Post by mikhailpetrov on Oct 1, 2008 22:50:14 GMT -6
Money changed hands, items wrapped, as men hawked wares in booming voices. Each vendor vied for attention, to have their voice heard above their neighbors, as citizens of Skye moved along the marketplace intent upon their shopping. Strolling among them, yet apart from them, was none other than a wealthy merchant. Eyes the color of onyx, as black as his soul some claimed, perused each of the wares being sold- bolts of fabric, fanciful jewelry, and other such items. Goods were to be found here, ones that could make one rich, and quietly he grinned to himself as his mind imagined the money a man could make if in charge of all this.
Black gloved hand lifted to brush a single sable lock out of his face and then came to rest upon beard covered chin. Scratching it thoughtfully as his feet paused in the middle of the marketplace, eyeing a vendor selling fresh fruit. So far he had seen things here, in this place, that made his urge to be richer and more powerful grow. Not paying attention, and having stopped in the middle of the street as he had!, it was no surprise that a little urchin slammed into him and nearly knocked him off-balance.
Grabbing the dirty, plump heathen by the scruff of his shirt, lifting him into the air, Mikhail's eyes held fury as they stared at the quivering child. When he spoke it was in English, but...with that Russian accent,"Do you know who I am, boy? Peasant filth!"
Ego showed clearly as he looked upon the silent child with disdain. To think he could touch him, even by accident, was absurd! Those of a lower class needed to be taught lessons. At least, that was his opinion. A simple loosing of his fingers saw the boy slammed to the ground with a grunt and cry of pain, but all Mikhail did was shrug his shoulders and turn on the heel of one polished black boot to head down to the next vendor stall. As he did so one hand lifted to brush off the rich black vest he wore over white ruffled shirt and black breeches.
And the boy laid there, crying.
Black gloved hand lifted to brush a single sable lock out of his face and then came to rest upon beard covered chin. Scratching it thoughtfully as his feet paused in the middle of the marketplace, eyeing a vendor selling fresh fruit. So far he had seen things here, in this place, that made his urge to be richer and more powerful grow. Not paying attention, and having stopped in the middle of the street as he had!, it was no surprise that a little urchin slammed into him and nearly knocked him off-balance.
Grabbing the dirty, plump heathen by the scruff of his shirt, lifting him into the air, Mikhail's eyes held fury as they stared at the quivering child. When he spoke it was in English, but...with that Russian accent,"Do you know who I am, boy? Peasant filth!"
Ego showed clearly as he looked upon the silent child with disdain. To think he could touch him, even by accident, was absurd! Those of a lower class needed to be taught lessons. At least, that was his opinion. A simple loosing of his fingers saw the boy slammed to the ground with a grunt and cry of pain, but all Mikhail did was shrug his shoulders and turn on the heel of one polished black boot to head down to the next vendor stall. As he did so one hand lifted to brush off the rich black vest he wore over white ruffled shirt and black breeches.
And the boy laid there, crying.