Osric chuckled as he gradually made his way over to the counter, still pirouetting this way and that.
"Trade you grand adventures for this hole in the wall y'call a storefront," he muttered. It was an offer that he made every time; it had become something of a tradition, teasing Tarot over the meager space with which he had to work.
"No, no, not strictly business," he replied as he reached Tarot at last. He rocked back and forth on his feet, from balls to heels and back again, shite-eating grin on his face as he patted the mass under his arm.
The peddler had mistaken him for a Brass Blade back when Osric had first stumbled upon his shop - like as not due to the fly mask that was erroneously associated with that outfit - and the Immortal Flame had never bothered to correct him. Why should he, when the Blades' reputation brought him advantage here? To stand out amidst the scum as an honorable fellow... yes, that brought advantage.
At Tarot's request, he reached inside his robe and pulled out heavy tome. The red leather covers were worn and faded, the binding cracked with age. Osric carefully placed the old text on the counter, turned it around to face the shopkeeper, opened it up, and began flipping through the pages.
"Damned thing's ancient, to m'reckonin'. Full o' descriptions of bygone cultures, their society, their monuments, their armaments.... figured it might fetch a price, but that's not why I'm here. Came not t'sell, but t'acquire."Â
This was an unusual change of pace, and the customer knew it. He had first stumbled onto the Crooked Phoenix Emporium when his regular supplier of fine steel had closed up. Rent on Sapphire wasn't cheap, after all... but that had mattered little when Osric's trusted source of all things knives and daggers had dried up. Tarot, he found, had good stock. He was competent, professional, discrete... and that suited the Flame just fine. Most of Osric's purchases were done through an intermediary, and as for rare finds, those he brought in personally.
One last flick of his wrist brought him to the illustration he was after; he smoothed out the pages, tapped the sketch to draw attention to it, then dug around in his robes....
"As y'can imagine, law enforcement's a bit of a bind, at times." Onto the counter he dropped a pair of brass knuckles. "Y'need non-lethal force, for the unruly citizens and residents..." Then a pair of steel patas; close inspection would reveal them to be standard-issue I.F. equipment. "...yet certain occasions call for a more... permanent touch."
He placed his palms on the edge of the counter and leaned forward, his face falling into a rather stern and serious frown.
"I'm getting sick o' carryin' around two sets. It's unwieldy and nearly cost me m'life the other sun."
Osric tapped the illustration again without ever taking his eyes off Tarot.
"This looks like it'd serve m'purposes... yet I've no idea where to acquire a pair. Original, replica, I don't care. The tome y'can have for lookin' into this for me; I'll pay coin for the acquisition. Y'know I'm good for it."
"Trade you grand adventures for this hole in the wall y'call a storefront," he muttered. It was an offer that he made every time; it had become something of a tradition, teasing Tarot over the meager space with which he had to work.
"No, no, not strictly business," he replied as he reached Tarot at last. He rocked back and forth on his feet, from balls to heels and back again, shite-eating grin on his face as he patted the mass under his arm.
The peddler had mistaken him for a Brass Blade back when Osric had first stumbled upon his shop - like as not due to the fly mask that was erroneously associated with that outfit - and the Immortal Flame had never bothered to correct him. Why should he, when the Blades' reputation brought him advantage here? To stand out amidst the scum as an honorable fellow... yes, that brought advantage.
At Tarot's request, he reached inside his robe and pulled out heavy tome. The red leather covers were worn and faded, the binding cracked with age. Osric carefully placed the old text on the counter, turned it around to face the shopkeeper, opened it up, and began flipping through the pages.
"Damned thing's ancient, to m'reckonin'. Full o' descriptions of bygone cultures, their society, their monuments, their armaments.... figured it might fetch a price, but that's not why I'm here. Came not t'sell, but t'acquire."Â
This was an unusual change of pace, and the customer knew it. He had first stumbled onto the Crooked Phoenix Emporium when his regular supplier of fine steel had closed up. Rent on Sapphire wasn't cheap, after all... but that had mattered little when Osric's trusted source of all things knives and daggers had dried up. Tarot, he found, had good stock. He was competent, professional, discrete... and that suited the Flame just fine. Most of Osric's purchases were done through an intermediary, and as for rare finds, those he brought in personally.
One last flick of his wrist brought him to the illustration he was after; he smoothed out the pages, tapped the sketch to draw attention to it, then dug around in his robes....
"As y'can imagine, law enforcement's a bit of a bind, at times." Onto the counter he dropped a pair of brass knuckles. "Y'need non-lethal force, for the unruly citizens and residents..." Then a pair of steel patas; close inspection would reveal them to be standard-issue I.F. equipment. "...yet certain occasions call for a more... permanent touch."
He placed his palms on the edge of the counter and leaned forward, his face falling into a rather stern and serious frown.
"I'm getting sick o' carryin' around two sets. It's unwieldy and nearly cost me m'life the other sun."
Osric tapped the illustration again without ever taking his eyes off Tarot.
"This looks like it'd serve m'purposes... yet I've no idea where to acquire a pair. Original, replica, I don't care. The tome y'can have for lookin' into this for me; I'll pay coin for the acquisition. Y'know I'm good for it."
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
