Fae have an edge and a wildness. But....calm moments are good. A chance to take in and absorb, and have it be not merely wariness. "Here!" says Beren proudly, tail curled tighter than ever.
Here they are; innocent folk in the bosom of damnation. See, two figures arm in arm, guarded by the hedge beasts who know better than to leave the Lost to their own inscrutable vagaries. Zhenya's predilections to paranoia ebb not an inch where Beren trots by, but being closer to Kiril keeps some of the manic emotion at bay that grips her in the light of so much stuff. For someone deprived chronically in the ancient days of yore, it's something of a blessing.
It doesn't seem to tempt him to the same extent. Used to many a long year spent living out of a ruck or being able to walk out on any possession in a hearbeat, as his old profession demands. Kiril's drawn her close, pleased as always by the warmth of contact. For someone of very few words, he's immensely physically affectionate. Beren actually points like a setter, indicating jars of rose petals with his nose, as if the Changelings might've missed them.
Warmth counts even for a woman bearing the heavy mantle of winter. The pleasure of a warm blanket and a fitted coat keep at bay the chilly Vermont wind, or the hissing rustle of leaves and falling blossoms in roseate drifts, but nothing substitutes for the shared experience. Kiril promotes those coy touches, the subtle connection between them. Neither of them are machines. They belong to something else, something more. Cheek quietly pressed to his, she merely breathes the scent of him -- clean, bright, metallic -- over the cloying floral atmosphere. Jars will be purchased in a moment, no doubt in exchange for seeds and string and eyeliner.
He's already doling out teabags. Mostly that green with lotus. But there's chocolate mint herbal, too - Girl Scout brand, of all things. All the better to dicker with, as if this were one of the street markets in Saigon.
Teabags are a fair trade. A package of seeds for callibrachoa, another for bachelor's buttons, these are the things Zhenya contributes for the irritable seller. Haggling on her part is not entirely difficult.
He helps a little. Beren's keeping an eye and an ear and a snoot out for trouble, letting it all file past his senses without being distracted by any one thing. He sits down....on Kiril's boots. Because that is the best place to sit, when you're a dog.
The transaction is complete quickly enough. Jam passed over to Kiril completes that transaction, bearish hunger mentioned mostly as a pile of fur in a box. Take as one will. Zhenya may hold a little reluctance, but her practiced eye slides over the interior, judging size and weight, texture of a puffball of brown, dense fluff and a bit of bark indicating its origins.
Beren turns his head to it, sniffs. "Smells like bear to me," he notes, and there's a hint of a growl in his voice. Not much use for bears, this one.
Not much for bears anywhere but hunger is as hunger requires. Zhenya nods and slips from the stall, waiting for him out there in the rose garden turned marketplace. Something lovely about the flowers -- she has a soft spot for roses -- but the desire to be home, away, is strong.
Quest successful,jam acquired. There's a smile from him, as he comes towards her. Broad enough it goes lopsided on one of those metal scars, but brilliant, anyway.
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