- Influence
- 11,195.00
The wheels of the cart squealed like a frightened piglet as they trundled over the sun-baked stones of Kenny’s Bunk Point. Gaudy pennants flapped overhead, their colors painfully bright under the midday sun. A whale-shaped balloon bobbed against the sky, tethered to a saltwater taffy stand.
Thistle squinted up from the cart at a storefront that proclaimed SHELL YEAH! – Souvenirs & Curios in blocky blue letters. His nose twitched at the mingled scent of sugar glaze, fried crustaceans, and pink coconut oil.
“Hrm. This place has too many teeth.”
The cart creaked to a halt beside a shaded alcove between a claw-painting kiosk and a puppet theater. One of the cart’s wheels bumped up against a misplaced paving stone, and a crate inside clattered loose.
The Porter hissed. He had already begun to wilt in the southern heat, cloaked form swaying as he righted himself.
Thistle stepped down and began the elaborate process of setting up. The awning had warped slightly from the journey. He muttered curses as he wrestled it upright. A gust of ocean wind caught one edge and nearly toppled it again.
Meanwhile, the Porter struggled to steady a stack of trinket boxes shaped like sea cucumbers, bumping the cart’s back wheel in the process and sending a pouch of Brightmirth Brew tumbling into the dust.
A few onlookers gathered. A child pointed and giggled. One adult muttered, “Street magic”, and dug for a coin.
“Not a show,” Thistle muttered, affixing a sign to the front of the cart with a crooked smile painted beneath the words: Fortunes Told. Spirits Heard. Unsolicited Honesty Available.
Business came quickly. A wobbling sea-tourist bought a vial labeled Wavetamer’s Reprieve without reading the fine print. Thistle handed it over with a flourish.
“No refund if your fur grows back in green, dearie.”
Sales picked up. Some mistook Brightmirth Brew for a novelty liqueur and bought three at once. Thistle didn’t correct them. The Porter, half-draped over the crate, made a low, tired sound.
Then came the moment. A seagull gave a sudden shriek, then pitched out of the sky like a stone. It landed directly on a sagging overhead banner, and the added weight tore it free. The whole length of garish canvas came tumbling down, taking with it a busker’s hat stand and knocking the poor beast clean off his stool. Coins clattered. Bystanders shrieked and began grabbing at the spilled coinage.
Thistle didn’t flinch.
“Bad air. Perfect for business.”
He turned to the Porter, who now sat slumped like a wet sack of laundry, robes tanning in the heat.
“Go on, dear Porter. Barrel just there.” He gestured toward a shaded corner where a half-covered water cask stood near a melted lemonade cart. “Slow sips.”
The Porter creaked off, cloak dragging behind him. Thistle adjusted the curtain over the cart’s reading nook and lit a twist of incense that smelled faintly of lavender and old pine.
Then he sat in a garish, flowery printed folding chair wearing darkened glasses contentedly, in wait.
Thistle squinted up from the cart at a storefront that proclaimed SHELL YEAH! – Souvenirs & Curios in blocky blue letters. His nose twitched at the mingled scent of sugar glaze, fried crustaceans, and pink coconut oil.
“Hrm. This place has too many teeth.”
The cart creaked to a halt beside a shaded alcove between a claw-painting kiosk and a puppet theater. One of the cart’s wheels bumped up against a misplaced paving stone, and a crate inside clattered loose.
The Porter hissed. He had already begun to wilt in the southern heat, cloaked form swaying as he righted himself.
Thistle stepped down and began the elaborate process of setting up. The awning had warped slightly from the journey. He muttered curses as he wrestled it upright. A gust of ocean wind caught one edge and nearly toppled it again.
Meanwhile, the Porter struggled to steady a stack of trinket boxes shaped like sea cucumbers, bumping the cart’s back wheel in the process and sending a pouch of Brightmirth Brew tumbling into the dust.
A few onlookers gathered. A child pointed and giggled. One adult muttered, “Street magic”, and dug for a coin.
“Not a show,” Thistle muttered, affixing a sign to the front of the cart with a crooked smile painted beneath the words: Fortunes Told. Spirits Heard. Unsolicited Honesty Available.
Business came quickly. A wobbling sea-tourist bought a vial labeled Wavetamer’s Reprieve without reading the fine print. Thistle handed it over with a flourish.
“No refund if your fur grows back in green, dearie.”
Sales picked up. Some mistook Brightmirth Brew for a novelty liqueur and bought three at once. Thistle didn’t correct them. The Porter, half-draped over the crate, made a low, tired sound.
Then came the moment. A seagull gave a sudden shriek, then pitched out of the sky like a stone. It landed directly on a sagging overhead banner, and the added weight tore it free. The whole length of garish canvas came tumbling down, taking with it a busker’s hat stand and knocking the poor beast clean off his stool. Coins clattered. Bystanders shrieked and began grabbing at the spilled coinage.
Thistle didn’t flinch.
“Bad air. Perfect for business.”
He turned to the Porter, who now sat slumped like a wet sack of laundry, robes tanning in the heat.
“Go on, dear Porter. Barrel just there.” He gestured toward a shaded corner where a half-covered water cask stood near a melted lemonade cart. “Slow sips.”
The Porter creaked off, cloak dragging behind him. Thistle adjusted the curtain over the cart’s reading nook and lit a twist of incense that smelled faintly of lavender and old pine.
Then he sat in a garish, flowery printed folding chair wearing darkened glasses contentedly, in wait.
