((Overwhelming victory for 3.))
The most interesting thing about the Quicksand is that even the wallflowers are signalling something as they attempt to avoid notice. My chosen quarry is, in some respects, not so different from a shy Dunesfolk reading a book in a quiet corner; for some reason, he has taken an activity that is typically a private activity and made it public. 'Twould be foolish to think that the reason the activity is public is because the fellow wants to be approached about the matter, but there has to be some reason that he isn't sharpening his axe at home - and, come to think of it, mayhaps that's because to be thought of as spending all of one's time sharpening one's axe at home is to leave oneself prey to all sorts of terrible euphemisms. I can see why the man would take it out of doors.
Well, whatever his reasons, I will assume he is comfortable with being approached. It will be a very poor night for me if I don't. I put on my best smile and circle the Quicksand towards his spot near the wall.
There's enough of a distance between the two of us that it gives me time to examine him and do something of an assessment. There are minor details like the shape of his face, the gentle downward slope of dark eyes, the shaved head, the mild wrinkles of middle age, so forth and so on, but these are glossed in the presence of a very large double-bladed axe and the absence of anything resembling upper body wear. One of these days Momodi will need to institute a dress code. But that will be a day that hempen attire stops being fashionable, so mayhaps she shouldn't.
In any event, the two features dominate, and the scrape of his axe's blade against a whetstone as he idly runs the latter over the former cuts through the bustle and chatter of the crowd as I step closer. The physique suggests he can use it well, too, though I've yet to see an out-of-shape male Highlander, so that could mean nothing. Even the fat ones are just using their bulk as some sort of strange muscle-cloak.Â
Nevertheless, I come to a stop outside of swinging range. Safety first. And then we begin.
I start by applying a thin smile, a little less than my usual full-wattage grin, and break the ice. "And a good evening to you, my intimidatingly undressed fellow! Can I interest you in any fine dubious goods tonight?" It's a common greeting for me, and if somebody followed me around often enough they might hear me say some variation on it with such frequency that they might consider it a religious mantra. They're right.Â
The words have the desired effect. He stops his work and he looks up. He doesn't smile, doesn't raise an eyebrow. This close, there's a hollowness to his eyes, as if they're set a little too far in, a face in dire need of a nap. Not a hard stare, though, so I assume he's waiting for more. Hardly the first time a customer has reacted to the pitch with silence. I press on.
"Ah, I can tell by your weary and resigned look that you are interested!" I say in violation of the facts. Sometimes that gets a laugh. It doesn't. "Mayhaps I can interest you in some of my newer products. Is your whetstone in need of replacement? I happen to have an excellent drystone here. It's half a whetstone. Just add water it works just as well!" Nobody has ever actually bought this particular item, but there's nothing like a good bit of illogic to get the customer talking.
It's with a note of some satisfaction that I find my expectations being met. His brow furrows as he considers the offer in question. The hooks are in. "That . . . what?" His voice is a deep rumble, as if someone had shoved a herd of stampeding aurochs down his throat. Rather rich, actually. He should use it more often.Â
I wave my hand. "Well, it's fine, it looks like your whetstone is in good shape at the moment anyroad." In fact, I have no idea; I'm no blacksmith. "But mayhaps I can interest you in an Existential Axe? You see, I have the handle of an axe here, and all you need to do is - "
"Neither, thanks." He shakes his head as he puts his whetstone away, before hefting the axe into both hounds. "Y'have any real products?"
He had to ask that question with that gesture, didn't he? "If by that you mean 'Do you have any gil you could give me,' then I'm afraid not!" I laugh, and I try to keep it light, but my knees are doing a bit of that quivering thing they do when I suddenly and unexpectedly find myself about to die horribly. Maintaining eye-contact while scanning the crowd for anybody who knows me and would be inclined to help is difficult, but Miss Foxheart is tied up with some customers, and Ser Crofte hasn't been near the pillar in moons.Â
Defending myself is up to me, then. I put my hand on my hip, placing it near the hilt of one of my knives. Still haven't had to hurt anybody with these things, but there will be a day.
Fortunately, my fears are at least a little unfounded. "Nah, not exactly," he says, keeping his weapon in his hands, but not shifting his legs into a fighting stance. Perhaps it's just a comfort axe. "What else you sell?"
I go over my stock in my head. If he's rejecting things related to what I see, then other things like plot devices and imitation fool's gold are also going to be unacceptable. He's not going to buy something for novelty value. He may want something that's actually dubiously useful.Â
Blast. It pains me to do this, but I may actually have to go to the open portion of the script. The smile remains, and I gesture towards him with an open palm. "You need only speak, and if it is a sufficiently dubious product, I will try and find it for you. Do you have a request?"
For too many moments he just stares. It isn't even scrutinizing, or suspicious. It's an empty thing, as if he were flashing back to Cartenau and watching the moon erupt. But perhaps that is a presumptuous simile on my part, for when he next speaks, there's a sense of hesitancy.
"There's a gladiator I used to follow here, fought in the arena years back." He draws out the words. I can't tell if he's holding something back or trying to frame the truth correctly. "Hellsguard woman. Big on showmanship. Firey hair - "
I know of whom he speaks once the first sentence is done, but my surprise stops me from responding before the next two. I snap my fingers in recognition. "The Burning Blade Edge."
There's a name I hadn't spoken aloud in moons. Burning Edge - for her stage name was never too different from the real one - ran the gladiatorial circuits a decade and some years ago. Promising career, all told - good stage presence, ability to look good even in very heavy armor, a willingness to advertise in very, very light armor, and actual martial skill on top of that. Her career was ended by a very bad match before she could reach the upper echelons, but she developed a following all the same. I was a fan.
At least, I think I was a fan. I am fond of Burning for a number of reasons, and one of them is that of the many stories in my memoirs, she was able to prove that the one about her was true. It's an embarrassing one - I may or may not have accidentally stolen her clothes (I am quite sure it was accidental) while making ends meet by sweeping the stands - but it's one she corroborated by hitting me when I admitted to it. She remembered it quite vividly.
There's also the minor matter of her assistance in saving my life during that business with the stolen rug and the debt-slavery ring. It was she that put me on the trail, in fact, which means it was she that nearly got me stabbed to death in a Twelve-forsaken copper mine, but having a pet couerl eat my assailant more than made up for it. But it's been moons since I or anyone has heard from her. To my last knowledge, she was deep enough in debt to take on an indentured post as a day laborer. I have never quite felt right about that.
Still, to hear her name at all after so long is a shock, and it's hard to conceal the surprise after the initial moment of recognition. The Highlander sees it too. "Ah, you're a fan?" he asks.
"I am," I say with a nod. That narrows things down. "You're looking for old merchandise?"
He grunts. It's close enough to a nod. "Any'll do. Poster would be good especially."
"I see, well - I'm sorry, could I get your name?"
"Heidolf." He doesn't give a last name. That's fine. I've dealt with people who insisted on calling themselves "The." No moniker. Not the start of a phrase. Just "The." Pretense is rampant in Ul'dah.
I take my ledger out of its place in my vest, a small quill nib, and start scribbling. "Burning Blade's Edge merchandise for Heidolf," I mumble, making a show of flipping through pages and looking over the lines. This is all theater; in truth, I already have such a poster in my possession. She gave it to me out of gratitude for shutting down the debt-slavery ring that was hurting her business. Ironic, considering she then left the business, but I have the poster all the same.
I could go to the estate, fetch it, and come back to haggle a price without trouble. Still . . .Â
What should Verad do next?
1. Surely I can't have the only piece of strapping Hellsguard gladiatorial paraphernalia left on the market, and the poster is the only memento I have left of a friend. I can make a promise to find such materials for him for delivery at a later date. Still, that could mean losing the sale; even if Heidolf agrees, I might not be able to find him again, or I might not find anything he's actually seeking.
2. I wouldn't have even approached this fellow if I weren't already desperate to make some kind of sale. Why should I balk now? I have plenty of fond memories of Burning Edge as it is, and the knowledge that she is a point of truth in my otherwise fuzzy origins is more than enough. I will fetch the poster from my estate and have it back here within the bell.
The most interesting thing about the Quicksand is that even the wallflowers are signalling something as they attempt to avoid notice. My chosen quarry is, in some respects, not so different from a shy Dunesfolk reading a book in a quiet corner; for some reason, he has taken an activity that is typically a private activity and made it public. 'Twould be foolish to think that the reason the activity is public is because the fellow wants to be approached about the matter, but there has to be some reason that he isn't sharpening his axe at home - and, come to think of it, mayhaps that's because to be thought of as spending all of one's time sharpening one's axe at home is to leave oneself prey to all sorts of terrible euphemisms. I can see why the man would take it out of doors.
Well, whatever his reasons, I will assume he is comfortable with being approached. It will be a very poor night for me if I don't. I put on my best smile and circle the Quicksand towards his spot near the wall.
There's enough of a distance between the two of us that it gives me time to examine him and do something of an assessment. There are minor details like the shape of his face, the gentle downward slope of dark eyes, the shaved head, the mild wrinkles of middle age, so forth and so on, but these are glossed in the presence of a very large double-bladed axe and the absence of anything resembling upper body wear. One of these days Momodi will need to institute a dress code. But that will be a day that hempen attire stops being fashionable, so mayhaps she shouldn't.
In any event, the two features dominate, and the scrape of his axe's blade against a whetstone as he idly runs the latter over the former cuts through the bustle and chatter of the crowd as I step closer. The physique suggests he can use it well, too, though I've yet to see an out-of-shape male Highlander, so that could mean nothing. Even the fat ones are just using their bulk as some sort of strange muscle-cloak.Â
Nevertheless, I come to a stop outside of swinging range. Safety first. And then we begin.
I start by applying a thin smile, a little less than my usual full-wattage grin, and break the ice. "And a good evening to you, my intimidatingly undressed fellow! Can I interest you in any fine dubious goods tonight?" It's a common greeting for me, and if somebody followed me around often enough they might hear me say some variation on it with such frequency that they might consider it a religious mantra. They're right.Â
The words have the desired effect. He stops his work and he looks up. He doesn't smile, doesn't raise an eyebrow. This close, there's a hollowness to his eyes, as if they're set a little too far in, a face in dire need of a nap. Not a hard stare, though, so I assume he's waiting for more. Hardly the first time a customer has reacted to the pitch with silence. I press on.
"Ah, I can tell by your weary and resigned look that you are interested!" I say in violation of the facts. Sometimes that gets a laugh. It doesn't. "Mayhaps I can interest you in some of my newer products. Is your whetstone in need of replacement? I happen to have an excellent drystone here. It's half a whetstone. Just add water it works just as well!" Nobody has ever actually bought this particular item, but there's nothing like a good bit of illogic to get the customer talking.
It's with a note of some satisfaction that I find my expectations being met. His brow furrows as he considers the offer in question. The hooks are in. "That . . . what?" His voice is a deep rumble, as if someone had shoved a herd of stampeding aurochs down his throat. Rather rich, actually. He should use it more often.Â
I wave my hand. "Well, it's fine, it looks like your whetstone is in good shape at the moment anyroad." In fact, I have no idea; I'm no blacksmith. "But mayhaps I can interest you in an Existential Axe? You see, I have the handle of an axe here, and all you need to do is - "
"Neither, thanks." He shakes his head as he puts his whetstone away, before hefting the axe into both hounds. "Y'have any real products?"
He had to ask that question with that gesture, didn't he? "If by that you mean 'Do you have any gil you could give me,' then I'm afraid not!" I laugh, and I try to keep it light, but my knees are doing a bit of that quivering thing they do when I suddenly and unexpectedly find myself about to die horribly. Maintaining eye-contact while scanning the crowd for anybody who knows me and would be inclined to help is difficult, but Miss Foxheart is tied up with some customers, and Ser Crofte hasn't been near the pillar in moons.Â
Defending myself is up to me, then. I put my hand on my hip, placing it near the hilt of one of my knives. Still haven't had to hurt anybody with these things, but there will be a day.
Fortunately, my fears are at least a little unfounded. "Nah, not exactly," he says, keeping his weapon in his hands, but not shifting his legs into a fighting stance. Perhaps it's just a comfort axe. "What else you sell?"
I go over my stock in my head. If he's rejecting things related to what I see, then other things like plot devices and imitation fool's gold are also going to be unacceptable. He's not going to buy something for novelty value. He may want something that's actually dubiously useful.Â
Blast. It pains me to do this, but I may actually have to go to the open portion of the script. The smile remains, and I gesture towards him with an open palm. "You need only speak, and if it is a sufficiently dubious product, I will try and find it for you. Do you have a request?"
For too many moments he just stares. It isn't even scrutinizing, or suspicious. It's an empty thing, as if he were flashing back to Cartenau and watching the moon erupt. But perhaps that is a presumptuous simile on my part, for when he next speaks, there's a sense of hesitancy.
"There's a gladiator I used to follow here, fought in the arena years back." He draws out the words. I can't tell if he's holding something back or trying to frame the truth correctly. "Hellsguard woman. Big on showmanship. Firey hair - "
I know of whom he speaks once the first sentence is done, but my surprise stops me from responding before the next two. I snap my fingers in recognition. "The Burning Blade Edge."
There's a name I hadn't spoken aloud in moons. Burning Edge - for her stage name was never too different from the real one - ran the gladiatorial circuits a decade and some years ago. Promising career, all told - good stage presence, ability to look good even in very heavy armor, a willingness to advertise in very, very light armor, and actual martial skill on top of that. Her career was ended by a very bad match before she could reach the upper echelons, but she developed a following all the same. I was a fan.
At least, I think I was a fan. I am fond of Burning for a number of reasons, and one of them is that of the many stories in my memoirs, she was able to prove that the one about her was true. It's an embarrassing one - I may or may not have accidentally stolen her clothes (I am quite sure it was accidental) while making ends meet by sweeping the stands - but it's one she corroborated by hitting me when I admitted to it. She remembered it quite vividly.
There's also the minor matter of her assistance in saving my life during that business with the stolen rug and the debt-slavery ring. It was she that put me on the trail, in fact, which means it was she that nearly got me stabbed to death in a Twelve-forsaken copper mine, but having a pet couerl eat my assailant more than made up for it. But it's been moons since I or anyone has heard from her. To my last knowledge, she was deep enough in debt to take on an indentured post as a day laborer. I have never quite felt right about that.
Still, to hear her name at all after so long is a shock, and it's hard to conceal the surprise after the initial moment of recognition. The Highlander sees it too. "Ah, you're a fan?" he asks.
"I am," I say with a nod. That narrows things down. "You're looking for old merchandise?"
He grunts. It's close enough to a nod. "Any'll do. Poster would be good especially."
"I see, well - I'm sorry, could I get your name?"
"Heidolf." He doesn't give a last name. That's fine. I've dealt with people who insisted on calling themselves "The." No moniker. Not the start of a phrase. Just "The." Pretense is rampant in Ul'dah.
I take my ledger out of its place in my vest, a small quill nib, and start scribbling. "Burning Blade's Edge merchandise for Heidolf," I mumble, making a show of flipping through pages and looking over the lines. This is all theater; in truth, I already have such a poster in my possession. She gave it to me out of gratitude for shutting down the debt-slavery ring that was hurting her business. Ironic, considering she then left the business, but I have the poster all the same.
I could go to the estate, fetch it, and come back to haggle a price without trouble. Still . . .Â
What should Verad do next?
1. Surely I can't have the only piece of strapping Hellsguard gladiatorial paraphernalia left on the market, and the poster is the only memento I have left of a friend. I can make a promise to find such materials for him for delivery at a later date. Still, that could mean losing the sale; even if Heidolf agrees, I might not be able to find him again, or I might not find anything he's actually seeking.
2. I wouldn't have even approached this fellow if I weren't already desperate to make some kind of sale. Why should I balk now? I have plenty of fond memories of Burning Edge as it is, and the knowledge that she is a point of truth in my otherwise fuzzy origins is more than enough. I will fetch the poster from my estate and have it back here within the bell.
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
