Quests & Challenges

[i]A couple of hours before midday, a pearlcatcher lands beside the stage, seeming somewhat dazed. She takes a moment to rub her eyes before digging around in...one of her floating candles? Finally, she pulls out a slightly crumpled scroll with her poem and the relevant information written on it. "I'm Lyra, I'm from the Hewn City--I mean, that's where I'm living now--and Sora, who's originally from around here, mentioned enjoying this festival when she was younger so we decided to visit for a bit..." It seems like Lyra is done talking, but she suddenly continues, "Oh, some of the others are working on their entries, so you might see more of us if they finish in time."[/i] Heyla @Paintminion @Sinjin @awsten @eyayah - I'm ready to turn in my entry! [b]FR Name:[/b] Peachycupcake525 [b]ID#:[/b] 252831 [b]Prompt:[/b] Discount Bin [b]Story or Poem?:[/b] Poem [b]Wordcount:[/b] 13 [b]Dragon Author:[/b] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/65233584][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/652336/65233584_350.png[/img][/url] [b]Entry Title:[/b] Nocturnal Customer Stars are watching her, Waving faded half-off sign, Cold claws sift through gold

Heyla @Paintminion @Sinjin @awsten @eyayah - I'm ready to turn in my entry! [b]FR Name:[/b] Paryton [b]ID#:[/b] 140968 [b]Prompt:[/b] Windy Air Market [b]Story or Poem?:[/b] Story [b]Wordcount:[/b] 2723 [b]Dragon Author:[/b] [url=https://www1.flightrising.com/dragon/92999510][img]https://www1.flightrising.com/rendern/350/929996/92999510_350.png[/img][/url] [b]Entry Title:[/b] Candyfloss [font=Century]The world outside Zeph’s den has been awful loud the last three nights. Not loud in a bad way, really, although Zeph would prefer if things were a little bit quieter. It would make it easier for them to properly follow through on their quest, they think. Or maybe they’re just fooling themself. It’s not as though ‘leaving the den’ is a particularly prestigious quest anyway. But Zeph is trying not to be mean to themself about it. Zeph doesn’t particularly like leaving their den, no matter how much their broad imperial wings demand a good stretch. They’ve gotten used to living with the discomfort. Hard not to, when the largeness of their body is so at odds with the mousiness of their person. So mostly they go out at night, when the thoroughfares are comparably quieter, when it’s easier to hide their body in the shadows, no matter how bulky it is. That hasn’t been an option, the last few nights. And they haven’t had any luck at all in going out anyway, despite their best efforts. “Do you smell that?” Tic asks, fluttering her stubby brightwings, as is appropriate for a dwarf hainu of her variety. “Yeah, I smell it.” Zeph whispers, keeping their voice soft, though they hardly need to whisper. The night is loud enough that they could roar and Tic could howl and they probably wouldn’t be noticed at all. “What is it?” “Dunno.” Tic says, sniffing loudly. “Smells good though.” She looks up to Zeph imploringly. Zeph pretends not to notice. Zeph used to be better at going out in the day, and in the loud, and in the busy. It didn’t used to bother them so much to feel eyes on their scales, or to accidentally brush their large wings against a stranger, or to talk loudly enough to be heard. It didn’t get so bad immediately. It was a gradual sort of thing, for Zeph. Their world getting smaller and smaller until they looked up and realised, to mixed fascination and dread, that their world expanded rarely beyond their den, and beyond Tic who is as stubbornly loyal as she is stubbornly playful. It’s not so bad, really. Except that the nights are loud now, in celebration of the Windsinger. Zeph hadn’t realised their burrow would cut so close to the extensive air markets. Or maybe it’s that the air market has expanded in the years since Zeph was a hatchling. Since they would run through the stalls while their parents traded and socialised, holding pinwheels or shimmering streamers and watching the performers sing and dance. Jugglers tossing brightly coloured batons spitting sparks and glitter, musicians dancing their dextrous claws over strings, or breathing air beyond their lungs through horns and flutes. Zeph had liked the market then. Now it’s making their claws itch. Tic dances on her stubby paws. “Can we go look? Maybe we can sneak something from the food stalls without anyone noticing!” Zeph doubts that very much. With Zeph’s bulk and Tic’s enthusiasm, they aren’t particularly good at hiding. Not outside of their den anyway. “I don’t think so,” Zeph says, and tries not to feel guilty at how Tic’s ears droop. Tic looks at them, then looks out over the bushy grasses and hills toward where they can just see the glinting of lanterns and firepits through the foliage, then she looks back. There’s a look in her beady dark eyes that makes Zeph nervous. “Tic?” Tic doesn’t answer. Instead, with one last glance she bolts out of the den, darting towards a bushy cluster of ferns and vanishing among its fronds. “Tic!” Zeph shouts. Or as near a shout as they can manage. They bare their teeth in a frightened grimace, taking a step beyond their den before they pause, their eyes darting around the quiet around them. Most of the neighbouring dens are probably empty at this time of night, they reason. Everyone already out celebrating. Or else their inhabitants are better at sleeping through the noise than Zeph is. “Tic!” Zeph calls again, in a raised whisper. “Tic! Come back!” “No!” Tic yips. “You come here! I’m gonna go look.” Zeph hisses in frustration. They could just duck back into their den. Tic will be alright on her own. For all that she’s a flighty, fanciful thing, Tic has sharp teeth and claws and can run surprisingly fast for how stubby her little paws are. Dwarf hainu may not be as competent as their cousins, but they can hold their own. Tic will be fine. But what if she isn’t? Tic always stays with Zeph, so they don’t go out very much these days. She could get lost! Or hurt. She could fall into a hole and be trapped, howling desperately for help that’ll never come. Or maybe she’ll actually try to steal from someone’s food stall and will get in trouble. It’s best that Zeph follows after her. It’s not like they’d need to actually go to the air market, they reason. They could just… lurk outside of it, a little. It would be nice to see it again, to see how it compares to when Zeph was a hatchling. And it would be irresponsible to let their familiar run off on her own. And really, it was Zeph’s idea to go out this year in the first place. It’s not Tic’s fault that they’ve lost the hang of follow-through. Zeph sighs, casts another wary look around them, and as quickly as their bulky body will carry, they dash for the cover of the bush that Tic found. They land on top of the tiny hainu, who squeaks in distress and scrambles away. The bush is not big enough for Zeph, not even close, so they quickly move on to hide in the shadows of a nearby tree. It fits a little better. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” Zeph hisses. Tic rolls her eyes. “I didn’t make you do anything.” She darts off for the market, leaving Zeph sputtering in her wake and struggling to keep up. “Tic!” Thankfully Tic waits at the nearest hilly spot so that they can peek down at the market below. There’s decent cover for them in the thick foliage and dark shadows. Shadows made even darker by how much light is being cast by the fanfare below. The air market seems to stretch in a serpentine caravan all the way to the horizon. “Oh, wow.” Zeph says, barely aware they’ve spoken, their eyes transfixed by the glow. The air market writhes with lantern light, some of them hanging from poles or in long chains tied together, and some float suspended over the stone pathways, bathing the dragons below in their radiance. The lantern materials – gossamer and thin paper and coloured glass – paint the light in shades of gold and green and red and orange. The lights glint off dragon scales, off jars and cups and gemstones. The stalls are filled to the brim with all manner of frivolities. Clothes, and artwork, and jewellery, pinwheels and windchimes with a tinkling sound so gentle they dust over the malaise of noise like glitter in the wind. It is very noisy. Zeph swallows thickly and can barely hear the sound of their own throat. There are voices of course, dragons trading and laughing and wishing each other a happy jamboree. There’s music, from the windchimes but also from the musicians that Zeph could hear from their den. There’s laughter from hatchlings weaving between the bigger bodies of their elders, the whip of wind as dragons fly overhead adorned in fanciful fabrics and glinting jewels. There’s the spectacle of performers dancing and singing and bellowing wind through their instruments, and others creating a show out of wind puppets and dragon-shaped kites with bodies of such fine fabrics that they could be the air personified as they twirl in the ever-present breeze. And then there’s the food. There are campfires where hatchlings are cooking sweet treats and sausages on sticks, stalls selling steaming sugar buns in any number of festive shapes, vendors selling drinks so colourful they rival the lanterns, and sugary confectioneries sold in little bags hanging from their stalls like glinting treasures. There are candied bugs, and roasted meats and vegetables on skewers, and pale pastries so light and fluffy that Zeph is sure they would taste like air itself melting on their tongue. Their mouth waters. Tic, in much the same boat, starts audibly panting and licking her lips. But still, there are so many dragons. Dragons of all types clustered on the paths, sitting together to watch the many performances in the Windsinger’s honour, talking and laughing and dancing, and buying treats. There are clusters of fae perching together on the stall banners, great hulking guardians carefully picking out pinwheels for their eager hatchlings, spirals flying in great tangles with their streamers and their weightless, serpentine bodies twisting and swirling around each other. It’s beautiful. And to Zeph, who feels entirely too small and entirely too large and entirely out of place, it’s terrifying. “C’mon.” Tic says, swatting Zeph’s elbow with their tiny feathered wing. “I want candyfloss.” “What- no. Tic!” It’s no use. As usual, the hainu has begun tripping and stumbling her clumsy way down to the market below. Zeph’s heart thuds in their throat, worry that the little hainu will hurt herself, but also worry that they’ll be seen. There are so many dragons. So many eyes, even in the dark. At least the brightness of the market makes the outskirts seem even darker by comparison. If Zeph is careful, and if they stay low to the ground, they might be able to creep closer. The backs of the stalls are mostly draped with blankets to block out the light, some of them with storage crates stacked behind for their extra wares. They’re bulky piles and should conceal Zeph well enough. Hopefully. “Seriously, Tic.” Zeph mutters in frustration, though the hainu is long gone. With a bracing breath, Zeph hesitantly steps out from the shadows and slinks down the hill toward the air market. The closer they get, the louder the market seems. A wall of sound and celebration that roars in Zeph’s ears like a waterfall, like a tempest, like a gale. Even the food smells, toothsome though they are, become overwhelming the closer Zeph gets. There’s a tremble in Zeph’s scales, and they endeavour to keep their wings tucked tight and their tail coiled around their legs, lest it knock into anything with their fidgeting. Zeph has entirely lost track of Tic, but they don’t dare call out for her lest they be overheard. Instead, Zeph picks a careful path behind the many stalls, hiding behind crates, and blankets, kept concealed by the shadows. And also, no doubt, from the partygoers’ disinterest. Zeph figures that they have no reason to go searching in the shadows, not when there’s such beauty and spectacle to the market around them. They should be suitably preoccupied. And then Zeph spots their troublesome little familiar, her head and forelegs hidden behind a curtain as she apparently is making a spirited attempt to steal food from one of the vendors. She emerges with three skewers clenched in her little hainu jaws, each with a different colour of sugar floss woven around the skewer in a serpentine shape, that Zeph supposes might be in imitation of the Windsinger. The green one is the only one with a real resemblance. But the sugar still smells sweet. The [i]stolen[/i] sugar. “Tic!” Zeph scolds. “What?” Tic garbles from around the skewers in her mouth, shrugging. “Put those back!” Zeph orders, stomping over to the little hainu. “You can’t just—” “Hey!” Zeph and Tic both freeze as the blanket is pulled aside and a coatl shopkeeper stares down at them. “You need to pay for those.” She says, a disgruntled cloud of smoke puffing from her nostrils. Her purple scales glint brightly in the lantern light of her little food stall. And she has a lovely array of necklaces and bracelets, some of them with proper gemstones, but most of them with little beads and bits of bones, the kind of thing made by hatchlings before they have any skill. But Zeph is frozen still with an entirely different and chilling realisation: The shop-keep is staring at them. It is undeniably a silly reaction, Zeph knows even though it matters at the moment exactly not at all, but as they freeze they have the thought that maybe if they don’t move the shop-keep won’t notice them. Again, silly. They are far too big to go unnoticed. Especially now that Tic’s gone and stolen something. “Well, come on.” The lady coatl says, gesturing with her claws for the treasure she’s owed. Zeph swallows thickly; they can feel Tic watching. Tic’s mouth is somewhat preoccupied by the sweets, but she nudges at Zeph, pawing pointedly at the little drawstring purse Zeph has looped onto their belt. Zeph cannot look at the coatl. If they do, they will freeze up completely and might never thaw at all. But if they stare at Tic it’s not so bad. Tic looks very silly with the sticks of candyfloss hanging from her stubborn little teeth. She flutters her little wings, and tilts her cute little head, and it’s much easier if Zeph focuses on Tic. Tic needs some treasure to pay for the sweets she wants. Zeph can do that. They can reach for their purse, and pull the little drawstring they braided out of coloured thread, and they can pull out the coins with their too-big claws. Tic yips supportively, picks a spot in the dirt, and pats her paw their pointedly. Zeph agrees with the hainu’s assessment and sets the coins down in a little pile, taking the time to stack them evenly. Then they pull their claws away, and pointedly do not look up at the coatl, who has thankfully stayed quiet during this process. Zeph doesn’t know if they’d have managed it if the lady had gotten loud. They don’t want to know what the lady is thinking either, whether she’s judging or amused or annoyed. “Well aren’t you two a coordinated team,” she says. Zeph doesn’t think she means it meanly, which is good. They and Tic do make a good team, mostly. The lady coatl reaches down and picks up the treasure, counting it out and then slipping it into her own purse. “Thank you for your patronage.” Zeph doesn’t look at her directly, but they think they manage a nod, before reaching out to grab their feisty hainu and quickly stepping away. It occurs to Zeph that maybe they should say thank you. Or wish the nice shop-keep a happy jamboree. Or at least apologise for Tic’s attempted theft. Talking to strangers is stressful, and Zeph is worried this shop-keep might think them dumb, or might think they really meant to steal and would have if they hadn’t been caught, or might think that Zeph is rude and doesn’t like the pretty coatl at the stall, which is untrue. She seems nice enough, for a stranger. Her bracelets are quite pretty. So Zeph forces themself to pause and move their mouth. They know how to speak, even if sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. “Sorry for—” Zeph hefts Tic pointedly rather than finishing the sentence. The coatl tilts her head. “Oh, no worries, I get it. My sister’s familiar is a marbled jester, and that guy’s constantly taking stuff before we have the chance to catch him.” She giggles. It’s a cute sound, bubbly like she has the hiccups. “No harm done, friend.” Zeph thinks that they would like to stay and talk to this coatl. That if they were better at this, like they used to be, then they would ask about the dragon’s name, and about her sister, and about her sister’s troublesome jester. Maybe tomorrow night they’ll have better luck. The shop-keep in her brightly-coloured stall with rows of candyfloss glinting in the lights, wishes them a happy jamboree before they slip away beyond the air market’s spot of bright in the dark. And Zeph even manages to wish a quiet ‘happy jamboree’ back. [/font]