The noise of Qwendolyn Market sleeps like a dog on a sun soaked winter day: sprawled and oblivious. Approach too closely and that snoring pup will leap to the end of it’s chain and commence to tearing your head off. It’s the way its built sunken more than an average man’s height like a pit ringed with steep steps and surrounded by the vendors’ offices. All the noise goes straight up.
Newcomers and pilgrims will circle the entire market looking for a good entrance to the raucous dance because at first it seems that everyone there knows what he or she is doing. But they don’t.
Sure there are patterns the veteran marketeers recognize. Swells in the crowd they can exploit; lulls they can restock during. But every one of those will tell you it’s made up new everyday
Qwendolyn used to be something else. Everybody knows it.
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