All around the small centre of the garden, looking in towards the dirty old fountain, market stalls are packed closely together, lining the border of the circular walkway. While each stall was designed differently - some made with splintered wood, others decorated with fine brass - the stalls were all roughly the same size. Atop most were banners, signifying pride in that vendor's home. (Needless to say, this often sparked controversy and arguments among some of the rival nations.)
As one walks even near the market, every sense is activated by a bevvy of sensations. The sounds of bustling customers, the aromas of prepared foods, the shouts and verbal advertisements of the various salesmen, and every now and again, the feel of a loosely-thrown projectile originating from an angry patron.
Every item considerable is available in the market. Even Gerard, the local junk salvager, has a stand to showcase his finest scrap.
And I find it absolutely repugnant.
I have no stall, nor business in such a disgusting place. However, I do have family who runs a clothing shop, and every shore leave I get is usually spent assisting my sister (against my will, of course).
So if I'm not enjoying the feeling of getting ripped to shreds by a carronade, I'm selling fine shirts to not-so-fine consumers.
