Fang
Active member
”Lakota, huh?”
Nat motioned for Connor to follow him across the street, leading the way with a measured step that was at once at odds with timer for the crosswalk and in line with the standard city procedure. Nat had found you could tell a lot by how someone crossed a street; where they looked, how they stepped, every tiny movement told a story of their experiences and their concerns. Connor was expectedly wary, clear accustomed to less populated areas.
”I don’t know much about Native American culture, if I am being honest. The idea always reminded me of how my grandfather would say our ancestors guided us, and they were guided by local deities and spirits.” Nat prattled on to fill the time as they walked. Nearby, in what could have been considered a wide alley or a small street, stalls could be made out against the gloom, lights strung around and between them while their owners displayed their wares and spoke with customers.
The market had an air of antiquity to it, an ancient practice that had somehow found its way into the modern Pittsburgh streets. The people were as varied as the goods, clothing and fabrics sold by Indian immigrants next to meats and vegetables grown by farmers in the outlying rural areas. Nat seemed to brighten as he and Connor stepped into the market that was surprisingly busy despite the hour.
”I’ve always loved this place.” Nat turned to Connor as he made the confession, testing the air around the large man for the level of his discomfort. ”It’s a snapshot of the true American dream, if you ask me. No matter where you are from, or what you look like there is always something for you here. All of these people bring a little piece of themselves and their homes into this market.”
By this point Nat was sure Connor thought he was simply speaking for the sake of his own voice, but Nat rarely did anything without at least a little thought. ”Tell me about your home. Why did you leave there, come here?” The questions were posed innocently, between pauses to examine a ripe tomato or a hand sewn shirt. He didn’t want the man to feel as if he were being interrogated, but he needed more information. If Connor were the kind of meta that Nat suspected he was the man was in real danger in the city.
Nat motioned for Connor to follow him across the street, leading the way with a measured step that was at once at odds with timer for the crosswalk and in line with the standard city procedure. Nat had found you could tell a lot by how someone crossed a street; where they looked, how they stepped, every tiny movement told a story of their experiences and their concerns. Connor was expectedly wary, clear accustomed to less populated areas.
”I don’t know much about Native American culture, if I am being honest. The idea always reminded me of how my grandfather would say our ancestors guided us, and they were guided by local deities and spirits.” Nat prattled on to fill the time as they walked. Nearby, in what could have been considered a wide alley or a small street, stalls could be made out against the gloom, lights strung around and between them while their owners displayed their wares and spoke with customers.
The market had an air of antiquity to it, an ancient practice that had somehow found its way into the modern Pittsburgh streets. The people were as varied as the goods, clothing and fabrics sold by Indian immigrants next to meats and vegetables grown by farmers in the outlying rural areas. Nat seemed to brighten as he and Connor stepped into the market that was surprisingly busy despite the hour.
”I’ve always loved this place.” Nat turned to Connor as he made the confession, testing the air around the large man for the level of his discomfort. ”It’s a snapshot of the true American dream, if you ask me. No matter where you are from, or what you look like there is always something for you here. All of these people bring a little piece of themselves and their homes into this market.”
By this point Nat was sure Connor thought he was simply speaking for the sake of his own voice, but Nat rarely did anything without at least a little thought. ”Tell me about your home. Why did you leave there, come here?” The questions were posed innocently, between pauses to examine a ripe tomato or a hand sewn shirt. He didn’t want the man to feel as if he were being interrogated, but he needed more information. If Connor were the kind of meta that Nat suspected he was the man was in real danger in the city.