Tapestry – Prologue
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"You'll never see the like of it again, sir," the Bedouin gushed, eager to make a sale. His head bobbed up and down and he gestured grandly to the tapestry as if to a national treasure. "It is said to have been made by the gods themselves."
"Mmm hmm." Trowa Barton's gaze slid across his companion's dusky face, one eyebrow raised in polite disbelief as he glanced at the carpet the man wanted to sell.
Both were inside a hastily erected tent in a small Bedouin village, one that was actually no more than several small awnings and shelters scrabbled together on the side of a small, dusty road. While not appearing to be important, the road at the edge of the nondescript oasis led to one of OZ's main ground thoroughfares - and now there was a persistant rumor that the military organization was going to be active within the next few hours. Knowing that, the Arab seemed completely unsurprised that a young man had just appeared out of the desert, wandered over to his tent and asked to see his tapestries – and, in fact, had shown little interest in any others except for that particular one.
The tapestry was richly colored, beautifully woven, and appeared incredibly old – as old as the heavens, as old as the stars, as old as Time, claimed the Bedouin. The idea of agelessness did not bother Trowa; his practiced eye could see the age and strength of the threads used. In fact, that served to authenticate the piece – and while his host did not realize it, he actually had the genuine article in his hands.
The difficulty Trowa saw was with the tapestry itself – because, if he was reading it correctly, something was happening to one small section around one anchoring thread that could have far reaching implications for the rest of the entire piece.
"It's unfinished," Trowa pointed out, gesturing to the section around a thick, anchoring bronze thread. Several other threads wrapped into the design – most notably a fiery red and a pure blue – were dangling from the bronze, as if waiting to make their own pattern. And the bronze, even though it was an anchoring thread for both the red and the blue, was obviously one that followed no predictable path.
The man seemed unperterbed. "But that is why, my good sir, I can offer this extraordinary piece to you at a price that my own grandmother would beat me for offering to someone not in my own family." He leaned forward, leering into Trowa's face, the faint aroma of mint clinging to his breath. "Your woman, my good sir, could certainly complete this small section. Or I could lend you one of mine for just a few zuzuim more …"
"No, thank you." Trowa studied the man from under the shock of hair trailing across half his cheek; and the Bedouin did not know why, but sudden thoughts of frigid, dark, underground caverns, completely filled with water, flooded his mind. The total blackness and the soul piercing cold of those alien places were enough to make him draw back from his customer in alarm.
"I'll take it."
Blinking, the Arab pulled his attention back to the young man rising from the bolsters on the floor, money in hand, his one visible eye shining mildly.
"Yes – yes, sir, yes, sir," he babbled, bowing, taking the money before the foreigner changed his mind. "Permit me to wrap it for you, sir, it will just take a moment—"
"No need." Trowa bent and gently rolled the carpet, then hoisted it to his shoulder in one smooth motion. "Thank you," he said, nodding. "I will let others know how honestly you dealt with me. You will find others coming to you to trade..."
The Arab beamed at him again. "Oh, good sir, that is always appreciated. Won't you stay for some refreshments? I can have my servents bring some—"
"I am sorry – I cannot stay. Thank you for your hospitality." The gundam pilot looked at him from the entrance of the tent, his body silhouetted against the brightness of the sun; and for a moment, the Bedouin thought there was something else standing there with the young man, something that overshadowed him—something with green, transluscent wings that stretched across the sky—
Choking, the Arab shook his head and looked back at the entrance. Both the vision and the young man were gone.
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"You'll never see the like of it again, sir," the Bedouin gushed, eager to make a sale. His head bobbed up and down and he gestured grandly to the tapestry as if to a national treasure. "It is said to have been made by the gods themselves."
"Mmm hmm." Trowa Barton's gaze slid across his companion's dusky face, one eyebrow raised in polite disbelief as he glanced at the carpet the man wanted to sell.
Both were inside a hastily erected tent in a small Bedouin village, one that was actually no more than several small awnings and shelters scrabbled together on the side of a small, dusty road. While not appearing to be important, the road at the edge of the nondescript oasis led to one of OZ's main ground thoroughfares - and now there was a persistant rumor that the military organization was going to be active within the next few hours. Knowing that, the Arab seemed completely unsurprised that a young man had just appeared out of the desert, wandered over to his tent and asked to see his tapestries – and, in fact, had shown little interest in any others except for that particular one.
The tapestry was richly colored, beautifully woven, and appeared incredibly old – as old as the heavens, as old as the stars, as old as Time, claimed the Bedouin. The idea of agelessness did not bother Trowa; his practiced eye could see the age and strength of the threads used. In fact, that served to authenticate the piece – and while his host did not realize it, he actually had the genuine article in his hands.
The difficulty Trowa saw was with the tapestry itself – because, if he was reading it correctly, something was happening to one small section around one anchoring thread that could have far reaching implications for the rest of the entire piece.
"It's unfinished," Trowa pointed out, gesturing to the section around a thick, anchoring bronze thread. Several other threads wrapped into the design – most notably a fiery red and a pure blue – were dangling from the bronze, as if waiting to make their own pattern. And the bronze, even though it was an anchoring thread for both the red and the blue, was obviously one that followed no predictable path.
The man seemed unperterbed. "But that is why, my good sir, I can offer this extraordinary piece to you at a price that my own grandmother would beat me for offering to someone not in my own family." He leaned forward, leering into Trowa's face, the faint aroma of mint clinging to his breath. "Your woman, my good sir, could certainly complete this small section. Or I could lend you one of mine for just a few zuzuim more …"
"No, thank you." Trowa studied the man from under the shock of hair trailing across half his cheek; and the Bedouin did not know why, but sudden thoughts of frigid, dark, underground caverns, completely filled with water, flooded his mind. The total blackness and the soul piercing cold of those alien places were enough to make him draw back from his customer in alarm.
"I'll take it."
Blinking, the Arab pulled his attention back to the young man rising from the bolsters on the floor, money in hand, his one visible eye shining mildly.
"Yes – yes, sir, yes, sir," he babbled, bowing, taking the money before the foreigner changed his mind. "Permit me to wrap it for you, sir, it will just take a moment—"
"No need." Trowa bent and gently rolled the carpet, then hoisted it to his shoulder in one smooth motion. "Thank you," he said, nodding. "I will let others know how honestly you dealt with me. You will find others coming to you to trade..."
The Arab beamed at him again. "Oh, good sir, that is always appreciated. Won't you stay for some refreshments? I can have my servents bring some—"
"I am sorry – I cannot stay. Thank you for your hospitality." The gundam pilot looked at him from the entrance of the tent, his body silhouetted against the brightness of the sun; and for a moment, the Bedouin thought there was something else standing there with the young man, something that overshadowed him—something with green, transluscent wings that stretched across the sky—
Choking, the Arab shook his head and looked back at the entrance. Both the vision and the young man were gone.
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