At The Gates

Who: Nic Santoro and Gideon Foster
What: Retribution for the Masquerade; the Library closes down the Market (beginnings of a war)
Where: The Market grounds
When: Backdated to the seventeenth, early morning.
Status: Ongoing.

Mornings in mid-winter were bright; cold clarity and early industriousness and the Market grounds were clustered crowds and the ongoing scuttle and movement of men and women who put the Market together deftly and quickly each time the Market rolled back into town, sprawling, yawning beast that she was. With it, Market brought spices and sins, the far-off tastes of places whose names required languages long forgotten, with it, Market brought the quelled sensation of absence, of something missing. Nic Santoro, who'd spent night with the restlessness of one who could not put aside concerns for the handful of hours that constituted 'rest' was pacing borders, overseeing wards re-painted blood-bright on walls and across Market-consecrated ground -- the ministrations and preparations of a week of barter and sell, of hands passing across Market-sanctified point of being and reconnecting.

Marion (prowling; stillness came easily to her but so did the fluid threat of what might happen if she stood in absence of movement, he'd noticed the fear in eyes as she passed by with the cool admiration of a possession that did as it ought to) was marking boundaries, setting up meetings, acting barrier to all the tiresome concerns of those that did not merit meeting with Merchant so much as subordinates and it was her who'd put coffee into his hands on meeting him without so much as greeting - cutting to the quick of what was necessary and business-like, rapid-quiet tone and distilled knowledge of what occurred in his absence. It was Marion whose job it was to play second, and squinting across in too-sharp sunshine, it was Marion whose name came first when Nic noticed the phalanx of sober-clad men clustered up against Market-drawn line in the sand.

The Library belled out, sent its messengers down to Market ground even as the tents unfurled, the banners began to bloom against sky blue enough to be lapis lazuli brought home from Egypt. Nic walked quick, walked quiet, took steps toward boundary line and waited there like tiger yawning behind cage's bars.

"Foster," he said pleasantly, like silk over acid, "I'm afraid we're not open yet."

The Market was not a creature of blood and of salt today, not a slinking, shadowy thing that kept itself carefully to the demarked edges of where it ought be with wards and signs and sigils spilling along its skirts to tell people where they could and could not be (with the sly smile, the wink, the glint of gold almost-hidden that was the Merchants and the Market itself forever). It had thrown wide its doors (beyond of course, the careful delineation between London and this Other London, this parasitic presence deep below the innocent preparations going on above, the tired trudging of Christmas shoppers and the artificial buzz and hum and florescent glow of lights strung on wires across the streets). This place, sketched out across bared Market grounds was a delight, a poetry-in-motion of silks swung from erected arch to arch, of paper lanterns strung seemingly from nothing until they sent soft glow across the path with the delicate tinge and blush of soft jewels.

A vast tent (such as it could be called - such a thing was an artifice and construction beyond the notion of words and language) was main event; soft light and swelling music and the laughter and low-voiced flirtation of masked men and women circling one another within its depths. To the left, a staircase that wound up above to a platform cordoned off into sections more suited for intimacy, for quiet conversation amongst the numerous silk cushions, the low tables thoughtfully placed of a height to lean a glass on and gossamer-thin curtains to keep privacy at utmost. To the right and below, a table of all good things to eat spread out for all, clusters of tables and spindly chairs for diners to seat themselves at and still admire the whole. A bar (for all who came to these events in formal dress a little too unfamiliar to be comfortable sought out such places, such things) took up the back, a obtrusive but elegant creation served attentively by low-voiced, dark clad whisking things that were too quietly efficient to be anything but those low down on Market pecking order.

But of course, a Market is not a Market without a little magic. Those who stepped across the threshold, those hidden from clarity by the dominoes and masks of anonymity for the night had fresh flush of confidence. Those that did not identify themselves to their companions could not be identified - strangers within a party, mysterious and interesting both. For a night, all who attended were given ability to move as though they were unknown -- be the end result a flirtation heartily enjoyed but set aside by morning, or a flash of an argument forgotten by the time they left the dance.


[Open to all characters - Market is open to everyone for this. There will be areas in subject lines and comments below, so hop in and leave no one untagged!]