The throng,
A sea of hoods and robes in rust, puce, and violet.
Milling about, awaiting the word.
Low rumbling, slow grumbling,
Occasional laughter and winging from children.
​
The Hon. P. O'Thalimus, with tightly composed white wig,
approaches the lecturn.
Page boy, with tightly composed blond wig,
a few steps behind,
with brass bell
upon red velvet pillow.
O'Thalimus places his finely stocking'd right foot
upon the podium.
The front half of the crowd hushes.
O'Thalimus places his bespok'ly shod left foot
upon the podium.
The back half of the crowd hushes.
​
"Boy – bell please."
Not a sound as O'Thalimus' white glove reaches out,
Mahogany handle grasped, but
the bell is not lifted until
Until
Until
O'Thalimus squints through bespectled eyes
at the gilded pocket watch in his other hand,
watching its second hand glide upward until
Until
Until
​
The Hon. P. O'Thalimus inhales
and with a baritone's song declares
"New Breath on Market!"
The bell clangs
The citizens cheer
Hundreds of wood doors slide open,
revealing the Air Traders' tables.
​
"Four and two bits!" one says here.
"Half and three!" shouts another.
"An awful sorry bundle you've got there."
"Finest air on the market, madam!"
"Barter for Phlegm! Willing to barter for PHLEGM!"
​
O'Thalimus surveys the scene
pleased
The exiting citizens' hoods and shawls
grow crimson after their trade with the diminutive air traders.
In the midst of the sea of scarlet
a figure draped in white briefly appears
then vanishes.
Panic begins to grow within O'Thalimus
He keeps this to himself
but his eyes dart about the trading tables.
​
Business as usual. Perhaps he was mistak...
Screams erupt
A mad dog
forest green
wet matted fur
Perhaps not a dog at all
snarling at door 62
a red-faced babe cries for its mother
"Watch it, lad!" a man says to another,
yanking him to slight safety.
The beast chases its closest target
Alas, a lass.
It pounces on her,
she lands on the market floor
one paw on her ear,
the other on her back,
her neck in between.
​
A sparkling blade
pierces the hound
though fierce it was,
now it is all whimpers.
​
The lass looks up to see her rescuer,
a raven-bearded man
in a silver helmet
glistening chainmail
covered in the cloth and colors
of the White Blood Knights.
​
Page boy cheers,
"The Rose be praised for Sir Tecil!"
The Hon. P. O'Thalimus staggers to a chair
and breathes a heavily relieved sigh.
​
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02
