The sky was a howling blue, broken only by the filter of clouds that drifted along the dockside breeze.
Whiteport, again. Mako lost track of the time he was spending among these cobbled streets, so foreign from the decks that had housed him until now. Already the experiences filled the goblet of his life, splashing past the rim of what he had known back in the flotilla. Even if his legs forgot the buckled sway, he was blessed of the wayfarer's grace for the lessons he continued to learn.
Morning meandered on around him. Laborers spilled from their homes and inns to dockside work, carting wares and wearing jerkins suited for the early autumnal chill. The sun kissed its pale light over them, almost harshly. Mako was walking along at the peripheries of the crowds. He made slow progress, occasionally rubbing at bruised temples and breathing hot into his palms. Before long he reached his destination: a boutique nestled among the frivolities of high street.
The studio, filled with accoutrements of prestige and all manner of excess, opened up before him. He knew not what to make of it. He recognized at least the smell of sandalwood, perhaps even that of pine or cedar for its familiarity in the make of the drydocks around the port.
As he approached, closing the door behind him, he called out for the attention of the woman presiding over the place.
"I've heard tell that the best seamstress this side of the Mheara can be found here. You, I presume," he said, casting off the cloak that trailed pitifully behind him. It was in tatters by now, threadbare along the hem and lacking in dignity. Let alone the stains that marred the once vibrant fabric—silk, perhaps, if he had any bite to his guess. The shaman had not seen fit to elucidate him on such matters.
He shrugged, continued.
"On my journey from the shores of Aetochi I was accosted by a bawdy drunk. He went on about many things, foremost of this particular shop. He fancied himself a man of importance I believe. On and on he'd speak of parties that run past the crack of dawn, of villas and estates far to the south. Above all he imparted to me the importance of this: what is a man without a little bit of lace?"
Whiteport, again. Mako lost track of the time he was spending among these cobbled streets, so foreign from the decks that had housed him until now. Already the experiences filled the goblet of his life, splashing past the rim of what he had known back in the flotilla. Even if his legs forgot the buckled sway, he was blessed of the wayfarer's grace for the lessons he continued to learn.
Morning meandered on around him. Laborers spilled from their homes and inns to dockside work, carting wares and wearing jerkins suited for the early autumnal chill. The sun kissed its pale light over them, almost harshly. Mako was walking along at the peripheries of the crowds. He made slow progress, occasionally rubbing at bruised temples and breathing hot into his palms. Before long he reached his destination: a boutique nestled among the frivolities of high street.
The studio, filled with accoutrements of prestige and all manner of excess, opened up before him. He knew not what to make of it. He recognized at least the smell of sandalwood, perhaps even that of pine or cedar for its familiarity in the make of the drydocks around the port.
As he approached, closing the door behind him, he called out for the attention of the woman presiding over the place.
"I've heard tell that the best seamstress this side of the Mheara can be found here. You, I presume," he said, casting off the cloak that trailed pitifully behind him. It was in tatters by now, threadbare along the hem and lacking in dignity. Let alone the stains that marred the once vibrant fabric—silk, perhaps, if he had any bite to his guess. The shaman had not seen fit to elucidate him on such matters.
He shrugged, continued.
"On my journey from the shores of Aetochi I was accosted by a bawdy drunk. He went on about many things, foremost of this particular shop. He fancied himself a man of importance I believe. On and on he'd speak of parties that run past the crack of dawn, of villas and estates far to the south. Above all he imparted to me the importance of this: what is a man without a little bit of lace?"