Buying Sunshine from Armande: A Street Fantasy

[melusine]

Did you ever write a letter and cram it into a bottle and cast it into the ocean wondering about who would find it?

Since I am new and have no clue what I am doing, you can consider this thread to be a cyber version of the above. The beginning of the story is the message.

What I am wondering is, will anyone find and read the message? And if they do, will they answer?

And who will it be?

~~

On days when it rained and no one stopped to watch her dance, Armande wondered if there were angels watching her, and if they shed tears to see her so bedraggled and hopeful, with her scuffed shoes tied with red bows.

The painted bowl beside her on the pavement today was full of rainwater, not coins. She hoped Madame Béroul was with her sister. Otherwise, it would be a hungry, wet night.

Armande was eighteen years old, but looked younger, having lived most her life on a diet of bread and stolen apples and weak, cold tea. She was lanky and skinny, and when she was naked the bones of her shoulders stood out like nascent wings. Men liked to kiss her there, or stroke the fine bones as she sat astride them. "It's like fucking an angel with broken wings," one of them had said. Her face helped the illusion too. Nothing had ever taken the innocence away.

There were men on the street who offered her more because she looked so much like a little girl. Some of them were kind and bought her chocolates afterwards, feeding her like a kitten. They could be almost chivalrous, after they had had their hands up her knickers. Some of them were frightening though, with cold hands and a furtive way of never meeting anyone's eyes on the street. She did not go with men like that. She could see darkness when it squirmed like a lizard behind mens' eyes. Or maybe the angels who watched her saw, and made sure not to let her come to harm.

The going with men had never been part of the original plan. She had thought that she could get enough just by begging and dancing. It was not real dancing, of course. Not anything you took lessons for. It was something that came out of her heart when she thought the world was especially ugly and needed "smartening up." On the best days, Serge played his tinwhistle, and she had the resultant music as her partner in the dance. But that was seldom now. Serge did not often wake up before nightfall anymore, and by then she had to be gone. The police were vigilant at night.

"Don't go with those men anymore," Serge would say to her sometimes. And she thought there was nothing sadder than the look in his eyes when he felt in his empty pockets for something to give her and had to come up with nothing. "If I could I would empty a bowl of silver coins on the street where you danced. Every step you took would be on a road of silver."

"And you would let me keep them afterwards?" Armande asked. "All of those silver coins?"

"All of them. Well...all of them after you bought me some cigarettes."

Serge was a street boy. He had no home to go to. Where he slept was anybody's guess. He always gave his address as "somewhere between here and heaven." Which maybe was why Armande thought so much about angels. Serge seemed to know a lot about them. He talked to them sometimes. But that was on the worst days, when he was slumped beneath some dirty newspapers on somebody's unwashed stoop, and his hair stuck up around his head like bolts of black and crackling fire.

The worst days for Serge were always after the times when Armande had caught the eye of a man who waited for her on the street corner until she gave up dancing for the day, and took her hand, and led her away to perform for him more privately.

She had a way of making people happy; everyone said that about her. The baker gave her an extra brioche sometimes "because you brought me sunshine, Armande."

Men, a lot of lonely men, bought sunshine from Armande. Not every day. Just sometimes. The baker had been the first. He was not a particularly good customer though, because his wife did not often leave him alone in the shop, and even if she did, she counted every loaf when she got back. Only one day in the week, she went out for the day to visit her sister, and then Armande would ascend to the attic with Monsieur Béroul, and perch demurely on the edge of an upended trunk, and let him bury his red, adoring face between her young and milk white thighs.

She hoped that it would happen today. Or that something would. She was hungry, and Serge was nowhere to be found. Not that Serge ever had much to offer her anymore. Not like the early days when he had been able to steal whole sausages. They used to sit under the bridge and share, bite for bite.

Armande shivered and tried to draw her black cotton stockings further up her thighs. The rain overflowed her bowl. In the bakery it would be so blissfully warm. She decided to go and look through the window, to see if she could catch Monsieur Béroul's eye.

No one paid much attention to her as she made her way over the cobblestoned street. Rainwater seeped in through the paper-thin soles of her shoes. The wind made her skirt skirl upwards. She wrapped her arms around herself and pressed her nose against the glass of the bakery window hopefully, just in front of the huge plate of chocolate cream buns that she dreamed of sometimes, but had never tasted.

Inside there was no sign of Monsieur Béroul at all, and Armande's heart sank. Where could he have gone to? Was he ill? Surely today, Wednesday, he would invite her in?

"You! Dirty beggar! Get away from my shop!"

Madame Béroul descended on her so quickly that Armande hardly had time to get away before the long tail of her hair was pulled out by the roots.

She ran, and it seemed to her that the angels were not watching over her as they ought to be. No Monsieur Béroul. No Serge. No one at all.

And then a hand gripped her arm, and she looked up into a face she had never seen before.


http://www.mythagoria.com/armande.jpg

 

[ariosto]

"Wait girl." his hand is warm on her skin."Why do you rush so? Is there trouble?"


(A post like Melusine's deserves a well crafted reply. Please consider the above a place holder until I have one more worthy)

 

[melusine]

Thank you, Ariosto

OOC

Many thanks, Ariosto, for your interest in my thread. I await your next post eagerly.

I want to say here that this is NOT a closed thread. Various street denizens with their various stories are all welcome here. I envision this as an exploration of lives that most of us never come in contact with. Transient, ephemeral lives, many of them sorrowful, but some of them very joyous in unexpected ways.

If you have an idea for a character, please write to me in pm, and we can work together on something that will integrate well.

Although there are sexual themes in this thread, I do not envision it as being particularly graphic. I guess it is really more of a mood piece than erotica. Not to say that it could not have its moments.

Thank you for reading

melusine

 

[ariosto]

Jules the painter

"Wait girl. Why do you rush so... is there trouble?"

Of course there was trouble. Jules knew trouble when he saw it...
and fear...and hunger. The girl was rail thin, shivering and cold. Her eyes were huge, they looked up at him and he could almost see himself.

Here, step under my coat and we'll get out of the rain."

She hesitated , she did not know him. He was tall and gaunt and hadn't shaved in days. The coat he held up was worn and patched. But his eyes were warm and so was his smile.
She darted under his arm, and holding the coat over them both he walked her into a small alcove between two gray buildings where a tiny garden of sodden flowers surrounded a statue of Mary. A small marble statue worn smooth by time, smiling peacefully at nothing, her face that of a child.

Thunder rolled above the city but here at least they were in the structures lee and out of the weather. He held her close, until she stopped shivering. He knelt down and began rummaging in a shapeless brown bag leaning at the foot of the Virgin.
He noticed how thin the girl's legs were. How tattered the stockings.

"Here." he handed her an apple and then tore part of a loaf of bread in two and gave her the larger half. "I'll join you if you don't mind. I'm very hungry myself."
He stood up and seemed to tower over her. She took the offered food, looked at him closely one more time and then tore into it. The apple was crisp and tart, the bread still warm and crusty.

He watched her, barely touching his own share...saving it, she might need more.

I'm new here little one. I fancy myself a painter but all I paint now is grey sidewalks for pennies. There is no work on a day like this. I come up from the South where things have been bad. They said I could no longer stay, so I came here...
His voice had the inflections of those troubled provinces, a mesmerising cadence that seemed to flow like water, pour over her like rain.

As she devoured the bread and the apple, Armande became aware that this man, this artist, this Jules had paid her in food to have someone to talk to.

 

[melusine]

The angels had seen her after all! When good things happened to her -- even small things like the sun suddenly peeping out from behind clouds that had threatened rain, or a bird starting to sing during the loneliest night -- Armande always saw the hand of an angel; an open, outstretched hand, with happiness lying in the palm like a gift.

The bread was very good -- better even than what Monsieur Béroul gave her -- and this tall, funny man had asked her for nothing in return. She would have to tell Serge when she saw him again, if she saw him again. A shadow crossed over her pale face as this thought came into her mind. Serge, alone and hungry, lying somewhere beneath a pile of rags, too angry or too forgetful to remember she was waiting for him. Why could he never understand that she went with the baker and the other men to be sure there would always be food enough for them both?

Instantly, she knew that the stranger had felt the change in her mood. As though he could somehow read her thoughts, he stopped eating his own share of the bread and looked at her very hard. He is trying to see the story in me she thought to herself.

He was not a very handsome man. His nose was too sharp, and his hair too lank, and his body all angles beneath the patched and ill-made coat. There were nests of wrinkles around his eyes, but they were the wrinkles you got from smiling, and this comforted her.

The coat was warm, and so was he, and she took advantage of this gift too, leaning her small body close against his while she ate. She saw that he was looking at her legs, and it occurred to her that he was like all the other men who singled her out on the street, that he would ask the same payment at the end. One of his long, thin fingers even slipped through the tattered cotton of her stocking, touching her bare skin for a moment. But no -- he was looking at her sadly. He was shaking his head at the ragged dress she wore. He was looking at her the way she imagined angels looked, when it rained and they were sorry for her empty begging bowl.

"Where do you go at night?" he asked her. "Do you have a room somewhere in the town?"

She laughed, and held a hand up before her rosy mouth, chewing the bits of apple as fast as she could, to be able to answer him.

"I live in a castle," she said.

"A castle?"

Already she had lost interest in talking about herself. Her eyes were on the bread in her lap. The steadiness of her gaze betrayed a battle between hunger and the desire to save something for later.

"Oh, you're afraid to tell me where you live. You think that I --"

His accent was strange to her ears, but not unpleasant. She remembered that he had said he came from the South. Maybe from across the mountains, or the sea even. She looked up at him for a moment and tried to imagine him on some windswept seashore, feeding bread to hungry gulls the way he had fed her.

The hungry birds made her think of Serge, and she stuffed the remainder of the bread into her pocket, with a sidelong look at the painter. She hoped he would not tell her she had to give it back. If she wrapped the quartern loaf up in leaves, there was a place she could hide it, behind a stone in the wall of the churchyard where Serge sometimes slept. If she went back again tomorrow and saw that it was gone, she would know that Serge was still alive.

"Do you have a name?" he continued, patiently. He had made no move to take the bread back. In fact, he was handing her a second apple.

She took the apple and smiled, liking the way her smile somehow flew to his face and echoed itself there. He looked better when he smiled. More like an angel than ever.

"Armande," she said quite seriously. "And I told you where I lived." She laughed. "You just didn't believe me."

 

[Shadowsoul]

Daniel

Daniel stood within the doorway of the butcher’s shop, eying the bustling crowd as they moved like a snake through the street. Wrapping his ragged coat closer against him availed him little against the merciless wind tearing through the insignificant rag to his very bones. Clenching his teeth together he mumbled a silent curse to the vicious world and his lot within it. Suddenly, from the corner of his eye, Daniel caught glimpse of a man dressed in the expensive clothes of a well-to-do businessman. The boy dove quickly into the sea of the street. Moving relentlessly closer to his target, with stealth equal to a predatorial shark. As the man attempted to force his way through the crowd, Daniel spotted his chance. As the man raised his arm to push an obstructing passerby away, Daniel swept behind him, dipping quickly into his victim’s pocket. Closing his fingers around the fat wallet, he plucked it away without ever being noticed. Dropping it into his own pocket he sped through the crowd, weaving through the waves of cold faces and even colder souls as he found his way into the alley.

The life of a pickpocket was all that Daniel knew, having lost his impoverished parents to illness early on. Young Daniel had quickly learned to fend for himself. Few were as good as him within the city, but those that were kept to their own quarter of the town. There was a level of understanding, even within thieves.

Daniel recalled one day, when a boastful and vain thief found his way into the city looking for “An easy catch.“ The head of the thieves, a man by the man of Thibeau, immediately made his rules quite clear. They would serve as the man's one and only warning. Thibeau was a dangerous man as not only ran the city’s criminal world but also was responsible for all prostitution as well as illegal smuggling within the city. When the man obstinately refused and further continued to insult Thibeau, he was killed and hung from the bridge outside the city as a warning to others that might attempt to question his word. Now, as Daniel counted the coins from his latest catch he respected Thibeau even more for his complete control. "A good catch indeed. Enough to take the rest of the day off."

Slipping back into the shadows, Daniel moved into the alley to a ramshackle house. Climbing the ladder to the rooftops, he ascended. Leaning against the chimney he gazed out over the city. Looking away from the streets and to the sky, he sat down, staring at the silent twinkling stars pasted onto the backdrop of the night sky. The loud voices of those below in the streets shattered his solitude. “Thief!! Police!! I have been robbed!!“ Daniel closed his eyes, taking a deep sigh. “How can one who has a home and food to eat be robbed? Go back to your castle in the sky, fill your fat stomach and line your pockets once again, Monsieur so that I might once again be employed. Daniel often looked to the sky for comfort.

There, the heavenly bodies floated freely and together, not a sound to be heard but the greatest sound felt, the sound of harmony. But even from his vantage point on the rooftops, Daniel had found the brightest star below, on the street. A girl who danced, his Etoile as he called her. When she danced, Daniel felt his own soul touched. And yet, the girl, this innocent shining girl was often taken away by others. Daniel had lived this life long enough to know where she was taken and it saddened him. He had viewed her with another boy, a bit of scruff who would often play the whistle for her in accompaniment. Why then was this boy not protecting her from such vermin? Daniel inched closer to bask within his nightly drop of sunshine to watch her until she was once again taken. Daniel always watched her from the roof above, always from a distance. but her brilliance even here bathed him as if he was standing at her side.

She was his weakness, the crack within the hard shell that he had created around him. When Daniel would have a successful day he would often drop a few coins in her rainstreaked bowl as she slept. With the haul of today he felt that he could do much more. In the back of his mind, he pondered over the cost of tasting the sunshine as the other men did, weighing the pouch within his hand as he drifted off to sleep above her.

 

[ariosto]

the Painter

"Armande...Armande."
He turned the name over in his mouth as though he could taste it, as though it was a sweet candy, a caramel .
"Take the apple Armande, you may want it later and I have more in MY castle.
She brushed the crumbs from her narrow shoulders and looked up at him.
"You live in a palace too then?"
He laughed and his face suddenly lost it's raggedness and he beamed at her like a ray of the sun which now was stabbing through the breaking clouds above them.

"Oh yes...yes I do...let me tell you about it."
She sat downat Mary's feet and held the bread in her pocket, wondering if Serge would be happy with the just second apple. The bread was still warm...so delicious...so...
"My palace is high, high up and from it's one window there is a noble view across the rooftops of the City. The smoking chimney pots are like the steaming geysers that I knew in my youth. It seems that only the birds and the clouds are above me....Shall I go on?"
She nodded, tearing off a small piece of the bread and slipping it in her mouth.
"All right then. My palace is not large, in fact it's quite small, but very neat since there is so little to clutter it up. A chair, straightlined and functional graces one corner. On the back of it I hang my coat."
"A warm coat." she piped in.
"Indeed a very warm coat and someday I'll tell you how I got it but let me continue. Against another wall
is a dresser, a valuable antique bearing the scars of the ages on it. The drawers are mostly empty because I disdain the baggage of commodities that drown the world."
Armande nodded and began to polish the second apple on her skirt.
"In one drawer though I keep the tools of my trade, my paints, my charcoal, my tablets, all but my chalk which I must carry with me to provide the few coins I need to live comfortably."
He produced a pocketful of richly colored chalks and Armande whistled at them...
"Pretty colors... Painter will you show me what you make with them?"
Jules knelt and touched the sidewalk. He shook his head.
"No Armande it's too damp, maybe in a little while."

A well dressed man turned into the alcove, very startled to see anyone at the shrine, his look of surprise turned into a frown and he pinched his face up as though he were smelling something awful. Making a pious gesture in the direction of the little Mary he quickly left, muttering something about 'riff raff' as he turned the corner and disappeared.

"I don't think he approved of us."
Jules peered around the corner after him.
Armande laughed...
The painter turned back to her.
"Why is that funny?"
She smiled and nodded.
"He didn't know me but sometimes I've danced for him."

"I knew you were a dancer, I knew you had to be. You're light as a shdow and graceful as a breeze..."
She was turning the red apple over and over in her hads.
"Please, go ahead and eat it, I can get you another."
She bit into it gratefully and began to wonder where she would go next. With sun had come a cool wind and she knew that by nightfall it would be terribly cold.

"I did not tell you the finest thing about my castle. It is very warm."
She looked up.
"I insisted when I moved into it yesterday that the radiator always be kept turned up high for coming from the South as I do, the cold might kill me. "
He touched her shoulder.
"I have a room Armande, a poor one but it's cozy and if you'll come with me there, I will give you food for who ever it is that you're saving it for."
She suddenly stood up, a small frail figure ready to run.
His hand tightened...
"You do not have to worry girl for your... virtue. I am not able to be that way anymore."

Then she saw the scars that l criss crossed his jaw, and the missing fingers of his left hand...
"They made it clear before I left that I was not to return.
Please Armande I offer only warmth and a little to eat but I think in that way at least I am richer than you."

 

[melusine]

Armande only smiled and continued to savour the sweetness of the morsel of apple in her mouth. To talk at such a moment would be to spoil the sensual enjoyment of what had to be one of the most delicious tastes God had given to mortals. Out of the wind, with food safely tucked away for Serge, her own belly full for the first time in days...and now the apple...it was almost too much goodness for one moment to encompass.

Finally though, she remembered the unspoken bargain she had made with the stranger. He had given her food and half of his coat; now it was her time to give him something in return. A story. A glimpse into the only treasurehouse she had. Her memories.

"Our castle," she began softly, holding the apple reserved for Serge in her hand, "has been in our family for generations. Or so my father told me, when he took me up the mountain the first time to see it."

Jules looked at her, trying to separate fact from fantasy. Was she saying that she was some impoverished member of a once-noble family? Did she suffer from delusions then? Or just an overly active imagination?

"It was an autumn day, like this one, and I was very cold. But he held my hand tightly, and helped me to climb over the rocks. And sometimes, when the way was impassable, he lifted me up and carried me."

She smiled, lost in the memory; transported backwards to a time when she had not been alone in the world.

"He said it was the Palace of the Lord of the Wind. And of course he was right -- the wind was everywhere, coming in through the gaps in the walls and the broken windows. One of the towers had no roof at all, and he told me it was where the Dynasty of Wind held its royal council every day. You could stand inside and hear the voices rise and fall...sometimes to a scream. ('They are a very emotional family, the Winds,' Papa said to me when I covered my ears from the noise.)"

Now Jules was sure that she was telling him some fairytale, and though it annoyed him a little to see how little of herself she was willing to trust him with, still he found himself enchanted too in some strange way. She is a whore he kept thinking to himself. And she brings out this story like a piece of gold sewn into the hem of her ragged dress. She brings it out and shows it to me and I almost believe her.

"There used to be a deep moat around the castle, but mud came down from the mountains and filled most of it in. There would be no way inside otherwise, since the castle was originally surrounded on all sides with water. There is a lake though, too. Just a little one, where the swans live. And that is where I go to bathe, and the birds keep me warm until I am dry."

She raised up her face and smiled. The wind lifted some loose strands of her hair, and he could not help thinking, as he took a breath, that he could smell all the sweet afternoons she had spent in the company of swans -- the clear water from the mountain, and the lake with its colonies of lilies. She must have washed her dress in lake water, as well as her body. There was about her a distinctive smell...not unpleasant, but somehow wild. Moist mosses and the depths of dark forests, and marigolds when you rolled them between your hands all smelled like Armande. Earthy and tart and strangely arousing, even for a man for whom the erotic was only memory.

He had wondered before how a girl who lived on the streets could be so clean. He had assumed that her various "clients" allowed her the privilege of bathing, either before or after their illicit congresses. But now he found himself wondering...Was the castle real? Did she actually live like some woodland nymph on the mountains and then descend into the city like a fox, to scavenge food? Could something like that even be possible?

"Serge and I used to live together at my castle, in a room that had a stone hearth where sometimes we burned twigs. But now he can no longer make the journey up the mountain, so I go there alone." She shrugged. "No one else goes there, because it is a ruin. Only the swans and ducks, and cranes on their way to Afrika. It gets..." She edged her body closer to Jules, pulling the coat tight around them both. "...very cold in winter."

"And your father?" Jules asked. "Where is he now?" Part of him wanted to find the man and give him a beating for leaving a girl like Armande to fend for herself. He could not help feeling that she was, on some level, quite mad. A holy fool, blithely unaware of the perils she passed through daily. Not someone who had any business being alone in the world.

"Oh...up the last and the grandest stair," she said, repeating a formula that sounded like part of a childhood rhyme. "He died when I was ten."

She looked up at him finally, studying his face. Then she reached for his mutilated hand and carried it to her mouth, kissing the stumps where his fingers once had been.

A feather spiralled down from the lowering grey sky. Armande laughed as it caught in her hair, like a warm, soft snowflake. Then she reached for it, and looked up at the sky, as if searching for the pigeon who had dropped it.

The angel.

"I think I'll go with you," she said. "For today, at least. As long as you promise that we won't forget about Serge."

"We won't," Jules promised. "Not today. Not ever. You have my word."

She nodded, and they rose, and left the square together.

 

[ariosto]

It was a tall narrow grey building, set on a narrow grey street that he led her to.
The door creaked when he opened it and the sad little lobby smelled of stale tobacco and cabbage. A faint aroma of curry added the only touch of warmth and color.
The wizened concierge stuck her head out of the door and gave them both a hard look.

Good day Mrs Wieler,
The painter smiled brightly at the hag and motioned Armande up the stairs.
And how are you this afternoon?
The woman just scowled a bit more and slipped back behind her door.

Go on girl. I told you I lived up there with the birds!

He followed her up the narrow flights of stairs.
Watching the way her legs moved...watching the play of her slender body beneath her thin clothes as she went up before him. She was light...light, like a feather falling upwards.

After six flights they came to a tiny landing. A small black and white kitten was curled at the base of a once green painted door.
Jules knelt down and scooped up the kitten.
Domino, he said looking into the drowsy creature's green eyes.
Domino this is Armande. She lives in a castle too!

He laughed and turned the key in the latch. The room was in shadows. The faint light of late afternoon filtered dimly in from the single window.
Still holding the kitten, Jules walked in and turned on the lamp.

The girl caught her breath! Pinned and taped to the walls were drawings. Many drawings...drawings of rich and varied colors...drawings of people and animals and exotic places.
She ran over to them and began inspecting them one by one.
Jules opened the window and took the half bottle of cool milk from the sill. He put Domino on the table and poured him a small amount in a chipped saucer.

Tell me painter!...Tell me about these places and these people...
She walked quickly, touching each one as though to proove to herself that they were only paper after all.

He settled back in the single chair and watched her enthusiasm with great satifaction and pleasure. The kitten curled up in his lap and began to purr.

I will, I will tell you about all of it. But this is my palace and first I would ask you a question.

She stopped and looked at him.

You Armande. Tell me who you are.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Tempeste

Tempeste sat looking up at the stars, trying in vain to remember a time when she had been happy...and warm and full, for that matter. Taking a long drag from the cigarette that dangled from her lips, she sought to find an elusive scrap of hope among these streets. Thinning crowds bustled along, heads tucked beneath scarves of every color, none daring to meet the eyes of another for fear they might see something startling beneath the placid surfaces. No, these were people set in their ways, unaccepting and staunch, strangled by the noose of their religion and their beliefs. Tiny widows that peppered the buildings were closed tight, fearful of letting the slightest breath of heat or jingle of laughter escape into the dark world beyond their walls. A man cried out in anger and raised his eyes from his shined boots and the cobblestones, but most ignored him, heads down as if baring the burden of the globe on their shoulders, parting and joining again around his shadowy figure.

She pulled her shawl tighter, the material stretched taught over her willowy figure that came not so much from her daily jaunts to scrounge what she could from this unforgiving land but from the lack of substance. Hearing the rustle of footsteps, the crunch of mortar and brick under a heavy gait, before laying eyes upon the lank boy, she pressed her threadbare back against the pitted stone of a chimney. He passed her by without noticing, as most did, unless they were looking for something they knew she would provide grudgingly, but provide none the less. Tempeste knew the man from sight, pilfering from the shop lined streets that she also frequented on her mostly discouraging quests. His furtive, keen gaze was never turned upon the shadows that haunt the street, such as herself, but reserved only for the richest man in the crowd. It was as if somehow, through his eyes alone, he could absorb the wealth and pompous aristocratic manner of those who were worthy of his eyes. And his exits were usually marked by his surreptitious movements and echoed with hoarse cries of “Scoundrel!” and “Street Rat!”

With him curled so close to her, she could almost feel that infamous gaze analyzing her through the stout barricade of bricks that separated them. Broken in body, perhaps, she was still feisty in spirit. At first glance, many would take her half-hearted smile as an attempt to entice customers and equally to boldly deny her place in this world. But the way her lips turned up at the corners showed a vicious delight in taking slowly measured revenges at the society that had born her, yet cast her aside. In the eyes of most she knew she was worthless, a bastard child of this vindictive world. Any attempt to make herself beautiful, brushing her raven black hair until it gleamed or powering her already pale skin until it softened her sharp features into those identical to a finely crafted porcelain doll, was countered by her cat-like brooding eyes.

When she turned, the man was asleep. Boy, she rephrased herself, for in his dreamless slumber the hardened edges of his weary face softened, like the melting of butter on one of Monsieur Béroul rich pastries. Why is it, she wondered, that when people doze, they take on an innocence as if they were laying on a downy bed of angle wing feathers? Of course that was not true at all. She had once had a stray tomcat who shared her meager offerings of a rickety bed of straw and fish heads, twice a week, when the seafood man paid a visit. His snarl was as fierce when dreaming of the scruffy rodents he took so much pleasure in torturing as it was when he was chasing them through the maze of back alleys.

The weight of her musings must have unsettled the boy, for he opened his eyes when she slowly exhaled, the smoke dancing between them in a hazy tango with the brisk air. He didn’t seem surprised to have a visitor, and she barely acknowledged his presence. Perched on the edge of the stone ledge, she merely tucked her legs beneath her and tilted her head back to gaze at the sky. Tracing an unseen pattern in the azure robe spread far above them, she pointed out the eight points of light that formed a bull’s head.

“It’s said that the moment Zeus laid eyes upon the lovely Princess of Phoenicia, Europa, he fell in love. He descended from the heavens, taking on the form of a white bull, Taurus. Drawn to the animal by it’s surreal beauty, she climbed on his back and rode through tangled forests and across the once-thought insurmountable seas to the fair isle of Crete. There he revealed his true identity, and won her heart as his own...”

Tempeste fell silent, letting her voice trail off into the night air. Perched like a marble statue on its pedestal of crumbling brick, she deftly flicked ash over the edge of the building and into the labyrinth of dark alleys below, the fain glow from the tip of her cigarette the only indication she was not merely a trick of the eye brought on by the restless shadows.

 

[papillon24]

Mina

I sat alone on the cold winter's day along the Seine. I could hear the water behind me. I saw the women in their fancy clothes and the men in their top hats pass by as they took a walk after an evening at the Opera. I could feel their cold stares as they passed not even caring to look at my wares of small souvenirs laid on the banket in front of me. All the flowers were sold to those who walked pasted me before the opera.

It was not always like this. I still can remember the days back in Vieitnam in my child hood. I was a princess in my own world. I lived with hope in my heart and joy in my eyes. The smell of spices and sweet flowers filled my world. I was warm with plenty to eat. I can see my mother sitting in the yard with the kettle and fire. How I missed her.

Then things changed. My father had found a husband for my via corespondance letters. I was only thirteen then. He took me on a boat and I never saw my home again. The man I was to marry was so old from what I remember. His eyes were cold as coals. I think the only good thing about him was that he was wealthy. I did not want to marry him and I told my father that. I was then the defiant daughter and he left me at the dock while he got on. He never even looked back.

That was then five years ago. An old woman took me under her wing and showed me how to get by. We lived for years under the bridge on the east side of Paris. She is no longer here, but I wish she was. She died of a lung infection one night. I did what I could do but there was no money to take her to a doctor. I didn't even have enough for a funeral. I can still see her as I rolled her into the river that one cold night. I like to think she is happy and warm somewhere in heaven.

I looked back up sat the rich and wish maybe I could someday have a warm coat. I reached up to a woman with a long skirt.

"S'il vous plait madam, achetez quelque chose" she just looked down at me and scoffed. "Street trash" I think is what she called me, but I really wan't listening.

What was I diong. It wasn't even tourist time yet. I was almost hopeless.

A lone newspaper blew down the street. I reached out and grabbed it. It would make good reading to pass the time tonight and then I could burn it for warmth. At least it would get some use in my hands.

 

[Shadowsoul]

Wrapped in his cloak of dreams

Daniel shifted slightly on his bed of shingles. His mind wandered to the stories his mother used to tell, legends of heroes and deeds, the protection of the oppressed and the sacrifices made for others. And through these thoughts, a world stretched out before him. He was within the night sky, standing on top of a carpet of stars. Wordlessly he continued to walk down the illuminated path before him. Around him, the clusters of stars formed images and misty forms, reminding him of the art galleries his father used to take him to. The vibrant colors had less meaning to him now. The world he lived in was black and white. Color was for those who could afford sunshine he thought to himself. As the star-lined street ended, he stared out into the vast emptiness. "Here is the only place where I can be happy. Here I could steal the stars and there would be no consequences. "

As he listened to his voice echoing, he looked down in dismay realizing he was within his dreams. "One day, the sky will be my home. Here, nothing can hurt you." his voice echoed as he longed to make his dream a reality. But, it is lonely here. "Would my étoile join me? I do not want to be alone anymore. What good is it to be a thief if there is no one to steal for?"


Slowly, his mind drifted back to the sensation of the wind and the cold shingles. Suddenly, his senses alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. Twisting around quickly, he gripped the small knife at his hip as he turned to look up to the chimney-top, toward the source of the voice. Someone was really there. A girl. The myth she was reciting flowed through him, and made his hard face soften. "Even the gods themselves were thieves," he said wryly. "Stealing hearts or stealing lives. It meant little to them, but did the world hold them in contempt? No... the were revered and respected."


Daniel sighed as he spoke quietly. "I have stolen from the best pockets within this city, but money is not what I want to steal. Now a heart...that would be a prize." Realizing too late that his words had been spoken aloud, the boy masked his expression with a polite smile "My name is Daniel. What brings you to my humble rooftop?" He continued without a pause. " It doesn’t matter to me much really. I know I have the best view of the stars from here and I’m not greedy about who can share the view. All of us in the streets should have something we can claim for ourselves or share, if we wish to. It is just that I have never had...guests. Usually I’m followed, but the followers are not exactly welcome.“ Daniel reached into his pocket and flipped a coin to the girl. "For your story, I shall give you a star." The coin flashed in the air as a gleam of moonlight struck it.


As the coin sailed toward the chimney, Daniel stole a quick glance down into the street. Armande was gone. He closed his eyes with a tinge of sorrow realizing that she had most likely been purchased for the night by yet another man. "When will others stop stealing my stars..." Daniel thought to himself as he returned his eyes to the girl on the roof beside him. She was slender and the clothes she wore were threadbare. "Forgive me for saying this, but those will not keep you warm with the coming winter. Here, take this." Reaching into a hole in the roof, Daniel produced a folded coat of royal blue. There was a small hole beneath the arm, but it still appeared to be quite new. "I found this on a drunken pig in an alley one night. I washed it in the river. It should keep you warm. Don’t worry about me, I find myself warm enough. If I need any thing, all I have to do is go out and collect stars. "Rising to his feet he walked toward the chimney holding the coat out to her. "If you are trying your hand at picking pockets, I suggest you go to the tavern in the Street-of-the-Cat-Who-Goes-Fishing and meet Thibeau. He does not very much like to have thieves in his city that he doesn’t know personally." Daniel sighed. "Girls shouldn’t have to steal stars though. And with a pretty face like yours, you should be careful. Girls are bought and sold here, same as old clothes."

Daniel lowered his head for a moment as his thoughts drifted to Armande. Once again the cold bitter world had stolen his étoile from him and anger raged within him because of it. But this new girl; this raven haired girl who stood against the backdrop of night with a halo of smoke around her head began to intrigue him. Daniel had known very few women on the streets, and here even the prostitutes were too vain and cold. He wanted to know what a real woman was like. Watching Armande from afar had done little to satisfy his curiosity. Perhaps he could learn more from this dark slip of a girl, or perhaps not. In the streets it was very unlikely that he would meet someone he could call a friend. But it would appear that his plea of no longer wishing to be all alone had been answered. He looked to the sky once again and grinned at the star that he had wished on since the first day of his life in the street.

 

[melusine]

In the painter's room as night falls

Armande

The painter was tired after climbing the six flights of stairs. So tired that he sank into the only chair in the room almost helplessly, instead of offering it to Armande. She did not care though. The black-and-white kitten, Domino, had completely captured her attention. With a smile, she sat on the floor and extended her hand, stroking the little creature's head as he drank. Her cheeks were glowing as the corners of her eyes crinkled upwards. How untroubled she is, Jules thought to himself. As though nothing exists for her in this moment but the cat drinking his milk. Domino was purring loudly. The whole room had taken on an atmosphere not usually its own. Warmth. That was it. The room seemed warm.

Armande looked up and smiled. "My life is not interesting," she said. "You know most of it already."

"Where is your family now?" Jules persisted. "How can it be that you have no one in all the world?"

Domino had finished drinking, and was delicately washing his face with his paw.

"Oh...it is not so strange. It is true that, very long ago, my family lived here. But that was in quite a different time. When men carried swords...I am not sure how long ago it was."

"You are saying," Jules said patiently, "that you were not born here? That you travelled here from some other place?"

Armande smiled and nodded, taking Domino into her lap.

"I don't remember it, really. My father brought me when I was very young. After my grandmother died. She was the one who had taken care of me when I was a baby, you see."

Jules pondered, watching her cradle the cat in her arms. Domino seemed to be nodding off to sleep, completely contented.

"Your mother died early then," he said.

"Yes. I never knew her. My grandmother took care of me, while my father worked. He sent us money when he could. He was a miner, until his lungs failed."

It was dark now outside. The stars were coming out one by one. Jules, with an effort, heaved himself from his chair and lit a candle. Then he knelt before the tiny hearth and poked the embers into life, feeding them from a bundle of twigs he had gathered in the woods above the river that morning.

When he turned around again, Domino was wide awake, and batting with his paw at the cheap tin pendant Armande wore around her neck. She looked down and smiled as the fire stretched out its golden fingers, making the cat's eyes gleam mysteriously.

"He wants to see my grandmother," she said, laughing. "I have her picture here. In my locket."

Jules crossed the small space between them and knelt down beside her. The effort sent needles of pain through his knees, but his curiosity was now completely aroused. The visual had always had more of an impact on him than any words. To be able to see part of the girl's past; to assure himself that she was a person like everyone else, with a family and a home somewhere, if only in memory; this was more than he had hoped for. Tentatively, he stretched out a hand. "May I see?"

Armande smiled, and nodded, and bent her head to allow him to unfasten the chain around her neck. He did it somewhat clumsily, his fingers not completely steady. With her head bowed low, and that vulnerable expanse of white skin at the nape of her neck so close that he could have kissed it if he so desired and strangely, he did, she was assaulting his senses in ways he had not thought to be still possible. The catch finally opened, and the locket dropped into his hand. It was very light, tin being so much less weighty than silver.

Now began a new battle; the opening of the locket itself. Armande laughed again, so softly that it was scarcely more than a whisper. And she helped him, her small perfect fingers momentarily linked with his coarser, scarred ones. And the locket opened. And he saw a face that he could feel suddenly singing through all of his veins.

"My God," he whispered.

It was no old woman in a shawl that Armande called "grandmother." It was a young girl. The miniature (for painting it was, not a photograph at all) had clearly been painted many decades ago. She was dark-haired, like Armande, and had the same winsome, slightly childlike face. She was also -- and this was what had so startled Jules -- completely nude.

"Her name was Marguerite," Armande said. "My grandfather painted this picture of her...just before he left Holland." She sighed softly and reached again for Domino. "I don't think he ever knew my father was going to be born."

A sad look had come over the girl's face. She closed the locket slowly. "Grandmother always told me she never saw him again."

 

[ariosto]

Jules the Painter

"She never saw him again."
he repeated quietly.
Armande didn't answer but walked over to the small fire which was blazing cheerfully in the grate.
Jules looked again at the tiny painting in the old locket. He held it close to the candle light. The quality of the miniature was superb. It reminded him of something he'd seen before but where or when eluded him. He squeezed the warm aged metal in his hand.

"Perhaps the man went to my country."
He looked at her silouetted against the flames. So small so frail she was like a shadow.
"Perhaps."
She replied.
"You are a painter as he was."

"Yes but I would never leave a woman as beautiful as Marguerite."
He laid the locket on the table and closed his eyes.

"You think she was beautiful then?",... the voice from the fire.

"Yes, I think so. Very beautiful."

They sat in silence for a moment. Armande by the fire and he at the table. The wind rattling the loose panes of the window.
In the quiet Jules thought of his home of the bright colors and sunshine, he wondered if this frail girl would blossom like a flower in the warmth and light.

"Marguerite..."

""Armande" came her voice.

"Yes, yes you are."
He opened his eyes and looked at her.
For a moment she looked almost translucent, when she bent down to stroke Domino he could imagine the movement of her bones beneath her dress. He imagined his hands against her skin...

The painter stood up abruptly.
"We should find you something else to eat and something for your friend too. It's getting dark."
Outside the last of the light was falling from the sky. It would be bitter cold.
He walked over to a cardbox beneath the window and began to rummage in it.
"I have some olives, more bread...a can of..."

Armande wasn't listening, she was singing softly to the fire.
Domino had crawled into her lap and begun to purr.




"

 

[unit555]

Wallace

I slowly walked down the river toward the docks hoping to find enough work to sustain me one more day. At 6'5" and 250 lbs, I was sure to find someone requiring a strong back. At least that's what I told myself as I pulled my wool coat just a bit tighter to ward off the chill of the wind. The coat fit more loosely now than in years past. I had lost some of my strength. I could no longer afford to eat enough to keep the frame of warrior.

I always thought of those days with both fondness and bitterness. It was a past I could not escape, a trade I could not rise above, and a time in my life when I had no worries. Someone was always eager to raise an army or a band of men to make policy at the end of a pointed sword. I always told myself that their money gave them the right to do so. Who was I to question their motives. I was a simple fighter. I did what I knew.

Killing was easy. It was the only skill I had. I hated myself for it. Yet I missed it. In those days, pieces of gold always filled my pockets. We feasted like kings and women sought our attentions. But the wars are in far away lands, places I have never heard of. I have nothing but a sturdy knife tucked in my belt and a small dirk in my boot. Not that I would need them. Most look on my towering frame with fear. I feel trapped in city that does not want me but refuses to let me go. I dream once again of returning to my home in the highlands. Would my family know me? Would my clan forgive?

Now, on rare occasions a merchant will need a guard for travel or to transport some valued goods to another city. For those few days I am respected and coins fill my pouch. But those times are fewer each year and I am forced to visit the docks for work. Loading and unloading ships will place a few coppers in my hand and food in my belly.

On rare occasions, a merchants wife will take me to her bed. It excites them to be with a big, burley, foreigner. They revel in the dirty little secret they keep behind their fat husband's back. They disgust me. But they too will put a few coins in my hand and another day goes by.

I pass a small oriental girl sitting beside the river. She is so tiny I feel as though I could hold her in the palm of my hand. She is beautiful. So little beauty in the world. How much had I destroyed in a lifetime? I had done my share of burning temples and palaces and razing the countryside. It was war. We told ourselves that was what was done in war.

'Enough self-pity, you fool.' I chide myself. I pull my coat tight around me once again. With one last longing look at the girl I head for the docks. I must find another day's work.

 

[melusine]

Armande

She rose from the floor, setting the kitten safely down in a circle of firelight.

"You are too good, Monsieur," she said, and shook her head. "I cannot stay here any longer. Somewhere in the city, Serge is waiting. I have to find him, before...."

Her voice trailed off into silence, and the look that came over her face was one of old pain.

The painter was a sensitive man. He felt that his heart would break when he saw the girl in her thin dress so determined to return to the dank, cold streets.

"Why must you?" he asked her, gently. He felt as though he were trying to lure a small bird to take a crumb of bread from his hand.

She turned to face him and he thought he saw one heavy, long-unshed tear fall to her cheek.

"Serge and I swore, when we were children, that we would always look after one another. But sometimes...sometimes I cannot find him. Sometimes he has gone so far away from me, that I cannot sense him anymore. And that frightens me so much that I cannot sleep. I cannot rest. I can only search and search and search." She sighed, and wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders. As an angel might wrap itself in its wings. "As long as I search, I think, he will always be there, somewhere, waiting to be found."

She walked quietly to the door and stood there a moment. Jules thought he saw her, in the shadows, wiping her hand across her cheek.

"Take this," he said, and crossed the room, putting into her hands the bread he had reserved for his own supper.

She smiled, and her face was once again the face that had never been streaked with tears, the face that had known nothing but sunshine and love.

Jules hesitated a moment, and then shrugged off the coat that he wore. Wordlessly, he wrapped it around her tiny body, and then stepped backwards into the light.

"I will bring it back," she whispered. And then she was gone.



For a long while he listened to the sound of her footsteps as she descended the six flights of stairs. Then he rose from his chair heavily and opened the casement, waiting to see her emerge below. So small, to have such a large heart.

He was shivering in the nightwind. He saw her dart out into the street and vanish round a turning, heading towards the riverfront.

Watch over her, he said to the stars.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Tempeste

Tempeste accepted the coat from Daniel, pulling it tight around her as she settled into the downy warmth the enveloping folds of azure provided. It was seldom she accepted what the shadows of the street scoffed at as charity, and even those few times, she was driven to it not out of loss of spirit but basic necessity. Perhaps some would have thought her stubborn attitude frivolous, cutting off her nose to spite her face, but from what life had taught her so far, you should never learn to fully rely on others.

Sometimes Wallace, the burly foreigner who spared a sympathetic ear for her plights now and again in return for a shared smoke, would tramp his boots idly on the planks of the docks where he searched for work and speak volumes of wisdom in his rough voice. ”You know Tem, if a girl isn’t true to herself, no ones going to take up that place for her.” At Daniel’s mention of this Thibeau, whose reputation far exceeded his physical being, she tensed at the thought of being under some other’s watchful eye and disciplining thumb.

“I will never answer to this master of yours. I am a woman of my own making and so I will stay until such freedoms are ripped from my mortal hands by the very Gods themselves, and even then I will offer what little else I have in return for the only thing I can rightfully call my own...my soul.”

Tempeste turned with feline alertness at the shifting movement that came from the sea of dead leaves - season piled upon season - whose tide ebbed and flowed around the vague forms of the stone and brick of the chimneys. A pigeon fluttered past them, trailing its broken wing awkwardly. Tempeste looked at the pigeon with pure pity, for she took understood its plight. Realizing she had let her guard down in front of this stranger that haunted her rooftop, she turned back to face him, her face blank with a practiced expressionless gaze. Her cold stone features remained placid and uncaring as she watched the bird move half-heartedly out of sight.

“Someone should put it out of its misery...”

She spoke with an ironic tone, bitter enough to lessen the stature of even Monsieur Fabricius’s chocolates, which she had had the fortune of receiving after a set of strange circumstances. It had been a stark, gray day, much like the other 364 through which she also survived, with no hint of anticipation or hope in the dank air of the tiny nook she had made for herself in this gargantuan city. A light rap of gloved knuckles and the flap of a coat in the breeze out of the corner of her eye was all she knew of her mysterious angel, who had flitted out of the alley and onto the bustling boulevard as if in unknown perilous flight. On the ledge of stone that served as her stoop had been a parcel of the finest truffles, the simple silver box elegantly emblazoned with the miniature gold portrait of Cupid. It was a mystery she never solved, nor had wanted to. Not knowing made it somehow all the more sweeter.

Tempeste shifted, the starlight catching on the silver cross she had around her neck. Pulling the chain over the tips of her fingers absentmindedly, she slipped it beneath the heather gray material of her shirt, quickly moving the jacket back into its original resting position. It was as if she were embarrassed by this symbol that was the anthesis of her own religion. Contrary to the public belief of those who looked down their noses at her “type,” she had strong morals that dictated her every action, a code of honor that was strictly followed as if she were a modern day Robin Hood on the wrong side of the city. The wrong side of life.

Looking towards the elusive heavens that always seemed mere centimeters out of reach, she let the cold bullets of rain splatter over her close-eyed face, trickling over the bridge of her nose and down the nape of her neck.

“The stars cry for us, Daniel.”

 

[papillon24]

Mina

I looked up as a stranger passed by. He was not like the rest with their fancy clothing but like me and the others.

He look down at me and smiled. I couldn't help but to smile back at this man with his tall frame. He seemed to have something on his mind but i could not tell what.

He then turned and started to walk on.

"Sir , buy a small trinket. I made them myself" I called out to him hoping maybe I would be able to eat tonight somthing better than bread. Maybe I could buy a little rice or meat. I really doubt that.

He turned back at my plea to look once again. I pulled my ratty jacket around me to keep out the cold the best I could.

 

[unit555]

Wallace

I heard her tiny voice call to me as I walked down the street. When I turned to consider her I was struck by how tiny she was. Most people are small compared to me but I thought I might be able to fit this tiny girl in the palm of my hand.

I looked closely into her face. She was even more a foreigner in this place than I was. She held out some small thing she had made for me to purchase. I squatted down on my heels. Even in this position I looked down on her small frame. Her face was truly innocent but her eyes showed the hard times she had known. No matter her years on the earth, she was still a child in many ways. I felt the need to protect her.

'Someone should look out for her' I told myself. I quickly buried those thoughts deep inside. I had enough troubles without sharing in this girl's problems.

"Keep your baubles. I have no need." The disappointment was obvious. I reached in my pouch and pulled out half a copper. She smiled at me when I dropped it in her hand.

"Find a place to hide tonight and stay safe girl. The streets are darker than usual. Something unkind walks the city of late." It was true. Many ugly stories and rumors circulated on the docks. The city guard walked the streets at night in greater numbers than usual.

I considered her position. I suspected going home was out of the question. Her only hope was to find a protector. If she were lucky, he could be a rich man desirous of a lover. The other possibilities were too foul to consider.

I wished her well and stood up ready to make my way down to the docks once again.

 

[ariosto]

Jules...

He watched Armande run into the night, into the swirling snow that had begun blow into the old town on the northwest wind. He would have offered to go with her had she given him the chance.
Her face and form seemed still present in the room as he turned away from the bitter air and closed the windows. There was a small crack along one edge which was allowing the wind to blow in carrying a few flakes with it and causing a fine keening sound.
The painter reached into the box at his feet and produced an oil stained rag of many colors. He stuffed it into the breach and the noise stopped... all was silent in the little room.
Jules rested his head against the cool glass and thought of painting again. The smell of the rag, the rich odor of oil and turpentine, reminded him of the big sunny studio he had shared with her far away in the South.
It was a white stuccoed affair with a tile roof on an emerald green hill looking over the sea. He and Maria had been lovers there and then later, much more than that. They had both painted beautiful pictures and the papers in the Capitol had talked about them as if they were movie stars...

He looked at the pale reflection in front of him. The scars were lost in the dimness of the image and the falling snow outside but he did see a face much older than his actual years. A face lined and seamed from a lifetime of years an aeon of time gone since Maria.
His hair was scruffy and his beard was unkempt. His sweater was old and stained.
His eyes mocked him...

Fool...you should have died with her...why do you live...why do you live...

He turned away, not wanting to see or hear anymore. No wonder the girl had fled away. No wonder his life was in the cardboard boxes scattered around this poor cramped room.

Somewhere a radio blared into life. It was the "Leader" speaking his babble to the people once again.
Jules shivered, took a last look at the waiting brushes and tubes then threw on his old thick coat and went out into the night himself.

 

[Shadowsoul]

Daniel

Daniel looked toward the girl as she sharply replied to his suggestion about Thibaud. Master? He never really thought that about him. To him, Thibaud was more of a protector. But to one who did not know him, how was he to expect someone to view him as Daniel did.

This girl is a fire to be found even in the coldest of nights,
he thought to himself.

During their conversation Daniel caught a small gleam of an object around her neck. The small tokens we hold onto through this life. We all have them. These tiny keepsakes that have meaning only to us. And if the street kills us, we will be found with them and those who are curious about us "unfortunates" will thnk for a single moment "Why would he or she have this?" Daniel found himself wondering what hewould leave behind. What people would remember him by.

Slowly, the winds began to pick up and the rain began to fall. He watched the girl as she lifted her head to the sky, closing her eyes as the blessed drops fell over her angelic form. Angelic, was the only word Daniel could find to describe girl the way she looked with the rain shimmering as it poured over her body.

"The stars cry for us, Daniel."

Daniel inclined his head. "Cry for us? No, I think they cry for the world. Here there are classes. Us, and the fat pigs with even fatter wallets. If I were a star I would cry for the world’s cruelty. I would shimmer for us, to show the delight that we are alive and that we can survive against all odds. I do not believe what the fat pigs do. I think there are many gods and I think there is one that protects even us. I don’t know which star he is."

Daniel pointed toward the sky above the docks to a large bright star. "But I speak to that one there. I don’t know. I think it gets brighter when I do." Daniel shrugged.

"Oh well, what does it matter? If you want to believe something, then I don’t think you should have to defend it." Daniel turned around and walked back to his makeshift bed.

Reaching into the space in the shingles he pulled out a long black coat and a small sheathed dagger. "I need to go to the docks. The newest shipment of goods has come in and I’m going to see what I can find."

Daniel began to climb down the drainpipe to the street. Hesitating for a moment he looked back to the raven-haired beauty still savouring the rain. "If you’d like to come along, by all means follow me. But I should give you something to protect yourself with just in case. There is another knife in my hiding place if you want it."

He continued to climb deftly down. "I'll meet you in front of the bakery. Or if you want to stay and enjoy the rain I’ll see you later..if we are lucky” Daniel nodded his head to her as he descended to the street.

As he reached the ground he heard someone running closer to him. Stepping quickly into the shadows, he eyed the boy carefully. He was scruffy and seemed to be slightly off balance. Daniel’s venom rose in his throat "You....” What did Etoile call him? Daniel searched his memory for the boy's name.Serge? Well whatever your name is why the hell aren’t you protecting her? goddamn fool. His eyes are like glass. Daniel considered following him, but he was far more hungry than curious and following him was not going to keep him alive. You’re lucky, you bastard...If I wasn’t starving I’d follow you into hell to find out what could be more important to you than her.

As the rain cooled off his fury, Daniel began to make his way toward Monsieur Béroul’s shop.

 

[Mistress Jorja]

Tempeste

Daniel's way of seeing light and truth and hope in places where she would only find dark despair was miraculous to Tempeste. He too had been beaten down by this world, but instead of harboring bitter resentment like she did, he held his head high and accepted it with an almost divine dignity.

When being asked to choose between the drops of liquid midnight and the temptation of a wholesome meal, it was a tough decision. Rain was one of the few things that Tempeste found beauty in, for it washed away the sins of the city with the newspapers and debris that found an untimely death in the trickling waterfalls of the grates that coughed their way into the sewers. Rain and the flowing lines of the dancing girls, who seemed to move to the tempo of an inner storm. It was a good match, for when the rain came, the girls, on nymph-like feet, disappeared. Perhaps they went seeking shelter or perhaps to collect the dew drops from petal and leaf and stem to make their eyes glisten as they always did. And when the gentle spirits of the girls were present, their was no rair, its ferocity held at bay as a tribute to the timid souls.

As Daniel left, she slipped a practiced hand beneath the folds of her heather gray, loosely tied cloak to withdraw a black-handled knife. She let the rain collect into a tiny stand of pearls on it's sharp edge, the blade flashing as dangerously as her keen, jade eyes. Sheathing it again, there was a certain sense of companionship she felt towards the smooth, metallic object pressed comfortably against the bare, rain-dampened skin of her leg.

Never one to turn down a profitable opportunity, no matter what it's risks, she followed him down the side of the run down building with feline dexterity. Idly, she wondered if perhaps Wallace would be there at this hour, lulled to sleep by the hiss of waves breaking on the coast, or even soliciting himself for the many merchants looking for cheap, hard labor. Trotting, head down, eyes adverted, cutting through the liquid shadows, she stopped in front of the bakers. Darting into an alleyway that bordered Mr. Béroul's shop, she found Daniel reclining against the rain spattered brick. Standing at his side, pressed into the murkiness and out of sight of the patrolling night watchman's eyes, she awaited his commanding tone.

 

[ariosto]

(((((((((((((((((((BUMP)))))))))))))))))))))

Let's not let this one die.

 

[unit555]

I'll second your bump. I keep watching but nothing happens.

 

[TheOlderGuy]

Pashar

Pashar turned toward Mina as she offered a trinket for sale. He felt bad -- he had no money to offer in return, but this delicate girl had a spark in her eyes that made it difficult for him to walk on. He reached into his pocket, took out the hunk of cheese he had stolen, and offered her a piece.