by Xiang Xiang Liew

Created on: June 24, 2009

Cyamour was passing through a narrow alleyway, trying to squeeze past the crowds of people. The ground was soggy and splattered with mud, with shreds of rotten vegetables and bits of offal squashed into it, and he had to tread carefully to avoid stepping into one of the numerous puddles. Sweaty arms and soaked backs were pushing into him from every direction, and the shouts of hawkers, the heated conversations, the rapid haggling, all formed an unrelenting wave of noise that closed in around him. He groaned. Sweat was coating every inch of his skin as well, making his clothes stick to him uncomfortably. He hated the heat of the south. Absolutely hated it.

But then again, this was part of his training too...

Then someone slammed into him roughly and Cyamour stumbled to the side with a yelp. Unexpectedly, he fell out of the throng of people into a short dark alley, a mere little space between two buildings. He rubbed at his side awkwardly, glancing back up. The man who had pushed him seemed to have disappeared back into the crowd without even a word of apology. How rude of him.

Cyamour scowled. He stared resentfully at the narrow strip of blue sky between the roofs of the two buildings. It was the exact same shade as his hair. He wished it wasn't. He wished it was grey or white, the pale colour of fish belly, with heavy clouds that would block the searing rays of the sun. He really wasn't used to all this heat and the pungent odours that invariably accompanied it.

Cyamour sighed and lowered his eyes. At least it was slightly cooler here in the shade of both buildings. Maybe it was time for a rest... he had been walking for a long time before reaching this town.

Then, as his pupils dilated and adjusted to the darker environment, he noticed the little shop, a mini-tavern of sorts, sunken into the end of the alley. It was small, with only a few wooden benches and tables laid out. No one was there except for an old man hunched over at the back, wiping at something with a rag. Cyamour wouldn't have identified it as a tavern if not for the stained cloth with the character for 'tea' on it waving in the breeze right outside it.

It didn't look very hygienic or appealing, but then again, Cyamour didn't really want to go out into the mass of stinking humans again without at least some good tea and perhaps food in his stomach to fortify himself.
He entered the little shop and his golden eyes widened in pleasure at the coolness of the interior. The old man turned around, beaming

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