A Perfect Fit

A Perfect Fit

Postby Rance » Thu Jul 09, 2015 5:05 am

I saw you tonight as I see you evary night, I ran my fingers threw the curleng sprowts of your hair and lissened pashently as you laffed and burblt and told to me beu beautifal stories.

Gloria wakes prior to the the cockcrow. An hour before dawn bleeds across its black canvas, night is silent and barely seems to move, a petrified diorama relieved in shadows outside the window of her room. The soldier's alarm stirs her from within, the work of a gluttonous amount of double-boiled water begging to be relieved. The habit has become ritual: she peels herself from her coverlet, her bladder aching, her head a fog of dream-remnants and Golden spires.

You fit perfecktly in my arms. I have never seen a thing which is so tiny and fragel and yet to my eye so expertly sculp't. You have got your father's silfered hair but when I look at your face it is mine in a youthful mirrerglass. You will not remember but today you held onto my hand and you dared your feet with your ballince and weight. Today you walk't for the first time and I was very happy.

She packs a pipe with a pinch of coltsfoot and lights it from the tired flame of a candle. The smoke curls like a misty cloud around her sleep-matted hair. The acrid pipesmoke and a refreshing breeze from the open window work together to pry the sleepiness out of her head and bones.

Her loft-partner occasionally breaks the silence with a riotous snore; Ailova Smith's whiskey-leaden sleep, Gloria knows all too well, never seems a restful reverie. The woman rarely even surrenders her boots to the floor. A half-finished whiskey bottle stands at Ailova's bedside, just out of reach of dangling fingers. Sometimes, when the snoring riptide becomes too loud, Gloria quietly whispers, "Turn over," and shoves Ailova's to her side. The snores dissolve into coarse, half-hindered breaths.

Well it is not so much a walk but it is like a waddel, I wached as you took two steps and then four. Your legs will be oxin-strong when they have grown fully, do you know. And then you laff'd and laff'd and we set to playing the game of which you have become verry fond: you unravelt the ribbens I put into your hair and when I have put them back in you unravelt them again.

The clay pipe fades cool and lightless by the time she finishes writing. She taps the bowl empty against the sill of the window. Errant ashes scatter onto the knees of her sleeping-gown.

The city is verry Golden and shines as brite as a preshious stone, sometimes I wish that I coult sleep forever so I do not miss even a fracksion of a moment with you.

She folds the letter and stuffs it into the case of her pillow with all the others. Then, as orange light crawls over the horizon and summons a smoke of fog from the warming earth, Gloria Wynsee tugs on a pair of faded breeks — a rare choice for the hefty girl — and shoves her heels into still-wet boots. A careful hand snaps suspenders over each shoulder. She claps a fieldhat of woven straw onto her head, stuffing lawless tendrils of her dark hair underneath the rotted brim. And because today is the day, Gloria stands at her friend's bedside and prods at Ailova's shoulder with a jabbing finger. "Wake up," the younger girl says, childish excitement bubbling underneath her demand. "Ailova, wake up. You said you'd — you'd go with me to pick one out, to choose the right one."

No excuses of too much whiskey and too-late conversations about the Constable and the dockworker would save Ailova Smith from waking early on this day.

"I'll even treat you to breakfast."
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby highawaywoman » Mon Jul 13, 2015 6:56 am

Dreams were not something that often visited Ailova. The blonde brigand hated dreaming. Whiskey was not only a vice, but it served to silence any dreams from entering her sleeping mind. Except for this night. This night and into the wee hours of that morning she'd dreamed. And they weren't nightmares from childhood, or botched heists, knights set upon one of her bands - no, this was a dream of blissful happiness. Something that she rarely experienced.

Straw-colored hair was clean and shining, braided back as she sat next to Elias at the end of a pier. The two whispered and laughed - mostly it was a hodge-podge of all their conversations being replayed in this dreamscape. She hated water, but with him it was safe. All was well. The two each had a makeshift fishing-pole dipped into the water, giggling like children whenever something chanced to nibble at their lines. Until--

The sky darkened and she could hear a brutish male voice hollering her name. It called incessantly - harassing her - even from afar.

"I must go." She didn't want to go, but she didn't want him to find her here. Not here.

Suddenly, hands grabbed her shoulders - shaking the world away and turning everything black.

"Ailova, wake up. You said you'd — you'd go with me to pick one out, to choose the right one."

"Get yer feckin' 'ands ooff o' me!" The fear of being found strangled her voice, choking the sense from her - her left hand instinctively went to strike, but she stilled herself in time. Twas jus' a dream. This be Gloria. Nae him.

"Nine 'ells, Gloria! Ye froighten'd the loife ouuta me!" The highwaywoman patted her friend's hand comfortingly, "Sorra - I wos havin' a dream - pray fergive me ang'r."

Pale green eyes blinked the sleep away as she rubbed her temples to erase the latter part of the dream. Though, mayhap, she should try to forget the whole thing altogether. She winced, shrugging back into her frockcoat and reaching to smash her slouch hat back to her head.

"Let's go. I dinnae need 'o break me fas', but some coffee with a dash o' whiskey wouldnae be remiss." Gloria would assuredly wish to eat. The girl was always attempting to force some semblance of sustenance into the gaunt figure of her friend.
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby Rance » Mon Jul 13, 2015 9:56 am

In the common room of the Broken Dagger, breaking the night's fast was a necessity: Gloria scarfs her morning's sweetbread and cheese without so much of a hint of offense at Ailova's harsh waking. A friendship as strong as that which she shared with the brigand deserves easy forgiveness; Gloria knows what shadows and fears cultivate themselves in the sleeping mind. A promise given is upheld: the seamstress orders, and Ailova's scalding tin of coffee — with its generous serving of whiskey — scrapes across the bar toward the taller, thinner woman.

"I'd break the nose of anyone who put their hands on you," the seamstress says through a mouthful of crumbling cheese. "I don't care who they are. You know that, don't you?" She grins. The girl's dark face is electrified with excitement. Today's the day. "Even — even when you're sleeping. I'd even knock a bad dream right in the throat—" her pewter fork clicks and claps, "—just to make sure you get the rest you need. Maybe one day you'll hit me without expecting it, but I've got too hard a head to go down with one blow. Now eat," Gloria commands, the stump of her left arm shoving the platter toward Ailova, "else your guts'll be talking worse than Marigold's halfway to the auction. That cheese will bind you up tighter than rawhide, and after last night, I imagine you'll need it."

And on and on and on she prattles about this, about that.

Sometimes, even Gloria Wynsee can be a girl.

Not long after breakfast, they dodge the morning sun underneath the roof of the stables. The Jerno's fear of horses long dissolved under weeks of the brigand's careful but demanding tutelage, she brushes Marigold's coat for Ailova and beats the dust out of the saddle-blanket. She's quite content to let Ailova nurse the echoes of the previous night's bender.

Gloria heaves the heavy saddle over Marigold's back and raises up on the tips of her toes to peer at the other woman.

"Was it a bad dream? You — you sounded scared," she says, lowering her voice to one of gentle secrecy. "You said someone had their hands on you."
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby highawaywoman » Tue Jul 14, 2015 9:36 am

The tin mug was scalding hot from the whiskey-laced brew within. It took Ailova several minutes of blowing across the top of the vessel, before it was cool enough to sip. Even then, it burnt her lips with the taste and temperature! Gloria prattled on and on, her round face beaming with happiness and excitement. It took the better part of their breakfast before Ailova finally gave in and took a bit of cheese and started to flash her golden smile.

"Maybe one day you'll hit me without expecting it, but I've got too hard a head to go down with one blow."

"Noice. Ye do ken there wos whisk'y invoolv'd booth 'em toimes when I wos fell'd with the bloow 'o the heid?"

Gloria barely took a breath, nor did she acknowledge the older woman's rebuttal. Instead, the two finished breaking their fast and were soon within the dark confines of the livery and tacking up. Horses. They were a balm to her ragged soul, battered brains, and unstill heart. She sat on an overturned wooden bucket, adjusting the bridle for the gelding Gloria was to ride to the auction in Market square.

Amazingly, the once-seamstress took a breath in between tacking up the golden mare, throwing Ailova a considering look and asking,"Was it a bad dream? You — you sounded scared. You said someone had their hands on you."

The highwaywoman almost dropped the bridle she held - hands trembled from both the lack of drink and thinking about the ending of that first sweet - then darkened dreamscape.

"I' wasnae a noightmare a' firs'. A' firs' i' wos sweet and good - but they always turn dark. Always." Ailova stood, reaching for the reins of Marigold and tilting her covered head to where Gloria's borrowed gelding stood waiting and eating.

"Coome noow, le' us nae waste toime o' talk aboou' me silly dreams when we 'ave moore important things to accomplish today!" A bare hand chucked the girl affectionately under her chin, moving the mare out of the stall. "Rememb'r! We ain't buyin' the firs' nag tha' is bein' troott'd oout. Auctioneers smell excitement and 'tis wot loines their pockets."

Soon enough they were both mounted. The bandit had helped Gloria on first, before swinging up onto the prancing palomino. Marigold was a nervous little devil, but she could move! Damns, she could run faster than even Bruiser, which was a testament to the horse's talents.

Almost an hour later they were trotting into Market Square; the calls of the various vendors raising the noise level to an oppressive din as they grew closer to the site for the horse sale. Sale days were big days in a town like Myrken! It brought out all sorts, not just buyers and sellers - it was a day for the community to come together - trade news or gossip and to enjoy the summer while it lasted.

Ailova motioned for Gloria to follow and they settled their horses to a nearby post, before the bandit slipped off for a good vantage point to the right side of the auctioneer. It afforded them a long look to where the horses were being circled and led before even approaching the sale block.

"This way we canna see if they be lame, before their own'rs try 'o cov'r i' up on the block."
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby Rance » Tue Jul 14, 2015 3:04 pm

At the auction, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder with other prospective buyers — farmers, riders, citizens — Gloria follows Ailova's commands with silent obedience. She stands just at the brigand's elbow, clutching to the fabric of her suspenders just to keep her hand from venturing toward the fat lump of a moneypurse weighing down her woolen trousers. "Not the first nag," she repeats, thrusting her chin and neck forward to try to observe the train of horses before they're marched onto the block. "And we can see if they're lame."

And so the auction proceeds. Horses — wild girls that buck against their bridles as well as calm, black-eyed boys that saunter with effortless ease — filter past, some skinny and old, others broad and proud; some stand upwards of seventeen hands, while others beg to be something better than mere ponies. In the warm summer sun, the auctioneer barks out descriptions that are occasionally embellished, but always perfectly pleasing to any ear that dares to be swayed—

"A Derry chestnut, ridden into battle under two separate spearwielders!"

Hands explode from the gathered.

"Six shillings to start," one man cries.

And another across the way: "Seven and one-half!"

The auctioneer, a spindly man that bends and weaves as close as he can to each shouted offer, looks like he's more made of wicker than of skin. He's flexible, ever-smiling, snapping his reedy fingers out to point at each voice that drives the price up and up and up. "Seven and one-half, I hear," he cries. "Do I hear eight with the assurance that she's agreeable to riders of all skills and talents, and quite savvy with a haul?"

"You hear nine," croaks a blustery woman with red cheeks, waving a square of red fabric. "Nine, I say."

Gloria's silent gaze scans the sweaty scalps and Sun-beaten bonnets crushing into the auction square. Finally, she darts her gaze up to Ailova and shakes her head. Too big, she mouths, satisfied to wait until the next.

"Ten!"

"Ten and one-half."

"Eleven!"

The bids trail higher and higher still. The first few specimens come and go. Hooves clap onto the auction block, then clap off. The morning grows hotter. The shadows stretch further.

Six horses in, Gloria jabs the stump of her arm into Ailova's ribs and whispers:

"How dark did it turn," she inquires, never taking her attention away from the blur of activity that abounds in the square. People surge and sway. Offers parry other offers with blistering efficiency. The auctioneer never tires, occasionally crying, "Sold!" with an air of victory wholly theatric in its excitement. "Your dream, I mean," Gloria asks. "You can tell me about it; I want to hear about it. And I'll keep prying and prying until you open right up and say, partially because I'm tireless, but mostly because you're my dearest friend, and I care even about the phantoms in your mind. You don't need to fight them off alone."
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby highawaywoman » Wed Jul 15, 2015 3:20 am

The sun rose up and shined down on the crowd, making men sweat from the excitement of the auction and from the heat that beat down upon them. Gloria wiped a trail of blackened sweat from her brow and grinned up at the taller woman; the excitement of the excursion was painted across her face. Good. Gloria needed more pleasure in her life. Horses were trotted through and business was brisk, people had coin and were willing to spend it - but nothing caught Ailova's eye. Not until the warhorse came striding across the platform.

He was magnificent.

Too big. Ailova nodded, he was too big and likely too much of a horse for her friend. As the price rose, Ailova's appreciation for the Derry chestnut waned. Even though she could afford a score of them, she was miserly with her precious savings.

More horses were paraded to the block, flashing hooves and swishing tails in irritation at both the heat and flies. A hand went to tip the brim of her hat further down, an effort to keep the glare of the sun from her eyes. A mistake, for the auctioneer pointed at her for a bid.

"You there! Young man! Are you going to start the bidding on this fine pack mule!?"

"Feck noo!" The bandit hollered back, spitting to the ground to enforce the dismissal of the poor pack animal. Some in the crowd chortled, which only resulted in garnering a dark look from the seller.

"How dark did it turn?" Her friend's stump prodded her side and Ailova blinked, realizing as Gloria prattled on that she was insisting on knowing more about her dream-turned-nightmare. Och. If it had been anyone else? The horsewoman would have retorted with a brusque and cutting remark. But this was her dear friend, one that cared when others had not.

"Feckin' 'ells." She didn't want to remember that dream. Not the beginning. Not the end. Remembering the beginning and majority of it - till it had turned dark - only made her yearn for her former partner. And remembering the latter part only served to remind her that scores of years later he still had the power to threaten her.

"It wos beautiful a' firs'. I wos with Elias. We were fishin'. Talkin'--" Words were cut abruptly short as a staid little bay gelding was being led up to the block. The plucky little gent couldn't have had better timing. The dark red of his coat gleamed in the sun and he tosses his black mane when his seller cuffed him unjustly. He was well-ripped up. A nice short back, sturdy legs and beautifully angled pasterns. His hooves were all black and round - not small and chipped.

The brigand tilted her head, eyes widening a bit as she looked to Gloria. That one.
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby Rance » Wed Jul 15, 2015 3:26 pm

It wos beautiful a' firs'. I wos with Elias. We were fishin'. Talkin'—

Ailova's words become vapor, then fade into complete silence. Gloria considers asking if she's well, but she follows Ailova's gaze toward the block and realizes instantly what's driven the brigand into silence.

A horse.

His coat gleams like a rusted copper. He's plug-stout, a squat but gallant specimen of a beast with a black mane that retains its darkness even in the light of the Glass Sun. He stands unfazed by the roiling noise of the auction-crowd, occasionally thumping one of his back hooves against the wood beneath him to chase away the annoyance of a fly. The tail snaps left, snaps right, sweeping almost conversationally. And while at first Gloria thinks him unremarkable, it's the knowing veneer infecting Ailova's face that tells her he was something. Ailova, with a wisdom forged in the saddle and on the road, knows her horses like she knows her own heartbeat, and the brigand's younger compatriot implicitly trusts the judgment of her mannish friend.

Later, they'd talk about the nightmare, dispel it and extinguish its power, but now—

Coins rattle. Gloria leans against Ailova and rams something fat and firm into one of her friend's hands. The leather coinpurse, stained as it was with a thousand black-sweat fingerprints, bulges like a swollen organ in Ailova's palm. And while its contents have gone long uncounted, one truth echoes amid the coins carefully imprisoned within: it is a great deal of money, a once-seamstress' untapped pool saved — with a miser's awareness — over three years in Myrken Wood.

"The auctioneer has an eye for you," the seamstress whispers, "even if he mistook you for — for a fellow. This is your expertise; I want to watch you shine, Ailova Smith."

Her grin widens, confident and half-toothless.

"I want him."

And off in the crowd, someone bites first when the auctioneer opens the bidding:

"Eight shillings!"
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby highawaywoman » Fri Jul 17, 2015 3:58 am

"Eight shillings!

Ridiculous! Far too much to start. The highwaywoman groaned, casting Gloria a look of stern displeasure. The blooded bay was worth far more than that, but for an opening bid? The price was steep, which meant they'd get no bargains today. Gloria's precious savings was pressed into her hand and she looked down at the small satchel and then to her comrade.

Ailova had wished to buy the horse for her, but she knew it would do no good arguing with the once-seamstress. Gloria was strong-willed and buying her own beast was far more important than being gifted one. Her friend's trusting face beamed up at her and the bandit instantly felt a surge of auction fever. That burning desire that alights on one and fuels them to bid and bid - not stopping until what they desire is procured.

"I want him."

"Then ye shall 'ave 'im."

"Do I have nine shillings? Come now! This be a fine gelding! Look at them legs!" The auctioneer knew this was a good one, his face reddened as the excitement from the day began to show across his homely features.

This time the hat brim went down, but her face was serious. This was a bid.

"The young man in the hat! Yes, ser! Nine shillings! Do I have ten?"

Two more hands shot up, but it was one in particular that drew Ailova's interest. A foppishly dressed young man, who met her gaze and shot her a self-satisfied smile. The other bidders did not concern her - they could outbid them or glare at them to eventually turn away their interest. This one though. The dandy. He looked like he had more coin than sense and wasn't afraid to spend it.

"Tha' oone is gonna bid us up." Words were tossed to Gloria, before her chin jutted to the dandy. "'e smoiles loike oone whom thinks 'imself full o' import."

"Fifteen shillings!" The fop cried out, giving both Ailova and Gloria a cheeky smile.

"Fifteen! Thank you, ser! And you, young man, do I have sixteen?!"

"Twenty. Twenty shillings!" The brigand hollered back, which elicited several gasps from the crowd. The gelding was assuredly worth that and mayhap a bit more - but to hear such a bid was a declaration. This beast is mine.

The young dandy widened his eyes theatrically, giving the women a deep bow. Good. Mayhap, he'd taken the bleedin' hint. Ailova shot Gloria a reassuring smile, gold teeth flashing in brief moment of relief. He's yours!

Until.

"Thirty shillings!" The dandy cried out, holding aloft an embroidered reticule that looked like it belonged to some fancy noblewoman, not a man.

"Well. Feck me mam's gooa' soide-ways." Ailova was stunned by the bid. It was too much! But, feck, that gelding was perfect. She looked to Gloria as the auctioneer called to her - pointing his gavel and brandishing it like a sword.
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Re: A Perfect Fit

Postby Rance » Mon Jul 20, 2015 4:33 pm

Ailova works the lunge and parry of the auction with an ease and confidence that Gloria herself could never harbor. The younger girl spectates with an eager nervousness that rolls almost visibly through her stout frame. She shifts on her bootheels, sometimes shakes her lone fist in front of her in a motion of combative victory. Back and forth between the dandy and the brigand, Gloria's eyes snap, going from one to the other, even occasionally darting toward the auctioneer as if to measure with what skill he manages to mediate the exchange. Sweat trickles in an oily line down her spine. Her blouse sticks to her skin. She forgets she's got but one hand; the stump falls to her thigh, kneading uselessly at her trouser-leg with invisible fingers. And then—

Thirty shillings!

To her, noise and commotion near the auction block fades into a murmuring din. Her heartbeat pounds like a wardrum between her ears. Ailova looks down at her for permission — Do I bid, or do I fold? the brigand's gaze asks — and Gloria's mouth opens, a soundless rift. Hope pours out of her face, bringing most of her color with it. The pallor creeps bone-deep. Gloria's gaze goes toward the calm, rusty-coated gelding standing on the block like some slave, some rat'vak offered up for purchase and ownership by the highest bidder.

"It's sad," the girl mutters, her eyes swimming. "Looking at him up there. Looking at all of them up there. It — it makes me sad."

The gavel demands a return, trembling in the air with anticipation. Gloria's chin drops. She reaches out, gently presses her hand across Ailova's knuckles.

"No."

It's done; it's finished. Sickness roils in her gut. It's all wrong. This, this, it's unfathomable. And the spark burning behind her sodden gaze apologizes to Ailova. For putting this on her shoulders.

"We're — we're not meant to be victors. Are we?"

No sooner are the words spoken before the gavel blasts relentlessly against its striker.
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