Welcome to Gaia! ::

Brightly-colored whimsical and effortless potteries cluttered some of the tables, with ceramics spanning one side and fired clay on the other. Glass baubles of all assortments and sizes came at the edge of the displays, and slowly graduated toward the dishes with acid rocks, then small decorative displays, then blown vases and other larger items. And next to the baubles sat an assortment of incenses, now minded by his cousin while he enjoyed a long pair of hours on his own. The scent of baked goods wafted through the market at the wind’s whim, carrying crusted apple pies and cinnamon treats to the noses of any who pass by. Slate quite enjoyed it, and often set up near the fountain where he could sit on the lip and watch the muffins disappear at an accelerated rate.

The stands never stayed full for long.

”I shouldn’t come with you.” The statement was declarative, but left room for argument. “It’s hard to say how they would react.” The hunter continued his work without looking toward his housemate, gaze already focused on carefully sizing arrows with his recently completed arrow saw. Sometimes the wood rattled just enough that he considered adding a screw for support, but lacked the power tools for it.

With the shaft cleanly cut, Shale finally leaned back to regard Porsha more fully. Gestures came with the arrow in hand, resulting in quick swishes through the air while he spoke. “They’re not the type of people that you need a guide to understand. They’ve been in the city enough. Basic transactions won’t be difficult. And the products are all good quality, if you’re concerned.” To add to it, the apartment needed cleaning from when the soup boiled over last night, and he still needed to fletch and tip his arrows. Two more needed cutting to replace some that were damaged with his last kill.

Part of him yearned to see it all again, but part of him was disgraced. Yet another part that remained loyal to his Negaverse duties demanded that he refrain, lest he find the call to return too great to resist. And what would happen then, of a truant officer? Of his home, where he returned?

Only Porsha would know, he wagered.


“You should come with me,” she countered smoothly, pausing long enough in her morning routine to watch the shaft of the arrow cut lines through the air between them. She considered making a grab for it, tugging it out of his hand so she could flip the end beneath his chin. It was tempting. She resisted, but the compromise was crossing the room so she could loom over him, palms cupping his cheeks as a grin graced full lips. “I don’t want to go alone.” It was reason enough for her, not that his reasons lacked weight. Porsha would force him, but she would do her best to sway him. Up to and including the brief brush of a kiss against his brow before she let him go and made her way down the hall towards the bedroom so she could finish getting dressed.

There was a reprieve as she looked through her closet, eyeing shirts and skirts appraisingly before settling on a light cotton skirt and simple tank top. She took her time; dressing, accessorizing, pinning back the sides of her hair. There was no cause to rush, it was still early.

He was exactly where she’d left him when she returned, and there was a very determined look on deceptively delicate features as approached again. “Come on.” Hands on his shoulders, sliding down his arms before the tips of painted nails tickled up and together at the back of his neck. “Don’t make me go by myself.” Through thick hair at the back of his head and over his scalp.

Palms pressed lightly at the side of his head, and she tipped his head back to look up at her, violet brows raised in challenge.

Setting up demanded great care and conscientiousness. The bow came out first, tightened to a pinky’s width at its deepest curve, and a fingernail skirted across the very base of the bow hair to test for proper rosin amount. As expected, it wasn’t enough. Out came the summer rosin, shining golden with small bubbles deep beneath the surface, and the bow passed in repetitive motion until the gleam dulled with dispersed pale particles. Another test after the rosin was returned to its box left him confident in the amount.

Next the cloth came off the strings, which so often protected the instrument from errant dislodging of rosin from moving the case. A quick wipedown cleared off any particulates that might’ve collected on its lacquered finish. He inspected the flaming on the wood, and a thumb slid down the broad, elegant stroke forming the scroll. Each string was plucked, its reverberation surveyed, its needs decided upon while he sat the instrument on his lap for tuning.

A few return listeners waited for the show.

”I’m sure you have friends you could call,” he countered back, but her hands already found his face. He put up with it regardless; she never held his face for long at least. Once she finished her brush of lips against his brow, she was off to the bedroom and the moment of discomfort ended. Without thinking more of it, Shale returned to cutting arrows, with the dremel buzzing away against carbon fiber.

However, she returned with gusto - and a lot more interest in persuading him to give in. Initially her teasing was tolerable, though she raised goosebumps the moment that nails traced his muscles to the nape of his neck, beneath hair let down for a moment of relaxation. By then, the gooseflesh stood prominent down to his elbows and partially on his forearms. He sighed through his nose.

Shale looked up at her unblinkingly, though thoroughly unimpressed with her tactics. “I’m not making you do anything.” Finally he rested his back against the chair, both to prevent further hands creeping along his body and to render his current position more comfortable. “Like I said, you probably have friends you can call. You don’t need me to go with you.”


“I’d rather go with you.” Thumbs slid over his cheekbones, and nails teased against the edge of his jaw. They weren’t far apart, it would have been so easy to just lean in those extra few inches to catch his lips. It was tempting enough she had to let him go, drawing her hands from his hair, though only briefly. “It’ll be good to get out of the apartment.” It was a weak argument. She combed her fingers through the thick lengths of dark hair, taming what she could before separating it into thirds. For a long moment she abandoned her attempts to convince him to accompany her, focusing on her hands as she crossed one tail over the other in the start of a neat braid.

It was a thoughtful silence that settled in as she worked. She could have called a friend, but it just didn’t sound nearly as appealing. Her turn to sigh as she finished off the braid, looping the end with an elastic she’d had looped around her wrist. The thick plait was draped over his shoulder, fingers smoothing over it to tame any wayward hairs, but there weren’t many. Po hadn’t had long hair in years, but she never lost the knack for braids.

Debate didn’t seem to be having much of an effect. Her reasons for wanting him to go with her were purely selfish, and they both knew it.

There was more more card left to play though. She walked around his chair, reaching for the arrow shaft in his hand so she could try to pull it gently out of his grasp before sinking down to sit on his lap. It pretty much demanded his full attention , but the look on her face wasn’t demanding now. “Please?”

The rings came off, the shoulder rest put on. A few test strokes of bow lit to string produced the crisp, clear notes he wanted. Playing across strings confirmed proper tuning. He was ready, as were those who came to listen to the busking that often occurred in the marketplace. And with no other competition beyond a clarinet in the vague background, he cornered this potential audience.

The first sounds from his violin weren’t the loud legato that most expected, but delicate and precise plucking that set the base for the tune he intended to play. A pedal, and he had the sound looped while he started in on the whimsical bowing techniques that gave the song its personality. The tune often hummed out on two strings at once, sometimes demanding that the owner tunnel across strings to achieve proper tone. And as he reached the more complicated chorus of the piece, absent voice as it was, the tips began to fall in his open case next to the gold rings set inside. It would be a good day, he wagered - with the audience well-fed from the bakery goods this time, they’d be interested in leaving a tip.

Of course, the beer didn’t hurt either.

Her teasing demanded a great deal of willpower to ignore. There was a certain ease in simply giving way to those touches, but long years of devotion to his craft demanded that he remain on a set path. He ignored the brunt of it, even if his body didn’t.

Luckily she soon gave up on her endeavors to piece out his hair in a regrettably familiar fashion. Each piece fought for grizzly freedom as always, but with careful combing, Porsha managed three coherent parts. He felt the careful tugs while she started to intertwine them. The first few wraps always received the most care as the setting for the braid, then the rest fell easily into place with the proper foundation. Given his hair’s unruly nature, it likely fought to the end. Shale’s mind drifted to earlier memories.

”Oh, don’t complain. It’s not that bad. You’ve seen me wear them all the time. It keeps your hair out of your face, I promise. Remember the last time you tried to shoot with your hair down? You know, the time where you shot yourself in the hand?”

The teasing laughter that came afterward lingered in his ears as pale ghosts of memory. And before he truly grounded himself in reality again, Porsha came down on his lap with the arrow shaft in hand. A line of fingers drummed against the armrests before he gave his final answer.

“Fine, I’ll come with you.” After carefully hooking his hands under her thighs, he stood and let her down easily. He headed toward the bedroom, steps ever soft, to search for something to wear that strayed as closely to his old wardrobe as possible.

I can’t believe I let her talk me into this.



The grin that followed his surrender was down right impish, and pale arms looped around his neck as he picked her up to set her back on her feet. A quick squeeze, the ghost of a kiss against his cheek as he toes touched carpet, and she let him go so he could wander off the change. It had been a gamble, one that just as easily could have ended in a very firm refusal and a grumpy roommate, but ultimately worth the risk. She really hadn’t wanted wanted to go alone, and if he hadn’t agreed she might not have gone at all.

When he returned he’d find her perched on the counter leafing through a sales add while eating an apple. Cheaper prices didn't much matter to her, they had more than enough money to afford damn near anything they needed, but it passed the time well enough. She looked up when she heard him, gaze roaming over his clothing before she hopped down and tossed her apple core in the garbage. When he was ready she’d grab her wallet and keys, holding the door for him so she could lock it behind them.

She wondered, as they walked, how she’d managed to live in the apartment building as long as she had without knowing there was a market within walking distance of it. Admittedly she’d been busy, one thing or another always holding her attention, and when she ran this wasn't the direction she took.

“How long as has this been here?” The question came with an edge of skepticism, head tipped up to the side as she looped hands loosely around his wrist.

Maybe she had heard about it before, but at the time it just hadn’t mattered. Not something that held much interest for her, or so she’d likely thought at the time. Or maybe it was something new, within the last year or so. It seemed so unlikely that she’d have missed it entirely.

The brisk morning greeted them reticently when the pair stepped out onto the sidewalks. ”The market’s been around a count of years.” Shale pressed hands into pockets while he walked; sometimes he expected Porsha to rest a hand on his elbow while she walked, considering her tactile nature. “I remember hearing about it when I was pretty young. My parents often brought food - it was the contribution you made if you didn’t make anything else to sell - but once I learned how to work leather, that was enough to bring in higher returns. Back then, no one actually used the market as a primary source of income. Mostly one went to trade for cash, and then buy any needfuls from the city that they couldn’t procure themselves. I believe that started to change when I was a teenager.”

Shale crossed one of the sleeping streets with Porsha in tow, and quickly ducked through a side alley that cut through the stretch of buildings they would otherwise round. “It’s never been very big - maybe a handful of stands at best, and that lasted for years. But when I was around 15, there was enough political change that the current powers that be put more emphasis on delivering goods to the city. It made sense, considering that most of the quality was higher than anything you’d normally buy here. And it did wonders for the economy - especially since we don’t normally deal in cash.

“I never really liked attending it. My jobs were usually elsewhere, but I’d make tooled bracelets or belts or pouches to populate the stands. When Slate was old enough, he offered his own wares. He preferred to make incense. Then they started adding more stands, and now it might actually be recognized in the papers sometimes.” There lay continued potential to grow the market, assuming those partaking found use in more money. It helped for procuring goods they didn’t otherwise have, but Shale worried that it encouraged dependence on quick-bought goods and encouraged integration more than he would’ve liked.

But who was he to state so now? Here he stood, a resident of the city.

Shale paused to breathe a sigh, looking toward the sky. “I wonder if they’ve started readings for people now.”

I should’ve said no. This will just dredge up memories that I don’t want to confront.

Desensitization worked wonders for her nails on his forearms. Her touch never faded in intensity, but it no longer called up all manner of gooseflesh in its wake. Inwardly Shale was very pleased with this development.

He snorted lightly at her question - the closest indication of mirth that he'd exhibited since first meeting her - and he answered as thoroughly as memory allowed. "There are quite a few sales over the years that fit the unusual category, I think. 'Unusual' is mostly based off of what I haven't seen in shops here, and what people are certain to recoil at. Since we're opposed to wasting any part of an animal, there are a lot of bone wares that disturb the public here: necklaces for more benign, then weighted bone drumsticks, and bone jewelry storage... Devices. Most people find it hard to put their valuables on top of a skull." He distinctly remembered an older woman, adorned in furs bought from earlier years at the market, who wore her hair up in impeccable condition. She liked to browse the expensive unusuals, and found the display of skull nestled against wings of bone so disturbing that her face drained white and she fainted. It raised some raucous responses in the stands, but nothing more.

"There were also purses sold one year, made out of stomach lining. Deer, I believe. Those didn't go over well, either. Heart stew didn't earn too many fans after they figured out why the meat was so red. I'm not sure why - is it common to only eat muscle here? Regardless, I think the strangest item to show up was a deck of tarot cards whose paper pulp was made with epicranial aponeuroses. The flat, broad tendons in your head." He placed fingers on the very top of Porsha's skull, weaving through the hair to meet skin. "I understand the reasoning behind them was to attract more spirits, since it's believed that parts of the skull carry the 'scent' of the soul, but... Given some of the issues we had with disappearing parts of our corpses before they were burned, we were inclined to believe those tendons were human.That one was pretty recent." he dropped his hand from skull afterward.

"I'm sure there have been-" He stopped sharply, freezing in place without a word. His eyes narrowed, then closed when he couldn't suss out directionality. Other sounds pinpointed easily - the man shouting on a corner to his left, balloon popping to the front-right, a briefcase being opened a few feet behind. But where had the violin come about? Who was playing? He imagined it was one of DC's own, playing on the streets for some extra dollars, but the thought of his brother gripped him each time he heard the familiar sing of strings. Yet the instrument was too far to survey in more detail - the sound echoed from walls upon walls until it reigned ubiquitous in the streets. They needed to get closer.

"Come on," he requested-demanded, eyes snapping open. Without further elaboration, Shale broke into a jog to cross the street and begin cutting between buildings.

"Have you ever seen an artist paint so many times that you thought you could recognize his paintings anywhere?" Shale allowed the question to sit while he bolted across the street. Slowing, he reached the corner of the intersection before he started down another sidewalk. "Or heard someone sing often enough that you could pick out their voice on the radio? I can do the same with my brother's playing, and that is his playing." The declaration was accompanied by a renewed bolt through another alley that brought the pair closer to the edge of the wide clearing. The paving stones came in sight, as well as the featureless frames of some of the shop stands, while he darted beyond filled trash cans and old newspapers.

"And yes, you've had a little heart meat before," he tossed over his shoulder.

The market's activities were in full swing already, likely an early riser rush - this he was familiar with, though his experience with the stands spoke of a much smaller gathering. Now he found little difficulty in crossing the walkway toward the stands, but the crowd slowly thickened when he came in range of seeing the goods. The violin started again, far closer this time - but even at Shale's height, he couldn't spot the familiar red hair through the backs of heads. And while some of the crowd was receptive enough to move while he tried to squeeze through, others reprimanded with irritation and refused to budge. He figured he must've gotten too near the stands in his haste, and now he paid the price for it.

An idea dawned on him, and he turned to Porsha. "How opposed are you to sitting on my shoulders?" She wasn't very big, certainly - he had no problems lifting her even without added strength. But the extra height would do well enough here - she could see over the heads of the tallest men, and hopefully peer down to tell him of a certain violinist. "I need you to look for a boy with bright red hair who plays the violin. He has a tattoo shaped like the pi symbol on his left cheek."

He crouched already, hoping that Porsha would acquiesce.

How are you still alive.

He hardly believed it. Part of him wanted to doubt Porsha, to decide that she found the wrong man, that she lacked enough information to make an accurate spot of it. That she hadn't found his tattoo, that some other redhead played violin that day, that a doppelganger existed among their kind. It could not be that Slate still lived after all that time spent in mourning - laid across Porsha's couch, with hardly a muscle moved due to the lack of point behind it. No - Porsha was mistaken. He was mistaken. Slate died in the woods, to one of the youma he now allied with.

But his body heeded her words automatically, slipping her off his shoulders before he wove through the tight-knit bodies lining up to the stalls. He caught glimpses of the fountain between heads. The violin sounded all the more clear with fewer walls obstructing its play. Shale prepared himself for failure, for the letdown that would inevitably plague him, for a case of mistaken identity and play style. He shouldered through with less politeness until finally, just over the top of a blonde's ponytail, he spotted the visage he would recognize a thousand yards away.

And he was still alive.

Months had passed since then, but Slate looked healthy despite wounds he might've incurred. No hitches lingered in his playing, suggesting no damage to his arms. And perhaps Shale would've been glad, had regret not yearned to claim him.

The sound wound down, people clapped, Slate flashed an easy smile, a few dollars were tucked into his case and then the routine resumed with people lining up to purchase the goods. Some of the crowd around him dissipated, but not all of it. Shale found the opportunity to slip between bodies, while he brother crouched over the case to search for something, and Shale paused just next to him.

He sought for some kind of greeting that might share his happiness in seeing his brother again - something neat and perfect and aglitter with all the right phrasing. Something that suggested welcome relief. What came from him was solemn, and so stark against the livelihood in the market that it might as well have never been said. "I thought you died."

Slate looked up immediately, his voice rife with chiding. "I could say the same for you." The smile afterward belied his happiness. "After we got separated, I ran like hell. I thought that thing went after you."

Got separated? I left you there to die. "It's better to discuss this more privately. A glance was spared to Porsha, who so easily kept up with his meanderings. "I'd like to take him home with us."

Us? A host of questions accosted him, beyond the wash of relief from seeing his brother still standing. When did Shale move into the city, and why hadn't he returned home? And who was the woman with him? Why hadn't Shale tried to look for him, to go back to the city to discover that he still lived? Or even gone back for the rest of his archery gear, if he had moved on? Why even bother coming to the market if he was avoiding their home?

Slate straightened after packing away his violin, and gave a sharp glance toward the two. "Yes, great idea. Take me home so I can figure out why you are living with her, who she is, and what the hell happened last night. Sound like a party? Good, because I'm inviting myself along anyway."

As an afterthought, Shale added his own introduction. "Porsha, this is Slate. Slate - Porsha." He sounded somewhat exasperated, but the relief was evident in his gaze.

"Yeah. Pleasure." Who even says that and means it? His glance shifted between Porsha and Shale, shorter and taller, until finally he fixated on the grey-eyed girl standing at his brother's side. "If you really want to kidnap me, now's a great time. We aren't supposed to rotate the stands 'til about noon, and the morning rush still has about a half hour before it slows down. Right now people are just gonna think I'm taking a break, but if we don't get a move on soon, someone might start looking for me. Like our mom," he finished, with heavy emphasis forcing him to stare down his brother. "You know, the lady that birthed you? Who hasn't seen you in like, months? Yeah. That one."

"It would be easier for her if she considers me dead. She knew the risks." A pair of occasions had him coming home to inform her of an accidental murder in the woods, of one rifle huntsman shooting another and leaving their friend to suffer. Rare as it was, such misfortunes still happened - and she knew well of it.

He looked to Porsha when she sought his countenance, and he hoped a slight shake of his head informed her to keep Negaverse discussions out of their visit. Slate needed no introduction to their organization - and Shale knew his brother lacked many qualities that felt nigh required to join their ranks. Lack of physical strength, trouble with following authority, and a propensity to follow his heart over using his head left Slate a poor choice for a recruit. Besides, would corruption only put him at further risk for loss? Slate deserved a better life than one committed to a cause he was dragged into. Accidental knowledge of their nighttime duties stood at high cost.

"Alright. Bring your violin." Shale spared a nod toward the street. "Porsha, you can look through the stalls if you like. I'm going to take him back to the apartment." The point of this endeavor was for her to see the wares they offered; Shale found it a shame if discovering the brother he thought he lost somehow thwarted her plans. She deserved to take a look, didn't she? Especially since she consented to housing Slate for a time - however slight that time might be.