Since the experiment in creating a Dreaming portal Solomon had been on the lookout for purer materials than the limestone and coal he had used previously. Finding white marble or obsidian would be a bonus--those were stones he needed, regardless over whether or not he used them right away. Unlike kitchen ingredients and chemicals, rocks had no shelf-life. He could afford to stockpile.
It was crowded enough in the markets that when Solomon first caught a glimpse of white hair he assumed it was Bakura. A few of the kedan had white hair, but none as long or thick as the thief's; it was rather distinctive.
Since the Dreaming portal was a new development related to the help Bakura's kin had requested, and it had been a little while since they'd spoken, Solomon moved around the crowd to go to him. But as Solomon got closer, he frowned. Bakura didn't, as far as Solomon knew, own a bike. There could have been ways to explain that--but there was nothing to explain the complete lack of ghostly greeting once he reached what he already thought of as the basic ghost-zone.
Not Bakura, then. But someone who looked almost identical, save in mannerism. This youth had none of the wariness, none of the worldliness; the way he was gaping around him barely spoke of someone who'd left his own country. Solomon had to wonder--
"Good morning, Bakura," he said once he was close enough, his voice slightly raised over the crowd. (It was mildly accented, definably Irish but cultured.) If the youth answered, then that would tell Solomon something, at least.
C
It was crowded enough in the markets that when Solomon first caught a glimpse of white hair he assumed it was Bakura. A few of the kedan had white hair, but none as long or thick as the thief's; it was rather distinctive.
Since the Dreaming portal was a new development related to the help Bakura's kin had requested, and it had been a little while since they'd spoken, Solomon moved around the crowd to go to him. But as Solomon got closer, he frowned. Bakura didn't, as far as Solomon knew, own a bike. There could have been ways to explain that--but there was nothing to explain the complete lack of ghostly greeting once he reached what he already thought of as the basic ghost-zone.
Not Bakura, then. But someone who looked almost identical, save in mannerism. This youth had none of the wariness, none of the worldliness; the way he was gaping around him barely spoke of someone who'd left his own country. Solomon had to wonder--
"Good morning, Bakura," he said once he was close enough, his voice slightly raised over the crowd. (It was mildly accented, definably Irish but cultured.) If the youth answered, then that would tell Solomon something, at least.