His boot crosses the threshold like an invading army to the light sound of silk. It hits the ground with click and a twist and pauses in predatory survey. The room falls silent as it takes a breath of apprehension at the velvet and suede architecture. A hawk eye and million-gold smile preface his slow slide to his chair. A few waves and nods and chuckles to the people as the numbers run through his mind. Gold, gems, muscle, skills... the specialists and their trade. Who's selling... who's buying... and who needs a rich friend.
Who's armed and who's dangerous. The haves and the have-nots. Who's living and who's waiting to die. So many bodies. It's busy tonight. A sea of desire, ripe and biting. The blood is thick and he rides the pulse.
God it's sexy... swords come to him like lovers. Does he have a place for them? They seem hungry and are so friendly it looks like begging. A wave of his hand scatters gold and he orders meals. They drink and eat and fill his ear. Sometimes he smiles, sometimes he laughs, but he always watches. He hasn't answered them. As the wine bottle empties and the plates are taken away, a longing returns. He's moved on to others. So jovial and polite. His voice is an enchantment and his smooth face a youth's. But he hasn't answered. The swords try to join in. They laugh too, especially when he does. Is this a refusal? Did he just forget? The night is coming to a close and most of the bar has emptied. The waitress flirts a little because he tips heavily, but his reflexes have dulled and the wine loosed the coin.
As he stands, perfectly manicured fingers pluck at the perfumed lace in his cuffs. He doesn't face them as he reaches into his coat. His other hand finds the back of a chair to steady from his indulgence as he flips a small fortune in a bag onto the table.
They sit in stunned silence as he makes his way out like a rose in the wind. He's ruffled and lost his grace but they're looking at the money. What does this mean? Is it charity or contract? Are they hired or simply on the right end of a careless drunk? Will he even remember?
They look up to gauge but only his scent remains.
Waterdeep by Night
Part II - The Inventory
Part II - The Inventory
An oversized plume slides across parchment with a hollow scratch as he tallies figures. A lot of investments are in the field and it's hard to tell if he's in the black. He looks up for a thought and the bustling bar rushes his senses. The noise, the smoke, the smell of ale.. it's oppressive. He taps the paper.
Zeldon the scribe. Smart. Loyal? It's hard to tell. Probably… thin guys like him tend to be. But to whom? As long as he's loyal to pay, he can be in. There's something I like about him.
The merchant looks around the room and behind him but nothing catches his eye and he returns to his thoughts.
Juylina… now there's a sure thing. Sharp eye, slick tongue, and she likes her work. I'll put her down for a big credit line. It may be a long shot with her innocent rich girl naiveté, but if she pulls through there will be a big payoff. She has a niche. And kind of reminds me of me. A few years of wrong turns down the right alleys will hammer her into predator steel. I can taste her edge.
The man leans back and flexes his fingers like a toymaker then hunkers back to his task.
Ah yes… the aloof singer. Euridice. A mysterious woman with unknowable motivations. She seems to be rather superficial, though, so I'd pay in gems instead of gold. Even if they were worth less, I think she'd prefer them. I don't think she's loyal enough to anything I can offer. She likes status and manses. Aim high.
He chuckles and draws a line through the paper.
Veren the soldier. An old soldier come to the city of splendors… but not to retire. His scars and single eye tell tale with his worn armor and well-oiled sword. He's a man of his craft and I don't doubt that he's seen all sides. But this is the city and there's little war work. I'll put him down as a martial tutor. I can tell by his smile that he knows more than ten ways to cut a man. And he's patient. The age has increased his utility, something he might not have expected. I'll feel him out for payments, but I imagine from a soldier's salary he's more concerned with a steady stream than quantity. Perfect.
An oversized plume slides across parchment with a hollow scratch as he tallies figures. A lot of investments are in the field and it's hard to tell if he's in the black. He looks up for a thought and the bustling bar rushes his senses. The noise, the smoke, the smell of ale.. it's oppressive. He taps the paper.
Zeldon the scribe. Smart. Loyal? It's hard to tell. Probably… thin guys like him tend to be. But to whom? As long as he's loyal to pay, he can be in. There's something I like about him.
The merchant looks around the room and behind him but nothing catches his eye and he returns to his thoughts.
Juylina… now there's a sure thing. Sharp eye, slick tongue, and she likes her work. I'll put her down for a big credit line. It may be a long shot with her innocent rich girl naiveté, but if she pulls through there will be a big payoff. She has a niche. And kind of reminds me of me. A few years of wrong turns down the right alleys will hammer her into predator steel. I can taste her edge.
The man leans back and flexes his fingers like a toymaker then hunkers back to his task.
Ah yes… the aloof singer. Euridice. A mysterious woman with unknowable motivations. She seems to be rather superficial, though, so I'd pay in gems instead of gold. Even if they were worth less, I think she'd prefer them. I don't think she's loyal enough to anything I can offer. She likes status and manses. Aim high.
He chuckles and draws a line through the paper.
Veren the soldier. An old soldier come to the city of splendors… but not to retire. His scars and single eye tell tale with his worn armor and well-oiled sword. He's a man of his craft and I don't doubt that he's seen all sides. But this is the city and there's little war work. I'll put him down as a martial tutor. I can tell by his smile that he knows more than ten ways to cut a man. And he's patient. The age has increased his utility, something he might not have expected. I'll feel him out for payments, but I imagine from a soldier's salary he's more concerned with a steady stream than quantity. Perfect.
-
Nyarlathotep
- Owlbear
- Posts: 551
- Joined: Sat Jan 03, 2004 3:24 pm
- Location: The Hollow
- Contact:
Good stuff, well written and evocative.
I never knew Carn wore perfume though
I never knew Carn wore perfume though
Lurker at the Threshold
Huntin' humans ain't nothin' but nothin'. They all run like scared little rabbits. Run, rabbit, run. Run, rabbit. Run, rabbit. Run rabbit. Run, rabbit, run! RUN, RABBIT, RUN! ~
Otis Driftwood, House of a Thousand Corpses
Huntin' humans ain't nothin' but nothin'. They all run like scared little rabbits. Run, rabbit, run. Run, rabbit. Run, rabbit. Run rabbit. Run, rabbit, run! RUN, RABBIT, RUN! ~
Otis Driftwood, House of a Thousand Corpses
Part III – Strings
He administrates from an Inn table like a Lord of the Trades Ward. In full perspective it's almost a joke. Gaudy clothes, dingy Inns, and an endless supply of the needy. It's hard to tell as he waves his quill and samples wine if his amusement is genuine. Work tends to sour any pleasure and most hours he's here. At work in the place of leisure.
I've checked around. The Inns don't claim him and his name is on no deeds. Where does he go when the Inns close down? When the needy grow thin? Seven nights I've watched him work and he hasn't taken in a single gold, though he's given hundreds. I watched him give a Paladin named Kalev over two thousand crown worth of gems. Is there anyone he doesn't hire? There's only one explanation, and it's not a surprise: he must have a master himself.
He turns up his collar as he hits the night air and his breath plumes into the cold of the cobblestone jungle. As he hunches over himself for warmth and begins his drunken walk home, I press myself to a shadow and follow him by sound. The uneven clicking of his garish boots strike a discordant beacon, but I sneak a glance anyway just to be sure.
The mystique evaporates after my second peek and I don't even bother to press myself against the cold stone walls anymore. I've no fear of discovery in his state, so I save myself the chill and feel a twinge of pity as I watch him shamble from the umbra of one lamp to the oasis of another. He isn't looking back. He isn't even looking up. He just hugs himself like a velvet humpback and every so often shivers. I pull my glove to test the air… it's not that cold.
I dare to quicken my step, avoiding lights and whispering a prayer to the darkness. I can hear a faint sobbing. He's not cold. He's crying.
I'm snapped to reality when the heavy march of mail begins from an alley. I press into a corner as a column of Watchmen stream by, complaining and stinking of ale.
They pass and I return to my pathetic chase. He's not where he was. Did he spy me? I check the roofline and balconies, ready for ambush as a marker catches my eye. Virgin's Square. I blink away my hesitation and flat run with elven silence toward the fountain in time to see the ox cart pulling away. I've lost him, but he goes south.
Loud voices approach, tittering to one another but I don't remain to see, rolling into a shadow and melding with the night.
He administrates from an Inn table like a Lord of the Trades Ward. In full perspective it's almost a joke. Gaudy clothes, dingy Inns, and an endless supply of the needy. It's hard to tell as he waves his quill and samples wine if his amusement is genuine. Work tends to sour any pleasure and most hours he's here. At work in the place of leisure.
I've checked around. The Inns don't claim him and his name is on no deeds. Where does he go when the Inns close down? When the needy grow thin? Seven nights I've watched him work and he hasn't taken in a single gold, though he's given hundreds. I watched him give a Paladin named Kalev over two thousand crown worth of gems. Is there anyone he doesn't hire? There's only one explanation, and it's not a surprise: he must have a master himself.
He turns up his collar as he hits the night air and his breath plumes into the cold of the cobblestone jungle. As he hunches over himself for warmth and begins his drunken walk home, I press myself to a shadow and follow him by sound. The uneven clicking of his garish boots strike a discordant beacon, but I sneak a glance anyway just to be sure.
The mystique evaporates after my second peek and I don't even bother to press myself against the cold stone walls anymore. I've no fear of discovery in his state, so I save myself the chill and feel a twinge of pity as I watch him shamble from the umbra of one lamp to the oasis of another. He isn't looking back. He isn't even looking up. He just hugs himself like a velvet humpback and every so often shivers. I pull my glove to test the air… it's not that cold.
I dare to quicken my step, avoiding lights and whispering a prayer to the darkness. I can hear a faint sobbing. He's not cold. He's crying.
I'm snapped to reality when the heavy march of mail begins from an alley. I press into a corner as a column of Watchmen stream by, complaining and stinking of ale.
They pass and I return to my pathetic chase. He's not where he was. Did he spy me? I check the roofline and balconies, ready for ambush as a marker catches my eye. Virgin's Square. I blink away my hesitation and flat run with elven silence toward the fountain in time to see the ox cart pulling away. I've lost him, but he goes south.
Loud voices approach, tittering to one another but I don't remain to see, rolling into a shadow and melding with the night.
Part IV – The Price of Business
Something went wrong. I lean against the cool stone of the watch post and try not to make eye contact as a watchman stomps by. For seven gold per watchman and ten to the sergeant, I could be inside. I don't have that kind of money, though, and there wouldn't be much point.
The charges weren't clear from out here. It seems Filare wants order and the stories are more fantastic as they pass from gossip to gossip. A frowning Magister in slow cadence escorted the velvet adonis personally, hands folded and pensive. The track was simple enough – a train of witnesses followed, all chattering about the news and watching the sky.
The wet wood of a nearby barrel overpowers my delicate nose but the cover provides an easy vantage from which to observe the motley group. In no other place than an adventurer's bar would they be found together. A paladin in shining white nods gravely while listening to a strange, bald gnome. The gnome squints off into the night suspiciously despite the famous security of the North Ward, and glances at the swishing debutante. She alternates between scowling and laughing at a modest elf, seemingly entertained at the existence of drama and uncaring of the details. The elf himself nods and blinks, apparently taking his role as a witness very seriously, and chews his tongue as his memory replays, but remains reflectively quiet. Off to the side, smirking and rubbing his fingers, one of the humans looks rather satisfied though his face falls to concern when he's addressed.
They're all players. They have to be. You don't walk more than half way across Waterdeep because you're a disinterested good citizen. Well… maybe that Third Circle fellow.
I tap my chin and stand once they disappear into the dank mouth of the watch post. What sort of deal is brokered? Who stands to profit from this? I blink and crouch again, then sit, alarmed at the thought. Undermountain. Is that what they have in common? They have an expedition scheduled. Is someone trying to pull the odd merchant out of that mission? Does he have a wise guardian angel or is someone just wanting to cut the rich socialite out of Halaster's spoils? A noble benefactor? A jealous husband?
I can feel that I sat in a puddle as my breeches grow cold. Swearing lightly and dragging my sopping cape, I turn a corner and skip across a shadow. The North Ward is no place for a lurker. Time to head south before the next patrol.
Something went wrong. I lean against the cool stone of the watch post and try not to make eye contact as a watchman stomps by. For seven gold per watchman and ten to the sergeant, I could be inside. I don't have that kind of money, though, and there wouldn't be much point.
The charges weren't clear from out here. It seems Filare wants order and the stories are more fantastic as they pass from gossip to gossip. A frowning Magister in slow cadence escorted the velvet adonis personally, hands folded and pensive. The track was simple enough – a train of witnesses followed, all chattering about the news and watching the sky.
The wet wood of a nearby barrel overpowers my delicate nose but the cover provides an easy vantage from which to observe the motley group. In no other place than an adventurer's bar would they be found together. A paladin in shining white nods gravely while listening to a strange, bald gnome. The gnome squints off into the night suspiciously despite the famous security of the North Ward, and glances at the swishing debutante. She alternates between scowling and laughing at a modest elf, seemingly entertained at the existence of drama and uncaring of the details. The elf himself nods and blinks, apparently taking his role as a witness very seriously, and chews his tongue as his memory replays, but remains reflectively quiet. Off to the side, smirking and rubbing his fingers, one of the humans looks rather satisfied though his face falls to concern when he's addressed.
They're all players. They have to be. You don't walk more than half way across Waterdeep because you're a disinterested good citizen. Well… maybe that Third Circle fellow.
I tap my chin and stand once they disappear into the dank mouth of the watch post. What sort of deal is brokered? Who stands to profit from this? I blink and crouch again, then sit, alarmed at the thought. Undermountain. Is that what they have in common? They have an expedition scheduled. Is someone trying to pull the odd merchant out of that mission? Does he have a wise guardian angel or is someone just wanting to cut the rich socialite out of Halaster's spoils? A noble benefactor? A jealous husband?
I can feel that I sat in a puddle as my breeches grow cold. Swearing lightly and dragging my sopping cape, I turn a corner and skip across a shadow. The North Ward is no place for a lurker. Time to head south before the next patrol.