Darkvision - Bruce R. Cordell [24]
And the crowd! Everywhere Warian looked, people talked (in diverse dialects and languages), bartered (from countless windows, booths, wagons, and permanent storefronts), sought hard-to-find goods (such as philters guaranteed to bring the buyer true love, or cockroaches whose shells turned blue in the presence of magic), gossiped (about the future of Durpar if Veldorn's aggression wasn't checked), and enjoyed themselves (drinking from great glass vessels filled with weak but tasty beer-consumed nearly as fast as it was brewed).
Warian was one of thousands of people thronging the streets, pushing his way forward as quickly and economically as possible. The trick of moving with the ebb and flow of the crowd came back to him with hardly any effort. He was elbowed in the side once, but ignoring such slights was part of getting where you wanted to go in a reasonable amount of time. He quickly found a public stable on the outskirts of the wharf district and paid a small sum to put Majeed up for several days. He hoped he wouldn't be around that long, but better to pay ahead than risk the stablemaster selling his horse.
Freed of worry about Majeed's well-being, Warian waved over a rickshaw pulled by a surprisingly short man with hair as red as fire.
"Where to?" asked the redhead, as Warian settled into the seat.
"West Gardens," Warian told the rickshaw driver. "It's a tenement district near Kazrim's Plunge." The Plunge was a statue commemorating a Kazrim, whose heroics three hundred years prior were considered instrumental in freeing Vaelantar from the monsters.
The driver nodded at Warian and pulled the transport out into the throng. Warian was a little surprised that the driver did not give his crystalline arm a second glance. He was accustomed, at the very least, to eyebrows raised in surprise, if not outright amazement, and often enough, hostility.
Whoever had ridden the rickshaw before had left behind the redolent perfume of cherry tobacco. Smoking tobacco from a water-cooled pipe was a vice Warian tried to cultivate when he still lived in Vaelan-his family had a long-standing taboo against smoking for some traditional reason, and he'd wanted to prove his independence-but he'd never managed to enjoy the sensation. Probably just as well.
Moving through Vaelan's busy streets was enjoyable when someone else's worry and effort forged the path. Sitting back in his seat allowed Warian a chance to absorb the ambience and study the various city dwellers and visitors who strode to and fro, each intent on his own unknowable business. Many were from outside Durpar, having traveled from countries like the Shaar, Dambrath, or Halruaa. Others hailed from even farther shores, such as the nearly mythical Sembia or Cormyr. Warian had never personally met anyone from places so distant, but he'd heard stories.
The sharp, glinting light of sun through crystal caught Warian's eye. A woman walking out of a stylish saloon on the high balcony to his left carried a prism… no…
The woman's hand was clear, as if made of glass! More than that, delicate traceries of crystal writhed across her whole arm, and marked her face, too, with an elaborate embroidery. Warian gaped. As he pulled closer, there was no doubt-the woman sported a crystal prosthesis, and then some, just as he did!
Her body art reminded Warian of an intricate tattoo, but never had he seen one laid down in glass. He didn't doubt the glass of her prosthesis and decoration was Datharathi crystal.
Warian waved to catch the woman's attention, but she turned and moved down an elevated path, and a bridge intervened as the rickshaw continued to move forward.
"Say," Warian called to the driver who plodded along ahead of him. "Do you see many people who have crystal like mine?" Warian tapped his arm even though the driver didn't turn. "Like my crystal arm?"
The driver shrugged without turning, and said, "Sure. Plangents. Too rich for my blood."
"Plangents?"
"Yeah." The driver craned