Here, have this MCxOpal fic I will probably never finish...
I got stuck and I just can’t figure out how to continue with everything else going on right now D’:
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You lift your hand as you step out from the shop, splaying your fingers to shield your eyes from the cheery rays of the early morning. The sun is climbing ever higher in the vast sea of blue above and there’s not a cloud to be seen… But for some reason it doesn’t seem to lift your spirits at all. Asra is gone, again. You would think by now you’d be used to it, but this particular disappearance stings more than you’d like to admit. You absently reach into your satchel, fingering the note tucked in the linen bag, “MC, I’m sorry to leave on such short notice, and I know now was not the best time… but it was urgent. I promise to make it up to you when I return. Asra.”
Feeling the corners of your lips twitch further downward, you wave your hand over the door, magic tickling your fingertips as you begin the short walk to the market. If Asra is not around to spend time with you on your birthday, you vow to enjoy yourself despite him. A heavy sigh leaves you, shoulders slouching as the thought of being alone swirls around your head. You can hear the hustle and bustle of the morning market, footsteps shuffling across bricks and rugs, voices raised to hawk their wares louder than the vendor next to them. The sweet smell of freshly baked pumpkin bread fills your nostrils. Your stomach responds in turn with an excited growl. At the very least you can treat yourself to some birthday sweets.
As you descend the steps the market comes into view. Vibrant crimson lanterns sway with the gentle spring breeze overhead, sunlight creates dappling pools of light in the street, flashing brilliantly off the golden jewelry of people passing by. A familiar voice calls out from your right, “Ah! MC! I see the promise of fresh pumpkin bread has risen you from your shop!” The baker chuckles a hearty laugh from deep within his belly. Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. There’s no way to sulk around such a delightful man. You step over to his stall, the warmth of the stone oven licking at your cheeks, the spicy scent of pumpkin bread hitting you like a tidal wave. Your stomach lets out another, louder growl, a few of the closer market patrons turning to glance over their shoulders. The baker roars with light-hearted laughter, and a heat you know isn’t from the oven tinges your cheeks. “So it’s true!”
“Good morning, Sebastian.” You reply with a sheepish grin, hovering over his stall. The jolly man in a flour speckled apron grins at you, pushing his sleeves up past his elbows before hoisting a well-loved bread paddle up from its resting spot beside the oven.
“Good morning, MC!” Sebastian flings the stone oven open. Cinnamon and nutmeg tickle your nose as he thrusts the paddle into it’s glowing maw, your eyes watching carefully as he gently eases a fresh loaf from the flames. “Just you today?” The easy smile that had settled on your lips flickers before disappearing, not even the thought of warm pumpkin bread able to revive it.
“Asra is away… on business.” Sebastian merely nods, continuing to pull fresh loaves from the oven, completely unaware of the mood settling over you. Sebastian lets the bread paddle rest again, closing the oven in one smooth motion, before grabbing a simple brown bag from a shelf beneath the lip of his stall.
“Ah. Well,” He gingerly reaches for the first loaf he pulled from the oven, the caramel colored bread still steaming, “No need for you to share this, then.” He eases the warm loaf into the bag, rolling up the opening before offering it out to you. You fish in the purse at your hip, trading a simple coin for the bag, pushing on a smile as Sebastian waves you goodbye.
You begin to wander further into the market, the heat from the bread causing condensation on your palm. Absently, you tuck your treat into your satchel as you move, weaving carefully between market goers. Your eyes travel to the left and to the right, your feet drawing you to stray from your path every so often when you notice something you need for the shop. Time trickles by, the day growing warmer, your mood seeming to even as you make your purchases. Though… you can’t seem to kick the proverbial rain cloud hovering over your head.
You pass a small weathered tent, an elderly woman tries to beckon you inside with promises of telling your future and reading your palm. You merely shake your head, turning to slip down a side road, trying to find any excuse to decline her offers. You already know how the day will end. Another night alone at the shop. Another day wondering when Asra will return. Another…
You pause, eyes grazing over a ratty old mat at your feet. Colorful trinkets litter the fraying fibers of the mat, a small herb rack constructed entirely of twigs and twine resting by the corner. A bouquet of dried wildflowers hangs beside bundles of yarrow and patchouli. You step aside to kneel in front of the rack, gently reaching out to caress the petals of a statice in the bouquet. Despite being dried, it is still a brilliant shade of amethyst. As you marvel at the arrangement, a figure seated at the back end of the mat shifts, drawing your attention to the vendor for the first time.
It takes nearly everything in you not to stare. It isn’t a rarity to see foreigners in Vesuvia, but it is a bit uncommon to see someone so… unique. Your eyes dance over the heavy looking silver ankhs that pull down her lobes, the dark ink of the symbols scrawled across her torso and arms, before disappearing beneath a billowing blue blouse. You catch sight of a rather jagged scar on the right side of her chest, partially hidden beneath the bold tattoo, which is beginning to remind you of the ritual circles Asra has taught you about. “Five copper, if you’d like it.”
You snap out of the moment’s lingering gaze, eyes sweeping up to the vendor’s face, intense green eyes catching you off, “E-excuse me?”
“The bouquet. Five copper.” Her voice is a seldom used contralto, soft yet rough, as if she has had to search for it. There is a noticeable lilt to her words, an accent that floats through your ears in a melodic sort of way. You drop your hand from the dried flowers, a nervous grin catching your lips.
“Oh! Yes. They’re beautiful. Did you collect them yourself?” You drop your eyes to the bouquet again, shifting nervously, the vendor’s fixed stare seeming to trap you like a cat with a mouse. Her lips twitch into a gentle smile at your nervousness, the thin silver ring hugging her bottom lip cocking slightly to one side.
