Genesis 035
Jan. 11th, 2006 07:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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yrae
Title~ Saffron
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Both mine
Notes~ Genesis 035. Because I don't do enough with my swordies, despite them wielding my favouritest weapon *snugs them*
~ ~ ~
A rare smile passed over Kurae’s lips as he examined the array of spices at the Sissillyan market stall. One bowl caught his eye in particular, its bright, red-gold contents almost glowing in the weak mountain sunlight. He waved to get the attention of the vendor, then pointed at the bowl and lifted one finger. He didn’t place enough confidence in his Kazinian that he could actually ask for a jar of the vibrant spice without the woman laughing at him, and chances were that her Raykinian wasn’t particularly strong either.
The Sissillyan, her hair not unlike the spice that Kurae had asked for, scooped a small jar into the bowl and filled it to the top, spilling some of the strands carelessly over the edge of the bowl in the process. She held up four fingers and held out one hand for Kurae to pay her.
The swordsman did so willingly, and she handed him the jar with a forced but not altogether unappreciative grin.
“Kurae?” Rumal folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at the small jar of red papery sticks in his fellow swordsman’s hand. “Did you just hand over four gold pieces for that?”
“I did,” Kurae answered, that rare smile of triumph passing over his lips again. “I’ve never seen saffron for less than six.”
The southerner’s eyebrows shot up and he stared at the miniscule jar of saffron. “You’re not serious. What is it, exactly?”
The chef held up the bottle between two fingers to allow Rumal to inspect the ingredients further, but he wouldn’t dare let him touch it. “Saffron, the rarest, most sought after and therefore expensive spice in Thyllaeth.” He unscrewed the lid carefully and passed the mouth of the jar under his nose, closing his eyes to better appreciate the scent. “It’s the stigma of a particular crocus that’s only grown in Sissillya, and if Nol knows what’s good for him, it’ll be the main reason he wants to overrun the state before he touches any others.”
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and held the jar out to Rumal.
The swordsman sniffed at the expensive yellow spice, frowning and trying to place where he’d smelt it before. “Smells like hay,” he decided.
Kurae’s eyes narrowed as he screwed the lid back on, but he was too pleased with his purchase to get particularly angry with his fellow swordsman. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect a southerner such as yourself to appreciate its delicate qualities,” he muttered, half a grin touching the corners of his mouth as he slipped the precious jar into his pocket.
Rumal’s brow lowered and he pointed accusingly at the chef. “You did not just say that.” The slightest hint of his old accent slipped into his words.
“I did, and I’ll say it again if you’re not careful.”
Rumal pursed his lips in an “ooh” shape, taking a sharp, dangerous intake of breath before turning his head forwards again. “Still smells like hay,” he grinned.
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Both mine
Notes~ Genesis 035. Because I don't do enough with my swordies, despite them wielding my favouritest weapon *snugs them*
A rare smile passed over Kurae’s lips as he examined the array of spices at the Sissillyan market stall. One bowl caught his eye in particular, its bright, red-gold contents almost glowing in the weak mountain sunlight. He waved to get the attention of the vendor, then pointed at the bowl and lifted one finger. He didn’t place enough confidence in his Kazinian that he could actually ask for a jar of the vibrant spice without the woman laughing at him, and chances were that her Raykinian wasn’t particularly strong either.
The Sissillyan, her hair not unlike the spice that Kurae had asked for, scooped a small jar into the bowl and filled it to the top, spilling some of the strands carelessly over the edge of the bowl in the process. She held up four fingers and held out one hand for Kurae to pay her.
The swordsman did so willingly, and she handed him the jar with a forced but not altogether unappreciative grin.
“Kurae?” Rumal folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at the small jar of red papery sticks in his fellow swordsman’s hand. “Did you just hand over four gold pieces for that?”
“I did,” Kurae answered, that rare smile of triumph passing over his lips again. “I’ve never seen saffron for less than six.”
The southerner’s eyebrows shot up and he stared at the miniscule jar of saffron. “You’re not serious. What is it, exactly?”
The chef held up the bottle between two fingers to allow Rumal to inspect the ingredients further, but he wouldn’t dare let him touch it. “Saffron, the rarest, most sought after and therefore expensive spice in Thyllaeth.” He unscrewed the lid carefully and passed the mouth of the jar under his nose, closing his eyes to better appreciate the scent. “It’s the stigma of a particular crocus that’s only grown in Sissillya, and if Nol knows what’s good for him, it’ll be the main reason he wants to overrun the state before he touches any others.”
He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and held the jar out to Rumal.
The swordsman sniffed at the expensive yellow spice, frowning and trying to place where he’d smelt it before. “Smells like hay,” he decided.
Kurae’s eyes narrowed as he screwed the lid back on, but he was too pleased with his purchase to get particularly angry with his fellow swordsman. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect a southerner such as yourself to appreciate its delicate qualities,” he muttered, half a grin touching the corners of his mouth as he slipped the precious jar into his pocket.
Rumal’s brow lowered and he pointed accusingly at the chef. “You did not just say that.” The slightest hint of his old accent slipped into his words.
“I did, and I’ll say it again if you’re not careful.”
Rumal pursed his lips in an “ooh” shape, taking a sharp, dangerous intake of breath before turning his head forwards again. “Still smells like hay,” he grinned.