As a rule, they did not speak. Their interactions were brief and quick (albeit with rising frequency these past suns) and as discreet as could be made given that they could only meet in public. Eyes never met and in quieter moments (ones accompanied by copious drink), Delial occasionally wondered if they ever could.
She handed over another handful of sealed envelopes. Surprisingly dextrous fingers (paws?) plied them free, giving what she assumed a glance over the addressees. Heads nodded in acknowledgement and Delial was ready to turn and go back the way she came when a paw rose, gesturing her to wait. The moogle made a quiet series of odd hooting sounds as it dug through its big red bag. How it ever found anything in it was a mystery to her: some form of moogle magic, she assumed, some trickery beyond the wits of men.
It produced for her a single thick envelope, whatever contents it bore greatly distending its packaging. A quizzical glance rewarded her nothing but a shrug. You know the rules, it seemed to say, and Delial did not press upon it. It was worth a bit of worry, however, as none of the letters she had been sending would warrant anything more in return. Most peculiar of all was the sender's name: Coatleque Crofte.
So she nodded her silent goodbye to the moogle and turned upon her heel. Horizon was not her preferred place of business but it beat Ul'dah. As she strode away, making for the shade beneath a store front awning, she neatly tore open the envelope in question and fished about inside. Between her pointer and middle fingers she caught a tiny plain tin with a lid sealed tight over its contents. Had she asked for evidence...? No, no, only information. Unless Ser Crofte is being crea--
Delial's brows pinched. She spun the tin around until the label came into view and she stared at it for many moments. Ser Crofte did not seem the type to jest with a woman she hardly knew, particularly not a jest in such poor taste. Sultansworn. Natalie.
No more than five minutes would pass before Delial would find herself trying to explain to a shrivelled little woman and the Brass Blade she had summoned that yes, of course she would pay to repair that perfectly lovely and also outrageously expensive window and no, no, she had absolutely no idea what possessed her to throw a perfectly harmless and ordinary little tin of nail care ointment straight through it. It was a lie of course and she knew it well, but she could not find a way to put to words what blind, unthinking rage could express just so succinctly.
She handed over another handful of sealed envelopes. Surprisingly dextrous fingers (paws?) plied them free, giving what she assumed a glance over the addressees. Heads nodded in acknowledgement and Delial was ready to turn and go back the way she came when a paw rose, gesturing her to wait. The moogle made a quiet series of odd hooting sounds as it dug through its big red bag. How it ever found anything in it was a mystery to her: some form of moogle magic, she assumed, some trickery beyond the wits of men.
It produced for her a single thick envelope, whatever contents it bore greatly distending its packaging. A quizzical glance rewarded her nothing but a shrug. You know the rules, it seemed to say, and Delial did not press upon it. It was worth a bit of worry, however, as none of the letters she had been sending would warrant anything more in return. Most peculiar of all was the sender's name: Coatleque Crofte.
So she nodded her silent goodbye to the moogle and turned upon her heel. Horizon was not her preferred place of business but it beat Ul'dah. As she strode away, making for the shade beneath a store front awning, she neatly tore open the envelope in question and fished about inside. Between her pointer and middle fingers she caught a tiny plain tin with a lid sealed tight over its contents. Had she asked for evidence...? No, no, only information. Unless Ser Crofte is being crea--
Delial's brows pinched. She spun the tin around until the label came into view and she stared at it for many moments. Ser Crofte did not seem the type to jest with a woman she hardly knew, particularly not a jest in such poor taste. Sultansworn. Natalie.
No more than five minutes would pass before Delial would find herself trying to explain to a shrivelled little woman and the Brass Blade she had summoned that yes, of course she would pay to repair that perfectly lovely and also outrageously expensive window and no, no, she had absolutely no idea what possessed her to throw a perfectly harmless and ordinary little tin of nail care ointment straight through it. It was a lie of course and she knew it well, but she could not find a way to put to words what blind, unthinking rage could express just so succinctly.
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