"Marketplace Blues" — A Sulk Story

[A Grim Storyteller]

The marketplace buzzed with life, a cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells blending into a tapestry of urban vitality. Merchants hawked their wares with voices hoarse from years of shouting, their cries rising above the din. The clatter of cartwheels on uneven cobblestones mingled with the ring of a blacksmith’s hammer and the occasional bark of a dog darting through the throng. The air carried the mingled aromas of fresh-baked bread, spices both sweet and pungent, and the unmistakable tang of unwashed bodies packed into close quarters.

Then he came.

Sulk’s arrival was not heralded by fanfare or notice, but by a shift—an almost imperceptible dimming of the marketplace’s vibrant energy. It was as though a cloud passed over the sun, leaving the cobblestones less bright, the colors of fruit and fabric duller. His enormous frame moved slowly, deliberate yet lumbering, his shoulders hunched as if weighed down by an unseen burden. His grayish-green skin bore streaks of faded moss-green paint that clung to his arms and face like forgotten murals. His cloak, frayed and mud-streaked, hung off his broad shoulders as if even it had given up trying to stay clean.

The sound of his boots striking the cobblestones was almost drowned out by the marketplace noise, but those near him couldn’t help but notice. Conversations faltered mid-sentence, voices lowering into uneasy murmurs. He passed a stall selling vibrant fabrics, the merchant trailing off in her pitch as her eyes caught his melancholic form. She looked down at the fabric in her hands, as if it had suddenly become unworthy of its bright hues.

Sulk paused at a stall selling dried herbs, his massive hand reaching out to examine a bundle of thyme. The merchant—a wiry old man with a face like sunbaked leather—flinched at the sight of him, though Sulk had made no threatening move. “Careful with those,” the man muttered, barely loud enough to be heard, though there was a tremor in his voice. “You look like you might drain the life out of ‘em just by touchin’.”

Sulk sighed, a long, deep exhalation that seemed to pull the joy out of the very air. The sound carried, soft yet heavy, and those nearby glanced his way, their faces flickering with confusion and discomfort. He said nothing, placing a coin on the wooden counter with a dull clink and taking the herbs before moving on.

The crowd parted slightly in his wake, though no one acknowledged doing so. Mothers pulled their children closer, as though shielding them from a dark storm that wasn’t quite visible. A pair of gossiping women leaned closer together as he passed, their whispers sharp enough to cut.

“Who is he?” one murmured.
“Don’t know,” the other replied, her eyes narrowing. “But just look at him—like a walking funeral. Makes me cold just lookin’ at him.”
“You think he’s cursed?”
“Maybe he’s the curse.”

Sulk heard them. He always heard them. His ears, though pointed and slightly too large for his head, caught every muttered word, every sigh of discomfort. But he didn’t react. He never did. He simply adjusted the strap of his leather satchel and moved on, his gaze fixed on the ground as though it held answers to questions no one dared ask.

A child standing by a fruit stall pointed at him, her innocent voice cutting through the thick tension like a knife. “Mama, why does that man look so sad?” The mother snatched the child’s hand and shushed her, her face pale. “Hush,” she hissed. “Don’t stare. Don’t talk about him.”

At another stall, Sulk paused again, this time before a display of tools. He fingered a small, rusted trowel, his touch careful despite the roughness of his hands. The stall owner, a burly man with thick arms and a patchy beard, leaned on the counter, his eyes narrowed. “What d’you need that for?” the man asked gruffly, his tone laced with suspicion. “You don’t look like you’re plantin’ flowers.”

Sulk glanced up briefly, his deep-set eyes heavy with a sorrow that seemed endless. “Even flowers need graves,” he replied, his voice a low rumble, raw and tired. The merchant blanched, recoiling slightly as though Sulk’s words had cast a chill over him. The trowel was added to the satchel, another coin placed on the counter.

As Sulk continued through the market, a faint drizzle began to fall. The drops were light, barely more than a mist, but it felt fitting, as though the weather itself bent to his presence. The colors of the marketplace seemed to wash out further under the gray light, and even the sounds grew softer, as if the city itself wanted to retreat from him.

People continued to murmur as he passed.
“Why doesn’t he just stay in the forest?”
“Someone like him… shouldn’t be here. It’s unnatural.”
“Bet he’s a bad omen. No wonder the sun’s gone.”

Sulk stopped briefly near a fountain in the market square, the water flowing in soft, rhythmic splashes that seemed to mock the stillness around him. He stared at his reflection in the rippling surface, his painted face distorted and strange. For a moment, he just stood there, his expression unreadable, his massive frame looming over the fountain like a shadow given form.

The drizzle became a steady patter, and Sulk turned away, heading toward the edge of the market. His satchel felt heavier now, though it was still only half-full. The whispers followed him like ghosts, clinging to him even as the crowd thinned.

And yet, as much as their words stung, they were nothing new. For Sulk, they were just another layer of the ever-present weight he carried, a burden so familiar it was almost comforting in its constancy.

The drizzle had grown into a steady rain by the time Sulk reached the outskirts of the marketplace. The crowd had thinned considerably, with only a few vendors still braving the weather, their wares covered by tarps that flapped in the cool breeze. The stone path glistened with rainwater, reflecting the dull gray sky above. Sulk adjusted his satchel, the damp leather creaking faintly, and prepared to leave the city. He had seen enough of humanity’s unease for one day.

But then, he heard it—a faint, hiccuping sob that carried through the rain like a soft, broken melody. He stopped mid-step, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the edges of the square. Near a crumbling stone wall, half-hidden beneath the shelter of an overhanging awning, sat a small child. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, her face buried in her arms, her tiny shoulders shaking with each sob.

Sulk hesitated, his usual instinct to keep moving battling with something deeper, something he rarely acknowledged. He turned toward her, his massive frame lumbering across the slick cobblestones until he stood just a few feet away. His shadow fell over her, and she glanced up, startled, her tear-streaked face framed by damp strands of dark hair.

He crouched slowly, the movement making his joints creak, and leaned on his staff for balance. His deep-set eyes regarded her with something between curiosity and resignation. “Why are you crying, little one?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. It wasn’t an accusation, nor even a true question. It was almost rhetorical, as though he were speaking to himself as much as to her.

The girl sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. Her small voice trembled as she answered, “My kitty... my kitty passed away. She got sick, and… and we couldn’t help her. She’s gone now.” Her lips quivered as fresh tears welled up in her wide, sorrowful eyes.

Sulk felt his heart twist painfully in his chest. Sadness was his constant companion, a shadow he carried willingly, but seeing it etched so deeply into the face of a child was something else entirely. It was a weight he wasn’t sure he could bear. He took a slow breath, steadying himself, and spoke, his voice softer than usual. “Loss is… cruel,” he began, the words heavy on his tongue. “It leaves a hole that nothing can fill. But it’s the price we pay for loving, for caring. It means your kitty mattered, and that is no small thing.”

The girl looked at him, her tears slowing as she clung to his words. Her small hands twisted nervously in her lap, but her gaze remained locked on him, searching his face for something—comfort, understanding, anything to make the ache less sharp.

From the corner of his eye, Sulk noticed movement. A young squirrel darted along the edge of the marketplace, its fluffy tail twitching as it skittered under a vendor’s abandoned stall. Sulk tilted his head slightly, making a low series of chirps and clucking sounds, his deep voice mimicking the forest's rhythms with surprising ease. The squirrel froze, its tiny nose twitching as it turned to regard him. After a moment of hesitation, it bounded toward him, stopping just a few feet away.

Sulk extended a hand, palm up, and the squirrel approached cautiously, sniffing his fingers before hopping up onto his arm. He lifted it gently, his movements slow and deliberate, and turned back to the girl. “This little one isn’t your kitty,” he said, his tone even and measured, “but it seems he’s willing to keep you company.”

He extended his arm toward her, and the squirrel leapt onto her shoulder with a surprising grace. The girl gasped softly, her eyes wide as the squirrel nuzzled against her cheek. A small, hesitant smile broke through her tears, the kind of smile that held the faintest glimmer of hope. She reached up to pet the squirrel, her fingers brushing its soft fur as a quiet giggle escaped her lips.

Sulk nodded once, satisfied, and reached out a massive hand to gently pat her head. “Take care of him,” he murmured. “And yourself.” Rising to his full height, he adjusted his satchel and turned away, his heavy boots splashing through shallow puddles as he made his way toward the city’s edge.

The rain continued to fall, the world around him as gray and muted as ever. His heart remained as heavy as the storm clouds above, but there was a faint sense of something deeper—a quiet contentment, perhaps. He had brought a moment of happiness to someone else, and though it did nothing to lighten his own burden, it was enough.

As the city faded behind him and the forest loomed ahead, Sulk sighed deeply, the sound carried away by the rain-soaked wind. Somewhere, the squirrel chattered happily, and a little girl smiled despite her loss. It wasn’t much, but it was something.