There were tears in her eyes.
If someone asked Verad to find a pattern to the nature of his meetings with Miss Deneith, then he would have been able to point it out with ease: he would find her at a low point, and he would raise her up again. It had happened in Limsa, during their very first meeting and in the conversations after; in Ul’dah, when he had come into the Sultansworn gaols during her imprisonment; and in Limsa again, when, during a heavy rain, she told him of the death of a man in custody, one that had shaken her ideals to the core.
Knowing her expression in those moments pained him. He had seen her broken and blank, muted as if she were a mannequin, unable to say what troubled her in anything but dull words and empty expressions. For a man accustomed to easy smiles and bemused looks, such things had proven unconscionable from the start, and when Verad saw her like that he did what he could to draw her from them. He never expected much; things weighed on Roen heavily, and he considered it a success to see even a small smile that could reach her eyes by the end of the conversation.
But this time, there were tears, and he had never seen those before, edging around the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. And try as he might, he was unable to fight them. When he was their cause, fighting them was a hard thing to do.
---
Verad shook himself of the memory. He never liked remembering things; things remembered were never half so interesting as things in the moment. This was why he often sold multiple times to the same people who denied him; it wasn’t that he didn’t have a head for faces. He just cared not to remember the unpleasantries.
He placed his hands on the stone railing and looked out over the masses in the Quicksand. It was as it always was, a solid, permanent form of mutability. Always a crowd, always a clamor, always an Aya (he noted with a smile and a wave) serving the customers. And always, always, some poor soul by themselves, looking lonely and benighted and, to Verad’s eyes, in desperate need of dubious goods.
It was time to get back to basics. The robberies were no longer necessary; he’d gotten evidence enough, and what he couldn’t get himself, he had passed along as leads to Sergeant Melkire. The incident Â
their smiles reached their eyes, that was the worst of it, the real pleasure they took from it
had passed, and Verad had healed fully. It had been a trying half-moon, that was for certain. The heist going awry, the visitation, retreating to Gridania and to friends in the Morbolvine for convalescence, not to mention the problem of Quarrymill and everything that had come up there; all of it it had taken his time, and taken him away from his proper calling. That required scanning the crowd, looking for his usual criteria - someone who was more likely to be amused than annoyed by his approach and doubly so by his pitch.
There were a few false starts. He would spy someone, move his arm as if to push away from the railing, and then they would be joined by someone else. Groups were tricky. Pairs,
two of them, one to lock his warehouse door and guard it from the inside, the other to get to business
doubly so. Pairs often wanted to be left alone. Groups often asked too many questions all at once. Not insurmountable, but if he wanted to be sure to walk away with at least a handful of gil, he tried to catch out someone alone.
At last he spied an interested party, or at least someone bored enough to be interested as a form of distraction, a Midlander woman absently pushing a utensil along the rim of her drink, dark hair and dark clothing, keeping her eyes out of his or anybody else’s sight. Terribly mysterious business, thought Verad. He’d need to move quick or somebody might approach first in order to cheer her up, ask her
do you know who you’ve upset they asked, and he knew, and they said that made it easier but only for them
what made her so forlorn? It was something Verad did but rarely, and only then as an angle to sell his wares. Often, talking about himself was easier, more effective, than talking about other people.
His push away from the railing was a final one, and he approached the interior of the tavern with his usual easy confidence; nothing quite like a swagger, but direct and clear enough to attract attention. He cleared his throat and offered a smile, his voice loud enough to be heard at a short distance, deep enough to attract attention. “Pardon me, madam,†he began, “But would you be interested in any fine dubious
shards of his wares falling down over his body, ribs folding in on themselves from the impact of plated boots
goods this afternoon?†He followed up the question with a tilted head and a broad grin, as always. She’d ask what he meant. They always asked, or always assumed, but asked anyway.
It took a moment for the woman to recognize she was being spoken to, and that the speech did not involve asking if somebody could sit at the conspicuously empty table nearby. She parted her hair and looked up at Verad with a puzzled expression. “I’m sorry? Dubious what?â€
His mouth was halfway to open, to respond, when a flash of metal, caught his eye at the corner of his field of vision. Copper or brass, under a shock of something red, nearly faded to pink.
forced him to his knees and one took the red wig from his head (her hair it was her hair) and struck and struck and laughed
Verad made a small, panicked cry, taking a few steps back and shielding himself with a hand thrown up near his head. In his retreat, he stumbled over the back of some adventurer’s propped-up lance, and fell without grace onto his rump. Even then, he skittered back a few steps, fear in his eyes, hunted expression on his face.
He was fortunate, in some respects, that the Quicksand was as busy as it was. The staff was no stranger to such outbursts, and apart from a puzzled look, most of the onlookers paid him little attention. Just the odd duskwight with another routine.
Looking behind his prospective customer again, he saw a Seeker man with a shock of pinkish red hair walk out the bar’s front entrance, lugging a bronze hoplon over his shoulder. Even so, he did not rise to his feet, risking smashed fingers and toes as he waited for his breath to return and his heart to stop pounding.
A hand, small and pale, appeared in front of him, attached to the woman he’d sought as a buyer. “Are you all right?†she asked, her lips a polite smile, her eyes all puzzled concern.
Verad shook his head and rose to his feet. “Ah, yes, thank you, I’m just - “ He swallowed, scanning the crowd with a suddenly wary expression. “I’m fine. Another time, miss. My apologies for the interruption.â€
He knew the Quicksand crowd well enough to know she might start asking questions about the source of the problem, but she seemed satisfied. “Of course,†she said, returning to her seat. He waited until she was preoccupied again before turning to reach the bar, signalling for Aya’s attention. She would know something strong enough to help forget, and he was never much for remembering unpleasantries.
If someone asked Verad to find a pattern to the nature of his meetings with Miss Deneith, then he would have been able to point it out with ease: he would find her at a low point, and he would raise her up again. It had happened in Limsa, during their very first meeting and in the conversations after; in Ul’dah, when he had come into the Sultansworn gaols during her imprisonment; and in Limsa again, when, during a heavy rain, she told him of the death of a man in custody, one that had shaken her ideals to the core.
Knowing her expression in those moments pained him. He had seen her broken and blank, muted as if she were a mannequin, unable to say what troubled her in anything but dull words and empty expressions. For a man accustomed to easy smiles and bemused looks, such things had proven unconscionable from the start, and when Verad saw her like that he did what he could to draw her from them. He never expected much; things weighed on Roen heavily, and he considered it a success to see even a small smile that could reach her eyes by the end of the conversation.
But this time, there were tears, and he had never seen those before, edging around the corners of her eyes and threatening to spill over. And try as he might, he was unable to fight them. When he was their cause, fighting them was a hard thing to do.
---
Verad shook himself of the memory. He never liked remembering things; things remembered were never half so interesting as things in the moment. This was why he often sold multiple times to the same people who denied him; it wasn’t that he didn’t have a head for faces. He just cared not to remember the unpleasantries.
He placed his hands on the stone railing and looked out over the masses in the Quicksand. It was as it always was, a solid, permanent form of mutability. Always a crowd, always a clamor, always an Aya (he noted with a smile and a wave) serving the customers. And always, always, some poor soul by themselves, looking lonely and benighted and, to Verad’s eyes, in desperate need of dubious goods.
It was time to get back to basics. The robberies were no longer necessary; he’d gotten evidence enough, and what he couldn’t get himself, he had passed along as leads to Sergeant Melkire. The incident Â
their smiles reached their eyes, that was the worst of it, the real pleasure they took from it
had passed, and Verad had healed fully. It had been a trying half-moon, that was for certain. The heist going awry, the visitation, retreating to Gridania and to friends in the Morbolvine for convalescence, not to mention the problem of Quarrymill and everything that had come up there; all of it it had taken his time, and taken him away from his proper calling. That required scanning the crowd, looking for his usual criteria - someone who was more likely to be amused than annoyed by his approach and doubly so by his pitch.
There were a few false starts. He would spy someone, move his arm as if to push away from the railing, and then they would be joined by someone else. Groups were tricky. Pairs,
two of them, one to lock his warehouse door and guard it from the inside, the other to get to business
doubly so. Pairs often wanted to be left alone. Groups often asked too many questions all at once. Not insurmountable, but if he wanted to be sure to walk away with at least a handful of gil, he tried to catch out someone alone.
At last he spied an interested party, or at least someone bored enough to be interested as a form of distraction, a Midlander woman absently pushing a utensil along the rim of her drink, dark hair and dark clothing, keeping her eyes out of his or anybody else’s sight. Terribly mysterious business, thought Verad. He’d need to move quick or somebody might approach first in order to cheer her up, ask her
do you know who you’ve upset they asked, and he knew, and they said that made it easier but only for them
what made her so forlorn? It was something Verad did but rarely, and only then as an angle to sell his wares. Often, talking about himself was easier, more effective, than talking about other people.
His push away from the railing was a final one, and he approached the interior of the tavern with his usual easy confidence; nothing quite like a swagger, but direct and clear enough to attract attention. He cleared his throat and offered a smile, his voice loud enough to be heard at a short distance, deep enough to attract attention. “Pardon me, madam,†he began, “But would you be interested in any fine dubious
shards of his wares falling down over his body, ribs folding in on themselves from the impact of plated boots
goods this afternoon?†He followed up the question with a tilted head and a broad grin, as always. She’d ask what he meant. They always asked, or always assumed, but asked anyway.
It took a moment for the woman to recognize she was being spoken to, and that the speech did not involve asking if somebody could sit at the conspicuously empty table nearby. She parted her hair and looked up at Verad with a puzzled expression. “I’m sorry? Dubious what?â€
His mouth was halfway to open, to respond, when a flash of metal, caught his eye at the corner of his field of vision. Copper or brass, under a shock of something red, nearly faded to pink.
forced him to his knees and one took the red wig from his head (her hair it was her hair) and struck and struck and laughed
Verad made a small, panicked cry, taking a few steps back and shielding himself with a hand thrown up near his head. In his retreat, he stumbled over the back of some adventurer’s propped-up lance, and fell without grace onto his rump. Even then, he skittered back a few steps, fear in his eyes, hunted expression on his face.
He was fortunate, in some respects, that the Quicksand was as busy as it was. The staff was no stranger to such outbursts, and apart from a puzzled look, most of the onlookers paid him little attention. Just the odd duskwight with another routine.
Looking behind his prospective customer again, he saw a Seeker man with a shock of pinkish red hair walk out the bar’s front entrance, lugging a bronze hoplon over his shoulder. Even so, he did not rise to his feet, risking smashed fingers and toes as he waited for his breath to return and his heart to stop pounding.
A hand, small and pale, appeared in front of him, attached to the woman he’d sought as a buyer. “Are you all right?†she asked, her lips a polite smile, her eyes all puzzled concern.
Verad shook his head and rose to his feet. “Ah, yes, thank you, I’m just - “ He swallowed, scanning the crowd with a suddenly wary expression. “I’m fine. Another time, miss. My apologies for the interruption.â€
He knew the Quicksand crowd well enough to know she might start asking questions about the source of the problem, but she seemed satisfied. “Of course,†she said, returning to her seat. He waited until she was preoccupied again before turning to reach the bar, signalling for Aya’s attention. She would know something strong enough to help forget, and he was never much for remembering unpleasantries.
Verad Bellveil's Profile | The Case of the Ransacked Rug | Verad's Fate Sheet
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine