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I Am A Crafty Merchant [CYOA, OOC Welcome]

Verad

By Verad,
in Town Square (IC)

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Verad

Verad

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I like to think that, having spent as long in my profession as I have, that I am quite adept at reading the expressions of others. A peddler, and especially a dubious one, must have a sound understanding of every twitch and quirk of a person's face. And the Seeker in front of me is quite twitchy and quirky indeed! From the lift of a well-arched eyebrow to the narrowing of her heterochromatic eyes, and the upward twitch of her lip to the folding together of her arms, I can see it all quite well: She wants it. She needs it. She will do anything for - 

 

"No, that's quite all right, thank you. I'd much prefer real gold."

 

On the other hand, body language is a lie and it can quite often be misleading, and anybody who thinks otherwise is an absolute fool. I do not see any irony in this statement. One thing I do know, however, is that there are times and places to press a customer, and this is not one of them. This comes from verbal rather than physical language, whether their words express interest in seeing just how far I'll go (the answer is always "very far") to make a sale or whether they express an interest in seeing my backside as I retreat to another corner of the tavern. Here, the answer is clearly the latter.

 

I smile and I bow, and I say what, in some variation, I always say. "But of course, madam. If you find you require any goods like those that I offer, please, don't settle for anything less than Verad Bellveil, Ul'dah's Premier Distributor of the Dubious!" I do not give her an opportunity for a parting shot beyond a wave and a nod as I turn on my heel and march to another part of the railing.

 

It's a busy night in the Quicksand for pretty much anybody except me. Momodi is clearly making her rent's worth of coin, and Miss Foxheart does the same in tips. I catch her eye and we offer a smile and a wave to each other as we pass, but there's no time for conversation on either end. Even now, a high, hoarse voice calls out for another round, and she has to dash towards a table I can't see in the bustle.

 

Ah, Miss Foxheart. Some days I envy your profession. The leers and the stress and the infrequent declarations of love must be a frustrating thing, to be sure, but nobody has ever tipped a dubious peddler. And in my current circumstances, I would be very much appreciative of a tip.

 

Once I find a spare space on the rail next to a pair of sniping Midlanders - one male, the other female, their barbs of such a tone and content that it suggests this is how they say they love each other - I place my hand on the railing and lean out over the crowd. My situation is a curious one, I think, and not one I ever suspected would happen, could happen, but happen it has. 

 

In short, I believe I am losing my edge. This has been the fifth night in a row that I have attempted to peddle my wares without even the slightest hint of success. My usual standards of imitation fool's gold and defective treasure maps never sold any more than sporadically, but even my hottest items like my supply of plot devices have gone untouched and unpurchased over the past few suns. This is a fairly new development - during the incident with the relics, I was more than able to make a few sales from time to time, when I was not hiding in my house. Now, though, I find I am hard-pressed. It is as if the No-Eyed Man left a curse on me on his funeral pyre; a laughable concept, to be sure, but I take laughable concepts quite seriously. They are my stock and trade.

 

There is no existential or financial threat in this, as my circumstances have left me comfortably well-off. In selling control of my estate to the Shroudwolf, I am free of the expenses of rent - beyond the occasional outrageous tale at their regular story circles - and taxation. My income is supplemented by my dividends from Vesper Bay, ensuring maintenance of a well-off, if dubious, quality of life. There is no real need to do what I usually do.

 

That, I think, is the problem. Gone are the days of making a rug in Pearl Lane my office and struggling day by day to ensure that I can live to see the next. Gone are the days of scraping and scrounging and setting aside every gil I had to pay the Debt. There is no more Debt to pay, after all, and no more cause to scrape and scrounge. Gone, too, are the problem of the relics from my life, and in its place is control of an entire company with a number of employees. There are people who look up to me. And what isn't there to admire? But there are too many people who look up to me.

 

In short, I have become distressingly respectable. And we can't very well have that. So we must return to the basics, to the core of my identity, to my essential and primal dubiousness. Otherwise, I may as well hang up my beard and get a stall on the Exchange to sell respectable goods like any other respectable merchant in the city.

 

A stall. I suppress a shudder at the thought, and scan the crowd again. Tonight, I will make a sale. I will get in touch with my inner dubiousness, and I will rekindle what has been lost over moons of good fortune. But who shall receive my pitch?

 

Who should Verad annoy next?

 

1. There's a dark-clad Elezen woman lurking by the bar. For a moment I suspect the conspicuously brooding fashion is an affectation, but she seems to have an understated demeanor which takes it quite seriously. The earnestly depressed are always good targets; they never quite know how to react.

 

2. A trio of adventurers - two Miqo'te, one of either clan, and a Sea Wolf - are bickering over something I can't quite hear. I don't typically like interrupting groups, but their conversation seems heated without being private. Mayhaps I can redirect their energies to something more lucrative.

 

3. There's a Highlander fellow with no shirt on conspicuously sharpening his axe near one wall. It's a policy of mine to avoid selling to lone men - they have, in my experience, proven to be the most hostile to my pitches and my wares, to the point of violence in some cases. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

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Verad

Verad

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((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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

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 . . . 

 

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.

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Verad

Verad

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Find Another Poster: 3

Sell My Own Poster: 5

 

My bit of ledger-checking theater finishes with an enigmatic smile. "You're in luck," I say, my voice bright and chipper as I snap the ledger shut. "I happen to have just such a poster in my inventory."

 

Heidolf shows the first real expression of interest I've seen all night. It's a subtle change, seen in the lift of his traditionally non-existent Ala Mhigan eyebrows and in the straightening of his posture, but it's there. "Is that so?"

 

"Indeed! Signed, no less." It's not signed by me, which would of course raise the value of the piece even further, but by the woman herself. Still quite valuable to somebody in the right markets. "Now I don't have it with me, but I can have it here within the bell if you're willing to wait. It's in excellent condition. You can have a look, and then we shall settle on a price?"

 

He hasn't heard the last sentence or two, the far-off look in his eyes suggesting his mind is somewhere being dazzled by a display of Twelve-given good fortune. I have him. I may even make a profit on this. It's hard to keep my grin from being wolfish.

 

---

 

The guilt only starts to hit once I reach my company's ward of the Goblet. It was polite enough to keep the pangs down to a slight itch through the city itself, but once I hit the residential areas it becomes a full-blown twinge, as such things are categorized. After all, it was the only thing left I had of our relationship. Could I really sell it that easily?

 

Near the corner of my estate, I paused to take a breath. I could imagine several people, if they knew the circumstances, calling this quite low. The poster was a gift, after all, and a solid link to something that was otherwise only a memory.

 

Only a memory. I can't hide my snort, expressed to nobody save myself. A statement expressed only by those who had an excess of the same, who never had to do without. The thought is left at that; no sense being bitter about it.

 

Rounding the corner, the small wooden box, upside-down and propped up at an angle, is the first thing to catch my attention. The rest of the exterior of Dubious Distributions is as it always is - far better than I really have any right to have. It's a crate meant for a small shipment of fruit, but it seems to have been re-purposed as a simple trap; I can see a twig propping up the box's interior. Underneath is a small, wrinkled popoto.

 

My employment rolls are still small, so if nothing else I know who's responsible for this by process of "There is literally nobody else on my employment roll who would be responsible for this." I'm just trying to figure out why she'd do it here of all places.

 

"Miss Sandraix? Do you really think this is the best place?"

 

There's a crash in the foliage behind the estate wall as Alienne Sandraix exposes herself from her hiding place in a nearby shrub. It's a small shrub, and she's a rather tall Wildwood, so it takes quite a lot of exposure. "Oh! Heya, Mr. V!" She gives me a bright smile before furrowing her brows and looking around the environs. "You didn't see any apes or nothin' before you cames here? Don't want you scaring them off!"

 

This is my bodyguard. A former pirate and a born survivor in a very real sense, having survived both the Calamity and several bizarre instances of a voidsent murdering everyone but her on her vessel. When it comes to combat, there is hardly anyone better. Basic problem solving, however . . . well, I wouldn't hire security that wasn't dubious, would I?

 

"No, Miss Sandraix," I laugh, there being no real point in exasperation with Alienne. "How's the trap working for you?"

 

"Oh real good! I used that picture you gave me of that rope thing you used for hunting puddings." She bobs her head, the mop of dark-green hair combed to one side flailing over her face in her enthusiasm, and gives a thumbs-up. "Only I used a box on account of this is an ape and it could break out of a rope pretty easy."

 

"It does look good - but where's the string?"

 

"There's supposed to be a string? I thought it were a rope."

 

Never mind. If I stop to explain this I'll be here until the next sun, and Heidolf will surely be gone. "Capital work, Miss Sandraix. Keep it up." I reach out to pat her on the shoulder. "You really think that ape will come here?" This is technically her leve - finding an ape that fled some merchant. It's been moons; I suspect it's had time to found its own empire by now, but it keeps her paid and busy.

 

"Last place, Mr. V! Last place. I mean if I were an ape I'd - " She pauses, lost in thought. "I dunno what I'd do, but this ape'll come here. He's real crafty like that."

 

"Well get some sleep at some point," I say as I step past her. "I'm just in to pick up some stock for a customer."

 

"Whoawhoawhoa, a customer?" She steps in front of me. "Come on Mr. V, I gotta go with ya's."

 

"I'm quite capable of handling myself, Miss Sandraix, it's all perfectly legitimate!"

 

"'Ain't nobody allowed to do nothin' all by their lonesome in Dubious Distributions if they're dealing with - " She frowns, having forgotten the rest. "Well I gotta come with you anyhow."

 

She's reciting the Martyrdom Clause back at me, or trying to, in her own particular patois. It's a rule I established as I was drafting up the company charter. Simply put, it means that no member of the group is allowed to handle dangerous situations by themselves if they've already failed to do so at least once. The intent was to try and curtail what I've seen of free companies in the past, where a half-dozen young and eager adventurers fall all over themselves trying to resolve the shadows of their past without help, fail in an overwrought fashion, and make their problems worse for everyone.

 

It's a common problem amongst adventurers, and reckless to boot. What's the point of being in the damn company if one insists on being a stoic and standoffish loner, anyhow? So I made a rule to deny it. It is to my great misfortune that the rule is now indulging in a bit of petard-hoisting.

 

Alienne has a point - after getting myself enslaved in the Coblyn's Fancy Mining Company, beaten by Brass Blades while robbing a warehouse, and kidnapped by Dravanian heretics, I already fall under the dictates of the Martyrdom Clause.

 

Still. It's Alienne.

 

What should Verad do next?

 

1. I'll have to concede the point and take her with me. Rules are rules, and I can't expect people to follow them if I don't do it myself. She may be a bit abrasive and prone to saying literally anything that's on her mind at any point, but I can work around that with a bit of good salesmanship.

 

2. The Martyrdom Clause is specifically for dangerous situations or shadows from the past. I am at least ninety-percent confident that a random stranger I approached in a bar isn't somebody who's out to kill me for some crime I don't even remember. Worse, only a few moments of conversation with Alienne can turn a customer sour. She could jeopardize everything! I should tell her to concentrate on her leve. It won't take too much convincing.

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