Generosity And Other Luxuries

Title: Generosity and Other Luxuries
Time Period: August 30, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary:A stranger is met with a random act of kindness which leads to other propositions.

The sun makes its way west in a somewhat cloudy sky, gilding the clouds with streaks of red and gold so that the market square is bathed in a warm, ruddy light. Merchants are beginning to pack up their wares while others linger, hoping to make a few more sales before calling it a day. The fall of the sun means the breeze is a chilly one, even in late summer.

At the leatherworkers stall, a tall man examines a large bit of leather hide, murmuring something to the merchant before shrugging once and turning away. The would-be buyer tucks something into his courier bag — whatever it was he was offering to sell, wrapped in a handkerchief. On his shoulder, a pine marten watches the hustle and bustle of the late-afternoon crowd with bright black eyes.

Markets are fantastic places when one has a full purse and promise of money to come, but without those things, they can be torturous. Dorian tries not to appear destitute as he strolls between the closing stalls, eyeing what is still on sale. At least as it grows dark, certain items are reduced in price. He negotiates for a roll that is rapidly growing stale.

Walking by the baker's table, perhaps Beisdean overhears the bartering for the aging bread. The medium is by no means rich, himself, from the looks of him; his clothes are well worn but in good repair, and he's a bit too thin to be considered well nourished. But there's a book or two peeking a bit out of his courier bag, so he's got something worth bargaining with. He reaches deeper in, coming up with an apple as he draws closer to the stranger.

"Head's up, mate," he tells the other man, making sure he draws the other's attention before tossing the apple in a light underhand.

There's a downside to getting on the wagon that is sobriety. Besides the fact that you see the world as the world and not through happily muddled mental glasses. things are far too clear, and when you get paid in alcohol, well, lets just say that people have had to pay her in other methods.

Like the basket of eggs carried in arm and potatoes, vegetables and a wrapped hunk of meat - lamb - that will serve as dinner for the next day or so. The lamb being her own. It's the end of the day bread that garners her attention too and she slows as apples make their way through the air, the black clad woman pausing to ensure she doesn't get a faceful.

Dorian turns and grabs the apple out of the air, though his brows raise quizzically. "And what is this for?" he wonders. It's unclear whether he's just surprised, or suspicious, or what. He doesn't exactly gush with gratitude, though.

"Sorry, ma'am," Beisean murmurs to Sorcha when the apple cuts off her path; she's near his age, but he has that odd tic of being ridiculously polite to married women — or widows as the case is here.

A shoulder raises and falls at Dorian's query. "If you don't want it, I'll give it to my horse, but you look like maybe you could use it a bit more than he can,"

he says lightly, not apparently expecting gushing gratitude as he continues to walk.
"It's okay Beisdean" Used to the man and the mage, looking by habit for where Darklight might be hiding out. "If you don't want it, I'll take it" Add it to her own pile in the bags. Beisdean keeps moving and she slips in, looking over what's left over and ready to trade eggs for bread. "Send Darklight over Beis, I saw a mouse" Make the familiar earn his ribbon bits and buttons.

"What are you implying?" Dorian asks, standing up even straighter than he had been. He doesn't seem to like being mentioned on the same level as the man's horse, or perhaps it's the suggestion that he looks needy that has Dorian bristling. He glances over at the lady who's trying to claim his fruit, but says nothing. He might be offended, but he's not exactly giving up the apple.

Darklight makes a Tch sort of sound before scampering down from Beisdean's shoulder and across the market toward Sorcha's store. The mage shakes his head, watching the marten run, then raises a brow at Sorcha. "He does like his shinies."

Turning to the younger man, Beisdean smirks, turning before moving closer. "I'm not implying anything. You're eating day-old bread, and man cannot live on bread alone. Or, perhaps he can, but he's likely to get a bout of scurvy and maybe anemia. I'd hate that to happen to you. And maybe I wish more people had taken the time to be kind to me once in a while, when all I could afford was a scrap of bread and a cup of thin ale. If you don't want it, keep it and pass it on to someone you feel is in more need than you."

Beisdean offers his hand to the man. "Beisdean Skye. If you've a rule against taking a gift from a stranger, well then, we're not strangers now, are we."

Darklight, one of the few familiars she even will look at in the wake of near recent events. He's disappearing through ports unknown into the shop and she's confidant that he'll get the mice that have taken a liking to her shop. It's to Dorian and Beisdean, Dorian's interpited affront, getting a little worried. "I'm sure he meant no slight at all. I'd offer you some egss and a some cheese to go with it"

Dorian pauses to consider how he's going to respond now. He looks down, resting blue eyes on the apple he's been given. He looks up, then, to scan Beisdean's face, and finally smiles. "Dorian," he replies by way of introduction, and grasps Beisdean's hand. "Anyone would be unaccustomed to kindness in this world, eh?" He turns to include Sorcha in his smile. "And you just as generous?"

Beisdean inclines his head. "It's an unkind world, to be sure. And I'm not generous. It's too rare I have anything to offer anyone else. You caught me on a good day, mate."

He reaches a hand to gesture at Sorcha. "Sorcha Ferrier, the seamstress of that shop the li'l bit's run off to. She's very generous, or at least has been to me in the past." He tucks a strand of too-long hair behind one ear and nods to the man. "You're new in town, or I just haven't seen you before? I was gone a few weeks, myself." He doesn't sound too happy about being back, really.

"I like to think that most people are, when circumstances and life allow" Two months ago, generosity was nowhere near Sorcha and had taken the high road away from here. "If you have need of some repairs, bring them by. I can do a pair of anything or two, see if you like my work" And thus pay for any other repairs. But Beis is back a few weeks and she looks over at him and his tone. A small nod.

"Generosity is giving when you have it, not when you don't," Dorian opines to Beisdean, then turns to Sorcha. "Madam Ferrier." He gives her a slight bow. "I'm in your debt," he adds to Beisdean.

The older man arches a brow at Dorian. "One does wonder what an apple will gain me," Beisdean begins, a sparkle in his eyes as he appraises the other, "but no. 'Tis a gift, and nothing more. You don't owe me a thing, mate." He glances over at Sorcha and smiles at her offer to repair the man's clothes as well.

"Well met, at any rate, Dorian. I'm at the inn at present, but looking for a place to make a business in — book repair, that sort of deal, if you've any need for such."

"generosity can be given, even if you have nothing" She points out to Dorian, but inclines her head, making the trade of eggs for bread, tucking it away. "But I have work to do" To keep busy, because idle Sorcha means potential for boozing. "Be well, the both of you." darklight is likely to come home with a package for beis, on top of his new buttons and trinkets.

Dorian chuckles quietly. "Book repair?" he replies. "As you can see, I have some territory to cover before I would be in the market for such luxuries." He gives a chuckle. "Oh, well. A pleasure to meet you," he says to Sorcha, smiling his farewell.

"It's what I know how to do. Ran away from here some baker's dozen years ago, found my way to a shop down in England. I'm not sure I'll make enough to get by doing it here in Dornie, but I can't be an errand boy all my life, right?" Beisdean smiles at Sorcha at that, as he's one of the people he does odd jobs for. "I'll likely have to sell my wee horde of books in order to get the supplies I need, though." With that, there's a wistful glance at the leatherworker who's finished packing up his cart to head home.

Beisdean tips his hat at Sorcha. "Have a good evening, Mrs. Ferrier." And back to Dorian, he inclines his head curiously. "Do you know a trade? Some of the farmers are willing to hire a hand. Harvest is coming. You might get some work then."

"A runaway, eh?" Dorian wonders with mild interest, eyebrow slightly raised. "Selling books? That sounds like a pity. They are rather precious." He smiles at the question of a trade. "I am an entertainer by trade."

"An entertainer?" Beisdean's curiosity echoes Dorian in tone. "Aye, ran off here to find my fortune. Or at least my sanity. Didn't really find the former, and the latter's a bit debatable. Came back a few months back to see my mother's grave. I didn't intend to stay this long, but all roads lead home, it seems. Fate seems to want me here, or perhaps I'm just tired of running." Cryptic answers are both full of too much information and not enough.

He lifts a shoulder. "Entertainment's a luxury not many can afford, as well, I think. What is it you do?"

Dorian has a bite of the apple, chewing thoughtfully as eh listens to Beisdean. "I dance, sir, when I can get the work."

That draws a raised brow from Beisdean. "Dance?" he echoes, though the word is tinged with curiosity and not a bit of derision. "Did you make a living at it, where you come from? I've never seen any professional dance in any of the towns I've been in, but again, times like these, culture is … well, seriously wanting. I've never seen a Shakespeare play, either, though I've read the lot of them and would give my eye teeth to see them performed the way they used to be."

"I don't come from anywhere," Dorian says. "And anyway, I hadn't perfected the art back then." Whenever 'back then' was. He takes another bite of the apple, but his eyes are bright and his attention is tightly focused on Beisdean. "Do you have books of Shakespeare?"

Beisdean chuckles. "You sound like me, when I got to where I ran off to, you know," he says lightly, but doesn't press. "I have is collected works in one large book, aye. It's one I will not sell, unless I'm quite literally starving to death. I find more fuel in reading than I do in most food anyway, and more wisdom in his words than I find in almost everyone I've ever met. His characters may often be horrible people, but they've been my tried and true friends for the past decade of my life. Selling that would be like selling them, you know?"

He glances down, a little abashed by his sudden ardent speech. "I babble a bit, when it comes to books. I've a typewriter I've come across, though, and figured that I could start making some of my own. Not writing, probably, though maybe that too. But copying. Make sure some of this stuff survives, aye?"

He glances away as one of the merchants moves by them with a cart, giving a nod to the man, then returning his gaze to Dorian. "What sort of dance? I'm no expert of course. I wouldn't know one kind from another, except for what I've seen in pictures."

"If you won't sell it, then read it to me," Dorian requests. It's that sort of strong request that may be a bit more presumptuous than it is polite. "You can introduce me to those friends of yours." He has another bite of the apple, thinking. "My own sort. My grandmother had studied ballet. She taught me all she knew. But that is not all /I/ know."

Beisdean's smile turns up at the corner. "If you can read, you can read it, though that's one I won't let out of my sight. Or I can read it to you. I've a good few of them all but memorized, I've read them so many times. Hamlet, Much Ado, Midsummer, anyway." He tips his head in the direction of the inn. "For now, I think my supper is calling me. Where are you staying, or is that classified information, too?"

"You can read it to me," Dorian determines. Very generous of Dorian to allow himself to be read to. "I stay where I can afford to stay, depending on my situation," he answers evasively. "But I won't keep you. Thanks," he says, lofting the half-devoured apple.

The evasive answer is met by a nod and a half bow from Beisdean. He doesn't pry. "Safe travels, mate. Look me up at the inn sometime," he says, before turning to head in the direction of the inn. Obviously called via telepathy, a moment later, the pine marten comes scampering down the street from the seamstress, before launching into the darkening sky in a flurry of feathers as it takes the form of a raven to catch up to the mage.