He is awake, when the suns finally peak over the pointed conifer trees.
He has been, for hours -- or it feels like hours, but who can know with everything soaked in utter darkness.
Saxifrage has never been so relieved to see the light.
Sunlight, because even when the moons (finally) revealed themselves again, he stewed in apprehension.
His shoulders sag and he droops forward from where he sits beneath some branches, tension that was twisted throughout his very being loosening its hold, just a little.
Because the world doesn't rumble, usually, and the moons and stars don't vanish. He hasn't been alive too long, but long enough to know this, and so he steps out cautiously from the tree and into the morning light, brows furrowing towards the sky.
"What, is everything just normal now?"
He scoffs in the wake of his own words, scanning the forest for other signs of life as he contemplates his next course of action.
Maybe go home? No.
It's been barely over a week since he took leave of his mother's court.
That's not home anymore, anyway.
saturnine, on the other hand, didn't care much if it was dark or day - it all feels very much the same to him, after all. the life of a vagrant isn't a glamorous one and he supposes that, had the suns refused to rise, he would have continued to sell by the moonlight. the needs of the country and courts wouldn't cease to exist simply because it was dark, after all.
but rise the suns do and he squints his own pitch gaze up at them, nose wrinkling minutely. he hefts the pack on his shoulder, settling the handful of weapons he's meant to peddle today, and swallows the long suffering sigh that threatens to slip through his long jaws. with the rise of the daylight once more, he imagines the panic will die down. and with it the desperate purchases for safety.
the high court would hear of his price gouging by midday, he guesses, and it doesn't take nine much longer than an hour to gather his wares up and disappear.
he's approaching as Saxifrage's snort reaches him. his rose ears twitch up and then back, rolling his dark eyes. talking to themselves, now? "could be." the vagabond says as he meanders closer to the vibrant youth. "or could just be th'start." ominous - but intended to be so. "best procure some safety measures....." he drawls off, jutting his bony shoulder up and down to make the handful of daggers jangle. enticingly, he hopes.
If a vagrant child talks to himself in the middle of the woods, then of course someone will be around to hear it. A sharp spark of surprise shoots up his spine and his ears stand high upon his head, yellow eyes darting to the strange merchant making his way.
A mostly blue pelt, eerie dark gaze... and a pack full of wares, reminding Saxifrage of his own belongings that wait leaned up against the tree he’d left.
”The start of what?” He asks, suspicion coloring his tone. Who was this merchant, and what did he know? Better yet, why is he out here in the middle of the woods instead of peddling closer to civilization?
But the clink of the daggers draw his gaze.
He has never made a blade, and he can tell nothing of their craftsmanship from their current location. ”This is a weird place to sell anything,” but his attention has not left the weapons, ”... Can I see them?”
the little scrap ( neither little nor a scrap really ) side-eyes him with a healthy dose of skepticism and the roan man smiles. his long fangs flash and he extends a long leg out in front of him, pointy snout slinging between both forelegs in a dramatic little bow. "the upcoming show, of course." he trills, his bleak gaze turning skyward to squint against the light. "sun may be back, but you think it's all going to go back to normal?" his nose wrinkles and his gaze slides to peer at the youth, a wink thrown at his feet. nine can see how the pup eyes his little treasure trove and inwardly smirks. 'gotcha, kid'.
"daggers and truths both cost somethin'."
it's a none-too-gentle reminder of what the world runs on: currency, in whatever form. yros may not be a hellscape of monetary value, but there's always something to hoard, to covet. and here, amongst the courts, knowledge is oh-so-much power.
the merchant obliges, however, reaching over his shoulder to snag his teeth in the little bag. carefully, he swings it off his back to plop it between his feet. he certainly didn't craft every instrument in the pack and there were plenty that were stolen - easy to offload on the boy, really.
carefully, the crafty man unhooks the bag to send its contents spilling across the ground just in front of him. four objects: two small, dark blades; a clouded glass flask with a delicate chain necklace and, oddly enough, a bent and crooked needle-thin creation that looks good for little aside from tying up fur. he squints at it, trying to remember where it came from, and then shrugs.
Saxifrage frowns at the merchant’s theatrics, tipping his own head back to study the sky a second time. He’s detached just enough from the courts at this moment to know nothing of the side-effects and resulting panic they’ve wrought.
He’s also yet to use his own thauma since the eclipse.
As the stranger twists ‘round to retrieve his pack, the boy reclines silently to his haunches, resolved to the notion that if anything does catch his interest, he’ll certainly not be getting it for free. Fair enough; he’s young, but not unfamiliar with the art of barter and trade.
Four items scatter between them, and while the blades are still at the forefront of his mind, he can’t help but knit his brows a little at the flask and the... fur ornament? That falls to the ground in their wake.
”Is there something in that bottle?” Only shifty characters would carry poison around in vials, and, well... This man did sort of fit that description.
But that’s not as relevant as the daggers.
He studies them intently, relying only on his good vision and ignoring the itch in his paws to pick one up just yet. He knows from experience that he needs to prove he really has something to exchange before he touches the merchandise, and so he’s abrupt to his feet to make his way to the tree trunk where his pack slumps expectantly. ”I could trade. I make things. One second.”
When the boy returns he’s grasping the top half of his rucksack in his jaws, the flap unfastened. He jerks his head to adjust his grip just enough, shaking the pack until three leather collars drop softly to the space directly in front of Saturnine’s myriad.
All three of them have been set with stones; sturdily, but with the marks and flair of someone still learning, even if their practice is diligent. The jewels themselves have been carved but not smooth, as if struck by a sharp edge in search of a particular shape. They fasten with a hook-and-eye made of bone.
He’s suddenly self-conscious and tries to hide it, letting his eyes linger for a bit longer than they usually would on the fruits of his craft.
What if they aren’t good enough?