The agroá was alive with loud voices, and a crisp breeze shuffled by the undusted streets. Scents of dates and fresh bread made their way into the eager noses of small children, sent with a obol or two about the market for a day of gay distraction. It was a setting Léon was much attuned to. In six or seven years, he’d learned to blend in to Taengea. He knew this place well now, he could tell what someone was selling by looking at their face; never learning one of their names.
Had Léonide’s skin been any fairer, his arms would’ve been a distinct crimson. Though his mother held very delicate hands, perfect for the craft of spinning, he managed to be born with the clumsiest fingers in all of Greece. He was massaging a thick skein of yarn with a deep red colored dye in a pithos small enough to fit between his folded legs. Most of the wool he was selling was raw, the portion that was spun wore a dull white. He knew giving some of his produce a touch of color would add to the appeal, but between the tight trade thanks to a certain cult and the even tighter money, getting to dye yarn was rather uncommon for Léon.
It was working, however. Most of the dim blues and oranges had already been sold, all that remained was the red threads. Red always made Léonide’s skin crawl. Red was the color of lamb’s blood, his father’s rusty armor and of soldiers. Passerby’s must have felt the same, the last time Léon tried to sell dyed yarn the red never went. He remembered bringing it home to his mother, who gave him a hard time about it. She eventually took it and wove it into his current blanket, one he rarely sleeps under. Every time he’s under it there’s an itch. It starts out small but gets worse and worse, like small insects were crawling about him, until he throws it off and falls asleep cold.
It had become more draining lately. He no longer blamed the blanket, perhaps he had come down with something. He used to pride himself in getting a fair amount of sleep. Now, he was restless. Perfectly distracted in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized he knocked over the due until it began to seep under his sandals and stain his tunic. It looked like he had killed someone, rather messily. If there wasn’t baskets of yarn in front of him, he would’ve gotten some looks. His eyes snapped down, and quickly he turned the clay vessel upwards and collected the yarn. “Lord of asses,” he spat, with hope he wouldn’t offend the sea god. He got up, kicked off his sandals and threw the yarn onto an adequate drying spot.
He was done with dying yarn, there was enough of it. While he was glad for the success of the yarn, a good deal of the raw wool still remained. How much wool did a city need after all? Or even a kingdom? Léon’s tunic had lasted him two years, his mother had been wearing the same clothes for four years. He had never given his horse a new saddle blanket since he’d arrived in Taengea! He hoped that there would be a wool famine, otherwise the four silver owls in his saddlebag would remain very alone.
Had Léonide’s skin been any fairer, his arms would’ve been a distinct crimson. Though his mother held very delicate hands, perfect for the craft of spinning, he managed to be born with the clumsiest fingers in all of Greece. He was massaging a thick skein of yarn with a deep red colored dye in a pithos small enough to fit between his folded legs. Most of the wool he was selling was raw, the portion that was spun wore a dull white. He knew giving some of his produce a touch of color would add to the appeal, but between the tight trade thanks to a certain cult and the even tighter money, getting to dye yarn was rather uncommon for Léon.
It was working, however. Most of the dim blues and oranges had already been sold, all that remained was the red threads. Red always made Léonide’s skin crawl. Red was the color of lamb’s blood, his father’s rusty armor and of soldiers. Passerby’s must have felt the same, the last time Léon tried to sell dyed yarn the red never went. He remembered bringing it home to his mother, who gave him a hard time about it. She eventually took it and wove it into his current blanket, one he rarely sleeps under. Every time he’s under it there’s an itch. It starts out small but gets worse and worse, like small insects were crawling about him, until he throws it off and falls asleep cold.
It had become more draining lately. He no longer blamed the blanket, perhaps he had come down with something. He used to pride himself in getting a fair amount of sleep. Now, he was restless. Perfectly distracted in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized he knocked over the due until it began to seep under his sandals and stain his tunic. It looked like he had killed someone, rather messily. If there wasn’t baskets of yarn in front of him, he would’ve gotten some looks. His eyes snapped down, and quickly he turned the clay vessel upwards and collected the yarn. “Lord of asses,” he spat, with hope he wouldn’t offend the sea god. He got up, kicked off his sandals and threw the yarn onto an adequate drying spot.
He was done with dying yarn, there was enough of it. While he was glad for the success of the yarn, a good deal of the raw wool still remained. How much wool did a city need after all? Or even a kingdom? Léon’s tunic had lasted him two years, his mother had been wearing the same clothes for four years. He had never given his horse a new saddle blanket since he’d arrived in Taengea! He hoped that there would be a wool famine, otherwise the four silver owls in his saddlebag would remain very alone.