As the sun set painted the waters of Tincta Basta, the lamplighters of Old Rose waved back, setting their flames ablaze down the waterfront in the tall, salt-crusted poles that marked the edge of the wooden dock as it met the cobblestone. The waterfront was alive tonight with decorative boats with bright red and green sails showing off their elegance like schools of tropical fish, a different song and tempo spilling out of every tavern in a chorus of mumbled joy joined by hundreds of drunk voices that either couldn’t enunciate the words or didn’t know them, dozens of impromptu stalls from all over Vita anchored with jingling necklaces and bells, roasting meats, seasoned vegetables, fresh pastries, exotic fruits, and sticky sweets, and teams of hip-high children running around after anyone who vaguely resembled St. Grumble.
Benton Borteillo enjoyed this time of year. He smiled as he watched the sunset and the festival as he rested an achy right leg and his simple black cane. He was dressed simple enough to fit in with the crowd- a white canvas shirt left open at the top and simple, black trousers, and a simple grey waistcoat. St. Grumble’s Feast made Old Rose Harbor seem almost inviting, almost safe enough to raise a family in. There was always the threat of pick pocketing, of brawls, of Silas Hawke, but, tonight Benton could blend in and push business and fear aside for a few hours and enjoy himself as much as a man so alone in the world and within himself could. Ten years ago, the then 24-year-old Benton would’ve enjoyed this with his friends, Olin and Grif, and he would’ve enjoyed it in a drunken state for a week. Yet, Grif had a family in the Stacks now and Olin had been missing for years, probably dead. Now, it was just Benton and Mordecai, and, even now the 17-year-old wick whom Benton loved like a son was drifting as boys his age begin to do. He supposed that was just the way things would be. Everyone would always leave except for him.
That was okay for Benton, though. Sure, he wished now that a decade ago he would’ve wanted to settle down and have kids instead of growing a drug business, but it was what it was. Perhaps he was still young enough for it all, but he didn’t have the time. As loud as his loneliness was, his hunger was far louder, and Benton, subconsciously reaching his hand tentatively into the pocket of his open coat to check how his coins were fairing against greedy hands, weaved his way between the people of the evening to follow his stomach to the source of wherever that wonderful smell of roast would lead him, eyeing the open air vendors before the rain would force him inside. He was sure to enjoy the night.