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The Crooked Phoenix Emporium [Open]


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Speak of the voidsent, and they shall appear.

 

Osric circled around the stand at the end of one particular aisle, maintaining a respectful distance lest a certain someone take umbrage. His eyes looked up and down over the displayed garment, scanning for any stains, torn seams, poor stitching. He found nothing; the trenchcoat was immaculate. Approximately his size at the shoulders, long enough to drop down past his knees, a nice solid shade of brown... and sitting on the shelf next to it were a pair of black boots and gloves.

 

The quality of the coat, though... I've seen Od'hilkas at his work. Finest craftsman I know when it comes to leather... and I don't think even he could manage such. The hells did this come from? Nah, nah, better question: why haven't I bought the damned thing already?

 

"Tch."

 

A purposeful stride carried him back towards the front; as he reached the door that led into the backroom, he turned to glance back the way he'd come, taking count of the aisles, then he knocked on the wood.

 

"Oi, Tarot! How much for the fancy piece o' work what's standin' at the end o' aisle four? The one that looks like somethin' y'plucked from the leatherworkers' guild in Gridania. The boots 'n' gloves, too, how much for those?"

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  • 2 weeks later...

Tarot grinned inwardly when he heard the question. Seemed that Moggie-Moglin's lesson had definitely NOT been lost on Osric after all this time! Turning, he opened the door to the backroom in time to greet the shopper as he looked at the item on display. There was a fun story behind that one involving a botanist, a collection of love letters and a large block of Gridanian Cheese. The coat itself was rather nice, and though Tarot was loathed to part with it since he'd been debating on wearing it himself for a while now, he simply could not pass up the chance to get a bit more gil jingling in his pocket.

 

The rest of Osric's purchases were lined up on the counter by now, already wrapped and ready to go. He knew Osric knew better than to ask for more than he could spend so he didn't dither on whether the man could afford it or not. Besides, most everything in the front of the shop was far easier to haggle over so he wasn't worried about it.

 

"Hmm?" He asked, leaning into the room to get a look, pretending he hadn't the foggiest idea of what Osric was talking about before nodding. "Oh yes! That little set. Well, for you, I could part with the whole thing for 10,000 gil. Of course, I am knocking a bit off for being a frequent customer, and for already filling up your purchase card so quickly." He gave an oily grin as he looked Osric over smugly. "It would look better on me, I think, so my desire to part with it may not last for long..."

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The sergeant grimaced.

 

Not so long ago, ten thou had been his life savings. Contrary to popular belief, most Flames were not paid well: a soldier was more like than not to retire to his cot not with a bag of coin, but with a fistful of seals. Four, nearly five cycles he'd scrounged and saved and amassed a small fortune, only to risk losing it all for a chance to return home to Limsa.

 

Things had changed, though, with the turning of the seasons. He was with the Red Wings now. More importantly, the captain had left him in charge of the unit's covert operations, which meant that he had plenty of funds to draw on, provided he could justify the costs. Operational funding was just a small part of a larger sum, though: he and his men knew all too well the wealth that was information. Too often they came across secrets that were not only worth many a small fortune to the right persons, but were also not pertinent to state security.

 

So yes, he could afford ten thou now, despite the rather dire matter of hoarding every bronze piece he could get his grubby mitts on for the sake of a rather pressing engagement.

 

The damnable thing was that he couldn't afford it right now. The rumor mill had gone quiet as of late, and the well of wealth had dried up as the winds died.

 

He'd walked in here with plenty for his usual, with enough set aside for both his commission and the matter of the perfume. On top of all that, he had five hundred and seven thou left over from his own purse... which left him short. Left him tantalizingly close. Downright maddening, that he couldn't justify dipping into his other purse, the one specifically set aside for business... even more so given Tarot's infuriating taunt of a grin. Bloody salesmen....

 

Is it even really worth that much, though? It's just a gods-damned coat.

 

I've never seen anythin' of that quality. Fen-Yll Atelier couldn't make something like that, even if they had the whole Syndicate fundin' 'em for moons.

 

Still. The hells do you want it for? Can't work that into a disguise...

 

...it'd go quite a ways towards makin' me look like an inspector, though.

 

That decided him. He made a quick show of hesitance, stuffing his hands into his robes and leaning with one shoulder against the wall.

 

"Listen, Tarot... can't afford that quite yet, but... listen, listen! I've got five and seven thou t'me name for this. I've the remainin' five and two thou on me now, but, ah, that'd be diggin' into official funds. If you could... I don't know," he pulled a hand out and gave it a little lateral twirl, "find it in you t'donate that five and two to a good cause... like charity, see, refugees and the like... I could recompense you next moon, along with a nice bonus when the commissioned item comes in."

 

He spread his arms.

 

"Your askin' price, a bonus, a... 'filled purchase card'... and a little touch o' reputation for the ol' Emporium. 'You heard o' Tarot? Damned blighter offers fair prices, makes a profit, and still donates to charity!' That sort o' gossip's got to be good for business, no?"

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Perfect.

 

The bartering was quaint but Tarot was barely listening to the heartfelt plea of the man that so desperately wanted this coat. It was likely that if it had been anyone else, absolutely anyone else, Tarot would have let it go for what the man had in his pockets with a promise to collect on the interest later. But this was Osric he was talking to, and he knew Osric was good for the money and therefore pinning him with interest was not going to do much to expand Tarot's coffers.

 

But what was why the smile that spread on his face and brought a dangerous shine to Tarot's eyes grew larger by every passing moment. It was a delight to have someone in this state--very nearly titillating to the proprieter of the Crooked Phoenix; the thrill of victory when truly anything was possible.

 

Coming out from behind the counter, he put an arm around Osric's shoulders, clicking his tongue and speaking in one of the more deeply patronizing tones he saved for only those he marked being largely familiar to him. "Osric, Osric, Osric. Now, I know you're good for the money but I have bills to pay and a moon is too long for me to wait on a promise of money." He patted the man fondly on the chest as if speaking to a dear brother or friend, confiding in him some shameful secret. "Rest assured I understand your plight all too fully and that is why I must sadly say I cannot wait for funding for another month to let the articles go today."

 

He paused, then looked him over a moment, putting him at arms length and comparing their height. "However, perhaps you could do me a favor in exchange. I know you're in good with the Flames--" He forced himself to not snicker at the little charade he kept up concerning that and his ignorance about Blades and Flames, "So, why don't we do this. You pay for everything today and I will hold the coat and accoutrements here. You run along home and bring back to me a full Flames uniform to fit my robust self..."

 

He leaned in close, blue-and-gold eyes sparking with a deeper meaning. "I would like something authentic for a costume party, you see, and I really am not in a place to have an armor maker whip me up something convincing. It need not be anything fancy--no officer's gear or anything. Just a basic uniform. Can you do that for poor old Tarot? If you can then I can part with your coat and we can call the rest of the amount paid in full..."

 

It might be difficult to tell which was worse; the meaning behind the words or the fact that his tone was so genuinely, almost sickeningly sincere, you'd have thought it was a child speaking for a moment. "Besides, my Namesday is coming up. And let's not forget what happened last year when you made my Namesday sour with your bout of clumsiness. I know Moggie hasn't forgotten."

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  • 3 weeks later...

Osric scowled. 

 

Like hells am I goin' t'let you traipse up 'n' down Thanalan impersonatin' an officer, scrag. 

 

"Can't be done," was what he said aloud. "If it was one o' them soldiers' uniforms y'were after, them overcoats with those dull brown lapels what ain't got a lick o' color in 'em, then maybe. But an officer's? Hells no. Tight under lock 'n' key, and it'd be treason t'hand them out like that. I ain't havin' that traced back t'me; I'm not the one known t'be Crooked."

 

He pushed off the wall and made his way back out, circled around to the front of the Emporium's counter. He undid the wrap on his purchases and started inspecting the various blades one by one, sighting along each edge.

 

"I'll get you one o' them bottles o' dragonfire for your Nameday, Tarot. Mayhap you'll share a shot or two with Moggie."

 

He slid the last, the pesh-kabz, back into the little loop on the inside of the wrap. He popped the lip on the perfume, lightly sprayed his wrist, and sniffed at it. 

 

"I'll take another throwing knife, instead. Gods knows there's no shortage of archers and mages whose concentration needs ruinin'."

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