The Marktplein
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Lunch time!
An Indecisive Morning
Desya walked into the marketplace, his hair was down, and moved gently with him as he walked. he looked around, wondering where to get a good bit of food. he swung a reasonably sized cloth bag in his left hand, which contained all his worldly possessions. he hummed as he went; a simple ditty he had heard his mother singing when she hadn't been aware of him nearby.
Gregory stolls up to one of the street vendors and buys a pizza puff, his favorite for a quick lunch. He continues walking and notices a hungry chap eyeing his puff. Gregory chews and swallows the bite he was eating (he never talks with his mouth full) and says, "If you're hungry, these things are absolutely fabulous, mate." He gestures to the stand. "Made fresh every hour."
Desya bowed thankfully, "ah. . .!" quickly he ran to the stand and bought some. he hungrily began eating, burning his tongue but swallowing to avoid wasting food. he decided to wait a minute or two before eating any more. he walked back to the male who had suggested them, ". . . sank oo. . . " his heavy russian accent got the better of him and he wished he could speak better, worrying that he would seem odd.
"No probs, mate. Name's Gregory." He wiped his right hand and held it out to shake.
Desya hesitated a moment, then took Gregory's hand and shook it, smiling at him oddly, "nis tsu meet yoo. . . m-my name ish Deshya. . ."
"Same here, Deshya. So what brings you to Mitternacht Route? You sound like you're not from around here..." While Gregory was saying this, he was thinking,
Gosh, this boy is cute! The accent is so endearing! And he's so shy! But, he probably doesn't go that way... figures. But all the same...
Desya thinks for a moment, what -had- brought him here? "v. . .vell i suposs tsat i juts kind ov . . . vanderedd herr?" he looked down, "i. . i tryink tsu find werk. . . i'm a baard, yoo shee. . . my tsroupe abandoned me becaush dey find out i wass. . ." he stopped, catching himself before he told any more, he was afraid to tell anyone that he had been kicked out because he had been in a relationship with the leader of his troupe, he decided to change the subject, "i. . . i'm soury about. . . tsi way i speak . .. my. . . my mozser. . . sthe didn't speak tsat vell englishh. . ." he blushed slightly, ashamed of himself.
A sudden black fog appears out of the corner of Desya's eye, and he looks up to see a woman with bright green hair standing by a booth. The man standing behind the table looks terrified as she looks through all of his crosses and daggers and swords on sale. The woman looks in deep concentration as though she is trying to look for something. She then asks the man something out of Desya's range. But it sounds strange none the less. The man standing there is also confused as he shakes his head and shrugs. The woman sighs and sees Desya looking at her.
"Doen jou bekend zijn met waar de afzonderlijk over elkaar slaan vierkante decameter?" she calls out to them.
Gregory smiles and says, "English, please, my dear woman, if you can. Otherwise, I think that we'll have a rather hard time communicating, eh? Unless Desya here is fluent in wotever tongue you're speaking in..." he gives Desya a questioning look.
"Oh good. Ye speak english," the woman says with a heavy German accent ((<-- reason why i wanted to join!)). She then walks over to the two of them, a joyful and slightly twisted smile on her face, showing her large fangs. "I was asking ef ye knew where ze shpecial croshes where. Very weird, I know, but I grew up in a German church, ye shee, zat ish why I wonted to know," she said, "et ish also why I speak German most of ze time. And a little English. And a little Frence."
Gregory looks at her and chuckles. "Special crosses? Sorry, you're asking the wrong person. Born and bred atheist, m'self. Personally couldn't care less about the bloody crosses. But maybe we can find some bloke to help you out."
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