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Fantasy Cloaked in Crimson --
Jewel
spirited
No, the man still alive. He was pretty sure. There would’ve been blood on the shovel. He was pretty sure.
It was nearly dawn when Yosavrin hit the farmhand over the head with the shovel. But it was hardly his fault, by his own reckoning. If the milkmaid hadn’t started squawking her head off when she came across Yosavrin sleeping in the barn, he wouldn’t have had to hit her over the head with the shovel, and if the farmhand hadn’t heard the squawking and come charging in to save her, Yosavrin wouldn’t have had to hit him with the shovel. And if the stout, roisterous mistress at the tavern up the road hadn’t chased him out after discovering the illicit covenant he had made with her daughter, he wouldn’t have had to trespass into the barn. And if Intelligence Officer Jaskiv Harrow hadn’t gained “highly effectual insight” into the enemy’s troop’s next movements, and then proceeded to exuberantly lend his insights to the other Intelligence Officers in the corps (rather than keeping it to himself like the self-righteous prick ought to) Yosavrin would still be at home. If the goddamn enemy troops would stop plotting their movements, nobody would’ve gotten hit over the head with any shovels, and everybody could be at home.
Yosavrin left the milkmaid, the (alive) farmhand, the dingy picket farm, and he followed the road inland. There was no blood on the shovel, and he swung it at every fence post he came across, imagining each to be Officer Jashiv’s ligneous, orbicular head. Other travelers gave him a wide berth. Yosavrin figured it to be on account of his imposing stature rather than the wide sweep of the spade. He was aware of his unmistakably Darcanian appearance both in physical difference and in foreign apparel, but he wouldn’t waste effort to conceal his presence for the benefit of meager villagers. As far as Yosavrin was concerned, these scrappy townsfolk were harmless, and absolutely none of them were spies, and absolutely none of them would have the audacity to mention the incautious, insouciant outlander minding his own goddamn business and plotting zero plots whatsoever, to their ineffectual, useless troop commanders so that enemy troops could be plotted to thwart his fencepost-thwacking. No, Yosavrin was invincible. And he hadn’t killed anybody (he was pretty sure), and he had only made threats against one measly barmaid, her mother, a milkmaid, a farmhand (post-thwacking), two birds, and a merchant he’d stolen several figs from, and also none of it was really his fault.
Come late afternoon Yosavrin was beginning to feel rather tired of walking, and sorely bored with himself, so upon entering the next town he came across, he meandered his way to a tavern called Cloak And Stagger and stalked his way to the bar. He propped his shovel up against the bar and sat down two seats next to a gargantuan man with a hideously overgrown mustache. Yosavrin was intrigued by both the size of the man and the unruliness of his facial growth, and so requested a drink for his soon-to-be drinking companion from the barkeep.
“Get out.”
Yosavrin’s long, pointed ears twitched downward. He had an unfortunate suspicion that the barkeep was addressing him, but politely pretended to have not heard him. Instead, he pivoted to face the burly man to his right and extend an olive branch. “You’re very dirty, for an easterner. I had heard rumors before coming here that you easterners bathed three times a day. But,” he conjectured, “I suppose you wouldn’t have time to do that here.”
The man turned to him, very slowly, thick hand closing around his drinking glass. Yosavrin could not accurately guess the meaning of his narrowed stare, so continued speaking.
“I mean, because you all spend so much time raising foals, and building barns to house your foals. I’ll confess, I think that’s smart, most of your country’s successes in battle can be mostly attributed to your calvary— and it’s especially impressive considering how stupid your generals are. Do they know how to do anything but dispense troops at their problems?” The barkeep and the man sitting to Yosavrin’s right were no longer the only ones looking at him. Yosavrin took that as a sign of interest, and continued. “Does it ever get tiring seeing all of your sons and brothers sent to war to become front-line fodder? You think you’d learn some strategy at some point. But hey, at least they’re dying for a cause they believe in. And the rest of you clods can raise foals.”
Yosavrin heard the distinct crackle of glass as the man seated next to him held too tight to his glass and it crumpled like coarse dirt in his comically large hand. Yoravrin began to wonder what was the holdup with his drink, so he confronted the bartender.
“We don’t serve your kind here.”
“You black-eyed dimwit fuck.” The man down the bar had risen, his face twinged a supple sanguine color. “Go back to hell.” And to the barkeep the man said “call the guards to stop me before I beat his skull in.”
Sensing mal-intent, Yosavrin was reaching for his shovel when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He turned just in time to nearly have his skull beaten in by a different man, a man who must’ve been listening in from nearby, and who felt he had as equal rights as anyone to kill Yosavrin. But Yosavrin reeled backward quick enough to have the fist go flying just in front of his face, and recovered with an unfairly fast advantage, and jammed his elbow into his assailant’s sternum, which won him a suffocated wheeze and an expression of unspeakable rage.
By now the first man had made up his mind to also kill Yosavrin, and had supplied from his belt a knife, speaking a promise to cut Yosavrin from ear to ear. Yosavrin, wildly vivacious with both terror and delight, told the man to choke on something unsavory. To which the man responded by charging him with the knife.
Yosavrin, who was interested in keeping his kill count close to zero, thought it best to delicately diffuse the conflict by fitfully fighting him for his knife and then pummeling him in the head with it. He then made a tactical retreat out of the tavern with the knife in hand.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” He said while courteously holding the door for the person entering as he exited. “Bunch of heretics. Terrible service.”
It was nearly dawn when Yosavrin hit the farmhand over the head with the shovel. But it was hardly his fault, by his own reckoning. If the milkmaid hadn’t started squawking her head off when she came across Yosavrin sleeping in the barn, he wouldn’t have had to hit her over the head with the shovel, and if the farmhand hadn’t heard the squawking and come charging in to save her, Yosavrin wouldn’t have had to hit him with the shovel. And if the stout, roisterous mistress at the tavern up the road hadn’t chased him out after discovering the illicit covenant he had made with her daughter, he wouldn’t have had to trespass into the barn. And if Intelligence Officer Jaskiv Harrow hadn’t gained “highly effectual insight” into the enemy’s troop’s next movements, and then proceeded to exuberantly lend his insights to the other Intelligence Officers in the corps (rather than keeping it to himself like the self-righteous prick ought to) Yosavrin would still be at home. If the goddamn enemy troops would stop plotting their movements, nobody would’ve gotten hit over the head with any shovels, and everybody could be at home.
Yosavrin left the milkmaid, the (alive) farmhand, the dingy picket farm, and he followed the road inland. There was no blood on the shovel, and he swung it at every fence post he came across, imagining each to be Officer Jashiv’s ligneous, orbicular head. Other travelers gave him a wide berth. Yosavrin figured it to be on account of his imposing stature rather than the wide sweep of the spade. He was aware of his unmistakably Darcanian appearance both in physical difference and in foreign apparel, but he wouldn’t waste effort to conceal his presence for the benefit of meager villagers. As far as Yosavrin was concerned, these scrappy townsfolk were harmless, and absolutely none of them were spies, and absolutely none of them would have the audacity to mention the incautious, insouciant outlander minding his own goddamn business and plotting zero plots whatsoever, to their ineffectual, useless troop commanders so that enemy troops could be plotted to thwart his fencepost-thwacking. No, Yosavrin was invincible. And he hadn’t killed anybody (he was pretty sure), and he had only made threats against one measly barmaid, her mother, a milkmaid, a farmhand (post-thwacking), two birds, and a merchant he’d stolen several figs from, and also none of it was really his fault.
Come late afternoon Yosavrin was beginning to feel rather tired of walking, and sorely bored with himself, so upon entering the next town he came across, he meandered his way to a tavern called Cloak And Stagger and stalked his way to the bar. He propped his shovel up against the bar and sat down two seats next to a gargantuan man with a hideously overgrown mustache. Yosavrin was intrigued by both the size of the man and the unruliness of his facial growth, and so requested a drink for his soon-to-be drinking companion from the barkeep.
“Get out.”
Yosavrin’s long, pointed ears twitched downward. He had an unfortunate suspicion that the barkeep was addressing him, but politely pretended to have not heard him. Instead, he pivoted to face the burly man to his right and extend an olive branch. “You’re very dirty, for an easterner. I had heard rumors before coming here that you easterners bathed three times a day. But,” he conjectured, “I suppose you wouldn’t have time to do that here.”
The man turned to him, very slowly, thick hand closing around his drinking glass. Yosavrin could not accurately guess the meaning of his narrowed stare, so continued speaking.
“I mean, because you all spend so much time raising foals, and building barns to house your foals. I’ll confess, I think that’s smart, most of your country’s successes in battle can be mostly attributed to your calvary— and it’s especially impressive considering how stupid your generals are. Do they know how to do anything but dispense troops at their problems?” The barkeep and the man sitting to Yosavrin’s right were no longer the only ones looking at him. Yosavrin took that as a sign of interest, and continued. “Does it ever get tiring seeing all of your sons and brothers sent to war to become front-line fodder? You think you’d learn some strategy at some point. But hey, at least they’re dying for a cause they believe in. And the rest of you clods can raise foals.”
Yosavrin heard the distinct crackle of glass as the man seated next to him held too tight to his glass and it crumpled like coarse dirt in his comically large hand. Yoravrin began to wonder what was the holdup with his drink, so he confronted the bartender.
“We don’t serve your kind here.”
“You black-eyed dimwit fuck.” The man down the bar had risen, his face twinged a supple sanguine color. “Go back to hell.” And to the barkeep the man said “call the guards to stop me before I beat his skull in.”
Sensing mal-intent, Yosavrin was reaching for his shovel when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He turned just in time to nearly have his skull beaten in by a different man, a man who must’ve been listening in from nearby, and who felt he had as equal rights as anyone to kill Yosavrin. But Yosavrin reeled backward quick enough to have the fist go flying just in front of his face, and recovered with an unfairly fast advantage, and jammed his elbow into his assailant’s sternum, which won him a suffocated wheeze and an expression of unspeakable rage.
By now the first man had made up his mind to also kill Yosavrin, and had supplied from his belt a knife, speaking a promise to cut Yosavrin from ear to ear. Yosavrin, wildly vivacious with both terror and delight, told the man to choke on something unsavory. To which the man responded by charging him with the knife.
Yosavrin, who was interested in keeping his kill count close to zero, thought it best to delicately diffuse the conflict by fitfully fighting him for his knife and then pummeling him in the head with it. He then made a tactical retreat out of the tavern with the knife in hand.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” He said while courteously holding the door for the person entering as he exited. “Bunch of heretics. Terrible service.”
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Yazzah
Can't wait to get some free time
“You want me to do what?”
Arkaus drummed his white-to-black ombré nails along the wood table with one hand while the other rolled two bone dice between his fingers. A shit-eating grin splayed across his face as he nodded towards the man in front of him, “You heard me Kataun. Strip.”
The poor merchant stumbled over his words, eyes glancing wildly to his all too entertained companions as if to ask for some semblance of help from them. But with it so late in the night and with the massive drinking competition that had gone on throughout the very unfair gambling that had just taken place, he’d find nothing but chuckles and amusement at his expense. His grin spread wider as Arkaus began an infectious slamming of his fist against the table, all while chanting, “Strip!”
The drunken companions around them let out barks of laughter as they too took to joining in, slamming fists on tables and walls. Some stomped their feet as a maddening chorus of, “Strip! Strip! Strip!” Bounced about the room.
It didn’t take long for that sort of pressure to convince the merchant to strip into his small clothes and hand over the last of his precious possessions. All while sporting a bright red blush that entailed his shame. With that, Arkaus folded up the clothes and grabbed the leather purse that he’d won earlier. He tossed his loaded dice into the purse, giving it a satisfied pat as he made his way to the stairs of the tavern. The man paused, only to raise his hand up to send a wave back to the rambunctious crowd, “May we meet in a few months time, Kataun, when you’ve finally recovered your good fortune and wealth. Only to oh, so graciously gift it to me for the third time in a row.”
“Horned devil! What have you next?! My firstborn?”
“Haven’t you heard the news? Rumors of us Praelians being child-eating deviants is on the rise...So if you can ever manage to trick some poor woman into marrying you, feel free to make that offer instead of your belongings. Save you your coin and the nightmare of sleepless nights for the next five or so years.”
With that, he skittered up the steps, hearing a distinct CLUNKkkk of a mug having been thrown across the room and to where he’d just been. Loud laughter and mocking accompanied it as Arkaus made it to his room. Back turned to the door as he plopped his new items on the cheaply made straw bed.
Great. Part 3 of plan B was a success. No need to think of A again. In fact, there was never a previous plan A, this was plan A now... But then again, the plan-that-we-shall-not-name hadn’t failed because of him per se. After all, how was he to know that the ruckus entailing his target in town had ACTUALLY been true and not some rumor to get him to go on an elaborate goose chase? An assassin openly threatening people? Impossible. Implausible. But abso-fucking-lutely true and it drove him nuts. So, while mourning his previous day lost to the abundance of overthinking and planning around this “trap” his target made, he opened the leather purse to get acquainted with his new supplies. Couldn’t exactly play the part of the traveling merchant if he didn’t know what he carried.
Part 4 of plan B would come when he would be face-to-face with his target once and for all. His plan? Arkaus was going to find a way to travel with his target in order to study him. What the other parts of his plan would be? No clue. This target was too strange to make anything concrete, so he simply decided to improvise. Thank fuck he was good at improvising.
The assassin-turned-merchant made his way after the painfully obvious breadcrumb trail his target had made for him after a nice four-ish hours of sleep. It was about an hour or so after dawn struck that he hit his next goldmine. A rather loud one at that considering the rumor of the “shovel incident” as the villagers were calling it. After gathering the story from the poor farmhand and milkmaid themselves, all Arkaus could do was rub his temples and offer a prayer up to the Gods because Gods help him this was one of the strangest targets. At this moment, he couldn’t decide if he should feel insulted or not that he had been tasked with personally taking him out.
Commander Marcus had been so insistent on the importance of this mission, but all Arkaus could think was that maybe they thought too highly of their enemies. Especially if this target was the epidemy of their assassin’s stealth talents. Then again, he hadn’t seen him kill anyone. So, there was always a chance to be surprised and impressed instead of full-blown confused in the future.
Still, was this target someone with well-founded confidence? Did they just do what they wanted? Did they know they were being tracked and decide to bring out the rat following them with some cheese? Why the fuck were they using a shovel as a weapon? Did they pick it up somewhere or was it their weapon of choice? Getting off track there...Either way, Arkaus found it best to stick to his new plan A. With one borrowed wagon ride later, he found his way to the next town he was relatively sure his target had gone to.
Sadly, that’s where the breadcrumbs ended. The wagon’s owner had stopped to deliver his goods to the tavern’s kitchen staff, so Arkaus thought he’d use the opportunity to rummage for more rumors. With a nod and a fixed smile on his face, he made his way to the Cloak and Stagger. Charming name. Seemed appropriate with his predicament as well. He’d chat up the locals here, surely get them riled up with some slander about his target’s kind and get them to gripe about any they’ve seen. He’d get some food and drink, be in and out in thirty minutes just to be on the hunt again. Surely he could finish this job up by the end of the week–
The door swung open before he could even get his hand on the handle, "I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” Fuck. “Bunch of heretics. Terrible service.” Shit.
Tension riddles its way up his spine as his gaze flicked about his target in a quick assessment. It took him no time at all to see the knife in his target’s hand but he pretended to ignore it. Arkaus didn’t see blood on the blade itself, so it was safe to assume his target hadn’t gone and killed anyone...yet. Though there was a brief moment of distraction as Arkaus made note of the long ears Yosavrin had. Arkaus's own were only barely to a point at the end and he could see why some in his homeland called his target's kind "knife ears".
Arkaus let his tension ease out of him, a surprised laugh spilling from him at his target’s words. Improvise, improvise, improvise. A nice little mantra in his head now that he'd been taken off guard. A friendly smile took place of the forced one as he tilted his head. Dark wavy curls loose from his braid framed his triangular-shaped face, some even tangled along the mediumish-sized horns growing from his forehead. The shiny dark brown and goat-like horns kept low to his skull, so luckily it didn't appear any doorways would be an issue for him. The well-worn merchant attire was on full display to tell of his "profession" and he was admittedly proud of it. They'd needed modifications for his own comfort and he'd done quite a nice job on it if he said so himself.
Arkaus motioned to the door as he finally answered his target, “Heretics AND terrible service? What a horrible time that must have been! Thank you for the heads up, stranger.”
He looked past Yosavrin’s shoulder and towards the aggressive men in the back, real amusement creeping its way into him at the sight, “Seems they really got riled up in there.” Which it was obvious they would the second they saw his target, but he wasn't about to let that spill when he was trying to stay friendly.
With another easy laugh, Arkaus looked back to his target’s face. He motioned behind him with his thumb before taking a step to the side so that Yosavrin could step out if he wished, “Need a quick escape on the wagon I just got off of? I’m sure they’d allow another stranger aboard considering you're the type to warn me off of an incoming bad time.”
Ride in the wagon, take the wagon, hide in the wagon, or ignore the wagon altogether, he didn’t know what they were about to do. But now that he’d found his target he was going to find SOME way to stick to him like glue. If he refused this time, Arkaus was sure he would find some other way to "coincidentally" meet him along his travels.
Jewel
spirited
Yosavrin nodded to agree with the stranger. Those men in the bar were crazy.
“I would love nothing more than to accompany you on your wagon, but I am afraid I must decline.” He meandered around the horned merchant in the doorway and came to stand outside of the tavern, vaguely aware that the men inside were quickly recuperating. “I am in a great hurry to reach the hills outside of Sodden before sundown tomorrow and intend to cross through the marsh once I commandeer a steed.” He paused to examine the stranger’s apparel a moment before inquiring in renewed interest, “Was this wagon equipped with horses?”
Yosavrin had never ridden a horse. The isles of Darcania had no horses, and no foals either. They had instead large reptilian mounts with flat noses and forked tongues, with scaly tapered tails and long, hook-like talons. They were agile, serpentine beasts with prodigious stamina, adept at scaling rocky inclines and navigating the harsh terrains which composed the landmasses of Darcania’s Isles. But these reptiles were seldom used in battle, with their tendency to attack their riders and proclivity to destroying entire campsites when able to escape their cages. But Yosavrin could ride one of those, and so riding a horse could not be so difficult.
“Say,” He began to usher his friendly new acquaintance away from the entrance of the Cloak and Stagger. “You strike me as a bargaining man. I made have some wares to sell, provided you have the coin.” He turned the knife over in his hand, flicking silvery locks over his shoulder as he reached the bottom of the stairs that had led up to the tavern door. “I am called many things, but you may call me Yosavrin of Gresit.”
Yosavrin hadn’t always been alone. In fact, he reflected often on a childhood he perceived full of overbearing figures of authority trying to influence his decisions. Especially once he’d joined the ranks of the military, following the end of his specialized training. He’d gained the contempt of many of his superiors before he’d hardly been there a week, and they had tormented him to no end. But he hadn’t minded the attention. And he hardly ever believed them when they made threats on his life, with exceptions to the several attempts that had been made on his life.
He’d spent several months training under a dove-skinned black-mustached Colonel Lievothart, a square-headed strong-jawed man with an unruly, white-streaked plume of wild, growthy hair and broad shoulders. He was impressively tall and spoke only at the top of his voice. He believed in corporal punishment and found every opportunity to inflict it upon his men, going as far as to flog men out of praise. He had eyes as black and blue as the ocean.
Colonel Lievothart had a profound affinity for miniature warship models, and had over a dozen in his office. Realistic, ornate, intricate models with unfurled sails and steep wooden bows. With pointed wooden masts and elaborate gold-plated mastheads. With little lead canons, chiseled kneels, jutting foremasts and webbed shrouds. They were his pride and joy, and would steal away late into the night under lantern light to fuss over his hoard.
Some unseemly dimwit had had the genius idea of robbing Colonel Lievothart’s private office and hiding the ships in various inappropriate places around the base, decimated or otherwise desecrated. Nearly half the squadron was bedridden from the abuse they sustained in the aftermath, but morale had never been higher. Colonel Lievothart, red-faced and bellowing at the top of his lungs, had promised certain death by staking, beheading, and flogging to whoever was found responsible.
Yosavrin had met his first friend while stationed there in Tragovia, a stout and lawful youth named Hindley who loved his empire and wrote limericks in lead on the underside of Yosavrin’s bunk. He suspected Yosavrin of being the culprit of the warship pranking debacle and had tattled to the Colonel Yosavrin after catching him sneaking into the Colonel’s office.
“He wants you to be staked, beheaded, and flogged. He saw you outside my office.” Colonel Lievothart had told Yosavrin.
“Well, I saw him outside your office.” Replied Yosavrin.
"When?" Asked Colonel Lievothart.
"When he saw me."
“Is that so?” Colonel Lievothart rubbed his beard. “That is suspicious.”
Hindley had been staked, beheaded, and then flogged for instigating the treacherous warship pranking debacle. It was the terrible loss of a bunkmate. Yosavrin had made blackout poetry out of his limericks scratched on the underside of his bunk to commemorate Hindley’s passing.
“I could have use for a man of your talents.” Yosavrin continued, walking alongside his new acquaintance. The merchant’s attire had inspired Yosavrin to believe that he should get a disguise. Nobody would suspect him if he posed as a merchant, and having a legitimate merchant companion would perfectly complete his charade. “You wouldn’t happen to be traveling east, would you? I hear the hills outside of Sodden are beautiful this time of year. Soil rich with minerals, and fields, and loam. A man could surely make good business with such things.”
They approached a second, dingier tavern near the center of town with an illegible name. Yosavrin held the door and ushered his companion inside. “Let me buy you a drink and you’ll surely come to find that I would be a valuable friend to have.”
“I would love nothing more than to accompany you on your wagon, but I am afraid I must decline.” He meandered around the horned merchant in the doorway and came to stand outside of the tavern, vaguely aware that the men inside were quickly recuperating. “I am in a great hurry to reach the hills outside of Sodden before sundown tomorrow and intend to cross through the marsh once I commandeer a steed.” He paused to examine the stranger’s apparel a moment before inquiring in renewed interest, “Was this wagon equipped with horses?”
Yosavrin had never ridden a horse. The isles of Darcania had no horses, and no foals either. They had instead large reptilian mounts with flat noses and forked tongues, with scaly tapered tails and long, hook-like talons. They were agile, serpentine beasts with prodigious stamina, adept at scaling rocky inclines and navigating the harsh terrains which composed the landmasses of Darcania’s Isles. But these reptiles were seldom used in battle, with their tendency to attack their riders and proclivity to destroying entire campsites when able to escape their cages. But Yosavrin could ride one of those, and so riding a horse could not be so difficult.
“Say,” He began to usher his friendly new acquaintance away from the entrance of the Cloak and Stagger. “You strike me as a bargaining man. I made have some wares to sell, provided you have the coin.” He turned the knife over in his hand, flicking silvery locks over his shoulder as he reached the bottom of the stairs that had led up to the tavern door. “I am called many things, but you may call me Yosavrin of Gresit.”
Yosavrin hadn’t always been alone. In fact, he reflected often on a childhood he perceived full of overbearing figures of authority trying to influence his decisions. Especially once he’d joined the ranks of the military, following the end of his specialized training. He’d gained the contempt of many of his superiors before he’d hardly been there a week, and they had tormented him to no end. But he hadn’t minded the attention. And he hardly ever believed them when they made threats on his life, with exceptions to the several attempts that had been made on his life.
He’d spent several months training under a dove-skinned black-mustached Colonel Lievothart, a square-headed strong-jawed man with an unruly, white-streaked plume of wild, growthy hair and broad shoulders. He was impressively tall and spoke only at the top of his voice. He believed in corporal punishment and found every opportunity to inflict it upon his men, going as far as to flog men out of praise. He had eyes as black and blue as the ocean.
Colonel Lievothart had a profound affinity for miniature warship models, and had over a dozen in his office. Realistic, ornate, intricate models with unfurled sails and steep wooden bows. With pointed wooden masts and elaborate gold-plated mastheads. With little lead canons, chiseled kneels, jutting foremasts and webbed shrouds. They were his pride and joy, and would steal away late into the night under lantern light to fuss over his hoard.
Some unseemly dimwit had had the genius idea of robbing Colonel Lievothart’s private office and hiding the ships in various inappropriate places around the base, decimated or otherwise desecrated. Nearly half the squadron was bedridden from the abuse they sustained in the aftermath, but morale had never been higher. Colonel Lievothart, red-faced and bellowing at the top of his lungs, had promised certain death by staking, beheading, and flogging to whoever was found responsible.
Yosavrin had met his first friend while stationed there in Tragovia, a stout and lawful youth named Hindley who loved his empire and wrote limericks in lead on the underside of Yosavrin’s bunk. He suspected Yosavrin of being the culprit of the warship pranking debacle and had tattled to the Colonel Yosavrin after catching him sneaking into the Colonel’s office.
“He wants you to be staked, beheaded, and flogged. He saw you outside my office.” Colonel Lievothart had told Yosavrin.
“Well, I saw him outside your office.” Replied Yosavrin.
"When?" Asked Colonel Lievothart.
"When he saw me."
“Is that so?” Colonel Lievothart rubbed his beard. “That is suspicious.”
Hindley had been staked, beheaded, and then flogged for instigating the treacherous warship pranking debacle. It was the terrible loss of a bunkmate. Yosavrin had made blackout poetry out of his limericks scratched on the underside of his bunk to commemorate Hindley’s passing.
“I could have use for a man of your talents.” Yosavrin continued, walking alongside his new acquaintance. The merchant’s attire had inspired Yosavrin to believe that he should get a disguise. Nobody would suspect him if he posed as a merchant, and having a legitimate merchant companion would perfectly complete his charade. “You wouldn’t happen to be traveling east, would you? I hear the hills outside of Sodden are beautiful this time of year. Soil rich with minerals, and fields, and loam. A man could surely make good business with such things.”
They approached a second, dingier tavern near the center of town with an illegible name. Yosavrin held the door and ushered his companion inside. “Let me buy you a drink and you’ll surely come to find that I would be a valuable friend to have.”
Yazzah
Can't wait to get some free time
The ‘merchant’ could only raise a brow at the first of many questions thrown at him, “Two horses, in fact.”
Arkaus found himself turning and following at his target’s insistence. He walked slowly at first, listening intently to the silver-haired man as he began his propositioning. Well, well. This was certainly a surprise, but one he found to be greatly beneficial. “Arkaus of Lyram, a pleasure to meet you. And while I have come into a bit of misfortune these past few days, my coin has luckily remained on my person. As for the offering of wares…You have my attention.”
As the two traveled to the much dingier tavern, Arkaus had a hand to his own chin, pretending to contemplate what his new companion was suggesting. “East you say?”
He let a fake look of surprise wash over his features before a look of interest replaced it, “Well, Yosavrin of Gresit, while I had originally planned to head north, you’re in luck that my plans have changed. If you’re a valuable friend, as you say, then a drink and some discussion could be enough to persuade me to head east. Given how lovely you make it sound, of course.”
With that, the man walked past Yosavrin and made his way inside. That gloriously cheap tavern smell hit his nose as he forced back a wince. That overwhelming scent of moldy food and poor hygiene was assaulting, but at this point, he was too used to it to give it much thought. Though he did make a mental note to carry around some lavender or other types of flower petals for the next dingy tavern visit.
Arkaus made a motion for his companion to follow him, his feet not staying in one spot too long, else it draw the attention of the other patrons. The ‘merchant’ rolled his shoulders and adjusted his purse to be more hidden amongst his clothes. (Wouldn’t want a pickpocket making a mess of things after all.) As he hid his purse, his fingers delved inside, sneakily pulling out a few coins that he clutched in his palm.
He found himself pausing by a table just far enough from the other patrons that it could be considered “private”. Arkaus ensured that he gave Yosavrin an inviting smile as he now motioned for him to sit, but his eyes were wary on the reactions the others would have to his new, undisguised friend. Already he could spot the barkeep leaning over to a nearby woman, who was most likely a server. She tilted her head and listened as something was whispered to her, only to glance over in their direction with a frown. The woman’s mouth moved to answer back in a huff, shaking her head she stalked over to the two of them. Agitation clear from her expression as she stopped a foot away from them, “Listen here ya’—”
Arkaus smiled kindly as he put a hand on her shoulder and another on her hand that had raised to point at them. The coins in his palm slid into hers as he gave her a meaningful look, “So sorry love, we won’t be needing any food considering we’re only here for a drink and a bit of business talk."
There was a moment of surprise on her face as she clutched the coins in her palm, her eyes glancing down briefly before moving back up to look at Arkaus. He suppressed a chuckle as he continued, "My business partner here told me the drinks were finally on him! You haven’t the cruelty to deny me a free drink now, do you?”
Her fingers greedily felt about the coins she found in her possession, a look of conflict briefly flittering across her features. The look didn't last as she pulled away and stuffed her hands in her apron pockets. The woman glared to Yosavrin, her mouth pressed tightly together until a defeated sigh made it out of her, “Whadya want then? Two ales suit ya’ just fine?”
Arkaus moved away from the woman as he took a seat for himself, elbows resting on the table. He tilted his head, watching the two interact with a polite smile. It was only when she finally left that he drummed his nails along the table and got to the point, “So, what could I possibly help you with ‘partner’?”
Arkaus found himself turning and following at his target’s insistence. He walked slowly at first, listening intently to the silver-haired man as he began his propositioning. Well, well. This was certainly a surprise, but one he found to be greatly beneficial. “Arkaus of Lyram, a pleasure to meet you. And while I have come into a bit of misfortune these past few days, my coin has luckily remained on my person. As for the offering of wares…You have my attention.”
As the two traveled to the much dingier tavern, Arkaus had a hand to his own chin, pretending to contemplate what his new companion was suggesting. “East you say?”
He let a fake look of surprise wash over his features before a look of interest replaced it, “Well, Yosavrin of Gresit, while I had originally planned to head north, you’re in luck that my plans have changed. If you’re a valuable friend, as you say, then a drink and some discussion could be enough to persuade me to head east. Given how lovely you make it sound, of course.”
With that, the man walked past Yosavrin and made his way inside. That gloriously cheap tavern smell hit his nose as he forced back a wince. That overwhelming scent of moldy food and poor hygiene was assaulting, but at this point, he was too used to it to give it much thought. Though he did make a mental note to carry around some lavender or other types of flower petals for the next dingy tavern visit.
Arkaus made a motion for his companion to follow him, his feet not staying in one spot too long, else it draw the attention of the other patrons. The ‘merchant’ rolled his shoulders and adjusted his purse to be more hidden amongst his clothes. (Wouldn’t want a pickpocket making a mess of things after all.) As he hid his purse, his fingers delved inside, sneakily pulling out a few coins that he clutched in his palm.
He found himself pausing by a table just far enough from the other patrons that it could be considered “private”. Arkaus ensured that he gave Yosavrin an inviting smile as he now motioned for him to sit, but his eyes were wary on the reactions the others would have to his new, undisguised friend. Already he could spot the barkeep leaning over to a nearby woman, who was most likely a server. She tilted her head and listened as something was whispered to her, only to glance over in their direction with a frown. The woman’s mouth moved to answer back in a huff, shaking her head she stalked over to the two of them. Agitation clear from her expression as she stopped a foot away from them, “Listen here ya’—”
Arkaus smiled kindly as he put a hand on her shoulder and another on her hand that had raised to point at them. The coins in his palm slid into hers as he gave her a meaningful look, “So sorry love, we won’t be needing any food considering we’re only here for a drink and a bit of business talk."
There was a moment of surprise on her face as she clutched the coins in her palm, her eyes glancing down briefly before moving back up to look at Arkaus. He suppressed a chuckle as he continued, "My business partner here told me the drinks were finally on him! You haven’t the cruelty to deny me a free drink now, do you?”
Her fingers greedily felt about the coins she found in her possession, a look of conflict briefly flittering across her features. The look didn't last as she pulled away and stuffed her hands in her apron pockets. The woman glared to Yosavrin, her mouth pressed tightly together until a defeated sigh made it out of her, “Whadya want then? Two ales suit ya’ just fine?”
Arkaus moved away from the woman as he took a seat for himself, elbows resting on the table. He tilted his head, watching the two interact with a polite smile. It was only when she finally left that he drummed his nails along the table and got to the point, “So, what could I possibly help you with ‘partner’?”
Jewel
spirited
Yosavrin’s ale was poisoned and his bride was a necromancer.
Yosavrin believed he had a supernatural ability to spot necromancers among crowds of seemingly normal people. It had all started when his childhood infatuation, a lithe girl with crimson hair, had enrolled to the Dacanian School of Hellraising, which was a school for the dead-raising-inclined. He’s seen this treachery coming, he’d known that it was her intent to become a celibate, death-eating, mongrel. But believed she was being coerced by her inner demons, he had resolved to save her by climbing into the window of her 10th floor dormitory and declaring his love for her. The girl, Cassandra, had been so enraged at his proposal that she had flung him out a window.
This woman, tall and brunette, bared an uncanny resemblance to Cassandra. They both, to some inexplicable extent, reminded Yosavrin of a Brittlehound. Deep-set eyes and tight jaws. Barking their words at him with evident disdain. Yosavrin was moved by the woman at the bar and touched by her unfriendliness toward the pair of them. He wished Cassandra had not melted his proposal band into molten liquid and then had it remade into a spur for her boot. It was to him, endearing that she would wear it, if not disappointing that she would not wear it on her finger.
A courtesy letter had arrived at his doorstep with a seal from her family inviting Yosavrin to meet her at a bar uptown. Yosavrin had arrived with the best of intentions with only four knives hidden on his person. But to his dismay, she had only invited him to curse his name and, after revealing she had poisoned Yosavrin’s ale, her intent to raise Yosavrin from the dead and then kill him again.
But Yosavrin had stupidly lived. And Cassandra, for whatever reason, had been irked enough to cut contact with him and stay in her necromancy school. And Yosavrin, heartbroken and distraught, returned to the barracks to continue stealing Colonel Lievothart’s miniature battleships and hide them in the latrine.
So, when the barmaid returned with their ales Yosavrin didn’t dare drink, thinking solemnly of the time he had spent writhing in agony on the floor of the bar uptown. It couldn’t be coincidence that this woman reminded him of that day. Yosavrin didn’t believe in coincidences. He only believed in fate, karma, and luck. He moved his ale to the side of the table, eyeing it with suspicion, before turning his attention at last back to his merchant friend.
“I need those horses.” He said, clasping his gray-fingered hands over the table. “The ride to Sodden will take too bloodydamn long on foot and I’m on a time crunch. I’ve got to get to the glade for… my niece’s wedding.” He explained. “If you would show me where your wagon horses are being tended to, I would pay you to use your negotiation skills to acquire those horses for me. And yourself, should you decide to pursue the abundant business opportunities in Sodden. I can offer you this in payment,” He slid the stolen knife across the table. “And I can promise you additional reward once I’ve reunited with my family. They are extremely wealthy.”
Yosavrin had always wished he was part of a wealthy aristocratic family. Then, perhaps he would’ve led a more lavish life. Instead of all of the rigorous training he had endured to secure a position in the military’s special forces, he might’ve been lounging on satin bedsheets and eating grapes from the hands of beautiful men and women. Perhaps he could’ve had the wealth and privilege to rule a territory or travel the western isles. He would’ve loved to wear spurs on his boots and own a large, wide-brimmed hat with a bobbing red feather. But if he could not have any of those things in his current life of nonfiction, he would settle for having them in fiction.
“The ride to Sodden would be only two days journey. And you could impart all of your merchantly wisdom upon me, and I might donate to your business ventures once I have returned to my family and my wealth has returned to my pockets.” He was fully intending on robbing Arkaus and stealing his merchant attire as soon as they were in the foothills. “What do you say, partner? Lead me to those horses?”
Yosavrin believed he had a supernatural ability to spot necromancers among crowds of seemingly normal people. It had all started when his childhood infatuation, a lithe girl with crimson hair, had enrolled to the Dacanian School of Hellraising, which was a school for the dead-raising-inclined. He’s seen this treachery coming, he’d known that it was her intent to become a celibate, death-eating, mongrel. But believed she was being coerced by her inner demons, he had resolved to save her by climbing into the window of her 10th floor dormitory and declaring his love for her. The girl, Cassandra, had been so enraged at his proposal that she had flung him out a window.
This woman, tall and brunette, bared an uncanny resemblance to Cassandra. They both, to some inexplicable extent, reminded Yosavrin of a Brittlehound. Deep-set eyes and tight jaws. Barking their words at him with evident disdain. Yosavrin was moved by the woman at the bar and touched by her unfriendliness toward the pair of them. He wished Cassandra had not melted his proposal band into molten liquid and then had it remade into a spur for her boot. It was to him, endearing that she would wear it, if not disappointing that she would not wear it on her finger.
A courtesy letter had arrived at his doorstep with a seal from her family inviting Yosavrin to meet her at a bar uptown. Yosavrin had arrived with the best of intentions with only four knives hidden on his person. But to his dismay, she had only invited him to curse his name and, after revealing she had poisoned Yosavrin’s ale, her intent to raise Yosavrin from the dead and then kill him again.
But Yosavrin had stupidly lived. And Cassandra, for whatever reason, had been irked enough to cut contact with him and stay in her necromancy school. And Yosavrin, heartbroken and distraught, returned to the barracks to continue stealing Colonel Lievothart’s miniature battleships and hide them in the latrine.
So, when the barmaid returned with their ales Yosavrin didn’t dare drink, thinking solemnly of the time he had spent writhing in agony on the floor of the bar uptown. It couldn’t be coincidence that this woman reminded him of that day. Yosavrin didn’t believe in coincidences. He only believed in fate, karma, and luck. He moved his ale to the side of the table, eyeing it with suspicion, before turning his attention at last back to his merchant friend.
“I need those horses.” He said, clasping his gray-fingered hands over the table. “The ride to Sodden will take too bloodydamn long on foot and I’m on a time crunch. I’ve got to get to the glade for… my niece’s wedding.” He explained. “If you would show me where your wagon horses are being tended to, I would pay you to use your negotiation skills to acquire those horses for me. And yourself, should you decide to pursue the abundant business opportunities in Sodden. I can offer you this in payment,” He slid the stolen knife across the table. “And I can promise you additional reward once I’ve reunited with my family. They are extremely wealthy.”
Yosavrin had always wished he was part of a wealthy aristocratic family. Then, perhaps he would’ve led a more lavish life. Instead of all of the rigorous training he had endured to secure a position in the military’s special forces, he might’ve been lounging on satin bedsheets and eating grapes from the hands of beautiful men and women. Perhaps he could’ve had the wealth and privilege to rule a territory or travel the western isles. He would’ve loved to wear spurs on his boots and own a large, wide-brimmed hat with a bobbing red feather. But if he could not have any of those things in his current life of nonfiction, he would settle for having them in fiction.
“The ride to Sodden would be only two days journey. And you could impart all of your merchantly wisdom upon me, and I might donate to your business ventures once I have returned to my family and my wealth has returned to my pockets.” He was fully intending on robbing Arkaus and stealing his merchant attire as soon as they were in the foothills. “What do you say, partner? Lead me to those horses?”
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Yazzah
Can't wait to get some free time
If he were a greedy man with no brains, Arkaus may have thought to take advantage of this “aristocrat” without wondering why such a deal was too good to be true. A smile of amusement spread across his face as he brushed his own ale to the side, taking a keen note that his companion was wise not to trust their drinks. If not poisoned, it surely had the barmaids spit in it to show her disgust for Yosavrin’s presence.
His fingertips danced along the blade that had been passed to him as he listened to the lies being spout at him. Lazily, he picked it up, taking to observing the knife itself in appreciation. He was fully expecting Yosavrin to stab and rob him the second they were far enough away from prying eyes. Just as he would do to him. But as it were, Arkaus would rather kill his target without having to worry about his own neck being sliced in the night. He needed to find a way to shift Yosavrin’s upcoming plans.
“I hadn’t realized you were part of such a wealthy family, my new friend! I am sure it must have been a series of unfortunate circumstances that have left your pockets empty enough not to simply buy the horses without my help.”
Arkaus let the knife slip from his hand, the blade tapping against the table as he played with the handle. He balanced the now upright knife with the tip of his finger, a friendly smile on his face. “Just as I have relayed to you earlier, I have had my own misfortune. I had a small group of men bodyguarding me and my goods, but unfortunately, they were not what they seemed. They meant to kill me quietly and steal not only my wares but everything on my person. It was an unfortunate circumstance. One I hope not to repeat.”
Arkaus tilted his head, horizontal pupils taking in Yozavrin as if he were watching a predator, waiting to see its next move, “ If you’re offering me all these untold and unseen riches, then it seems obvious to assist you as much as I can. And, if I am to be blunt,” He gave Yozavrin a small once over before continuing, “ you're most certainly going to need my help.”
The fake merchant let his smile drop, taking a serious edge as he took the knife up in his palm, pointing it at Yosavrin for emphasis, “ Everyone who sees you will wish to kill you or they will refuse to do business at the very least. Even now I had to pay the barmaid off in hopes we weren’t kicked out of this shady place... You will not get far without trouble as you are now. You require a disguise and a traveling companion to verify your reason for wandering.”
Arkaus leaned back, lowering the knife as to not look as if he were threatening his new companion, “ I can certainly help you with ease, getting you those horses with only a few minutes of conversation. I could even ensure no one takes to stabbing you the second they see you and that none will be wiser to the fact of your family's wealth… After all, it is dangerous to let strangers know of your rich status, for a lesser man would think to capture you and demand ransom from your family.”
His eyes gained a playful edge to them at that last statement, the familiar feeling of scolding a trainee assassin for a suspicious lie bringing his spirits up quite a bit. Perhaps it could be…entertaining to travel with his target, “I believe it would be safest to have us acquire you merchant clothing and to call you my business partner. You may still face some discrimination, but you’d be much less suspicious. As you are now, I’m sure most think you to be a spy sent here for some nefarious deed! Though being from an aristocratic family, I couldn’t blame you for your blatant disregard of that matter.”
Arkaus set the blade between them on the table. A clear demonstration that he has not yet accepted it or this new job, “This deal must be equally beneficial for the both of us. You’ve given me plenty of reason to get you where you need to go, and I have given you further reason to keep me along for the ride. So I need your word, Yosavrin of Gresit, that you have no plans to backstab me as I help you along to your niece’s wedding. For if you do, I am quick to escape any attempts at my life. And I will leave you to reorient yourself in lands that are surely brimming with metaphorical sharks swimming in the water, ready to exact their rage in these trying times on whoever, whenever they can.”
Letting that sink in for a few moments, Arkaus put a hand out, halfway across the table as he stared at his target. "So, am I getting us those horses...Partner?"
His fingertips danced along the blade that had been passed to him as he listened to the lies being spout at him. Lazily, he picked it up, taking to observing the knife itself in appreciation. He was fully expecting Yosavrin to stab and rob him the second they were far enough away from prying eyes. Just as he would do to him. But as it were, Arkaus would rather kill his target without having to worry about his own neck being sliced in the night. He needed to find a way to shift Yosavrin’s upcoming plans.
“I hadn’t realized you were part of such a wealthy family, my new friend! I am sure it must have been a series of unfortunate circumstances that have left your pockets empty enough not to simply buy the horses without my help.”
Arkaus let the knife slip from his hand, the blade tapping against the table as he played with the handle. He balanced the now upright knife with the tip of his finger, a friendly smile on his face. “Just as I have relayed to you earlier, I have had my own misfortune. I had a small group of men bodyguarding me and my goods, but unfortunately, they were not what they seemed. They meant to kill me quietly and steal not only my wares but everything on my person. It was an unfortunate circumstance. One I hope not to repeat.”
Arkaus tilted his head, horizontal pupils taking in Yozavrin as if he were watching a predator, waiting to see its next move, “ If you’re offering me all these untold and unseen riches, then it seems obvious to assist you as much as I can. And, if I am to be blunt,” He gave Yozavrin a small once over before continuing, “ you're most certainly going to need my help.”
The fake merchant let his smile drop, taking a serious edge as he took the knife up in his palm, pointing it at Yosavrin for emphasis, “ Everyone who sees you will wish to kill you or they will refuse to do business at the very least. Even now I had to pay the barmaid off in hopes we weren’t kicked out of this shady place... You will not get far without trouble as you are now. You require a disguise and a traveling companion to verify your reason for wandering.”
Arkaus leaned back, lowering the knife as to not look as if he were threatening his new companion, “ I can certainly help you with ease, getting you those horses with only a few minutes of conversation. I could even ensure no one takes to stabbing you the second they see you and that none will be wiser to the fact of your family's wealth… After all, it is dangerous to let strangers know of your rich status, for a lesser man would think to capture you and demand ransom from your family.”
His eyes gained a playful edge to them at that last statement, the familiar feeling of scolding a trainee assassin for a suspicious lie bringing his spirits up quite a bit. Perhaps it could be…entertaining to travel with his target, “I believe it would be safest to have us acquire you merchant clothing and to call you my business partner. You may still face some discrimination, but you’d be much less suspicious. As you are now, I’m sure most think you to be a spy sent here for some nefarious deed! Though being from an aristocratic family, I couldn’t blame you for your blatant disregard of that matter.”
Arkaus set the blade between them on the table. A clear demonstration that he has not yet accepted it or this new job, “This deal must be equally beneficial for the both of us. You’ve given me plenty of reason to get you where you need to go, and I have given you further reason to keep me along for the ride. So I need your word, Yosavrin of Gresit, that you have no plans to backstab me as I help you along to your niece’s wedding. For if you do, I am quick to escape any attempts at my life. And I will leave you to reorient yourself in lands that are surely brimming with metaphorical sharks swimming in the water, ready to exact their rage in these trying times on whoever, whenever they can.”
Letting that sink in for a few moments, Arkaus put a hand out, halfway across the table as he stared at his target. "So, am I getting us those horses...Partner?"
Jewel
spirited
Yosavrin was feeling quite pleased with himself, having tricked this unsuspecting merchant into conforming to his plans. He was also greatly impressed by the man’s story about having been robbed by his bodyguards. It was uncannily similar to the explanation Yosavrin had been fixing to give about his own poor state of pocket. But it made complete sense to Yosavrin, and he really felt for this merchant fellow! While at the same time, he found respect for the ambition of those traitorous bodyguards, who had beaten him to the chase of robbing his unsuspecting merchant himself. Great minds, and all that.
The once-over was a brief, flitting thing, but Yosavrin didn’t miss it. He blushed. He didn’t know why he blushed. There was absolutely nothing suggestive about the manner in which the other was speaking to him, nor provocative in the way his eyes had raked him. But Yosavrin was already greatly amoured by the stranger, and the other’s mellifluous way of speaking had captured his heart. He nodded, dumbly, readily agreeing that he would need this cunning merchant’s help. How lucky he was that this skilled tradesman was so available! And so arresting!
Yosavrin was completely blown-away by his companion’s genius suggestions. Hadn’t he just been thinking that he needed a disguise? Arkaus’ timely proposals only worked to confirm Yosavrin’s belief that this man was, in fact, the answer to all of his problems. It was as if the gods had sent down an angel to guide him through his mission. He would need a hell of a good disguise to hide his extremely Darcanian appearance though. The black eyes, the tintless skin. But he was not easily dissuaded from the idea of crafting a clever disguise.
“Oh, I assure you, I am not a spy.” He laughed, feeling sweat tickle the skin at the back of his neck. “No, my friend. If I was a spy, I would’ve come in a disguise, and come to you confessing tall tales of loss and misfortune! Why, I would not be so pleasant to trade with, if I was a spy. Which I am not. Not a spy. Just a… regular guy.” He leaned back in his booth, lifting his arms to cross his hands behind his head. “Regular Yosavrin. Selling wares and traveling abroad.”
The gravity of Arkaus’ words had a profound effect upon Yosavrin. He slowly lowered his arms, leaning forward again to gape at the other as he made his speech. It felt to Yosavrin like a great power was gathering, like a holy nimbus was collecting overhead, shadowing their private booth, and ensconcing them from the rest of the world. He had absolutely no idea what the other was saying, but the conviction carried in the other’s words enchanted him. Yosavrin hung on every word, black eyes widening while white lashes fluttered. He waited in heightened anticipation for the conclusion to be reached. And when Arkaus stuck out his hand, Yosavrin grabbed it, firmly, giving it a vigorous shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, partner!”
--
Outside it was warm and bright. Yosavrin stood, blinking in the white sun, pearly hair gleaming in iridescent radiance, lids scrunched in a narrow squint, lifting a hand then to shield his eyes. He felt the other exit the bar behind him, and soon assumed to follow him to where the horses might be located, guileless to the possibility that Arkaus would breach their sacred business pact by leading him somewhere unsavory.
They made their way around town to where the shops were, and then the pair approached a fig stall with a horse-manned wagon parked beside it. The horses were much bigger in person than Yosavrin had been imagining, and he was immediately thrown into the deep thralls of hesitance. One tall white mare stomped its foot, lifting a plume of dry earth from the dusty street. Yosavrin eyed the beast with a suspicious, vexed stare, pursing his lips and quirking his mouth into a discerning frown. His ireful assessing was interrupted when a short, round, balding fellow in comely merchant attire who struck Yosavrin as being both shrewd and stupid, roused their attention with a raucous shout and a wave of his hand, bidding them to harass his animals no more.
“Ah, fine sir.” Yosavrin decided it would be a good time to put his best-foot forward. “If you would so kindly—”
“Tell your foreigner friend to fuck on home to it’s evil island home. It is scaring away my customers.” The merchant addressed Arkaus, not even giving Yosavrin a courtesy glance before blatantly speaking over him. Yosavrin was not shocked, but he was offended. How rude! He had half a mind to march up to the merchant man and set him straight with a knife between his eyes. But Yosavrin wasn’t an aimless killer. At least, not when it didn’t optimally suit his purposes.
“Tell this gentleman that we are here to barter with him.” Yosavrin said, crossing his arms over his chest and speaking with an edge of impatience. “And that if he wants our business, he ought to treat his customers with more respect.”
“I ain’t doin’ business with no black-eyed devil. Tell him that.”
“Tell this merchant that I am no devil, and that I simply mean to fairly purchase his horses, if not commandeer them should he prove uncooperative.” If Yosavrin didn’t want the horses before, he certainly wanted them now, if just to take something from this stingy little man. “And tell the gentleman that I forgive him for offending me.”
The man’s face flushed with anger. “Tell this indolent, wicked boy that the horses aren’t for sale. And that if he doesn’t make himself scarce, I’ll call the authorities.”
“Tell the merchant—”
“Fuck off!” The man threw a hand in the air, waving him off. “The both of you. Guards! Guards?!”
“I think, perhaps, the man is unamenable.” Yosavrin murmured to Arkaus. “I think, perhaps, we ought to reformulate our plan and try an alternative approach. This man happens to be, I think, a racist.”
“Guards?!”
Yosavrin could see a tall, armored pair turn in their direction from up the way. He scoffed, throwing his palms up, and obliged to remove himself from the man’s immediate view. “I hope you are a man of plans, Arkaus of Lyram.”
The once-over was a brief, flitting thing, but Yosavrin didn’t miss it. He blushed. He didn’t know why he blushed. There was absolutely nothing suggestive about the manner in which the other was speaking to him, nor provocative in the way his eyes had raked him. But Yosavrin was already greatly amoured by the stranger, and the other’s mellifluous way of speaking had captured his heart. He nodded, dumbly, readily agreeing that he would need this cunning merchant’s help. How lucky he was that this skilled tradesman was so available! And so arresting!
Yosavrin was completely blown-away by his companion’s genius suggestions. Hadn’t he just been thinking that he needed a disguise? Arkaus’ timely proposals only worked to confirm Yosavrin’s belief that this man was, in fact, the answer to all of his problems. It was as if the gods had sent down an angel to guide him through his mission. He would need a hell of a good disguise to hide his extremely Darcanian appearance though. The black eyes, the tintless skin. But he was not easily dissuaded from the idea of crafting a clever disguise.
“Oh, I assure you, I am not a spy.” He laughed, feeling sweat tickle the skin at the back of his neck. “No, my friend. If I was a spy, I would’ve come in a disguise, and come to you confessing tall tales of loss and misfortune! Why, I would not be so pleasant to trade with, if I was a spy. Which I am not. Not a spy. Just a… regular guy.” He leaned back in his booth, lifting his arms to cross his hands behind his head. “Regular Yosavrin. Selling wares and traveling abroad.”
The gravity of Arkaus’ words had a profound effect upon Yosavrin. He slowly lowered his arms, leaning forward again to gape at the other as he made his speech. It felt to Yosavrin like a great power was gathering, like a holy nimbus was collecting overhead, shadowing their private booth, and ensconcing them from the rest of the world. He had absolutely no idea what the other was saying, but the conviction carried in the other’s words enchanted him. Yosavrin hung on every word, black eyes widening while white lashes fluttered. He waited in heightened anticipation for the conclusion to be reached. And when Arkaus stuck out his hand, Yosavrin grabbed it, firmly, giving it a vigorous shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, partner!”
--
Outside it was warm and bright. Yosavrin stood, blinking in the white sun, pearly hair gleaming in iridescent radiance, lids scrunched in a narrow squint, lifting a hand then to shield his eyes. He felt the other exit the bar behind him, and soon assumed to follow him to where the horses might be located, guileless to the possibility that Arkaus would breach their sacred business pact by leading him somewhere unsavory.
They made their way around town to where the shops were, and then the pair approached a fig stall with a horse-manned wagon parked beside it. The horses were much bigger in person than Yosavrin had been imagining, and he was immediately thrown into the deep thralls of hesitance. One tall white mare stomped its foot, lifting a plume of dry earth from the dusty street. Yosavrin eyed the beast with a suspicious, vexed stare, pursing his lips and quirking his mouth into a discerning frown. His ireful assessing was interrupted when a short, round, balding fellow in comely merchant attire who struck Yosavrin as being both shrewd and stupid, roused their attention with a raucous shout and a wave of his hand, bidding them to harass his animals no more.
“Ah, fine sir.” Yosavrin decided it would be a good time to put his best-foot forward. “If you would so kindly—”
“Tell your foreigner friend to fuck on home to it’s evil island home. It is scaring away my customers.” The merchant addressed Arkaus, not even giving Yosavrin a courtesy glance before blatantly speaking over him. Yosavrin was not shocked, but he was offended. How rude! He had half a mind to march up to the merchant man and set him straight with a knife between his eyes. But Yosavrin wasn’t an aimless killer. At least, not when it didn’t optimally suit his purposes.
“Tell this gentleman that we are here to barter with him.” Yosavrin said, crossing his arms over his chest and speaking with an edge of impatience. “And that if he wants our business, he ought to treat his customers with more respect.”
“I ain’t doin’ business with no black-eyed devil. Tell him that.”
“Tell this merchant that I am no devil, and that I simply mean to fairly purchase his horses, if not commandeer them should he prove uncooperative.” If Yosavrin didn’t want the horses before, he certainly wanted them now, if just to take something from this stingy little man. “And tell the gentleman that I forgive him for offending me.”
The man’s face flushed with anger. “Tell this indolent, wicked boy that the horses aren’t for sale. And that if he doesn’t make himself scarce, I’ll call the authorities.”
“Tell the merchant—”
“Fuck off!” The man threw a hand in the air, waving him off. “The both of you. Guards! Guards?!”
“I think, perhaps, the man is unamenable.” Yosavrin murmured to Arkaus. “I think, perhaps, we ought to reformulate our plan and try an alternative approach. This man happens to be, I think, a racist.”
“Guards?!”
Yosavrin could see a tall, armored pair turn in their direction from up the way. He scoffed, throwing his palms up, and obliged to remove himself from the man’s immediate view. “I hope you are a man of plans, Arkaus of Lyram.”
