Rough hands turned a piece of broken glass over. It was a deep violet, battered enough by the waves that she could pass it off as ancient, perhaps a relic from a downed ship hundreds of years ago. Hagar knew better, of course. The glass was the exact color the bottles a local resort served spotchka in. The tourists who she would sell it to, however, were unlikely to notice. Her trade was simple. She had worn many masks over the years, knowing none could stick for too long. Most recently, she had been a talisman procurer, finding powerful objects with tragic pasts, often conveniently reflecting a client's own experiences to garner more sympathy. It was enough to get by, and that was all she needed to do. Still, as Hagar trekked back from the shoreline, prize in hand, she sighed deeply.
She snuck into the small lean-to she'd won months ago in a game of pazaak, trying to go unnoticed as the day grew brighter lest any potential customers question the source of her goods. It was simple-- no one noticed her anyway. At the group home, she had tried to stand out among her peers, grabbing frantically at every scrap of attention thrown her way. Once she became a nuisance and a troublemaker rather than a misguided child, however, it only took a few hard-learned lessons in cells or detention centers before she figured out how to step into the background. Now, it was convenient. She feared little anymore for herself, but the fact that no one looked too hard at her had been the whole reason her new business venture had lasted as long as it did.
Hagar threw on her battered hat, pulling it low enough that it partially obscured her face, took a swig from the bottle next to her cot, and opened up shop.
The beginning of the day tended to be slow as her customers recovered from their inevitably exciting nights, so she had a habit of letting herself drift off, feel the pulse of the market, the street, the city. This time, however, she felt something new, a gentle throbbing at the back of her head. Perhaps, she thought wryly, I should be getting more sleep. Taking another drink she shifted, grounding herself back in the merciful shade of her set-up. If she believed in omens, Hagar would have readied herself for a strange day. Instead, she focused on reorganizing her artifact display, fidgeting with the odds and ends as if making their arrangement pretty enough would somehow make their stories true.
@Darasuum
She snuck into the small lean-to she'd won months ago in a game of pazaak, trying to go unnoticed as the day grew brighter lest any potential customers question the source of her goods. It was simple-- no one noticed her anyway. At the group home, she had tried to stand out among her peers, grabbing frantically at every scrap of attention thrown her way. Once she became a nuisance and a troublemaker rather than a misguided child, however, it only took a few hard-learned lessons in cells or detention centers before she figured out how to step into the background. Now, it was convenient. She feared little anymore for herself, but the fact that no one looked too hard at her had been the whole reason her new business venture had lasted as long as it did.
Hagar threw on her battered hat, pulling it low enough that it partially obscured her face, took a swig from the bottle next to her cot, and opened up shop.
The beginning of the day tended to be slow as her customers recovered from their inevitably exciting nights, so she had a habit of letting herself drift off, feel the pulse of the market, the street, the city. This time, however, she felt something new, a gentle throbbing at the back of her head. Perhaps, she thought wryly, I should be getting more sleep. Taking another drink she shifted, grounding herself back in the merciful shade of her set-up. If she believed in omens, Hagar would have readied herself for a strange day. Instead, she focused on reorganizing her artifact display, fidgeting with the odds and ends as if making their arrangement pretty enough would somehow make their stories true.
@Darasuum