Three Marks

An Anaxi politician makes a purchase from a Gioran potter.

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Tom Cooke
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Sat Apr 06, 2019 5:04 pm

Aminark’s Treasures Old Rose Harbor
during the late afternoon of the 30th of bethas, 2719
The place was, as he’d remembered, a forest of baked clay. The floorboards creaked underneath his boots, loud in the relative silence; late in the afternoon on this wet, cold Ophus day, the two of them – the Incumbent and his bodyguard – were the only customers. As he walked slowly among the shelves, scanning the pots and plates and vases, the statues of gods familiar and unfamiliar, he couldn’t help but expect to see Gauthier any minute, slinking on the other side of a shelf or gliding into view at the counter.

Ghosts, he thought absently. He wasn’t the only one around; this place – this city, the Rose – was full of ghosts. They thronged in the streets, in the Dove, on the docks, in the ocean. They took the forms of half-recognized faces, shadows in the corners of your eyes that beckoned and then vanished.

This shop was like him, in a way. He looked around and he saw the husk of Cholmondoley’s; he heard Gauthier’s mincing excuses in his ears, felt the man’s thin shoulder in the firm grip of one of his hands. He heard the shattering of a pot he’d carelessly and cruelly tossed, heard his own mocking laughter. This place breathed with memories to anybody who’d been there before, anybody who’d known Gauthier. Now, though, it was occupied by a different soul entirely, and Tom found himself—

Disappointed? Let down? Anxious? They were both different now, he and this shop; he was a soul with a different body, and it was a body with a different soul. He didn’t know what to expect from anything anymore.

“Aminark’s Treasures,” he muttered, frowning deeply. He’d been told the place was run by a Gioran passive priest of some sort, but that was all he knew; then again, with a name and sign like that, he could’ve guessed as much. He repeated it under his breath another time, scanning a row of nearly-identical, cherry-red cups. “Aminark’s Treasures…”

From behind him, a soft voice said, “Aye, sir.”

The Incumbent’s bodyguard was a human named, ironically enough, Tom Hale. He was big enough, looming over Anatole by about a foot, a heavyset towhead with an easy smile and hard eyes. They didn’t talk much, being honest; Tom didn’t know what to say to him, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have wanted to say it out loud. That all seemed to be fine with Hale, who didn’t seem much the talking sort anyway. Right now, he was looking up at a statue of Alioe, a contemplative look on his face.

So Tom Cooke didn’t say anything.

He paused by a statue of some kind of deer, black paint glistening in the grooves of its fur, the silk-smooth curves of its antlers. He reached out to touch its graceful head, but his hand twitched back. It peered at him through the beady eye on one side of its head, the expression on its face animal and unreadable. At its delicate hoof, flowers bowed their withered heads.

Unsettled, he turned away, then stopped. Something on a nearby shelf had caught his eye, and he wandered over.

It was a little mug – at least, he thought it was a mug, though he reckoned it could’ve been an even smaller bowl. It resembled some kind of misshapen fruit, petrified and hollowed-out, the pale glaze chipped and fading. More importantly, he reckoned it was the saddest-looking thing he’d ever seen, and that was why it’d jumped out at him. It made him feel something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, reminded him of that feeling that weighed in the bottom of his stomach like an anchor. That’s how I feel, he thought, looking at it and – again – not quite knowing why.

When he picked it up, it had a good weight in his hand. Now he noticed a hairline crack on one side, lovingly-sealed. “Far’ye?” he asked quietly, then winced, glancing around. Hale was studying a statue of Roa on a shelf nearby, but he had a faint smile on the edge of his lip; Tom felt sure he’d heard. Bang moony fucking golly, eh? But Tom didn’t put it back. Instead, he took it in both of his hands, running his thumbs over the worn, rough glaze. Somehow, he felt like that faceless surface was looking back at him.

He suppressed a smile, biting his lip and scowling hard. He wandered out from the shelves, his warped little treasure cupped between his hands carefully; despite his grim expression, he looked like a man holding a newborn kitten.

“Good afternoon,” he called out, more loudly, in his Uptown toffin’s accent. “Is anybody in today?”
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Last edited by Tom Cooke on Thu Jun 13, 2019 2:17 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Ketziana Dimere
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Sun May 26, 2019 9:55 am

Aminark’s Treasures Old Rose Harbor
on the 30th of Ophus, 2719 Afternoon
Over the long winter, Ketzi had settled into a rhythm. She still missed her family's store, where the chores were split between her uncle, aunt, and herself. But she had stupidly given up that life and, now that she was indebted to Hawke, she expected that she would never even see her family again. And she could hardly afford to hire an assistant or apprentice, knowing that Hawke would expect extra taxes if she did. So she learned to balance all the tasks she had to do as best as she could, constantly juggling the multitude of hats that she had to wear as a business owner.

But sometimes, when things picked up, she still got overwhelmed. There had a bit of a rush on pottery for some reason and she had been burning the candle at both ends lately trying to keep the shelves full. Her exhaustion as she tried to keep up with demand wasn't helped by the fact that she refused to make the low-quality wares that Gauthier used to make just for the "lower races". Sure, it made more money for the shop owner to give the lower races wares that had flaws and would break sooner rather than later. But how many of the humans and wicks in this city had the disposable income to continue buying wares from a store that was known to make faulty wares, especially when the prices Gauthier had set were higher than some other stores' prices? Eventually, the poorer races would be forced to drift away from the shop, to go to places with reliably good wares.

No wonder the man had been drowning in debt when he had keeled over.

She still had Gauthier's worst wares on the shelves, simply because she hoped that she would get rid of the ugly things eventually. She had marked them at a discount and had managed to sell a few of them, mostly by convincing parents that, yes, the wares were ugly, but what better to give children who would inevitably break them? But, even then, a small handful were still on the shelves, too ugly to give even children. Ketzi would have thrown them out but she knew that, even if she sold them for a ridiculously low price, it would still be money to give Hawke.

Today was thankfully quiet, and the pale potter had dozed off at her work table, her exhaustion catching up with her for a few moments. She didn't hear Tom enter, but used to her uncle waking her up, she jolted awake when he called out. Her uncle's temper rarely allowed her to ignore his first wake-up call and she had long learned to wake up immediately when he yelled. She rubbed her eyes groggily and hurried to the front of the store, putting on a tired smile.

"Hello, hello! Welcome to Aminark's Treasures. Sorry for not greeting you. I was, uh… putting coal in the kiln," Ketzi said, hoping that the galdor holding one of Gauthier's sad little cups meant for the poorest of humans wouldn't catch her in her lie. It was possible to see her work table from the store, but only if you were looking from a certain point, the doorway to the back of the store tucking it conveniently away. But she figured that she looked as exhausted as she felt and, if the galdor chose to judge her for dozing off for a few moments, she really didn't care. She should care, she knew, but she was too tired from her usual depression and the rigors of running a store on her own to find it in her heart.

"How can I help you?" she asked. She arched a pale eyebrow at what he held in his hand. "I have much better wares if you're interested," she suggested, before blushing. She knew that word on the street had it that she was a passive priest, but most people assumed that she was a human who was playing her pale skin and snow-colored hair. Either way, questioning a galdor was just not done in this nation. "Of course, if you have a new child, it would be best to have a cup or two for them. Couldn't have them breaking the good dinnerware, could we?" she said with an awkward laugh.
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Tom Cooke
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Sat Jun 15, 2019 8:23 pm

Aminark’s Treasures Old Rose Harbor
during the late afternoon of the 30th of bethas, 2719
And there she was, snoozing away on the work table under that sheaf of snow-white hair, looking for all the world like the dead. He caught her asleep for just a half-second as he poked his head around a shelf; soon as he’d finished speaking, she jerked awake. He couldn’t keep a little amusement from creeping into his expression, but it was edged with sadness. She was thin, he saw, and the hollows round her eyes looked bruised with exhaustion. By the time he came up to the desk, still holding his little clay treasure in both his hands, she’d done an admirable job of propping herself upright. Still looked wilted, though.

That spidersilk-white hair and those pale, pale eyes didn’t help. She looked pale enough herself, the kind of rose-edged pallor that speaks to a delicate constitution. He’d met one other golly-blooded Gioran when he was much younger, a tough old priest of Imaan that’d boarded a ship bound for Circle-knew-where after a brief stay in the Harbor. You didn’t see a lot of them outside Gior, because there weren’t many: it wasn’t an easy life.

Most of them died somewhere in the mountains. That was what he’d heard, anyway. Seemed better to him than what happened to Anaxi passives, though, now that he’d been to Brunnhold and seen it firsthand. Better to have a chance. You could end up dead, of course. But you also might end up sleeping at a work table in a place like Old Rose Harbor, looking like death warmed over and in debt to his good old boss. Looking like death was better than being dead, hey?

Tom wondered if she looked any worse than he had when he was living in the Dives, sick as a banderwolf with the effort of adjusting to his new body. With him in range, she was tense as a drawn bowstring. If he hadn’t known better, he might’ve cracked a joke to lighten the mood: Junta! Thought I was the only raen in the Rose. The thought evaporated; it soured him, made him feel more lonely. Made him think, for just a moment, about how the nearest sympathetic soul he knew of was in the mountains of Hox, and how the word “raen” was just a word somebody’d made up so they could pretend to understand what they were.

Clearing his throat, he sat the misshapen cup down on the table, offering the Gioran a wan smile. His fingertips lingered on the lip of the cup.

“Uh – of course. Yes. Children. Can’t live with them, can’t, er…” He wrinkled his nose, losing his train of thought as soon as he’d picked it up. Hell, he thought. Clockin’ hell. “No, being honest,” he started again. “I’m afraid I don’t have any children. I just think it’s interesting, is all. Wasn’t going to say it myself, but he is an ugly little stopclocker, isn’t he? Looks like he’s been broken and glued back together. Well, haven’t we all?”

He shrugged slightly and took his hand away from the cup. He buried both of them deep in his coat pockets and shivered.

Tom’s smile was beginning to wear thin, grow a little tight and awkward. He was grateful she didn’t have a field, but he knew she was in range of his porven; people weren’t usually in a hurry to make his acquaintance, once they’d spent some time around that thing. He could hardly blame them. Still, this place felt steeped in memories, and he couldn’t help but turn on his heel, sweeping the shop again with his eyes.

Shelves and shelves and rows and stacks of clay. His eyes lingered on the black-glazed deer again, and he frowned. “You make all these?” he asked suddenly. “I remember when this place was called Cholmondoley’s. And I remember Gauthier, the son of a kenser. Haven’t been back in since then, though. You’re gone from a place, you come back, and everything’s changed. Maybe not all for the worse, though, hey?”

When he turned back to the passive, it was with his eyebrows raised.

“Shit. Epaemo. You were probably his apprentice or something. Didn’t mean to, uh, speak ill of the dead.” Funny, that. I think I got some rights there. Tom made a face. “I’m sure he wasn’t a kenser’s erse all the time, then?”
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Ketziana Dimere
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Sun Jun 30, 2019 11:21 am

Aminark's Treasures Old Rose Harbor
on the 30th of Bethas, 2719 Late Afternoon
Ketzi watched the man examine her and resisted the urge to drop her eyes. It rankled her when she adopted the attitude the lower races held here in Anaxas. She was of galdori blood and she would not drop her eyes as if she were lesser just because she had been unlucky enough to not have the ability to use magic. Everyone in Gior pretended that passives were equal, and she would not give up that pretense here in Anaxas. She would not lower herself.

Ketzi arched a pale, pale eyebrow when the man started talking and tilted her head slightly, examining him as obviously as he had examined her. His field felt uncomfortable, like a nest of bees buzzing before the attack. She hadn't felt anything like it before, and it piqued her curiosity in spite of the urge to get him out of her space as quickly as possible. She gave him a genuine, but thin, smile and nodded. "Mm, yes. I'm still trying to figure out where Gauthier got the idea to use lacquer like that. It holds water well, though. I'm pondering experimenting with the technique myself whenever I accidentally break pottery. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, considering my finances – I don't break pottery often."

The pale woman smiled brightly when he asked if she had done the other wares. "I did!" she said, unable to keep the pride out of her voice. Her eyes darkened when he mentioned Gauthier, and she couldn't keep the resentment out of her voice. By the way this strange man talked about him, she figured he wouldn't mind if she gave him her honest opinion. "Mm. Calling him a kenser's erse would be an insult to kensers," she chuckled lightly. "I was his apprentice for a whole two weeks before he died. The ersehole had been skimming from his taxes to Hawke and didn't bother telling Hawke that he had taken an apprentice so, here I am," she said, waving her arm to indicate the entire shop. "It isn't too bad of an existence, considering. I'll probably be paying off the ersehole's debt until I die, but I don't have him breathing down my neck and I can make what I want to make instead of the usual boring crap he had me making. One can only make so much plain pottery before your sanity starts breaking," the pale Gioran laughed.

She tilted her head again and looked at the strange man. "How did you know him, if you don't mind me asking? He wasn't generally well-liked by people, so I'd be surprised if you were his friend."
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Tom Cooke
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Wed Jul 03, 2019 7:55 pm

Aminark’s Treasures Old Rose Harbor
during the late afternoon of the 30th of bethas, 2719
Well, if you ever need someone to help you break some pottery,” Tom replied, burying his hands in his pockets and bouncing a little on his heels, “don’t hesitate to ask. I’m the clumsiest kov this side of the Arova. Just being in here gives me the shivers.” He raised his eyebrows at her; his expression was deathly serious, but there might’ve been an edge of laughter in his tone.

There was pride in her words as she claimed all the other pottery as hers; he couldn’t help but notice it, warming up her voice, warming up even her tired smile. He couldn’t help but think about that black-glazed deer and how much skill it must’ve taken to make: the sweeping, graceful lines of its thin legs, the delicate folds of the wilted flowers at its hooves. A little of the warmth in her voice crept into his expression, and he nodded as she spoke, nodded as if anything she was saying about Gauthier was new to him. At the sound of Hawke’s name on her tongue, ringing out in the air open and plain as you like, his eyes widened faintly; his lip twitched.

As she continued, he took a couple of idle steps back toward the shelves, scanning all the clay. His wandering steps were taking him, slowly but surely, back toward that bizarre stag idol. “I didn’t know the old garmon had an apprentice,” he replied. “Two weeks and he kicked the bucket, eh? That’s not much time to learn a trade. If you made all this, you must’ve been quite the potter to begin with.”

His glance lingered on another idol: this one he recognized as Imaan. It was simple and sweet, somehow, he thought, just a few sweeping curves, a bent head over a waterfall of white robes. Sweet and sad. The face was plain; all the expression was in the gesture of one arm, the way it stirred the baggy sleeve, the simple line of the hand. He raised his own hand, caught by the strange urge to hold the delicate thing. It made him think of the story that Gioran wick singer’d sung, though he’d been fair drunk at the time, and he couldn’t quite remember how it went. Something about the child god and a dying hunter.

Her question made him lift his head suddenly; he shot her a furtive glance. “Uh.” His hand twitched away from the idol, burrowing itself back into his coat pocket. “No. I never liked him, but I never knew him well.” The sound of shattering clay bowls seemed to echo in his ears, summoned up out of another time by the thought of Gauthier. He frowned. “I knew him at Brunnhold,” he said after a moment, hoping it didn’t sound as flimsy as it felt. “Did some business with him later. Didn’t have a loyal bone in his body.”

Tom’s steps took him back toward the work table. His glance flicked first to the misshapen cup he’d left there, then to the woman’s pale face. “Never asked your name, did I? Junta,” he said, dipping low in a bow. As he rose, he thought for a moment, then smiled wryly. “You can call me Anatole, if you want to call me anything. You must be a long way from home. Those, uh, things’re something – that deer’s about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Where’d you learn to work clay like that? Far cry from Gauthier’s chroveshit.”
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Ketziana Dimere
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Fri Jul 26, 2019 11:39 am

Aminark's Treasures Old Rose Harbor
on the 30th of Bethas, 2719 Late Afternoon
Ketzi couldn't help but laugh at Tom saying he was the clumsiest kov, even though the fact that this galdor was talking Tek felt strange to her. But there was no benefit to questioning his manner of speaking, so she just sat with the strangeness. "I'll keep that in mind, sir," she said cheerfully.

"Oh, I come from a potter family. I just apprenticed to Gauthier because it wasn't like I had the money to buy a shop," Ketzi laughed. "I had to do something for a living and at least an apprenticeship gave me a roof over my head and food in my belly."

Ketzi let out a small snort of amusement at Tom's opinion of Gauthier. "Yes, that sounds about right. From what I gather, not many people miss him much. It took some of his galdori customers time to decide whether they wanted to buy from a..." she paused for the slightest of moments, the lie catching on her tongue, "human, but most of them eventually came around."

"Pleased to meet you, Anatole. I'm Ketziana, but everyone calls me Ketzi," she said, pleasantly surprised. A lot of galdori that came into her shop never asked her name, just addressing her as "keep" or "girl". It always lifted her mood when someone asked her name.

She looked at the deer statue with a smile of pride. "Oh, my family made sure I was in the clay before I could walk. I even trained at..." Ketzi caught herself. She couldn't reveal that she had gone to university. Her lack of field, coloration, and that tidbit of information would out her as a Gioran passive. That couldn't happen. She couldn't end up in Brunnhold, locked away for the world's safety. Her current situation was hardly freedom, but it was a lot better than being gated.

"I trained with a family friend," she finished weakly, barely hiding her anxiety. "He was an artist. But once I finished training, I went back to my family and they kept me doing simple stuff." She rolled her eyes a bit, thinking of her family. She loved them, but by Imaan's heart, she hadn't realized how much they had stifled her. "In a way, Gauthier's death helped me. Even though I'm drowning in his debt, I'm at least able to make whatever I want. Way too many of those statues end up going back in the slop, but the ones I keep are getting better."
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Tom Cooke
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Sun Jul 28, 2019 2:08 pm

Aminark’s Treasures Old Rose Harbor
during the late afternoon of the 30th of bethas, 2719
It’s a pleasure, then, Ketzi,” he replied, a bit clumsy with the foreign name. Didn’t sound Anaxi, he thought, though he couldn’t place it. Could’ve been Gioran, for all he knew; he’d only known the one Gioran, and he’d never learned the kov’s name. In politics, he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them, and Da Huane and Da Fintaine were the only names he knew.

Still, that hard “K” at the start was nice.

She laughed, and Tom brightened; he felt a little swell of satisfaction. When he’d walked up, she’d hardly been able to keep her eyes propped open, and he reckoned the prospect of doing business with a toffin golly customer near the end of the day wasn’t the most appealing one. He’d hoped a jest or two at his expense’d go some of the way toward lightening the mood, but you had to be careful what you threw in. If his strange manner put her on her guard, though, she wasn’t showing any signs of it, so he started to relax.

This time, it was his turn to quirk an eyebrow. Surprise – along with a sprinkle of suspicion – registered on his face, but he was quick to push them down, to keep his expression friendly-like. He didn’t know of any humans who looked like that, all tall and pale and delicate-featured; this potter was the portrait of a Gioran passive. Still, if she was trying to hide it, he wasn’t going to out her. He didn’t imagine it was easy to do business as a passive, even in the Rose, even with Hawke’s protection. Especially not with any galdor clientele.

’Course, Tom also understood well enough the need to hide, and the fear that went along with it. He let the awkward pause slip by him without comment, and if he noticed anything else out of the ordinary, he wouldn’t be the one to bring it up first.

He gave her a fox’s smile, touching the misshapen cup again with his fingertips. “Well,” he replied, “the first time I drink out of this thing, I’ll make sure to toast the opportunities Gauthier’s, uh – departure’s – given you.” He picked it up again, careful with his unsteady hand, running a thumb over a lopsided crack. At the mention of discarded statuary, he set it down, shooting a glance back toward the deer. “Shame to think about that. Poor, ugly, nanabo things that’ll never have a home. But it’s worth it, I reckon, if it keeps you making shit like that.”

He turned back to Ketzi, tapping the counter idly with a fingertip.

“Uh. How much for this little kov” – he indicated the mug with a twitch of his hand – “and that, uh, statue? Is it –” Tom hesitated; he colored slightly with an embarrassed smile. “I know that one over there’s Imaan, but what’s the one that’s glazed all black? The stag with the flowers all wilted round his hooves. Looks familiar, but I don’t, uh, know my religious symbolism too well, I’m afraid.”
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Ketziana Dimere
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Wed Oct 09, 2019 9:25 am

Aminark's Treasures Old Rose Harbor
on the 30th of Bethas, 2719 Late afternoon
Ketzi gave Tom a quick grin. "Oh, every cup of tea I drink goes to the Circle about that. I'll probably be paying back his debt long enough that Hawke will have to bring me back from the grave, but at least I'm not stuck doing nothing but plain pottery for the rest of my life," she chuckled.

"The cup's a ha'penny. The statue's Naulas, the deity of death. You can't really see it here, but if you shine the light on it just right, the glaze has some blue crackling in it. It's five pennies. I do take custom orders if you want something fancier. In fact, I have another statue of Naulas in the greenware stage that will be going in the kiln in another couple days. I can bring it out for you to look at, if you want. We can go over the glazes I have to make sure it's something that you'll be proud to display that also reflects your personality."

She paused a minute and then laughed self-consciously. "Sorry. You probably don't know what greenware is, do you?" she said. "I sometimes forget not to speak shop with the customers. That part of running a business is still new to me. My family preferred I stay out of the way. Greenware is a piece of ceramics that hasn't gone through the kiln yet. You fire ceramics once to harden the clay and then you paint them with glazes and fire them again."

She bounced on the balls of her feet for a second and clicked her tongue. "Actually, let me go get it for you," she said cheerfully before hurrying back to her workroom. When she came out, she was carefully holding a statue of a stag in her hands. This statue was much different from the one on display. It was a stag in mid-rear, thick threads of clay circled around its back feet, flowing up his back legs and up over its back delicately.

"Don't touch it," Ketzi cautioned as she put it down on the counter gently. "Those strands are more delicate than they seem," she laughed. "They'll be strong enough when the piece is finished, as long as you don't have kids young enough to throw it around."

"My parents used to tell me stories about all of the Circle. According to them, Naulas helped souls who got lost, but if you angered him in life, he might remove you from the Circle in death," the pale woman gave a half-shrug. "I'm not sure that can even happen, but it's an interesting story. But I figured I'd try to represent the souls in a statue."
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