Drift Stories/Hands Off the Merchandise: Difference between revisions

Line 23:

The glass-walled elevator car made its way slowly up the side of the High Spire, the luxurious crown perched atop the Cloud ~~Archipelago’s~~ expanse. Inside, the four members of the Stationary ~~Traveller’s~~ crew stood waiting. Though they tried not to show it, the tension was palpable.

The glass-walled elevator car made its way slowly up the side of the High Spire, the luxurious crown perched atop the ''Cloud Archipelago''’s expanse. Inside, the four members of the ''Stationary Traveller''’s crew stood waiting. Though they tried not to show it, the tension was palpable.

Ilyar, his grey-brown fur brushed smooth and the brass buttons on his coat shining, fixed his gaze on the soft glow of the Drift outside. “

Ilyar, his grey-brown fur brushed smooth and the brass buttons on his coat shining, fixed his gaze on the soft glow of the Drift outside. Bentley stood to his side, running their fingers through the fur on his arms in an attempt to soothe their anxiety. Solivane, meanwhile, was explaining the etiquette of meeting an arms dealer feared across the Multiverse to Quartz, whose golden-brown ears were twitching with excitement.

"Let the captain do the talking. Speak only when you are spoken to, and always address her as 'Lady Kyrie'," Solivane explained, adjusting their robes to geometric perfection.

Bentley looked round. "Really? Are we meeting a merchant or a god?"

"On this driftstation Kyrie may as well be a god, Bentley," said Solivane sharply, "''Please'' do not let your big mouth get us into trouble." Bentley winked conspiratorially and made a zipping motion across their mouth.

Quartz smoothed down her ears with a paw; they sprang straight back up. "Everyone on the station knows who she is, but very few ever get to meet her. We're lucky, I guess. Lucky, or in a ''lot'' of trouble."

The elevator car came to a smooth stop, dinged, and the doors slid open almost silently. "Stick close," said Ilyar, stepping forward into the lobby.

This was a very different place from the utilitarian grime of the station promenade. A deep red strip of carpet ran over the black marble floor from the elevator to a grand set of stained-wood doors on the far side, flanked by two ermine guards with pristine white fur. Ilyar strode confidently across the carpet, his crew following; Bentley kept tight by his side, always a step behind. In practised form the guards pushed open the huge doors as they approached.