The festive hum of the market didn't just falter; it imploded into a collective gasp, then a terrified murmur that rippled through the crowd like a chilling draft.
Genevive, wearing her short scarlet clock, mid-giggle, nearly choked on the laugh she'd been sharing with Staven, who had just managed to trip over his own feet for the third time that hour, landing in a pile of discarded pumpkin skins. Their mirth, however, evaporated faster than a forgotten ice cream cone in the summer sun.
Calton, still holding a surprisingly lumpy purple potato, exchanged a wary glance with Evangelique or 'Eva' as Calton's unique nickname for his best friend, had instinctively clutched a fistful of fresh, crisp kale to her chest like a leafy shield. "Hauntlington," Eva breathed, her voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the sudden, eerie silence of the market. "Never a good sign."
The two soldiers, clad in polished obsidian and burnished gold, moved with a rigid precision that screamed "do not approach." They cleared a path with an almost robotic efficiency, their eyes scanning the throng with a predatory glint. Between them strode the grumpy gentleman, his golden-amber hair a striking contrast to his thundercloud scowl.
He was tall, indeed, his shoulders broad beneath a heavy, fur-lined cloak, but it was his eyes, the color of molten gold that truly commanded attention, darting across the now-frozen faces of the market-goers as if searching for a misplaced sock in the universe's largest laundry hamper.
The woven basket, nestled in the crook of his arm, seemed innocuous enough at first glance, but the Hauntlington insignia: a stylized, snarling frost-hound was embossed with an unnerving luminescence.
A faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from within it, a sound that only those with particularly acute senses, like Genevive's, could discern. It felt less like a sound and more like a pressure, a subtle ripple in the very air.
"This is… not normal, even for Hauntlington," Staven whispered, pulling Genevive further behind the gnarled oak, now their reluctant sanctuary. He had a knack for stating the obvious, but his voice held an uncharacteristic tremor.
The grumpy gentleman, evidently unimpressed by the stunned silence, stopped abruptly in the center of the plaza, his gaze sweeping over the array of winter provisions.
He sniffed, a sound of profound disdain. "Amateurs," he declared, his voice a low growl that carried surprisingly far, echoing slightly in the sudden stillness. "All of you, an utter collection of unqualified, uninspired, and frankly, unwashed… vendors."
A ripple of indignation went through the crowd, quickly squashed by the glares of the Hauntlington soldiers. Calton, however, felt a flicker of annoyance. He'd spent all morning haggling for that lumpy potato. "Unwashed?" he muttered under his breath, earning a sharp elbow from Eva. "He clearly hasn't seen the mud I just crawled through for these carrots."
The grumpy gentleman, as if sensing Calton's silent affront, turned his molten gaze directly towards their hiding spot. Genevive and Staven instinctively ducked lower, their hearts thumping. Calton and Eva, caught in the open, froze.
"You there!" the gentleman boomed, pointing a long, elegant finger tipped with an unnerving, obsidian ring directly at Calton's lumpy potato. "The scruffy one with the inadequate tuber! And your… leafy companion!"
Calton blinked. "Me?" he squeaked, momentarily forgetting his annoyance. "This tuber is perfectly adequate, thank you very much!"
Eva dragged him forward, a forced, tight smile on her face. "Greetings, esteemed sir from Hauntlington Castle," she said, her voice surprisingly steady, though her grip on Calton's arm was bone-crushing. "How may we be of service to your… noble quest?"
The gentleman's golden eyes narrowed. "Noble quest, she says," he scoffed, then sighed dramatically. "I require ingredients. Very specific ingredients. Ingredients, I might add, must be procured before the Great Winter settles, freezing the very magic from the land." He paused, adjusting the basket on his arm. "And from the looks of this… sad display, I doubt any of you possess the necessary wherewithal."
From behind the oak, Genevive exchanged a look with Staven. "Great Winter? Freezing magic?" Genevive whispered, her eyes wide. "He's not just grumpy, he's dramatic."
"He's also looking for something important," Staven replied, his eyes on the glowing insignia. "And if it's connected to winter magic…"
Before they could theorize further, a sudden, piercing shriek erupted from the gentleman's basket. It wasn't human, nor animal, but a sound that vibrated with raw, untamed magic.
The air around them grew heavy, crackling with an unseen energy. Merchants cried out, some dropping their wares, others scrambling back. The Hauntlington soldiers immediately drew their swords, their faces grim.
The gentleman himself staggered, clutching the basket tighter. "Quiet, you infernal thing!" he hissed at the woven container, but the shriek intensified, coalescing into a shimmering, icy mist that began to seep through the basket's weave.
The mist swirled, pulsed, then solidified into an array of sharp, crystalline shards that flew outwards, striking stalls and narrowly missing terrified patrons.
One particularly large, jagged shard of ice-magic whizzed past Calton's ear, shaving off a lock of his hair and embedding itself in the oak tree, mere inches from where Genevive and Staven were hidden.
The tree groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as frost instantly bloomed across the bark where the shard had struck, threatening to ensnare the two observers.
"He's losing control of… whatever that is!" Eva yelled, pushing Calton behind a stack of barrels. She then looked towards the shuddering oak, her eyes widening as she saw the rapidly spreading frost. "Genevive! Staven! Get out of there!"
The grumpy gentleman, now visibly sweating despite the icy emanations, finally managed to force a lid down on the basket, though the icy mist continued to leak from the seams. "Impertinent little shard-sprite!" he roared, glaring at the basket as if it had personally offended his ancestors.
"I told you, no tantrums in public!" He looked up, his golden eyes scanning the fearful crowd, then zeroed in on the frozen patch on the oak tree. His gaze then shifted to the two figures now frantically trying to dislodge themselves from the rapidly growing ice tendrils.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across his otherwise perpetually grumpy face. "Ah," he said, his voice laced with a newfound, almost predatory glee. "It appears my tempestuous little friend has found something. Or rather, someone. Two little sprigs of raw, untamed potential. Perhaps," he mused, tapping the basket, "my search for ingredients isn't quite as fruitless as I'd assumed. Bring them to me!" he commanded, pointing directly at the two struggling figures behind the tree. "And bring the leafy one and her tuber-wielding companion as well! This just got interesting."
The two obsidian-clad soldiers, swords still drawn, advanced towards the oak tree with chilling determination, their boots crunching on the market floor, now strangely silent save for the panicked gasps of the remaining patrons.
Genevive and Staven, now thoroughly ensnared, exchanged a look of pure terror, while Calton and Eva realized they were no longer simply observers, but very much a part of the grumpy gentleman's unexpected and extremely dangerous shopping list.
The glorious weekend had indeed arrived, but it was quickly turning into a fantastical nightmare, all thanks to a very grumpy man, a magical shriek-basket, and the looming shadow of the deadly Winter Season.