Date: Some nebulous Alharat's Day ------- Location: St Loomis, Fountain Square
The sun rises and slowly warms the town on a cold morning. The bustling traffic of the fountain square is picking up for the day and hopeful pigeons linger around. Ighlaf is perched on the fountain sketching, while occasionally fending off pigeons from their cup of tea and art supplies.
"Charcoal is not food," they murmur, sounding slightly annoyed but amused. It probably isn't the first time they have said it.
(Pomeroy): A clop-clop-clop echoes along the cobblestones as a horse passes by. On the back of that pale palfrey is... the snooty mayorial assistant, dressed in such a manner that one might assume he'd been hunting in the forest. There's nothing to show for it, though, not even a single rabbit. Reins neatly draw that clop-clop to a halt as Ighlaf's presence on the fountainside is noted.
Even so, Pomeroy Macteroy gives Ighlaf a nosy look. Over the top of his nose, of course. "You're that foreign artist," he calls over, speaking Ruvic, in a tone that manages to be simultaneously presumptuous and indulgent. "Making art of our fine town here, are you?"
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf glances upwards as they are spoken to, looking through Pomeroy a moment as they pull themselves from their page. They reply back in Ruvic placidly, "I am, yes. It is a very fine town." They gesture at the stone model of the lighthouse in the fountain then eastwards towards the full structure. "Both the full and model are very well made, alongside other workings. I hope to get some of the details to paper and learn more of the local history as I do. " Ighlaf piles on praises, paying attention to Pomeroy's response.
(GM): OOC: Ighlaf just rolled magnetism and investigation, coming up with 43.
(Pomeroy): Tipping his tudor at a particularly stylish angle, Pomeroy assesses the lighthouse model atop the fountain and then slants his gaze higher towards the sunrise-limned lighthouse. "Indeed," he concurs, without dismounting or otherwise approaching Ighlaf. "Yea, the great beacon of St Loomis was built following the Great Dark, when the currents of the Adelantean changed -- previously, it was the lighthouse on Lookout Rock that kept local ships from going astray." This tidbit of local history is delivered in such a benevolent manner that one might balk at ever needing to actually learn anything from such an insufferable fellow.
(Firouzeh): Firouzeh positions herself in an unobtrusive corner of the square, having meandered in leisurely with an armful of bread. An audience of pigeons has amassed around the elder, eagerly awaiting pieces of the stale loaves to be tossed along with various comments and scoldings in Irzali.
“Don’t fight over that piece; there's plenty for everyone,” she chides gently, tossing another bit into the crowd.
“Your feathers are looking particularly shiny today,” she remarks to a particularly plump pigeon that struts closer, eyeing her with beady curiosity.
“Isn’t the warm weather much nicer than the cold?” she muses soothingly, briefly turning her face upward to take in the sun.
She pays little mind to any odd looks earned from the locals or whatever history lesson is happening across the way.
(GM): OOC: Firouzeh just rolled intuition and animal ken, coming up with 19.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf follows Pomeroy's gaze, then appears to be distracted staring at the lighthouse and sunrise. Their fingers twitch with the charcoal, and they drag their attention back eventually to the spoken words. They try to maintain an even expression to the insufferable reply, then respond with genuine interest, "Then the Lighthouse has been around a good while?" Ighlaf does not yet notice Firouzeh nearby.
(GM): OOC: Ighlaf just rolled will and dissembling, coming up with 93.
(Yasin): Yasin hustles by the fountain, on his way from somewhere on Main Street, hooking a left towards Post Street. "Morning!" He offers in a busy-sort-of-cheerful Ruvic as he slings a heavy-looking linen sack over his shoulder and continues onward. He seems mostly intent on making his way that direction.
The Razmani can't seem to help himself, though, and he pauses as he nears the spot where the mounated Pomeroy has stopped to speak to Ighlaf. He tilts his head to peek at the shoes on Pomeroy's palfrey's hooves -- from a safe distance. After waiting for a lull in the conversation, he offers, "Could give your horse's shoes a look with the warming weather, Goodman Pomeroy." He gestures west, down Post Street, clearly indicating the Silver Street Wagonyard.
(GM): OOC: Yasin just rolled magnetism by itself, coming up with 29.
(Pomeroy): "Yea, naturally," replies the snooty mayorial assistant to Ighlaf, leaning back in the saddle and inhaling deeply as if to face the day. That's when he hears Yasin's greeting, glancing over and pulling a wry quirk at one side of his mouth. "I suppose it's time," he agrees, sounding vaguely resigned about this chore. Then he speaks downwards, admonishing the back of the palfrey's head: "Hear that, Carrion? Time for the farrier to have a look at your shoes soon. Your favorite thing."
That wry quirk is quickly becoming a smirk. Is Pomeroy enjoying goading his horse? What a strange man.
"I must see this nag to the stables soon, I fear," he tells the farrier's apprentice then, adopting a tone of weary responsibility. "Much work to be done in preparation for the town hall, of course. We'll need to arrange an appointment afterward." Raising an arm, he tilts a farewell wave and calls in a grand manner, "Good morning to you all, and farewell!"
When next Pomeroy clucks to the mount and gives her a nudge forward, though, she doesn't budge -- apparently inconsiderate of the fact that he has the posture and bearing of a practiced horseman. And he's left there awkwardly seated in the saddle after having just given benevolent farewells... clearly facing the prospect of having to kick and coerce in a less dignified manner.
(GM): OOC: Pomeroy just rolled intuition and animal ken, coming up with 44.
(Ziyad): Ziyad is similarly making his way up Main Street on this fair morning. The young man still looks mildly sleepy, but there's a faintly cheery expression on his features when he briefly pauses to lifts his face to the warmth of the sun's strengthening rays. His suede mizuda rests against his right side as always, the polished tip of a length of wood peeking out between the straps, while his scribing case of black leather is hugged against his chest with both arms.
As he makes his way to Fountain Square, Ziyad offers amicable nods to anyone whom he walks pass, sometimes garnering odd looks from those who are less enthusiastic about having foreigners in their midst. He starts to turn towards Post Street, but slows down once more upon spying several familiar faces. A hand lifts to offer a wave first to Firo, then to Yasin and Ighlaf.
Curiosity blooms in reddish-gold eyes at the sight of the sketching materials in Ighlaf's hand. Ziyad takes a step in that direction before he quickly abandons any thought of approaching once he realizes that the mounted man speaking to Yasin and Ighlaf is none other than that snooty mayor's assistant. Instead, he makes his way towards Firo and her pigeons.
"Good morning, Sayyida Firo," the young man greets warmly in his accented Ruvic.
(Firouzeh): Firo pitches the last hunk of bread into the crowd of hungry, cooing mouths, sparking an uproar of flapping feathers. The victor, surprisingly, is one of the less assuming birds – scrawny enough to slip away from the fight with its prize pinched in its small, coned beak. Ziyad is noted with an acknowledging look, but before responding, she brushes the last few crumbs from her hands and tells the birds, “That’s all for today.”
Switching to Ruvic finally, she greets him with a chipper, “Good morning, dear,” accompanied by a warm smile. “How is the day finding you?” As the question lands, she tilts her head slightly to glance behind him, now noticing the gathering of familiar people and an unfamiliar horse that had been previously unseen. Too busy with the birds, one assumes.
(Yasin): It is with a curious expression that Yasin watches Pomeroy first name his steed. Carrion. That name seems to cause a brow to start journeying upward on Yasin's head. The mayoral assistant's goading to the back of his steed's head causes the Razmani's arched brow to take a few steps further north, as if it is about to set sail and depart the man's face completely.
After Pomeroy's grand farewell, Yasin begins to call out, "Shoes, and the hoof length could probably use--" but at Pomeroy's temporary struggle with controlling the animal, he hesitates, smiling briefly in amusement. He aborts that smile after only a seconds, probably thinking better of it. "--probably use a trim," he finishes in a lower tone. He backs away after that, offering a quiet but pleasant "Farewell," to the mounted man.
He then takes a few steps closer to the fountain, where he sneaks a look at whatever it is Ighlaf is sketching, assuming he can see it from his angle.
(Ziyad): "It's a good start so far. The sun is shining and I'm ready for another day of work," Ziyad tells Firo with a faint grin touching his lips. His fingers play across the surface of the leather scribing case clasped to his chest before they still to curl around one edge of the container. "You can never predict what people want to include in their letters. I'm hoping to hear some interesting goss-- stories today."
The young man revolves in a slow circle to watch the pigeons in their frenzy of pecking. He's careful to neither stick out his khuffs too much nor make too sudden a movement, intent on avoiding spooking the flighty birds. With the prize of stale bread on the ground, he need not have bothered. There's only a half-aborted flap of wings from less than half a dozen of the creatures, who quickly settle and resume their fight to secure a portion of Firo's generosity.
"Do you come here to feed the pigeons every morning?"
(Pomeroy): The snooty mayorial assistant finally manages to budge the horse after a wheedling quiet conversation with the back of its head in Ilexi and several flaps of the reins. Clop-clop-clop.... he departs without looking anyone in the eye for the time.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf resumes their sketching as it is clear Pomeroy is leaving. The drawing at that point is to hide their amused glances at the struggle with the horse. They are seated in an attempted sideways position on the fountain to view the model in the middle, and some of the lines of the lighthouse on the page are viewable to Yasin.
(Yasin): Yasin spends a length of time examining what he can see from his vantage. Leaning forward just a bit, he says, "Glad to see the lighthouse is providing some inspiration this morning, Ighlaf."
The man seems distracted, though, already glancing up and towards Post Street, maybe considering the day's work that lies ahead. He gives the linen sack strung over his shoulder a tug, pulling it tight to account for its weight.
(Firouzeh): “No, no... just when I get a little too overzealous with my baking. You quickly learn who the regulars are,” Firo replies warmly. Taking a deep breath of the morning air, she prepares to start her day. Slinging a wicker basket over her shoulder, its contents rustling with the movement, she steps into the mass of birds. The clunk of her cane scatters several as they flutter off for their own daily endeavors. By the way she so confidently strides in, it might be assumed that she's overzealous fairly often.
“See you around, dear. I’m almost late,” she bids farewell to Ziyad before lowering her voice and adding with a cheeky wink, “Let me know if anything scandalous comes through the post." Whatever she is late for is never clarified, and before one could ask, she is already hobbling her way down the path toward Main Street.
(Ziyad): "I will, if anything interesting comes up," Ziyad promises with a twinkle in his reddish-gold eyes. He shuffles a few steps backwards to avoid the scattering birds, waiting for the busily feeding flock to settle before he dips into a bow. No point risking putting his face closer to wings that are still a-flapping. "Dreamer guide your path, Sayyida."
The young man's head swivels around back in the direction of Ighlaf and Yasin, relief blooming in his expression when he sees that the mayor's assistant had wandered off already, freeing him from the risk of interaction. He glances down Post Street with a considering expression, but ultimately meanders towards the fountain to try to get a peek at Ighlaf's sketch.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf nods absentmindedly, "It often does, or seeing the views from the top of it. Alongside the fountain excluding the winged menaces." They give the nearby pigeons a look, then gives a very belated greeting to Ziyad and Yasin, "Good morning." They tap at the top of the sketch, tilting it towards the two of them, "A bit of practice for the flames. I can't decide what pattern is most pleasing for the etching." The paper they hold reveals an outline of the lighthouse to any looking, with various attempt shapes at flames at the top.
(Yasin): "The winged menaces," Yasin repeats, lifting his head to grin in the general direction of Firouzeh and the scattering mass of pigeons that she and her cane walk through. He lofts a hand towards the elderly woman, before stating a pleasant-sounding "Good morning," to Ziyad as he approaches.
He looks back down and narrows his eyes towards the drawn flames, in appraisal or scrutiny.
First an, "Ohhh," is offered. Then, "I like what is there for the lighthouse. For the etching..." He trails off, drumming his fingertips against the head of a hammer that is poking out from a pocket in his apron. "Thicker 'licks' of the fire will be easier to scratch off from the wax, but more licks will probably convey the idea of flame better. Some balance between the two, I guess? I am partial to that middle one, there." He gestures toward a particular attempt, near the top of the sketch.
(Ziyad): "Good morning," Ziyad greets warmly, parking himself next to Yasin to look at Ighlaf's sketches. He arrives just in time to catch the comments about the etchings, so each sketch is studied with a critical eye before he nods his head in agreement with Yasin's assessment. "I prefer that one too, considering that the design will be going on the handle of a blade. The flames are intricate without being too delicate, which I think matches the utilitarian elegance of Yasin's work."
A thought seems to come to him, and he turns to pose a question to his burlier friend. "Yasin, do you have a mark that you stamp on all your work? I know that you're not technically a master smith yet, but you're still creating custom pieces on demand. If you don't have a mark yet, this is a good opportunity to get some input from an artist--" He gestures at Ighlaf. "--to design a suitable one."
(Yasin): "A mark?" Yasin asks, a quiet to his voice that contrasts somewhat with his earlier good-morning exuberance. "...No."
His eyes move from the flames at the top of the sketch, to Ziyad's face, then to Ighlaf. There's a few moments where he's simply standing there, brow wrinkled, maybe in thought. "As you say, Sayyid, that is typically only reserved for masters of their craft. I would not consider myself such. Maybe one day. And... yes, on that day, I would greatly value Ighlaf's input."
His head once more raises, to regard his morning destination of Post Street.
"The morning has gotten away from me. I should probably get to work. Dreamer guide your paths!" The burly young man dips his head to Ighlaf and Ziyad both, shifts the weight of that linen sack about his shoulder once more, and heads off in the general direction of the Farrier.
(Ighlaf): Ighlaf hovers a finger over the mentioned flames, looking thoughtful as they listen. "I suppose somewhere between, where the wax doesn't become too difficult as discussed before." They are lost in thought sketching once more, then call out to Yasin as he departs, "I would be willing, should that day come. Dreamer guide your path!"
They turn their focus to Ziyad after several moments, "I will likely be sketching a while further before I complete some work at the post office myself." They eye some regrouping pigeons, "Sooner if the pigeon brave eating my charcoal again."
(Ziyad): "With how hard you work, you'll approach that level of expertise well before normal," Ziyad tells Yasin, the corners of his lips quirking up fondly. He sketches a bow as the burlier young man starts breaking away from the small group. "Have a productive day at work, Yasin. Dreamer guide your path."
Ziyad turns back to peer at Ighlaf's sketches again, but gives the ravenous flock of pigeons a gimlet stare upon hearing their comment regarding snatched up charcoal. "They're quite the gluttons and they seem to have trouble distinguishing food from other items sometimes. I often wonder why they seem more scatterbrained than most other birds. I witnessed a dissection of a pigeon before, yet there's nothing physical to explain that trait."
(GM): OOC: The scene fades to black.