1323: The Return – Part 6 1323: The Return – Part 6 If Ernest were to be attacked, the citizenry seed well enough ard to see to most of the defending themselves.
It was strange the difference between the average citizen of Ernest, and the average citizen of Solgrim.
There was such a distance in wealth, even though the geographical distance between the two was so minimal.
One seed to have to be a certain level of richness just to exist inside Ernest high stone walls.
Oliver wondered what the intentions of those in the crowd were, for the streets to be so packed.
He rarely saw them stop.
They all just seed to move in the sa direction, like the mindless current of a river, destined to reach the sea.
Did the water of the river aim at the sea with the intention of reaching it, or was it rely there, being carried along by the rest of it?
Was the sa true for these people in the crowd.
The more he watched, the less it seed like the people had any real purpose beyond simply walking and filling in space.
When he started to think that, he shook his head, noting his own disillusionnt, and bias.
The marketplace proper was the next street over.
Where they were, there were fewer stores, and fewer reasons to stop… but he’d supposed that more people would be stopping than they had.
They picked their way ever so carefully, those people in the crowd.
It was as if they were dangling on the ends of strings.
Each step ca with robotism.
They were precise enough movents, but it was precision without aning.
It bought them no strength, and not speed, like the precise movents of a swordsman might have.
These were just copied movents, for the purpose of mirroring the man next to him.
It was dizzying to watch.
After a ti, Oliver thought, with a quiet certainty, that he’d seen the sa man passing through the street several minutes before.
He wondered if he’d circled all the way around the other street, before passing down again.
He had a thick moustache, and an empty look to his eyes.
Both his hands were buried in the inner pockets of his chequered jacket, and there they stayed.
It was distinctive enough that Oliver was sure that it was indeed the sa man, and yet… to circle around the street so quickly, he would have had to sprint as soon as he was out of sight.
Surely there was no chance of that?
Then he saw a woman that he was near certain he’d seen before.
She was a beautiful woman, indeed.
Her wide dress, of a primary green, billowed on the cobbles past her, and the wooden clogs of her feet beat out a rhythm that Oliver could hear, even sitting a distance away as he was.
Her shoulders were bare, despite the coolness of the autumn, and the tresses of her long blond hair fell over them, and down her back.
The cut of her dress’ chest was deep, and revealing, and the sapphires of her necklace only served to accentuate it more properly.
It was an appearance that drew the eye – and still no one looked, save he.
Blackthorn jabbed at him, seeing his attention linger on the woman for a little too long – but Oliver was certain that he’d seen that woman a few minutes before, coming along through the sa direction as the gentlen.
It ought not to have been possible for her to be there again, without sprinting as the gentlen had.
The fact of her sprinting seed even more unlikely than he.
She was youthful enough to manage it, but the manner of dress and footwear would have rendered it difficult indeed.
“How long are you going to stare, I wonder?” Blackthorn said, pinching his hand when her jab failed to be effective.
“Do you not know sha?
Or is your intent to see Lady Nila dishonoured?” “Have you seen that woman before, Blackthorn?” Oliver said, with unusual seriousness.
She frowned at his tone, but took another look herself.
She shook her head slowly.
“…Why?
Have you?” “I could have sworn she had just walked down this street a few minutes ago,” Oliver said.
“It must have been soone else,” Blackthorn said.
“That is the nature of city fashion.
It is impossible to be unique infinitely.” Oliver grunted, but his eyes followed the woman as she went.
Until she disappeared around the corner, he did not take them off her.
He stroked his chin in consideration, wondering if it was re madness occupying him.
It certainly was close enough to the symptoms of it.
“She was a pretty woman,” Blackthorn said lightly, looking at him out of the corner of her eye to gauge his reaction.
“She was,” Oliver said absentmindedly.
“But her eyes seed purposeless.” “…That is a rather scathing insult,” Blackthorn said quietly, reaching up a hand to run a finger along her eyebrow.
Oliver caught sight of another thick moustache in the crowd, and he was on his feet, pointing, almost shouting, to tell Blackthorn what he’d seen twice before.
A middle-aged man, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his moustache as thick as the fur on a cat’s back.
That wasn’t the sort of thing that one ought to see infinitely… But the certainty of his finger wavered.
The jacket the man was wearing wasn’t chequered.
Nor was he wearing the sa high boots as the other man, but leather shoes instead.
They looked altogether similar, but it was impossible for them to be the sa man, when their wardrobe did not even match.
“…This crowd is playing tricks on ,” Oliver said, shaking his head, and returning to his seat.
“It’s probably not good for you, to look through it like this… It feels like I’ve spent too long reading, and the words are swimming up in front of .” “Are you well?” Blackthorn asked him, her concern poorly disguised.
“Have you not been pushing yourself?” “I am fine, I assure you,” Oliver said.
“Before you ask, indeed, I slept well enough last night, and I intend to sleep well tonight as well.” “…On the hard floor, I assu,” Blackthorn said.
“What of it?” “You would need a bed for a proper sleep,” Blackthorn said.
“Perhaps for a fair princess like yourself,” Oliver said.
A gauntlet ca bouncing off the chain mail of his stomach before he could go any further.
“Not a title that you’re fond of, then?”
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