Sanguine and Stupid [Solo]

by **Victor Lark** on April 15th, 2011, 5:05 am

14 Spring, 511

Victor heard the sound of an unfamiliar rustle. He frowned and fidgeted, but did not awaken immediately. The aging night was not yet dead; the need to investigate was hardly greater than his desire for sleep.

His sloth would prove a greater evil than he could ever anticipate.

Suddenly he felt a small weight fall onto the whole of his body, not quite a discomfort but still enough to inspire him to open his eyes. What he saw in front of him was difficult to determine at first, what with the blinding night and the stupor of rousing to distract him. The next instant revealed to him what he could not see: the rush of multiple footsteps on the brittle leaves of the forest floor, the laughing murmur of an accomplished team... and the sensation of hard net-ropes lifting him from the ground.

“What is happening?” He cried out at the voices, but he thought he knew. He had been told stories of slave-catchers, had even played as one with his childhood friends. “Where... what are you doing? My family is rich—you cannot do this!”

But it was futile. They carried him along as if they could not hear him, and for some reason he could not move; no matter how much he strained his muscles, his limbs were limp. Only his lips retained their freedom, and yet they were of no use.

He felt himself tossed onto a wooden floor. Many people stood around him, shaking in mutual fear, but he could not stand, could not move. The floor began to jostle them all. It was a wagon, headed away from his city, his home. Then there was the glint of a dagger in the moonlight, and a sharp pain on his face...

Victor actually awoke to the bright noontime sun shining down on him, and a bold blackbird pecking at the salty sweat on his cheek. He had fallen asleep earlier that morning in the shingled valley between two roofs in a small housing district not too far from the Merchant’s Ring. A line of the bird’s brothers sat on the houses’ edge. When he sat up with a groan, all of them stirred up and with a great deal of flapping rose into the air, leaving the human with his thoughts.

Far from the vexation he should have felt upon emerging from such a terrible series of events, a smile grew over his expression. He had been planning to leave his home for a while, and had never any doubts about the decision. He did not interpret this subconscious message as a warning of his weaknesses. He thought the whole idea a glorious challenge, a beautiful adventure. Moreover, this dream was one of the only moments of his life in which he felt fear, real fear. An almost masochistic glee overwhelmed him. He stood.

by **Victor Lark** on April 16th, 2011, 4:43 am

He was not entirely senseless. He knew that before he really and truly left, for good and forever, he needed a little more than a week’s rations and an extra pair of clothes. Taking the shining strap of his faithful wooden trunk, he looked over the city from his perch. His eyes reached out to catch something in particular. He could not go to the usual places, no; he would not be successful there. He needed to find somewhere cheap, but not dangerous. Friendly, but not attentive.

His short search revealed nothing of interest. Forced to continue elsewhere, Lark skimmed the hilly rooftops like a lazy grackle, unseen under the high sun of small shadows. It might have been more convenient to drop to ground level, but the crowded streets and familiar faces did not exactly invite haste. Occasionally he would peek out from above, a little black dot on the crown of a building. It was during one of these moments of unstealth that he spotted the prize of his hunt.

It was a narrow door crammed between two small shops, barely labeled but for the faded paint on the cloudy glass. The real estate here was as inexpensive as it was crammed-tight, giving merchants the least amount of space for the most amount of profit. Most customers who did not want the trouble of it would pass on towards the plazas and tent pavilions, but Victor knew that this was the kind of place he could afford—in more ways than one.

Carefully, he lowered himself to a second-story window ledge in the narrow alley adjacent, gripping the side of the window frame with only one hand in order to accommodate his trunk. He glared down at the distant ground, hanging for a moment. Then a clever (albeit absurd) idea struck him. He tossed his trunk up as high as he could, then with two free hands bounced to the opposite wall and slid the five more feet down. Out of habit, he rolled upon contact with the ground, but he could not beat the race against gravity. His trunk hit the hard stone beside him as he rose to standing, leaving the disheartening snap of metal echoing through the alley.

Victor leaned down to inspect his handiwork. The nails that bound the hinge to his trunk held fast, but the hinge itself had broken. With a frown, he picked it up by both sides, made sure nothing had fallen out of it into the street, and walked out onto the side-walk.

by **Victor Lark** on April 18th, 2011, 5:12 am

A bell chimed daintily with the swinging of the shop’s front door. Victor stood at the long room’s anterior for a few seconds, idly eyeing its innards as the shopkeeper noisily made his way to the main room from the mysterious Back. There emerged a young man, someone’s son, wearing a potter’s apron and water on his recently washed hands. His dark blonde hair was mussed and greasy, his eye-flesh dark and drooping; whatever he had been doing, it had taken all night. “How c’n I help you, ser?” He said with as much sincerity as he was capable, obviously distracted.

Victor smiled wide, accommodating the shopkeeper’s fatigue graciously. The only empty surface was at the other end of the room, where the attendant stood, all other tables crowded with shelves of randomly organized wares. As he passed the items on display, he searched meticulously for anything of use, but his quick glances found nothing. He traversed the precarious stacks with his damaged trunk carefully and successfully, much to the anxiety of the boy. He set it down and turned it to show the hinge, explaining, “It has a broken piece. Do you have anything to fix it?”

To which the shopkeeper responded slowly but without hesitance, “I’ve a tool to put i’ back as ‘twas, but it’ll always be loose. I’d say replace i’.”

The customer frowned, feigning frustration. He tried to mimic the citizen’s familiar dialect, but kept his words quick, confusing. “And I’m thinking you’re trying to swindle me. ‘Twas expensive, this box, and I wouldn’t want to change its look, you know?”

His apprehension was painfully apparent as he bent over and fiddled with the hinge. It seemed he was not very experienced, probably working there for his father. As he waited for the inspection to be complete, he looked around the shop some more. His gaze settled briefly on a bundle of average-looking tarp before it was drawn back to the shopkeeper, who said, “I— well, I c’d fix i’, but—”

“What’re the prices on your hinges, anyhow? Le’me see ‘em.”

The blonde boy nodded eagerly and immediately crouched at a drawer near the ground. He rose again with four of them, laying them out and pointing to the ones on each end. “This’un’s two silvers, and they go up to a gold. I’dn’t go for that cheap ‘un, though.” He laughed nervously. “If you want i’ to last, ‘tleast this’un’ll do.”

He pointed at the third one, to which the stern-faced Lark immediately rejoined, “What’s it made of?”

“Iron, ser. Solid as i’ gets.”

“I’m thinking I don’t need a fancy one. I’m thinking you—”

“Oh no, no, ser. I’m only lookin’ out. Seventy-and-five coppers, the best deal o’ the lot, I promise.”

“Hmm...” Victor folded his arms, raised his eyebrows. The frown on his face hid his delight in the game well enough; if this boy were any less simple, he might have noticed the occasional flash of a smile or the flare of amusement in his eyes. His bargaining was not entirely frivolous, though. He had a life ahead of him and no career ambitions. He needed to save his money however he could.

He gestured with the nod of his head towards the pile of tarp in the corner. “What about that tent? ‘Sit for sale?”

“Well... what? Oh. Yeah, well—” He skirted the table and rushed to investigate the thing. His latest patron moved to the open drawer and fished through it for another iron piece. He considered pocketing it, but decided theft was not worth the risk.

The merchant seemed to be raking his mind for a price in the absence of a price tag. Before he could mention it, Victor added, “How much, with the hinge?”

The boy did the math in his head surprisingly quickly, while not very accurately. “Two ‘n’ a half golds.” He replied.

“That means your tent is one gold miza and seventy-five copper?”

“Em... well...”

“And this iron hinge I found, it has a little bend in it. I’ll give you six silver mizas for it.” His accent was slipping, but he was not too concerned with it anymore.

“I don’t think I c’n do that. Why not go for the good ‘un? And...” He paused, waiting for Victor to interrupt. When he received nothing but an expectant glare, he continued, “Well, you might want the oiled ‘un, if you wanna go very far. Keeps the rain out.”

“I don’t need to spend any more. I’ll be fine, whatever weather.” It was then that Victor realized he might have become a little too harsh. The boy sighed with poorly hidden disappointment, but was not deterred entirely. He shrugged it off as well as he could, shaking his mind of the cumulating tiredness, and trudged to another area of the small room. It seemed only he knew the organization of this place.

He picked up a roll of thick fabric from beneath a table and displayed it to his only customer. “Do you... I’m thinkin’ you’ll need some warmth, some nights, even in summer, yeah?”

by **Victor Lark** on April 20th, 2011, 1:08 am

Now that he had gotten the poor merchant’s mind all mixed up, Victor settled into a quieter tone. He leaned with one arm against the table, masking his financial concerns with false compassion for the flustered boy. He began, “I...” must apologize for my callousness... No. “I’m sorry for bein’ so harsh. You know how it is, here. Never know when some’un’s trying to cheat you, yeah? I just... it’s that I don’ have much money, and I’m tryin’ to get from here to there, and I’m out of a job, you see...”

“Oh, no worries, ser. I know how i’ is.” He brought the bedroll easily towards the back desk and set it there to show his patron. “My pop ‘n’ me, we’re feelin’ i’ ‘round the belt too, you know. He says I can’t be sellin’ ‘um for less’n they’re worth.”

Victor’s smile faltered for barely an instant, though far outside of the boy’s notice. Despite directions from the store’s owner, his son seemed weak-willed enough. Lark’s first approach worked better on those who thought themselves smart and incredulous, but this kid did not seem to have the same pretentions. So Victor improvised, engaging him. “Mine’s the same. Always got money on the mind. Not much time for his boy.”

“I know wha’ you mean. Can’t blame ‘im though.”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t he have time for you?”

“Well, he’s busy.”

“So’re you.” Victor pushed the boy’s shoulder with the back of his hand, offering a friendly smirk. “You know him; you know he’s busy. But he doesn’t know you.”

He received a brief smile in return, and a shrug of uncertainty. Obviously trying to avoid the conversation, the shopkeeper said, “The bedroll’s one ‘n’ fifty coppers. Got a little extra stuffin’ for the cold, see?”

Victor obliged him carefully. “It’ll only get warmer from here, cousin. I fear I don’t need anythin’ for the cold just yet.” As the boy nodded and went to put the roll back where it belonged, he added, “How do you like workin’ for your pop?”

“Oh, it’s alrigh’.”

“Is he givin’ you much money for it?”

“Well, the profi’s go to the family, ‘n’ all. Here,” He returned with a lighter bedroll and said, “How ‘bout some boots? Can’t go walkin’ around ‘thout a good pair o’ boots.”

Examining the new bedding as if he knew what to look for in a quality one, Victor agreed, “Sure, that sounds right.” A quick inhale changed the subject back. “Are you saying he don’t give you any money? Wouldn’t you like to do something else with your life?”

The boy stopped with boots in hand, eyes narrow. At first, Victor thought he was catching on, but he soon realized that his latest victim was mulling over some internal decision. Victor supposed it would be the telling of a secret. He loved secrets.

“To be honest... Well, ne’ermind.” He set the boots on the ground and compared them to the buyer’s feet. “These seem your size. Want to try ‘em on?”

Leaning low to try and catch his eye, the trickster ignored the boots. “You can say it to me.” He said. The words came out smooth and saccharine, like a good friend’s or a good therapist’s, but it still took some effort to keep the pleading out of his voice. “Who would I tell?”

“Well...” He bounced with indecision for a few moments before his expression softened, in part to do with the other’s unflinching stare. “…I’ve always wanted to see wha’ the church was like.”

Victor bit his lip. He knew little about the Black Sun, but he could not see this nervous thing among their ranks. Before he could say anything, he was interrupted.

“I know wha’ you’re thinking.” He said, standing, “But I’m young, and a good learner, you know? I could be cruel.”

Pleasantly surprised, a bit of sincerity dripped into Lark’s careful words. “Sure you can. Why don’t you go visit the temple in when you’re off?”

“Oh, I always go to service when I can.”

“Talk to the priests. See what you can do for them, yeah? I bet they’d take you in.”

“Yeah...” An unconscious happiness melted over the whole of his face, threatening to beam itself onto his swindler’s cold heart. Whether or not he noticed this silent confession, his countenance quickly dissolved with distraction. “Well. These here boots sell for three silvers.”

“What? Oh.” He held in an angry sigh, looking down at the things. “They’ll do. With the tent and the bedroll, and the hinge... that’s three gold mizas.”

He nodded once before he realized his mistake, then immediately shook his head heartily. “Em, no, sorry. It’s... three and fifteen coppers?”

“Ah, but you told me the tent was seventy-five!” He put the money he had originally proposed on the table.

“But I can’t… my pop…”

“Think of this: what if you gave it all to me for two? Then I’d give you a gold for puttin’ the hinge on.” He did not let the absurdity of the argument settle too soon. He followed immediately with, “Betray him. Just a little. Rhysol would be proud.”

by **Victor Lark** on April 22nd, 2011, 5:34 am

The shopkeeper considered the proposal long and hard, forcing Victor to let his eyes wander. The glint of polished metal caught his eye; upon further inspection, he discovered a row of daggers on display, a few tables over from the merchant’s desk but not entirely out of reach. He dawdled towards them as if he did not intend to peruse them specifically, occasionally turning his gaze back to the front in order to monitor the boy and his thoughts. Before a second minute had passed, he had retrieved a small driver and was removing the damaged hinge. With a smile, Lark decided it was time enough to distract him again.

“Have you any food for sale?”

It took him a moment to respond. “Ah, no. Nothin’ of the perishable sort here.”

“Unfortunate.” Finally his wandering gait brought him to his prize. This pawn shop of a place did not have anything particularly pretty in the realm of hilts and pommels, but they seemed quality enough. Victor picked one up and examined it. “Your pop, what’s he think of the church?”

Again he waited patiently, happy to let the thoughts brew. “He don’ go ‘smuch as me, but he’s a good citizen.”

“...who wants you to be a shopkeep instead of a priest.”

“Well, he don’t know much ‘bout i’. I haven’ told ‘im, see, wha’ I think of i’.” The broken piece of brass fell noisily to the table and was promptly set aside. With the same tool and a few screws, he began to install the new hinge. Victor set down the dagger and picked up another. This one’s metal hilt was lined with soft black leather, stored in a matching scabbard.

“Shouldn’t he know? Shouldn’t he be learned of our most powerful God?”

“Yeah.Well, I s’pose.”

He began to weave through the store, back to his trunk and his things. “And shouldn’t he pay you for the work you do for him here, kin or no?”

“Yeah…”

“Or shouldn’t he just let you do what you want?”

“Yeah…”

“I don’t know about you, but I think he deserves a little waking up. I think he needs a taste of what you could give him, as a chaon.”

Only seconds after the last of his words spilled from his woefully uncaring lips, the boy’s driver slipped from its substrate with a loud thunk of knuckle against wood. He cursed and pulled his hand to his mouth, turning away from his customer in embarrassment. After a short while of mock-hesitance from Victor’s end, the merchant’s son turned around with his hand shaking loosely on his waving wrist. “Ugh... Sorry, ser. It’s tight, though. Should hold.”

“No worries,” He replied with that same broad grin that had greeted the boy upon his first arrival. He repeated with a wink, “I know how it is.”

He put the dagger on the table and opened his trunk, testing the flexibility of the hinge without any real doubt about it. “Thanks for everything, then. I’ll take this, too, and at two golds that would come out to five total?” The money clinked and spun on the table, pretending to be more than it was.

Knowing for a fact that his estimation was low, he began to rearrange and load his trunk with expectations for a bit of negotiation. Instead, he found some help with tucking in the bulky fabrics and boots, all. As he looked down to tie the dagger to his waist, he heard “Sounds right, to me.”

And then he was at the door, his luggage a little heavier and his expression painted with false compassion. “Good luck with... well...”

“Yeah.” A look of beautiful determination glowed in the light eyes of the apprentice, boldly driving away the old semblances of nervousness. He seemed to be dismissing his patron for more important things, which would have gone resented if not for the great pride Lark felt for his rather well executed sabotage. The bell chimed again and he shuffled out into the light of day, victorious.

Rhysol would be proud.

by **Verilian** on May 4th, 2011, 1:54 pm

Victor Lark

+1 Climbing
+1 Acrobatics
+1 Impersonation
+3 Subterfuge
+1 Persuasion
+1 Rhetoric

You Question My Logic? :

Lores: Feeling True Fear, Searching for the Right Shop, Dropping Rhysol's Name to Aid in Haggling, Prying Secrets, Haggling (Basic), Successfully Negotiating a "Fair" Price

Expenses: 5 Gold Mizas
Loot: Boots, Blanket, Dagger, Tent, A Fixed Hinge

Notes: I really enjoyed this thread. The back and forth between you and the boy was quite entertaining, and furthermore you have given me a potential new NPC for you to encounter later on, be it the boy or his father. Keep up the good work! Oh, and if I missed any of the loot let me know that way I can add it in and make it official.