9th of Winter, 515 A.V.----
In a crowd, it was especially easy to spot Rhov. He stood out from the crashing waves of Sylirans which busied themselves in the Great Bazaar, a speck sand among the din and squalor of the city-folk. Even in these winter months, a time in which the Chaktawe had to mostly abandon his people's style of dress for for warmer clothes, Rhov still managed to draw stares from the average citizen.
I knew this hair-cut was a mistake, he grumbled internally. Rhov had been living quietly in the country-side the past few months, and decided to celebrate his return to his profession by adopting the style of hair that his tribes venerated warriors had. His mane of raven-black had been tamed into a neat mohawk which plumed outward into a long wolftail, a style which Rhov had thought equal parts intimidating as pratical. In truth, the Chaktawe would always stand out among Sylirans. Even now, he was a foreigner, his dark skin and solid, black eyes marking him non-human, and according to much of the populace' judging stares, not to be trusted.
However, Rhov was not one to be impeded by glares carrying malcontent. He cared just as little for their opinions as they cared for his presence. In a sort unconscious agreement between himself and the mob, the youth did not respond and they did nothing to stop his movement further into the Bazaar.
Rhov suppressed an unconscious growl as he was absorbed into the sea of citizens that weaved in and out of the marketplace. Crowds played hell with his natural senses, the sheer volume of air disturbances setting his fingers in an almost constant state of twitching. It proved one of the many reasons Rhov despised this part of the city.
Unfortunetly, it proved a necessary evil. Rhov had been out of the game for too long, and he needed to reestablish himself Gene Duval, the owner of the Spinning Coin and one of the main sources of his contracts. The man was a brute and lacked any sense of loyalty, but Rhov required the constant stream information the former Ravokian always seemed to have in ample supply. In fact, he would be at Duval's wharf presently if bounty hunter believed the man would see him on name alone. However, Duval made it a point to come out the victor of every negotiation, and as much as it made Rhov grind his teeth, it would prove advantageous if he arrived with a gift in hand. Honestly, it was Eria's idea. Whatever his opinions on the bird's sense of propriety, she did knew how to deal with men like Gene Duval in a much nicer way than Rhov had planned.
Which brought him to the unpleasant experience of the acute sensors in his fingertips feeling as if they were set aflame while he searched for some sort of offering. A rare bottle of Ravokian brandy caught his eye, and Rhov approached the seller in an irritable manner.
"How much for the drink?" he inquired, pointing to the ornate glass filled with an auburn colored liquid.
"Oh this? This is an exquisite bottle for only those of a...certain class," the salesman replied confidently, completely dismissing Rhov's ability to pay for the object.
"How. Much?" Rhov growled, an undercurrent of anger surging with the tide of his voice.
The merchant appeared taken aback by the youth's gruff tone, but quickly recomposed himself. "Might I suggest, forty gold mizas?"
Rhov laughed, a short sound filled with disbelief. "Absurd. Twenty-five will suffice."
A look of ridicule painted itself plainly across the man's face, either not caring for composure any more or simply not realizing he had lost it. "You jest. Let's say thirty-five, and have you apologize for that ridiculous notion."
Rolling his onyx eyes, the Chaktawe leveled a steely glare at the merchant. He moved closer to the smaller man, placed his hands firmly on the table, and just loomed over him for a moment. "Twenty. Five," he snarled, packing his obvious disdain in each short utterance. The merchant looked up at the wild form of Rhov, up at the warpaint which dotted his face and the intensity of his glare. He appeared a wolf in sheep's clothing, ferocity bound up in a brown and white woolen jacket. His teeth were curled up in predator smile, one reminded the merchant of how his cat grinned after cornering a mouse.
"Twenty-five is more than generous."
Rhov grinned smugly at the salesman, savoring the feeling of victory. He had brought fifty gold mizas just in case he needed it, and now the youth would extra spending money for a new set of armor; his last lost to an unfortunate incident involving a mountain lion. Rhov reached for the pouch of money at his side, and found himself surprised at what he felt instead.
