The Captain's Log: Portal: Wouagi (The Gloomweaver Bazaar)

Prompt #2 - Gloomweaver Bazaars Wouagan residents are well known for their handicrafts. In the past, the mucus of swamp salamanders was highly toxic, making high-tide travel difficult and dangerous. One accidental tip of a boat could lead to weeks of illness, so when the tides were high and the swamplands unwalkable, Wouagans stayed at home. During those times, Wouagans climbed the rooftops of their homes to pick vines and wood from the trees. These would be woven into baskets, carved into toys and works of art, and imbued with magical spells. When the hold of the triple moons waned and the poisonous tides retreated, the community would come together for “Gloomweaver Bazaars” to find joy in the creations of solitary sorrow. After centuries of hunting and selective breeding, the salamanders’ mucus became benign, and the tradition of the Bazaars remained as a reminder of the days of the past and the grit and determination of the community. Show your character at a gloomweaver bazaar. Your piece must include your character and a marketplace with crafted goods.

 

Hester admitted that her ideas about being a pirate may have been coloured by all the romance novels she’d read, but when Eltanin had told the crew they were going to be smuggling goods into Wouagi, Hester had imagined a lot more excitement and a lot less… waiting. But the hard part– if you could even call sailing right past some snoring portal guards ‘hard’-- was over, and now all they had to do was stand around on some slime-rotted docks and wait for the buyer to pick up the crates.

 

“Shoulda brought my catmint oil,” Jags muttered, swatting at the songbird-sized mosquitoes that came to inspect their newfound feast.

 

“Bugs and amphibians and reptiles, oh my! Isn’t nature beautiful?” Eltanin paused to kick away a swamp salamander that was climbing onto the crates. “Think we’ve got things handled here, Hes. What’s say you and the lad go explore the bazaar? Buy some souvenirs. Find something alcoholic for tonight. Sample the local food. Sample the locals–”

 

“OKAY, got it,” Hester interrupted, clapping her hands over Shappell’s ears. “Any budget?”

 

“800 gold.”

 

More than enough for a few barrels of swamp whiskey and a fancy wicker basket for everyone. Hester caught the bag Eltanin tossed at her and tucked it into the pocket of her raincoat. “Good luck, you two. Don’t let the bugs bite. Seriously, just five of them could bleed you dry.”

 

*

 

The Wouagans had a complicated relationship with water. On the one hand, high tide could rise six feet high, last for weeks, then recede, leaving a metaphorical minefield of mud and sinkholes in its wake. On the other hand, that same mud brought precious nutrients into their cropfields, perfect for growing rice and jute. It was fun as a lesson about living in the moment, but not so much to actually live in.

 

“Sari, madam? Shawl? Wimple? All made of fine linen!”

 

“Baskets! Hand-woven baskets!”

 

Between the rows of stilt houses that rose out of the slimy swamp, dozens of small boats had been anchored in place, so tightly-packed together that one could walk across them and never once touch water. Of course, that meant getting touted every time one stepped onto a new merchant’s boat. Hester kept one hand in Shappell’s, while the other reached for taffrails, masts, anything that could give her purchase as they crossed the rocking ‘floor’ to the other end of town.

 

“Free sample?”

 

Now there was a perfectly fine ‘F’ word. Hester stopped in her stalwart march, and the old woman sitting at the helm of the boat held up a small cup carved from lacquered wood. The liquid inside was dark green, but all her time with the crew had taught her the art of closing her eyes and tipping back. It tasted relatively high-proof, flavoured with herbal bitters of some sort, and left a warm, satisfying burn in her throat.

 

“Some for the boy?”

 

“No, thank you. How much for three barrels?”

 

*

 

“Alright. At this point, this is just rude.”

 

Eltanin pointed his finger at a giant mosquito, and it burst into flames, dropping to the dock as a crisp husk. A cat-sized frog hopped over and gobbled it up. The Paperdemon had attracted quite a menagerie of wildlife over the course of his pest control efforts, from frogs to rainbow-plumed ducks and even the odd river otter, but at least they knew how to keep a respectful distance. This one giant salamander, however…

 

“Gerroff that,” Jags grumbled, crouching down and hefting the salamander up in his arms. It squeaked in protest, wriggling its little stubby limbs in the air, as he tossed it into the swamp waters below with a huge splash, sending a plume of slimy water up five feet high.

 

“Honestly. We make the effort to be on time, risk life and limb sitting out in the open like rainbow-ducks, and the buyer can’t even show his face. It’s embarrassing.”

 

“Did ‘ee pay in advance?”

 

“...No.”

 

“That’ll learn ya, cap’n.”

 

*

 

“Alright. That’s drinks and snacks for eight sorted. Now, what was that last thing again?”

 

“Souvenirs, Miss Hester.”

“Right, right. Now, what to buy?”

Baskets were traditional, perhaps stereotypically so. Why, it’d be like buying pizza rolls for tourists visiting Avangard! How very kitschy. No, her knick-knacks were going to be inspired– avant-garde, even!

 

Unfortunately, that meant getting off the beaten (boaten?) path, away from the dozens of sellers all hawking exact copies of each others’ goods. The old lady with the swamp gin had suggested a side dock she called ‘heeler row’, or something to that effect. Her accent was a little hard to understand. Anyway, she’d given them directions, so all they had to do was follow the glowing mushrooms to the boardwalk wreathed in the shadow of a willow grove.

 

As they left the main bazaar behind them, the lanterns that had illuminated the evening gloom grew dimmer and farther between, until they stopped being lit entirely, leaving only the blue glow of the mushrooms to light their path. Eyes peered at them out of the dark, some clearly animal, others… less so. Something skittered away with a splash of water, and then a young, tan-skinned boy stepped out of the shadows of a nearby house.

 

He had the same pale hair and dyed jute tunic and trousers as the other Wouagans, but his eyes were dark brown, almost black, and Hester could just barely spot something fluttering under the shawl around his neck.

“Translator,” he said, holding out his hand. His voice was strangely breathless, almost a hiss. “Fifty.”

 

“Fifty gold for translation services?”

 

He nodded.

 

“We speak Common. The other merchants seemed to know it well enough.”

 

He shook his head. “Translator. Fifty?”

 

There was a non-zero chance that he was pulling a fast one on them, but the prickling at the back of her neck told her he wasn’t the only creature with eyes on them. “Fifty,” she affirmed, shaking the coins out of her bag and dropping them into his hand.

 

The boy’s demeanor changed at once. He pocketed the money and held out his hands, in a pose that suggested the two should hold them. Hester obliged, and Shappell followed soon after. The boy’s palm was oddly scaly as he led them down the shady dock.

 

“Looking?”

 

“Souvenirs,” Hester said. “Something unique, more exciting than those baskets at the bazaar.”

 

“Mrrr!” he acknowledged, in a sort of closed-mouth purr. The dock seemed to stretch on endlessly into the darkness, but as Hester’s eyes adjusted to the lighting, she saw that the muddy ground on both sides of the jetty were lined with driftwood boards, each with strange and exotic goods stacked tastefully atop them. She couldn’t see any merchants, at first, but then she looked again when she heard a splash, and saw the first black-and-yellow salamander sitting beside its ‘shopfront’, then the second, and the third.

 

Heeler row? Nah. Gila row.

 

The translator scanned each driftwood offering, humming to himself as if deep in thought, then seemed to remember something, and broke into a jog. The two humans followed after him until he came to a stop at a flooded patch of water between two twisting banyan trees. A veil of aerial roots hung down like a mystic curtain over a floating board of painted ceramic pots, cups, and bowls, and a pair of pale blue eyes peering out from the depths of the water. By the size of the eyes alone, Hester estimated the salamander below could be close to fifteen feet long.

 

“Slime ‘chanted,” the boy said. The salamander under the water bubbled up a deep rumble, which he leaned in to hear. “Always clean. Never washing. Cracks if poisoned.”

 

That was certainly useful for someone in the business of illegal business. Plus, they’d make great conversation pieces. ‘Oh, these? Yeah, they’re salamander-enchanted. Yes, you heard me right.’

 

“We’ll take ‘em,” Hester said. “Eight sets. Will 400 cover it?”

 

The boy related this in a series of inhuman grunts and hisses, and the eyes seemed to light up in delight. It rumbled again, and a team of smaller swamp salamanders burst out of the water, crawling over to the board with wax paper ready in their mouths.

 

“You know, the way the Wouagans talked about them, we thought these salamanders were just mindless animals. Are they all like this?”

 

The boy shook his head, and Hester caught a hint of something frilly, almost hair-like, moving under his neck. “Not all. Many, yes. Translator know.”

 

So that had been money well-spent, after all.

 

“I’ll bet El’s found his buyer by now. C’mon, I’ll introduce you. Can’t wait to see the look on his face when I tell him a salamander slimed his souvenirs!”

 

*

 

“Day 16. Hope nearly lost. Gods, remember our story…”

 

“It’s been an hour, cap’n.”

 

Well, Jags didn’t have to go and rain on his parade like that. Eltanin plopped himself on top of the sturdiest crate, sighing as he zapped yet another hungry mosquito out of his face. He had gathered an army of four frogs, six ducks, and a family of otters, yet he still hadn’t attracted their buyer. Hopefully Hes and the lad had had a fun time out in the bazaar.

 

“We’re ba~ack!” sang a familiar voice, right on schedule. Good old Hester! The Paperdemon rose to his feet as his two crewmates came down the dock, toting a promisingly-full rucksack each. Oh, and they’d brought a friend, a boy with an unsettling stare and what was clearly a finned tail trailing out of his robe.

 

“Welcome. Seems you’ve had more luck than us, at least. Hang on, that beast’s got into the crates again.”

 

“No! Nooo!” the boy shrieked, as Jags thrust his arms under the salamander’s belly. He darted forward, slapping the elf’s arms until he dropped his burden with a curse. The salamander hissed, and the boy hissed back, and the two seemed to exchange a rapid conversation that involved lots of tail-flailing and tongue-flicking.

 

Eltanin blinked. “Hang on. Is that boy… talking…”

 

“Translator. He speaks salamander.”

 

Well, that sure cleared things up. A few more awkward seconds of amphibian conversation, and then the boy turned to the crew, licking his lips as though choosing his next words carefully.

 

“Buyer,” he said at last, pointing to the slimy critter flicking its tongue at them with what was now clearly an annoyed squint. “Say you push, kick her. Not ask. Rude. Not buy again.”

 

“Oh. Okay, well, I can see how… right. Um, we’re sorry. Terribly sorry. In our defence, we don’t do a lot of business with sapient animals.”

 

“We shipped silvine to talking cats in Mund last week.”

 

“Besides that. Anyway, I know it’s in poor taste, but… could you ask if she’ll pay us?”

 

“El!” Hester huffed.

 

“What? It’s worth a shot.”

 

The boy nodded. Another back-and-forth.

 

“She will pay. No bonus.”

 

“You know what? That’s fair.”