A cloaked man shouldered through the crowd of the artisan market. He scowled at every arm that bumped him, every eye that had the misfortune of meeting his. Tugging the scratchy hood farther over his head, he slid between stalls and booths. Ignoring the sneers and curses flashed his way.
His face scrunched at the smells mingling in the cool night air. Piss and cheap ale coupled with rotting meat far past its date that would be sold regardless. The filth and stench of unwashed bodies crammed itself up his nostrils. He tried to hold his breath.
He didn't like being seen in this part of town. Not that anyone would recognize him of the lowly lot that lingered there. The man would go home that night to his mate and his cushy townhouse. He kept telling himself that. He would drown himself in whatever luxuries he felt compelled to indulge.
Wine and steak, he decided in that moment.
He spared not a glance for the homeless crumpled in the alleyways. Begging for coin or bread. He cared not for the sick and weak but to avoid them. Whatever plague they may carry, he didn't deign to bring home.
The man ensured his dagger remained on display in its sheath looped through his belt. So as to discourage any sticky hands who might grab for the coin pouch hidden on his person. Filthy thieves, the people of the slums. Who cared little from whom they took.
A bony, twisted hand grabbed at his boot laces. The man kicked it aside, turning up his nose at the withered face peering up at him from the moss-riddled cobbles.
"Please, sir. A coin to spare?"
He scoffed, not caring that he stomped the old woman's fingers as he walked on.
The man had always been angered by people like her. Who were riddled so thoroughly with helpless laziness that they couldn't support themselves. They didn't try to find a job, earn a living. They only sat on the streets and begged alongside the rats who shared nothing but disease.
Well then they could live like rats, he had decided long ago. Let them drag themselves through the muck of the streets in search of crumb and coin. Let them suffer the fates they doomed themselves to.
The man knocked his boot into a strategically stacked pile of crates. Biting back a grin when they toppled over onto the torn, soggy blankets inside. Indented from the shape of a person laying there so often.
Upon reaching the end of the alley, the man pushed back his hood at last. His eyes lifted, squinting in the cloud-covered moonlight to read the crooked sign hung above a curtained doorway.
'The Mystical Marilyn,' the sign read.
He snorted in amusement and pushed the curtain aside to enter.
In an instant, the stench of the slums gave way to lavender and burning sage. Little ringlets of smoke rose up from candles strewn throughout the room. Fatty wax melting onto shelves and tables and books.
Every corner was packed full of oddities. Skulls with gems for eyes, stones with ghastly faces carved into them. A dried fox tail hung from the ceiling, which he ducked just on time to avoid.
Tapestries littered the ivy-laden walls. Twinkling fae-lights hung from the crooked ceiling. He couldn't help the way his eyes wandered, admittedly curious.
"A man of magic in my shop."
He went rigid.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
The man turned in search of the voice, blinking quickly as he spun a circle. The breath hitched in his lungs when he saw not a soul.
"How... how did you know that-"
YOU ARE READING
Of Man and Beast || Nyx Archeron
Fantasy|A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES| Sequel to "Touched by the Flame" The girl who fell from the stars was a monster. She only had to figure out how to hide it from the world that wasn't her own. Nyx Archeron was born of magic. He need only learn to contro...
