The sun, a malevolent eye in the sky, beat down on Zyth’s scales, baking the ochre dust into a fine, irritating powder. He shifted his weight, the roughspun cloth of his loincloth doing little to ease the discomfort. Another day. Another shift in the mines, hacking at stubborn earth for the dull gleam of ore. The rhythmic clang of pick against rock still echoed in his skull, even as he descended the familiar path from the cliff face to the market below.
Zyth’s abode, a shallow cave gouged into the cliff’s sandstone, held little comfort, but it was home. A handful of smooth river stones, each a memory carried from journeys to the distant water’s edge. A crudely carved wooden flute, its melody as rough and untamed as the desert wind. And his precious collection of obsidian shards, polished to a dark, reflective sheen. Each held a story, a glint of the world’s raw beauty harvested from the bones of the volcanic earth.
But today was different. Today was market day.
The copper coins, cold and heavy in his pouch, clinked with each step. The coins bore the symbol of the mountain; the great spine of the world from which his life was wrested. Mining the rock for a coin to buy another days’ worth of rock… It was an endless, cruel cycle, but the market was a brief respite. The thought sent a flicker of anticipation through his scaled chest.
The marketplace was a maelstrom of sound and scent. The harsh desert air was thick with the smell of roasted grubs and fermented cactus juice. The chatter of Lizardfolk, their guttural voices punctuated by the skittering of beetle-men and the high-pitched calls of eaglefolk, filled the air. The colours were vibrant: woven cloth in hues of sun-baked clay and cactus green, gleaming pottery glazed with desert blues, and the raw, untamed sparkle of unearthed minerals.
Zyth weaved through the bustling crowd, his tail flicking rhythmically. His gaze darted from stall to stall, absorbing the curated chaos. This was his joy, this brief foray into the world of things not mined, not chiseled from the rock. He spotted a vendor selling roasted desert worms, glistening with fat. His stomach rumbled. He approached, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. He knew the tricks. The vendor, an older lizardfolk with a missing claw, quoted a price. Zyth countered with a lower one, offering a handful of the copper coins, as if they were the most worthless of things, just shiny pebbles. The vendor pretended to be offended then with a long sigh agreed to the bargain. Zyth walked away with a good amount for a price less than expected.
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He ate the roasted grubs slowly, picking off bits of charred exoskeleton. His eyes were already scouting new terrain. He saw a stall overflowing with polished stones, each captured light in its core. Raw stones- Unrefined and untouched by the hands of men. That was what called to him. He lingered there, transfixed. Pale quartz, streaked with veins of rust, and deep red garnets, like frozen drops of blood. He picked them up, feeling their rough texture against his scales, tilting them to catch the light. The vendor, a timid Lizardman with wide, nervous eyes, watched him silently.
Zyth knew he must have them but he also knew the vendor had priced them too high, especially for someone like him. This game, to him, was as vital as survival, using logic, words, and body language to get the best deal. It was the dance of the marketplace.
“These are… dull stones,” Zyth said, his voice low and raspy. He turned one over in his claw. “They have no sparkle. They look like they were dug out of a gutter.”
The vendor seemed startled by the blatant lie."They are rare!" he responded unconvincingly.
Zyth then pointed to a crack in the stone he had been inspecting. "This one is broken" he stated flatly, then pointed at the small pile of smooth, dull stones at the bottom of the table, "I would take those" he stated, making his final offer. The vendor, surprised at the offer, and having his own tricks, agreed without much more fuss.
He traded the last of his copper for the stones, carefully arranging them inside a small pouch. They would join his other treasures back in his cave, a tangible record of his existence beyond the mine. He purchased a few preserved fruits and dried cactus, necessities for the week ahead.
As the sun began to dip below the jagged horizon, casting long, dancing shadows across the marketplace, Zyth began the slow trek back to his cliffside home. The dust clung to his scales, and the memories of the day clung to his heart. The market was a constant reminder of a world outside the cave, a world he, in his own way, tried to weave himself into. He would return to the mine tomorrow, he knew that. He would mine the earth to make more coins, just to return to the market. It was the way of all Lizardfolk. But for now, he would allow himself to dream of the market, of the stones, of the stories they held inside them.