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((The following ties into events described in Stranger in a Strange Land, here. In particular, the ending of that post.))
Another drink, and the woman still looked just as good. Weylan didn't usually go to the Boar to drink; it was a Wailer bar, to be sure, but it was an older one, where the veterans and the retirees preferred to stay. Younger pups, the ones still "finding their voice" in the parlance, were not unwelcome, but they were looked at as being disrespectful without an invitation. The place felt old, too, as if the kegs had been tapped by somebody's grandsire when said fellow was still barely out of swaddling.Â
Hadrian, however, had insisted they meet here near closing time, and had assured Weylan that his word was as good as an invite. Weylan fought to swallow the indignity, but after learning a small supply of good, strong spirits were kept in the back on request for those who "knew," then a few swallows of that had made his annoyance considerably less.
And then there was the poster. The girl was gorgeous. Highlander, but she didn't have that roughness to her that he saw so many of the refugees possess, a quality that went beyond the dirt on their clothes. She was like a statue. Even as Hadrian spoke, he found himself glancing from time to time until, as the drinking continued, he stared, transfixed, until he heard the snapping of fingers from across his table.
"Hey. Hey. Wey." Hadrian laughed, amused at the rhyme. "Hey hey, Wey Wey, you still looking? Look, I don't care how she looks, she's a picture. She a pretty thing?"
"Of course she is." Weylan frowned. Couldn't Hadrian turn and see? Or was the mask he insisted on wearing blocking his vision. "Beautiful," he admitted.
"She got a name? My letters aren't too great, you know."
Weylan squinted. ". . . Foxheart. Aya Foxheart."
"You ever see her, you tell her what you think of her. Guy like you, somebody good to the Shroud, she'd be lucky. Lucky, you know. But let's focus, yeah?" Hadrian swung his head to the bar, ensured the absence of interest on the part of the tavernkeep. "Like I said, you focused? You good? I just want to make sure."
Weylan bristled, and pushed his tankard forward for another finger or two of spirits. "Fine," he said. "Never better."
"Okay. Good. Real good. That last one you found? That bit of info? Solid. Real solid. We're gonna make a lot of money from it, you know. And we're going to show them how the Shroud ought to be run." Hadrian's smile was supremely satisfied. Whatever he'd done with that report Weylan had read to him, he didn't know. It was ciphered, and the code had made little sense. But when he'd dictated it to his senior, the man had looked as if he'd found religion.
"But that said, you know, I gotta make sure. You know what we did, right?"
". . . Pretty good idea, yeah," Weylan admitted as he tipped his head back to drink. The liqour helped the sinking sensation.
"Okay. And how do you feel about that?"
His eyes strayed to the poster, to the faraway look of Foxheart as she stared out into the Shroud. Why couldn't they all be like that? How did he feel about it anyhow?
"The thing is, Wey, they're animals. That's what they are. You don't need to feel bad about anything. The biggest lie the forest ever told you, and everyone here, was that they're anything other'n animals. So why not treat 'em like that?" Hadrian shrugged, swishing his own tankard. There was something in his voice, Weylan noted. It wasn't that he was convincing himself of it. There was no tremor of fear or stutter in his words. This was what he thought. This was what he knew to be true.
He could admire the conviction. "If you say so. You know more than I, I think."
Hadrian smirked, the scars beneath his mask wrinkling with the gesture. "Sure do," he said. "Anyway, you did good. When we get another shot, I want you with us. You don't have to finish it, wield a blade, none of that. But I want you with us. Extra pair of eyes and all. There was almost a slip, might've gone better with an extra pair."Â
The coughing rattled through the bar until Weylan managed to catch his breath. "You want me there?"
"Yeah. Pay's better, bigger cut. And trust me, you will never feel quite so accomplished. You used to hunt, right? Same thing. Animals, after all. Fuck 'em." He laughed, and drank. "Fuck 'em. So, you in?"
It would be a credit to Weylan to say that he was in because of the careful and considerate examination of the pros and cons. It would also be a credit to say he did so because he acknowledged, at last, a certain darkness, and felt a value in it that he had never really considered. These, at least, would be ethical positions, stances. Respectable, if abhorrent.
Instead, he drank, snorted, and nodded with no thought whatsoever. Hadrian reached out and patted him on the shoulder. He never looked him in the eye (as far as Weylan could tell), but he patted him on the shoulder all the same.
"Good man. Now, 'scuse me, I got to meet with a buyer. Keep the rest of the flask, all right? On me. 'M good for it."
Hadrian took his leave, and Weylan was silent, listening to the wood flooring creak, and the door open a crack before slamming shut. His eyes fell to the poster again.
"Hey," His voice was low, and slurred from strong drink. He was forced to repeat himself before the tavernkeep listened. "When did you get this?" He pointed to a space three fulms away from the poster.
"That?" The tavernkeep followed his finger, then corrected for accuracy. "Why, the woman herself put it there not a few days ago. Touring the city, I think."
". . . Did she now."
---
"You're fuckin' late, you know. Scare a guy, keep acting like that." Where Weylan needed the comfort of a Wailer bar, and Hadrian was willing to give it, he would give no such luxuries to Pelderain. They met in the darker corner of the old city, in passages grown thick amongst the trees. In a city where the walls were hedges, the hedges could be easy to hide within.
"I do apologize," said Pelderain. He was pale for a grey, pale enough to pass if he'd just die his hair to look like bark or moss. Hadrian couldn't see it now, in the dark, but he remembered it well enough. "I had something of a shock today, and it slowed my demonstration somewhat." His speech was simple and precise, elegant as it tended to be amongst some Duskwights. Nothing like the rural forestborn charm he put on for his presentations.
"Shock? What, you have competition?"
"No - well, yes, but I also had an old relative. Or a new one. A niece. I gather she survived where my siblings did not." He shifted, uncomfortable in the hedge, cracking the leaves beneath him. Even this small noise made Hadrian train his mask on the man, and he fell still. "It was all very distressing."
"You got buyers, though?"
Pelderain grinned. "The gil is flowing. Contacts in the Stalls are eager for new shipments."
"Good. You can give 'er this, too." Hadrian unhooked a small pouch and tossed it underhand. Even so, Pelderain struggled to catch it. "Careful with it, it's the real deal. She's got alchemy training, right? She'll confirm it - betcha it's different than the fake stuff other people use."
Pelderain held the pouch in both hands once he had a proper grip on it, staring at it in the dark as if it were a tiny baby bomb waiting to grow. "If she can - then I think you'll have what you need, once a buyer's found. A commanding price indeed."
"Damn right. No other trouble, then?"
"Wailers, that's all, but they're customers, so no trouble. Somebody trying to claim my products are forgeries. I suspect they're from that Dubious Distributions company."
Hadrian stifled his snort. "Your products are forgeries? Dintcha say that Bronco Grease shit is fuckin' airship oil?"
"With shards thrown in," amended Pelderain. "And scantily clad women for posters."
"Who the fuck are these people anyhow? You think they're 'venturers?"
"Could be. They do seem to be on the rise compared to the old days, and some of them seemed quite heavily armed."
"Anybody we need to worry about?" Hadrian hid his amusement poorly. They both knew there were only two people to worry about.
"There is, ah . . . hrm. Again, they seem dangerous, but the owner seems harmless. Some old fellow, a Verad Bellveil if all the paraphernalia around his business is correct."
Where there had been the slightest rustling in the grass when Hadrian shifted, it fell completely still. "Who?"
"Verad Bellveil? Do you know him?" There was silence, but not truly, as the Shroud was a forest, even in the city. Night birds called and insects chirped.
"How old is he?"
"Mm, let me think. There was a sketch . . . some cheap locket I found in the Stalls. Curious, you know. Best to know one's competitors." Pelderain folded his hands down together in thought. "If it was accurate, I would say in his fiftieth or sixtieth cycle. He looked quite old, for a Duskwight."
Hadrian relaxed without realizing he had gone tense. "Not the same guy, then. No. That one was a Hyur. Strange name for a Duskwight though - unless . . . -" He paused, and glanced away, taking off his mask to rub the bridge of his nose. Pelderain politely became interested in a valuable patch of dirt.
"Oh." A soft sound that mixed in with the sounds of the evening, until it emphasis. "Oh. Right. The infant. Corwin's little bargaining chip." He chuckled as he replaced his mask.
"Where'd you say they were based out've? Ul'dah? What's it take to get there, y'think?"
Another drink, and the woman still looked just as good. Weylan didn't usually go to the Boar to drink; it was a Wailer bar, to be sure, but it was an older one, where the veterans and the retirees preferred to stay. Younger pups, the ones still "finding their voice" in the parlance, were not unwelcome, but they were looked at as being disrespectful without an invitation. The place felt old, too, as if the kegs had been tapped by somebody's grandsire when said fellow was still barely out of swaddling.Â
Hadrian, however, had insisted they meet here near closing time, and had assured Weylan that his word was as good as an invite. Weylan fought to swallow the indignity, but after learning a small supply of good, strong spirits were kept in the back on request for those who "knew," then a few swallows of that had made his annoyance considerably less.
And then there was the poster. The girl was gorgeous. Highlander, but she didn't have that roughness to her that he saw so many of the refugees possess, a quality that went beyond the dirt on their clothes. She was like a statue. Even as Hadrian spoke, he found himself glancing from time to time until, as the drinking continued, he stared, transfixed, until he heard the snapping of fingers from across his table.
"Hey. Hey. Wey." Hadrian laughed, amused at the rhyme. "Hey hey, Wey Wey, you still looking? Look, I don't care how she looks, she's a picture. She a pretty thing?"
"Of course she is." Weylan frowned. Couldn't Hadrian turn and see? Or was the mask he insisted on wearing blocking his vision. "Beautiful," he admitted.
"She got a name? My letters aren't too great, you know."
Weylan squinted. ". . . Foxheart. Aya Foxheart."
"You ever see her, you tell her what you think of her. Guy like you, somebody good to the Shroud, she'd be lucky. Lucky, you know. But let's focus, yeah?" Hadrian swung his head to the bar, ensured the absence of interest on the part of the tavernkeep. "Like I said, you focused? You good? I just want to make sure."
Weylan bristled, and pushed his tankard forward for another finger or two of spirits. "Fine," he said. "Never better."
"Okay. Good. Real good. That last one you found? That bit of info? Solid. Real solid. We're gonna make a lot of money from it, you know. And we're going to show them how the Shroud ought to be run." Hadrian's smile was supremely satisfied. Whatever he'd done with that report Weylan had read to him, he didn't know. It was ciphered, and the code had made little sense. But when he'd dictated it to his senior, the man had looked as if he'd found religion.
"But that said, you know, I gotta make sure. You know what we did, right?"
". . . Pretty good idea, yeah," Weylan admitted as he tipped his head back to drink. The liqour helped the sinking sensation.
"Okay. And how do you feel about that?"
His eyes strayed to the poster, to the faraway look of Foxheart as she stared out into the Shroud. Why couldn't they all be like that? How did he feel about it anyhow?
"The thing is, Wey, they're animals. That's what they are. You don't need to feel bad about anything. The biggest lie the forest ever told you, and everyone here, was that they're anything other'n animals. So why not treat 'em like that?" Hadrian shrugged, swishing his own tankard. There was something in his voice, Weylan noted. It wasn't that he was convincing himself of it. There was no tremor of fear or stutter in his words. This was what he thought. This was what he knew to be true.
He could admire the conviction. "If you say so. You know more than I, I think."
Hadrian smirked, the scars beneath his mask wrinkling with the gesture. "Sure do," he said. "Anyway, you did good. When we get another shot, I want you with us. You don't have to finish it, wield a blade, none of that. But I want you with us. Extra pair of eyes and all. There was almost a slip, might've gone better with an extra pair."Â
The coughing rattled through the bar until Weylan managed to catch his breath. "You want me there?"
"Yeah. Pay's better, bigger cut. And trust me, you will never feel quite so accomplished. You used to hunt, right? Same thing. Animals, after all. Fuck 'em." He laughed, and drank. "Fuck 'em. So, you in?"
It would be a credit to Weylan to say that he was in because of the careful and considerate examination of the pros and cons. It would also be a credit to say he did so because he acknowledged, at last, a certain darkness, and felt a value in it that he had never really considered. These, at least, would be ethical positions, stances. Respectable, if abhorrent.
Instead, he drank, snorted, and nodded with no thought whatsoever. Hadrian reached out and patted him on the shoulder. He never looked him in the eye (as far as Weylan could tell), but he patted him on the shoulder all the same.
"Good man. Now, 'scuse me, I got to meet with a buyer. Keep the rest of the flask, all right? On me. 'M good for it."
Hadrian took his leave, and Weylan was silent, listening to the wood flooring creak, and the door open a crack before slamming shut. His eyes fell to the poster again.
"Hey," His voice was low, and slurred from strong drink. He was forced to repeat himself before the tavernkeep listened. "When did you get this?" He pointed to a space three fulms away from the poster.
"That?" The tavernkeep followed his finger, then corrected for accuracy. "Why, the woman herself put it there not a few days ago. Touring the city, I think."
". . . Did she now."
---
"You're fuckin' late, you know. Scare a guy, keep acting like that." Where Weylan needed the comfort of a Wailer bar, and Hadrian was willing to give it, he would give no such luxuries to Pelderain. They met in the darker corner of the old city, in passages grown thick amongst the trees. In a city where the walls were hedges, the hedges could be easy to hide within.
"I do apologize," said Pelderain. He was pale for a grey, pale enough to pass if he'd just die his hair to look like bark or moss. Hadrian couldn't see it now, in the dark, but he remembered it well enough. "I had something of a shock today, and it slowed my demonstration somewhat." His speech was simple and precise, elegant as it tended to be amongst some Duskwights. Nothing like the rural forestborn charm he put on for his presentations.
"Shock? What, you have competition?"
"No - well, yes, but I also had an old relative. Or a new one. A niece. I gather she survived where my siblings did not." He shifted, uncomfortable in the hedge, cracking the leaves beneath him. Even this small noise made Hadrian train his mask on the man, and he fell still. "It was all very distressing."
"You got buyers, though?"
Pelderain grinned. "The gil is flowing. Contacts in the Stalls are eager for new shipments."
"Good. You can give 'er this, too." Hadrian unhooked a small pouch and tossed it underhand. Even so, Pelderain struggled to catch it. "Careful with it, it's the real deal. She's got alchemy training, right? She'll confirm it - betcha it's different than the fake stuff other people use."
Pelderain held the pouch in both hands once he had a proper grip on it, staring at it in the dark as if it were a tiny baby bomb waiting to grow. "If she can - then I think you'll have what you need, once a buyer's found. A commanding price indeed."
"Damn right. No other trouble, then?"
"Wailers, that's all, but they're customers, so no trouble. Somebody trying to claim my products are forgeries. I suspect they're from that Dubious Distributions company."
Hadrian stifled his snort. "Your products are forgeries? Dintcha say that Bronco Grease shit is fuckin' airship oil?"
"With shards thrown in," amended Pelderain. "And scantily clad women for posters."
"Who the fuck are these people anyhow? You think they're 'venturers?"
"Could be. They do seem to be on the rise compared to the old days, and some of them seemed quite heavily armed."
"Anybody we need to worry about?" Hadrian hid his amusement poorly. They both knew there were only two people to worry about.
"There is, ah . . . hrm. Again, they seem dangerous, but the owner seems harmless. Some old fellow, a Verad Bellveil if all the paraphernalia around his business is correct."
Where there had been the slightest rustling in the grass when Hadrian shifted, it fell completely still. "Who?"
"Verad Bellveil? Do you know him?" There was silence, but not truly, as the Shroud was a forest, even in the city. Night birds called and insects chirped.
"How old is he?"
"Mm, let me think. There was a sketch . . . some cheap locket I found in the Stalls. Curious, you know. Best to know one's competitors." Pelderain folded his hands down together in thought. "If it was accurate, I would say in his fiftieth or sixtieth cycle. He looked quite old, for a Duskwight."
Hadrian relaxed without realizing he had gone tense. "Not the same guy, then. No. That one was a Hyur. Strange name for a Duskwight though - unless . . . -" He paused, and glanced away, taking off his mask to rub the bridge of his nose. Pelderain politely became interested in a valuable patch of dirt.
"Oh." A soft sound that mixed in with the sounds of the evening, until it emphasis. "Oh. Right. The infant. Corwin's little bargaining chip." He chuckled as he replaced his mask.
"Where'd you say they were based out've? Ul'dah? What's it take to get there, y'think?"
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