The marketplace was bustling in the bright moonlight. Shoppers, busy with their baskets and groceries, ducked casually under a man's gargantuan orange horns and steered around his huge orange wings. Storekeepers sat, collapsed into rickety wooden chairs after a few sleepless days, staring glazed at everyone who ended up under their blanket-sheltered stand. Few words were spoken here; at the dirt-market trolls tended to get what they needed and leave as quickly as possible to avoid anything going wrong. The highbloods weren't aware of this cluster of shops. This was how the disrespected lower end of the village stocked up on their food without being beaten up or arrested simply for their place on the hemospectrum. If no one spoke about the dirt-market then no highbloods would hear, and that was just the way everyone liked it.
Tonight was a little cooler than usual; grey-skinned patrons stopped to chat about the dusty paths often, reveling in the calmness of the moonlight for once. Tavros Nitram stuck close to his father, keeping tucked into the space between his back and one of his powerful butterfly-like wings. A soft cool breeze brushed under his worn cream sleeves, pricking his arms with faint goosebumps. He was grateful he had his waistcoat. It was old and ragged, and the brown had faded nearly grey, but it kept the wind off. He didn't have any shoes to keep his feet warm either, he just wore his brown sandals and hoped the holy socks would be enough to keep the chills away. He didn't have much choice, as the broad-horned duo weren't able to spend much on clothes. His father had had the same black vest and black, red-striped jeans for sweeps. At least the green bloods got to have trenchcoats and proper wardrobes, he thought despondently. Sometimes Tavros asked why the brown-bloods had the money for his father to dye the fiery red stripes through his carefully groomed hair, but not enough for him to have a cool trenchcoat. He always replied that it was just too hot for anyone to need a coat, but Tavros knew it was really because the man's hair was his life-force - he would sell their hive before his hair stopped looking sharp.
Tavros didn't like the market much. Everyone moved fast above him and he was always frightened of being stood on. He didn't like it at all, actually, but he knew that his father needed to come here to do the shopping for his friend's group. He often forgot what the group was called as his father avoided discussing it. To protect him, he said. It was rather futile though. Everyone knew about the peace revolutionists, even though it was a very hushed topic throughout Alternia. As the son of the leader of cavalreapers, it's not like he could avoid the facts either. In fact, it was their position in the community that meant that they were in a better financial situation than most orange-bloods, due to hard work and chores here and there. Fetching supplies for a whole pack of peace activists came with the longest list of items one would ever see, the young troll reckoned. And yet his father insisted on dwelling over each and every detail. He now proved this by studying a can of beans as if it would hold the mysteries of the cosmos itself in its starchy, tomatoey goodness. But his father did what he could to support the posse of revolutionaries and their followers. Tavros looked up into the sky absently, golden eyes squinting slightly in the pale-green light. Shadows danced around his peripheral vision and the moonlight faltered through the dusty peach-hued appendage he hid behind.
"Summoner! Hey!" His father ceased considering the protein filled snack, turning his head swiftly to the lisped voice. His curved horns swooped around with his gaze. Other patrons didn't even take their eyes off what they were doing as they leaned out of the broken-nose-zone. After countless violent encounters with the Summoner's horns, it had become second nature for those who frequented the market. The young boy peeked around his tall, muscular hiding place. Making his way through the many clusters of people, a familiar troll in a fitting, yellow and black suit smiled warmly at them. The Psiioniic, you could always recognize him from his dual set of sky-pointed horns. He used to be in slavery before he was inspired by - what was the name? Long story short, he broke free of his metaphorical chains and became one of the most devoted followers of the - the Signless! That was the group's name! Tavros lost interest in seconds. They often ran into the yellowblood. He updated them on the happenings within the Signless faith, for as chief of a borderline army, Summoner didn't really have time to partake in the meetings or speeches. Tavros on the other hand didn't much care about politics at all really, and although he didn't have a problem with the polite and kind-hearted man, he didn't anticipate the further delay to escape the crowded market. When his father replaced the canned food back on the shelf he knew that this was going to be one of their legendary eternal chats. He sighed, eyes losing a spark for a moment.
His focus drifted around, watching other market-goers stroll by, blood colours and symbols flowing with their garb. His eyes settled into the corner of a wall near the end of the row of stalls on their left when something caught his eye. What was that? He squinted, stepping out just a bit more to try make out the dark blob against the dull bricks. Figures flickered across his vision, but for just a moment he got a clear sight of someone who looked about his age. He sat on the ground curled over his knees, staring right back at him.
Tavros froze for a moment. He'd never seen anyone his age at the market before! Neither had the other kid, he guessed. In a moment he was blocked out by those walking by again. He peered back at his father. He was still busy having an animated conversation with the Psiioniic and wasn't about to stop him sneaking off. Cautiously, he crept out from the safety of his father's space, still within the boundaries of his wide-reaching horns. Troll traffic dashed a foot from his face and he waited for an opportunity to squeeze into the fray. Another gap came around, and he threw one last glance over his shoulder before just about leaping into the mass of bodies. He awkwardly pushed past infront of a goldblooded troll, then nearly tripped into a bag of onions hefted over the shoulder of a burly greenblood. For a few heartstopping moments, he ducked amongst legs and bundles of food, weaving through the chaos to where he saw the other troll.
He finally stumbled out of the activity, steadying himself and checking his surroundings. He stood a stride away from the corner he'd noticed, but he couldn't see the troll who had sat there any more. He let his breath go that he hadn't been aware of holding. A scattering of dust drifted up from the constant walking over the dry earth behind him, and he nervously stepped closer to the silent corner. When his eyes returned up to the faded clay bricks, the troll was back again, eyes wide inspecting him. Tavros assumed he was a redblood, as his clothing was torn and looked as if it hadn't ever been cleaned. His baggy black shirt had its sleeves ripped to shreds nearly up to the shoulders, as if he couldn't stand the feel of it on his arms, and his black trousers didn't fare much better with dried mud and ripped ends. Tavros couldn't even see a symbol, which was odd since all trolls were required by the tight laws of the empire to display their icon and blood colour. Even Tavros had his symbol roughly embroidered onto his waistcoat, branching lines reaching up the neckline and the circle part just in the middle like his father's - no mistaking them for anything other than taurus. The boy, who did infact look near enough to his own age, studied him just as much, with a look of excited astonishment on his narrow face. Surely he was a redblood, his knotted and frayed hair and the dark circles around his eyes said as much. He wasn't even wearing shoes, and his orange toenails curled into claws. Tavros felt bad for him, even though he seemed quite content kneeling in the shadows oggling at him with that fascinated grin.
He realized he was being rude, and blinked, shifting his feet anxiously.
"Hi!" he blurted, flipping his hand up in a wave.
The boy's face dropped all of a sudden, still beholding uncontained bewilderment. Tavros nearly got a word out, then the boy scuttled off, absconding to the left before he even knew what was going on.
"WAIT", he shouted in alarm, hand flying forward for a moment before faltering and dropping. He was gone through the crowd before he could even start after him. Tavros frowned in confused disappointment. What did he do?
He made the journey back to his father, who was still harping away with the lively mustard man. Just as he slowed his pace and began retreating back to the safety of his father's wing, the Psiioniic stopped mid-sentence, face draining in colour as he stared into Tavros' direction. First Tavros thought he must have something in his hair, but the man started stumbling away, still staring in his direction. He yelled something, voice peirced by fear, throwing his arm up to point shakily far above Tavros' head. Even the people around them stopped what they were doing and looked up, copying his reaction as they dropped their groceries and ran the other way in panic. Stopped in his tracks a few feet behind his father, Tavros turned his head to find out why people were screaming and fleeing. He felt his stomach fall into a pit as his eyes discovered the mystery disturbance. He turned fully around, not sure what he was seeing, the shadow that settled over them confirmed that it was large enough to be blocking the bright moonlight.