Among the cheery-faced festival goers was a lanky man in a lincoln-green cloak. He leaned against a stall where a portly middle aged woman was selling her authentic Abyssinian fruit tarts.
Whatever the hell those were.
“Well, they weren’t wrong when they were calling it a ‘flower’ festival.” Archer stared out at the hubbub, the happy couples drunk on sweet wine and the gentle music playing in the distance.
While it had more than a few similarities to the open-air markets in Sector 4, this ‘Flower Festival’ was, like the Sector it was hosted in, serene nearly to a fault. Seriously--if things could get any more sedate, Archer would fall into a coma.
Not that it was a bad thing, surely. He of all people would appreciate the simple joys of a freshly harvested fruit or a new cask of ale--fruit of the vine and of the work of human hands. It was just that this festival was a little... too saccharine sweet for his tastes.
As he waited for his date, he quietly wondered how the giant mushrooms ringing the entire fair would taste like, if diced up and fried. It certainly would beat those truffle things the French loved to boast about, surely...
Hm. Maybe he could fuck around with one of them later if this evening, if circumstances permitted.
