bakerstreet | Sweet to mouth and low to sigh. Come buy, come buy.

The Goblin Market Meme
Based on the Demon's Lexicon

A haven from magicians, a tourist trap, and most of all – a business; the Goblin Markets of the world are places of wonder and magic. Within these mobile night markets, you can find a collection of potion makers, fortune tellers, goods and true answers traded by money or favours.

Things to do:

JUST VISITING: perhaps it's your first time at the market, found through need or by invitation. Take your time browsing through the shops: enchanted weaponry, protective charms, fine crafts and decor. Go get your fortune told.

STEP IT OUT: as a dancer, you're one of the main reasons people show up. Dancing is not only a performance, but done correctly - it can call up demons who will trade their services for a price. Careful - breaking the circle or a misstep can be disastrous. No one wants to be possessed.

WHAT A LOVELY WAY TO BURN: fever fruit and fever blossom water can be a quick way to lower inhibitions. From a dancer, the fever blossom is a way to show favour. How that turns out depends on what you do after.

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU ASK: if you need a demon's mark removed, or answers to questions that can be found nowhere else, stop by the dance circles. Demons never lie. And their price is always higher than you think it is.

HOME IS WHERE...: you have our own booth, is the leader of the market or are one of the many persons who make their home at the market. Maybe you've got your own abilities - a Pied Piper perhaps, or a necromancer. Not everyone who has magic goes on to become a magician. There's a life outside the market, yes - but it's not where your heart is set.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[The world has moved on and so have they and sometimes, when she catches the glint of sunset through the depths of the careful bottles she keeps or late at night when the world beyond the walls of her small wagon whisper, she wonders if they've moved on with it... or if they've just sidestepped it, slipping between one of the myriad of cracks in the world, turning sideways. She doesn't know, in those short, paused moments when her reality holds its breath, which she hopes it is. Or isn't. But then the amber beads at her door clatter or a dog barks or her leshy makes some dry, disparaging remark about nothing related and that door shuts inside again. All she really knows, in those spare, sparse moments, is that she wouldn't have it any other way than the way it is for her.

Her head turns at his entrance, candlelight catching in the small white gems that lace her hair, revealing and hiding stars in that darkness and her hands are as pale as moonlight as they briefly still on spreading the silk cloth over the small table she does the real work of her business at. Her smile is utterly common however, spreading over her face and spilling into her wine dark eyes and so is the way she clucks her tongue on an amused sound as she comes around the table to him, practical hands reaching up to help pull fragrant petals from what he passes off as hair.

They've come a long way together, further, she knows then they ever would have alone. It's one of the reasons she's still with him (but not even half of it).]

Only your charming personality. [she answers, teasing as she lets petals flutter to the ground with one hand and keeps them with the other, taking more time playing with the feathers and moss and silk of his hair than truly necessary. Chiding the opposite of the way things actually usually go.] How many times have I told you not to pick on them?

It wasn't me.

[ But she's heard that a few times already, too, and the defensive edge in the words is only cursory. Just like the childish argument he launches into next, folding his arms resolutely over his chest as more petals (and a fair share of loose down) scatter around his sandaled feet. (They're wrong-footed, appropriately, but he's made greater concessions, over the years. Like silverware. And not filling his cot with dirt.) ] Their ringleader's to blame.

[ He could always stop fraternizing with the enemy, of course - but that would take away a great many of his current opportunities for maintaining the optimal level of contrary behavior. ]

[She appreciates the use of silverware. She really appreciates the lack of dirt even more however when it comes to bed sheets. She doesn't want him to be anything but what he is... but she certainly appreciates when he softens certain parts of it to make things gentler on her. The shoes she has no hope for and never has but it's far too adorable to mention and risk losing. With a soft sigh and a quiet smile, she tucks strands of soft moss back behind his ear to point out the flower he's got stuck there. What tree spirit wouldn't love the embodiment of a forest? He's honey to the ants and she often suspects that his gruff half-measure rebuffs only spur them on.

It's as close to flirting as she's probably even seen from him.]

Which one's the ringleader?

The pink one.

[ As if it's obvious. But just in case it isn't-- He gestures vaguely toward the back of his head, in a bit of impromptu sign language that probably wouldn't make the slightest lick of sense to anyone who hasn't seen a greater forest nymph flitting about with a voluminous pink ribbon in her hair.

Plucking the extra blossom out of what serves for his own, Cloud examines it briefly before holding it out to her, instead. Though he's long since passed the stage of only making meaningful exchanges (and those begrudgingly, at best), now and then there's still a passing tension in even the humblest of secondhand offers. ]

...I'll have more where that comes from.

[The bubbling good humor shifts when he holds out that flower for her, softening, soothing from sunlight specks to moon light whispers and there's no hesitation as her hands reach in response, petals falling from the one hand that had been keeping them in gift of something imminently more precious to her. It's not for the flower, though it's beautiful in its simplicity but rather for the gift of it and it's a silent sign of just how far they are from where they began that she accepts his offering without hesitation or qualm, fey-wild though he still is to the strands of her that are still mortal, equal mix of trust and willingness to give anything in return.

She doesn't thank him though as her fingers curl around the delicate stem, not with words at least. She never thanks him with words anymore. Instead she leans in, a tip of her chin, and her lips brush his in a soft kiss, sun dried honey and new grass. One of her hands leaves the flower stem to brush his cheek - and then it's finding the worn fabric of his shirt as she pulls away and giving him a light tug toward a chair, indication to settle there inherent in the way she moves and the cheerful smile is there again.]

Is that a threat or a promise?

Sweet to mouth and low to sigh. Come buy, come buy.

look at our life, look at our choices?

i have never looked at my choices and i don't intend to start now

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