There were three collections of books in the Dubious Distributions estate. The first and most obvious of these was directly to the right of the front entrance, and contained anything in Verad’s inventory that he considered acceptable for purchase. Misprinted books with the wrong cover, journals that had trace amounts of pornographic woodcuts on the page after a bit of confusion and strong drink at the printing press, and tomes of sufficiently useless material (e.g. The Mating Habits of Golems) comprised these rows, and they sold as well as anything in his stock. He had considered converting the books into a lending library, provided they were returned in worse-but-nevertheless-legible condition, but was still sorting out the general plan for measuring what constituted “worse.â€
More respectable texts could be found in the numerous shelves in Verad’s employee lounge, set within the estate’s basement. There, the curious visitor could find more standard texts including general encyclopedias, listings of Ul’dahn tax code with layers of dust on their bindings thick enough to withstand a swordpoint, and tales of adventure and salacious exploits not attributable to the Duskwight himself. However, these were scattered among texts that were, upon closer inspection, anything but, revealing themselves to be cunningly painted blocks of wood with titles in fanciful Eorzean script, gilded and embossed to the point of being unreadable. Finding actual books was half the challenge of the downstairs shelves, and he took a certain pleasure in watching people distinguish the respectable-looking from the genuine article. Mayhaps there was a moral in this, but it was far more likely that he was being a shit, not that the two were contradictory positions.
The third set wasn’t exactly private, but as it was to be found within Verad’s office and living space, it may as well have been for narrative purposes. If pressed, Verad would admit these to be one of, if not the, sources of his persuasive powers. These were not a defining element, to be sure - he had his own persistence, winning smile, command of the language, and above all a sense of humility to thank for that - but they were crucial nevertheless.
These were what Verad found himself perusing in the dead of night, unable to sleep and possessed of the restless energy that often presaged a terminally bad idea on his part. He mumbled silently in the dark, lips moving as he mouthed out the titles, taking care to ensure that his words died before he left his throat. There was naught but a screen between the shelf and his bed, and he preferred not to wake its occupant.
He lit upon one string of sideways script with his index finger, and his eyes brightened in the dark. There was a slight shuffling as he pulled the text free of its space on the shelf to get a better look at the title. There, in a simple embossed gilding, were these words:
The Mummer’s Guide to Ishgardian Heraldry
Just beneath the title on the front cover, a small, similarly gilded portrait of a cartoonish Lalafell, winking at the viewer, hand on his (her?) hip, the other holding up a single finger as if to indicate something.
Verad exhaled in relief at finding the title. The Mummer’s Guides were some of his best-kept secrets. A key part of his trade was always knowing at least enough about a subject to pass himself off as an expert at best and a talented amateur at worst. For these, the guides were indispensible. Chocobo farming, swordfighting, poetry, armorsmithing, and metallurgy were common, amongst other, more esoteric topics, including but not limited to the book he held in his hand.
With a very light step, Verad crossed the few fulms to his desk, and carefully pulled his chair aside to avoid letting it scrape on the office’s tiled floor, his fingers tight around its arms, his gaze over his shoulder to check for the slightest shift in his guest’s frame. Once he had enough space to seat himself, he took a piece of parchment and a small stick of charcoal out of his desk.
Opening the guide and turning it to its index, he was about to begin reading when he paused. What he planned - what was going through his mind - was well beyond the usual range of his activities. It was dubious, to be certain, but he could hardly tell himself it wasn’t illicit, a common refrain in his own pitches. Far from it. This could very well have been fraud of the highest order.
Was the goal worth going so far?
With his chair so far back, he was able to crane his neck enough to peer into the section of the office that served as his living space, to see beyond it and to the edge of his bed. Even from this angle, there wasn’t much he could see; the curve of an arm, pale enough it seemed to stand out against white linens, and the ends of a few strands of deep, bloody red hair.
After a moment’s contemplation, he turned back to his book and fell silent, save for the turning of a page and the scratch of charcoal across parchment.
More respectable texts could be found in the numerous shelves in Verad’s employee lounge, set within the estate’s basement. There, the curious visitor could find more standard texts including general encyclopedias, listings of Ul’dahn tax code with layers of dust on their bindings thick enough to withstand a swordpoint, and tales of adventure and salacious exploits not attributable to the Duskwight himself. However, these were scattered among texts that were, upon closer inspection, anything but, revealing themselves to be cunningly painted blocks of wood with titles in fanciful Eorzean script, gilded and embossed to the point of being unreadable. Finding actual books was half the challenge of the downstairs shelves, and he took a certain pleasure in watching people distinguish the respectable-looking from the genuine article. Mayhaps there was a moral in this, but it was far more likely that he was being a shit, not that the two were contradictory positions.
The third set wasn’t exactly private, but as it was to be found within Verad’s office and living space, it may as well have been for narrative purposes. If pressed, Verad would admit these to be one of, if not the, sources of his persuasive powers. These were not a defining element, to be sure - he had his own persistence, winning smile, command of the language, and above all a sense of humility to thank for that - but they were crucial nevertheless.
These were what Verad found himself perusing in the dead of night, unable to sleep and possessed of the restless energy that often presaged a terminally bad idea on his part. He mumbled silently in the dark, lips moving as he mouthed out the titles, taking care to ensure that his words died before he left his throat. There was naught but a screen between the shelf and his bed, and he preferred not to wake its occupant.
He lit upon one string of sideways script with his index finger, and his eyes brightened in the dark. There was a slight shuffling as he pulled the text free of its space on the shelf to get a better look at the title. There, in a simple embossed gilding, were these words:
The Mummer’s Guide to Ishgardian Heraldry
Just beneath the title on the front cover, a small, similarly gilded portrait of a cartoonish Lalafell, winking at the viewer, hand on his (her?) hip, the other holding up a single finger as if to indicate something.
Verad exhaled in relief at finding the title. The Mummer’s Guides were some of his best-kept secrets. A key part of his trade was always knowing at least enough about a subject to pass himself off as an expert at best and a talented amateur at worst. For these, the guides were indispensible. Chocobo farming, swordfighting, poetry, armorsmithing, and metallurgy were common, amongst other, more esoteric topics, including but not limited to the book he held in his hand.
With a very light step, Verad crossed the few fulms to his desk, and carefully pulled his chair aside to avoid letting it scrape on the office’s tiled floor, his fingers tight around its arms, his gaze over his shoulder to check for the slightest shift in his guest’s frame. Once he had enough space to seat himself, he took a piece of parchment and a small stick of charcoal out of his desk.
Opening the guide and turning it to its index, he was about to begin reading when he paused. What he planned - what was going through his mind - was well beyond the usual range of his activities. It was dubious, to be certain, but he could hardly tell himself it wasn’t illicit, a common refrain in his own pitches. Far from it. This could very well have been fraud of the highest order.
Was the goal worth going so far?
With his chair so far back, he was able to crane his neck enough to peer into the section of the office that served as his living space, to see beyond it and to the edge of his bed. Even from this angle, there wasn’t much he could see; the curve of an arm, pale enough it seemed to stand out against white linens, and the ends of a few strands of deep, bloody red hair.
After a moment’s contemplation, he turned back to his book and fell silent, save for the turning of a page and the scratch of charcoal across parchment.
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
