Valkyrie of Desire

11. Claiming The Shame Box

Drums steady sour souls of marching men
Ho hum the harsh beat of the laughing ten
Go forward toward the red rising sun
Upward onward with the dying done
Dare to kiss the bleeding feet of nine
Always one man must be left behind

—Abel Hart

Straw pokes into Hildr's belly, making her squirm as she is jostled about in the bustling afternoon market. A hay-filled sack presses against her chest under a dark-green robe. It is a simple costume, but with theater, simple can work wonders.

Hundreds wander through the maze of wares. Most shoppers are human and dressed in the local style, baggy wool tunics and trousers regardless of age, race, or sex. A few of the diminutive races, blue-skinned beebos and pink-skinned gnomes, add variety underfoot. Among the vendors, a spattering of squat dwarves and thin elves call for buyers, as do some flamboyant humans in colorful garb that contrast their peers' drab dress.

Hildr fingers a purple rag hanging from a pole. It is stuck where two paths cross. Ordered chaos, colored flags like this one mark three sections of the market. Purple for local makers and scavengers. Green for food and drink. Yellow for traveling traders.

Apple huffs by her ear and points down a clogged path. "That way to mind-freezing booze. Titan's Tears, Bed-wetter, Dead Tongue; ... it's all cheap hooch distilled in haunted caves by half-wit miners. They bottle fear with their spirits and a bit of piss for flavor."

Hildr curls her lip. "Lovely."

"Ya want some?"

The old man has a wide smile. It warms his cherub face and adds a twinkle to his eye. If he was young and healthy, his charm might be attractive.

Hildr adjusts the peasant-pillow tied to her stomach. "These people are devoid of proper entertainment. Even those around the shame box look bored."

The platform sits apart from the rest of the market, at the edge where the three sections meet. Green, purple, and yellow flags crisscross to make a border where no vendors can park, leaving room for a crowd to spectate. A ripple of laughter and curses mix among the folk, directed at a thin man on display.

Apple shakes his head. "These fools all think they'll never be dragged up there. Give the druids another few seasons, and there will be shame boxes on every street."

Hildr squints at the man on the platform as he dodges a rotten tomato. "He's familiar. I think from Alleyway yesterday morning. I sat next to him, and he warned against getting the eel."

"Nice guy, but we shouldn't interrupt. They'll get bored once he starts weeping."

"Oh? Blubbering didn't work for you yesterday." She points. "That nice guy is who told me to find you up there. If not for him, how far do you think Agastache would have taken your punishment? It didn't seem like weeping was satiating her."

Apple strokes his beard. "Well—"

"My fault!" The man hugs himself, shivering. "It's all my fault!" His tunic hangs heavy, soaked with produce juice.

Hildr raises an eyebrow. "He's the skinny version of you."

"Oi, fine," says Apple. "Rescue the poor sod. I'll mix in with the crowd, spread rumors and get them excited about ya."

Hildr grunts and walks towards the platform. A cabbage flies by her ear into the hands of a young man who readies to throw it onto the stage. She slaps it free from his grip, sending it rolling.

"Hey!" says the young man. "Wha'cha do that for?"

She narrows her eyes and spits at his feet. "Stick to tossing tomatoes, boy."