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Dalery is alive with people today. Market day always brings a crowd, but this is the last one before the Race, so people are desperate to collect supplies. Stands and tents have been set up in the town square, kicking up the red dust that makes up the majority of our roads. Chatter and arguments fill the air as we all attempt to trade and barter for the items we need to make the weeks-long journey easier on our bodies. I’m lucky that I have so much available to barter with this year. That hasn’t always been the case since I’ve been on my own.
I breeze through the market, looking at the various wares proffered by the vendors. Some sell knives, bows and arrows, whips, and assorted weapons I never bothered to learn, favoring blades and whips. Others have medicines, foodstuffs, bandages, and compasses. Anything you could find useful through the journey up and over Gallant Mountain is here.
Each town has its own primary resource that is abundant there that they can bring to market. Dalery is a foraging city, and we’re known far and wide for the medicinal herbs that grow wild here. Usually, I would make extra tinctures to bring for trade since they fetch a high price, but I didn’t have glass vials to spare this year.
My eyes stop on a vendor with parcels of dried meats, and my mouth waters. Meat is not easy to come by, and it’s been ages since I’ve had any. We’re waterfront, so fishing brings in the majority of our protein. Land creatures mostly avoid our area. The best hunting grounds are the grasslands, but they’re all the way around Gallant Summit and through Vallon Vale. Most do not bother, not having the energy or supplies to make that journey regularly.
With so few people left, one would think that the Gods would figure out an appropriate way to allocate resources to ensure everyone could manage. Instead, the fae on top of Gallant Summit hoard the resources and their prosperity magic, leaving us Lowlanders to scrounge and fight for scraps. I’ve heard Autumn magic allows them to grow all they need in Ytopie, but only the Race’s top finishers have ever seen it.
The jerky would be such a boon for energy during the Race, and it has been so long since I’ve had proper meat that my stomach growls just looking at it. I meet the eyes of the gentleman holding the parcels on a wide and flat board. I do not recognize him, but that’s not that unusual this time of year. With the Race just a few days away, we’re already flooded with Lowlanders from all over Krillium.
He’s got weathered skin of rosy bronze and hooded eyes that are honey-colored. I would guess he’s about the age of my father. “Hello, lady. Can I interest you in some meats?” he says, pushing the tray towards me.
I nod and dig through my basket. “I could trade you some eggs, cheese, or soap for a parcel,” I say, showing him what I’ve brought.
He grins wryly, “Come now, dear, the Race is so near. I’ll need the eggs and cheese if you want some meat.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Absolutely not. That’s far and above the regular trade value.”
He shrugs, then reaches a single finger towards me, stroking it down the height of my cheeks. “Well, I always suppose a ...service… could be exchanged.”
I slap his hand away and spit at his feet. The blade I have strapped to my thigh aches to be pulled out and thrust toward the man. “Fuck off, grifter.” I snarl.
He steps back, laughing soullessly. “Alright bitch, fine. You’re not worth the trouble.”
Walking away and mourning the loss of the meat, I attempt to find something else useful in my perusal but come up blank. I had plans of trading for a whetstone, but I have yet to find one. When I am just about to give up and make my way home, I find a merchant with a basket of shining silver. He waves me over, and I lean forward to see what’s inside.
“It’s a spile,” he says softly, causing my head to jerk up.
My eyes meet a set that are so dark they’re almost black. I lean back, attempting to focus on the man in front of me, and I notice how soft his skin looks, and the blue-black hair that falls into his eyes begs to be pushed back.
I may be a loner, but I am human. The man is gorgeous.
“A spile?” I respond, clearing my throat and the image my creative mind has conjured of him.
“Aye, you just press it into a tree, and the water it holds inside it will drain out. It’s great when you don’t have a spring or creek near you.”
My eyebrows raise. That would be useful. “Where did these even come from? I’ve never seen one before.”
His face cracks into a lovely smile, and I can’t help but return it. “I hail from Colris. My father was a craftsman, and I learned the trade from him.” Colris is a few days’ journey through the Tella desert from here, but the ore mines produce the strongest weapons. Many people save for ages to be able to trade for one.
“Colris? My mother grew up there.”
“Well, what a small world it is. I’d be happy to make a trade for one. What’s your name, miss?”
“Viola,” I say, stepping toward him and holding out my basket. “Whatever you’d like, it’s yours,” I say. Nothing I have could be worth the spile, but I’m willing to try.
He plucks the bar of soap from the basket, holds it to his nose, and inhales deeply. “What is that herb you’ve used?”
“Jasmine and lilac, for love and luck.” Hopefully, he misses the sarcastic tone of my voice.
He slides it into his pocket and tosses a spile into my basket. “Well, Viola, thanks for the love and luck. I’m Amio.”
The interaction at the market buoyed me, but there is still training to be done. I store my goods back at home, and then I’m up the hills and through the forest, practicing dodging roots, rocks, and squirrels from underneath my feet. I do some strength training with boulders by pushing them in front of holes I’ve dug for hiding in. My ultimate goal is speed and endurance, as it has been since the first time I trained with my parents.
I know plenty of people who are satisfied to be middle of the pack in the Race. They have families and children and forget about the fever dream that is Ytopie, treating the Race as a pilgrimage to honor our Gods. Those people are so diametrically opposed to how my family raised me that I find it hard to relate to them at all.
I get into a zone, practicing throwing my daggers into trees and wrapping my whip around their limbs. I have yet to encounter a lot of fighting in the Race, but that could change at any time. Most of the altercations I’ve had would barely qualify as a squabble. I prefer to rely on stealth, but avoiding conflict will not be possible forever. There are always creatures prowling in the Summit, and of course, other people are an unknown element.
