The sergeant grimaced.
Not so long ago, ten thou had been his life savings. Contrary to popular belief, most Flames were not paid well: a soldier was more like than not to retire to his cot not with a bag of coin, but with a fistful of seals. Four, nearly five cycles he'd scrounged and saved and amassed a small fortune, only to risk losing it all for a chance to return home to Limsa.
Things had changed, though, with the turning of the seasons. He was with the Red Wings now. More importantly, the captain had left him in charge of the unit's covert operations, which meant that he had plenty of funds to draw on, provided he could justify the costs. Operational funding was just a small part of a larger sum, though: he and his men knew all too well the wealth that was information. Too often they came across secrets that were not only worth many a small fortune to the right persons, but were also not pertinent to state security.
So yes, he could afford ten thou now, despite the rather dire matter of hoarding every bronze piece he could get his grubby mitts on for the sake of a rather pressing engagement.
The damnable thing was that he couldn't afford it right now. The rumor mill had gone quiet as of late, and the well of wealth had dried up as the winds died.
He'd walked in here with plenty for his usual, with enough set aside for both his commission and the matter of the perfume. On top of all that, he had five hundred and seven thou left over from his own purse... which left him short. Left him tantalizingly close. Downright maddening, that he couldn't justify dipping into his other purse, the one specifically set aside for business... even more so given Tarot's infuriating taunt of a grin. Bloody salesmen....
Is it even really worth that much, though? It's just a gods-damned coat.
I've never seen anythin' of that quality. Fen-Yll Atelier couldn't make something like that, even if they had the whole Syndicate fundin' 'em for moons.
Still. The hells do you want it for? Can't work that into a disguise...
...it'd go quite a ways towards makin' me look like an inspector, though.
That decided him. He made a quick show of hesitance, stuffing his hands into his robes and leaning with one shoulder against the wall.
"Listen, Tarot... can't afford that quite yet, but... listen, listen! I've got five and seven thou t'me name for this. I've the remainin' five and two thou on me now, but, ah, that'd be diggin' into official funds. If you could... I don't know," he pulled a hand out and gave it a little lateral twirl, "find it in you t'donate that five and two to a good cause... like charity, see, refugees and the like... I could recompense you next moon, along with a nice bonus when the commissioned item comes in."
He spread his arms.
"Your askin' price, a bonus, a... 'filled purchase card'... and a little touch o' reputation for the ol' Emporium. 'You heard o' Tarot? Damned blighter offers fair prices, makes a profit, and still donates to charity!' That sort o' gossip's got to be good for business, no?"
Not so long ago, ten thou had been his life savings. Contrary to popular belief, most Flames were not paid well: a soldier was more like than not to retire to his cot not with a bag of coin, but with a fistful of seals. Four, nearly five cycles he'd scrounged and saved and amassed a small fortune, only to risk losing it all for a chance to return home to Limsa.
Things had changed, though, with the turning of the seasons. He was with the Red Wings now. More importantly, the captain had left him in charge of the unit's covert operations, which meant that he had plenty of funds to draw on, provided he could justify the costs. Operational funding was just a small part of a larger sum, though: he and his men knew all too well the wealth that was information. Too often they came across secrets that were not only worth many a small fortune to the right persons, but were also not pertinent to state security.
So yes, he could afford ten thou now, despite the rather dire matter of hoarding every bronze piece he could get his grubby mitts on for the sake of a rather pressing engagement.
The damnable thing was that he couldn't afford it right now. The rumor mill had gone quiet as of late, and the well of wealth had dried up as the winds died.
He'd walked in here with plenty for his usual, with enough set aside for both his commission and the matter of the perfume. On top of all that, he had five hundred and seven thou left over from his own purse... which left him short. Left him tantalizingly close. Downright maddening, that he couldn't justify dipping into his other purse, the one specifically set aside for business... even more so given Tarot's infuriating taunt of a grin. Bloody salesmen....
Is it even really worth that much, though? It's just a gods-damned coat.
I've never seen anythin' of that quality. Fen-Yll Atelier couldn't make something like that, even if they had the whole Syndicate fundin' 'em for moons.
Still. The hells do you want it for? Can't work that into a disguise...
...it'd go quite a ways towards makin' me look like an inspector, though.
That decided him. He made a quick show of hesitance, stuffing his hands into his robes and leaning with one shoulder against the wall.
"Listen, Tarot... can't afford that quite yet, but... listen, listen! I've got five and seven thou t'me name for this. I've the remainin' five and two thou on me now, but, ah, that'd be diggin' into official funds. If you could... I don't know," he pulled a hand out and gave it a little lateral twirl, "find it in you t'donate that five and two to a good cause... like charity, see, refugees and the like... I could recompense you next moon, along with a nice bonus when the commissioned item comes in."
He spread his arms.
"Your askin' price, a bonus, a... 'filled purchase card'... and a little touch o' reputation for the ol' Emporium. 'You heard o' Tarot? Damned blighter offers fair prices, makes a profit, and still donates to charity!' That sort o' gossip's got to be good for business, no?"
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
