Rite
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Posts: 17
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Post by Rite on Nov 21, 2017 5:56:11 GMT
SlUMS OF PE'KARAN
TIMESTAMP: 2ND OF DRAKENIP, 817 7E
Full of unbridled serendipity and frantic trade, but with just enough familiarity to allow a Sowlander to feel somewhat at ease among the black and grey ashlands of the Kakarsin Wastes, Pe'Karan was an oddity in a region that had only one other well-established city -- and just in a land full of fantastical and peculiar creatures in general. Built of black sandstone and the occasional caricature of some felled and massive insectoid, the buildings of the desert city gave one a substantial feeling of being right on the edge of lawful society -- for truly Pe'Karan was indeed just that. On the fringe of civilized culture or not, though, Pe'Karan itself was under the control of the Redican Pact, the loose coalition of city-states that had sworn themselves behind the will of Atian Surgesong -- the long-lived king of the Pact. As such, the Marnish trading hub was forced to follow the rules and dictates of their Eastern rulers. This was both a boon and a curse in the mind of the people, depending on who you talked to and how private they thought their words were going to be. The free-market, republican government of the Redicians, while doing wonders for breaking any artificially or hereditarily imposed class divides in other parts of the world, did very little to satisfy the predominately tribally minded Marnish people, who, rather than gaining freedom, actually stood to lose a substantial portion of their cultural values in exchange for merging their national identity with that of the rest of the Redician peoples. It was for this reason that many of the Marnish Tribes refused to actually migrate to Pe'Karan and instead merely traded with the settlement -- if they visited it at all. Among those Marnish wastelanders who had integrated into Redician society and culture, there were those who had fully embraced the chance to raise their stature and to fill their coffers within the free-market of the Redician economy -- among these there were those who had succeeded in lining their pockets and raising their station and those who had failed utterly. The latter of which, cut off from their cultural identity, have largely been forced into the packed, bustling, and somewhat dirty slums of their newfound urban home city. The destitute and the sick, children with ribs that clung tightly to their skin, and less than scrupulous individuals all roamed the streets of the slums of Pe'Karan. But it was also, here, that away from the watchful eyes of the more sophisticated elite, that the rougher and more violence-and-anti-law-inclined sorts of folks tended to congregate -- and it was for this very reason that Saris Of Swassia had made his way to a particular tavern within one of the poorer districts of town. The Jotting Sandclapper was the name of the ramshackle establishment that Saris approached, as could be seen plainly plastered on a weathered poster tacked to the nondistinct and heavy looking door of the place. Above the warrior's head the ample laundry of various residential buildings fluttered overhead, obscuring the sun quite a lot as the semi-damp clothing waved with the fancies of the wind. Meanwhile, the bustling of voices, begging, and trade thudded dully in the background. The particular establishment that Saris' contacts had led him to could, if his sources were correct, set him on the path that he needed to go down to enact the wishes of his father and master.
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Post by Saris Of Swassia on Nov 27, 2017 8:02:12 GMT
"And he, oh he, oh he can come. The darkness yet grows and yet we never will know. When shadows will rise or what they'll bring in tow," the corpulent bard's voice was homely and as gruff as the frazzled and braided beard that hung neatly through silver beads from his angled, copper toned chin.
"Sidrid's song," Seris said abruptly to the performer as he passed by him without halting in his squared footed walk.
The bard's words were towed off into the furthest corners of the room from where he sat. The sound of a gold coin twirling and bouncing, as it settled onto the ramshackle and round wooden table that the fat man sat at, replaced the sound of his voice in the musky air. The man's eyes meandered inquisitively down to the valuable, clattering metal coinage that the passerby had tossed his way -- and then to the back of the man himself, but his eyes only tarried for a moment before they and his hand returned back to the coin.
Old wood creaked as the canvas-like cloth of traveling breeches settled down upon a chipped stool. The bar that Saris sat at was stained with all the limited colors that low-class spirits could impart upon wood with their stains.
The neck of the bartender of the Sandclapper turned towards her newest patron, just as the voice that Seric's gold had momentarily stopped returned to fill the air -- but this time with a new tavern shanty.
"We have northern and southern here -- about the same price for either," Mistra, the barkeep of the Clapper, said in a low and welcoming tone to Seris.
Seris' shoulders were hunched forward over the bar, with most of his weight resting on his crossed forearms. His chin was tucked down low.
"Northern?" he said in gruff voice, as his scarred face tilted ever-so-slightly towards the somewhat curvaceous wench.
Seris knew very well that it was unlikely that a low-class Pe'Karan bar had genuine marjit arak in stock -- or at least any of the stuff that wouldn't be watered down so much as to taste little better than the slum water that it would almost definitely mostly consist of.
"You're doing better than most around here, then," Seris commented idly.
The bar maid approached and put her hand on the gruff man's arm. "Maybe so."
"He likes it southern, Mistra," a male voice that held the distinct tones of an eastern redician -- and that was warmer, but about as deep as Seris' -- spoke up.
Seris glanced over to Ibus Oakwood, as the merchant settled down on a stool beside him.
"It depends on the hour," Seris said insouciantly to both the barkeep and his newly arrived contact.
Mistra removed her hand from Seris and propped both of her palms against her family's bar.
"Will it work?" the woman asked amiably in regards to the booze.
To reply to the woman’s words, Seris' face appeared as if to indicate an unmentioned shrug.
"It'll be his money," he said.
Ibus frowned at the other man's statement. Meanwhile, Mistra was reaching under the counter.
"You believe so?" Ibus inquired in response to Seris.
Seris tilted his head towards Mistra.
"The lady does," Seris said with the smallest hints of cold humor sneaking into his tone.
As he was talking, Mistra had removed a pair of vessels and a bottle of clear looking, corked spirits from below the counter.
Ibus took a moment to look at Mistra and watched as Seris gently took a wooden cup from the waiting woman. Seris titled the mug slightly towards the merchant beside him.
"You're not thirsty? Pe'Karan is fucking dry come winter," Seris offered.
Ibus' shoulders relaxed, letting go a bit of apprehension. The man nodded at Mistra, giving her the go-ahead to fill Seris' mug on his dime.
Seris coughed a casual laugh through a small smirk, before looking back down to the bar and taking a drink of his cup’s southern bounty.
Ibus' face settled into a calmer state.. The merchant then glanced up to where Mistra stood.
"Want me to leave the bottle?" she asked Ibus, knowing why the man was looking to her.
"Do," the merchant replied in a gentleman’s tone.
"I'll be turning my head every once and awhile to make sure your mugs are full," Mistra informed Ibus and Seris.
Ibus removed a coin from a pouch.
"Don't concern yourself," the merchant instructed Mistra, giving her the money for the bottle of spirits she had produced for the two.
Mistra took the silver from the man with a pair of contented eyes and clenched it in her palm, before departing to attend to other customers.
"Enjoy," the barmaid said.
"Appreciate the booze," Seris told the merchant, as Mistra moved to the other side of the room.
"I'll expect that back," Ibus said.
"You believe so?" Seris said, quoting Ibus non-confrontationally.
Ibus didn't seem ruffled. "I do, mage born."
A leather bag settled down onto the bar in front of Seris' drinking companion. The bundled-up container was bulky and clinked with the sound of coin as it adjusted itself.
Ibus' attention was set on the bag of money the moment he denoted its existence.
Seris' hand drew away from where he had set Ibus' payment onto the counter and returned to his cup.
Ibus reached out and began fastening the coinpurse onto his own belt.
"Right," the merchant said.
"So," Seris prompted the man, as he reached for the bottle of booze Mistra had left.
"The man you're looking for is one of the orish. Used to run with a pirate crew a time ago -- from what I'm being told. He's putting together an entourage for some kind of exhibition into the south of the wastes and he's lacking in muscle, but not for a lack of trying on the part of the local sellswords," Ibus explained.
Seris' attentions visibly affixed to Ibus to a greater degree than they had at any time prior.
"So he's a selective man," he inquired of Ibus.
"Enough to have held off the approaches of almost every mercenary from here to the middle district, for the past quarter season at least," Ibus confirmed.
"So what's my in then, Ibus?" Seris asked.
"You wouldn't have one, well, not if you didn't have me. There's going to be a melee of sorts, tonight, between all the top contenders -- anyone with a bit of fame behind his name," Ibus said.
"You gave them mine?" Seris inquired.
"No, I'm no fool. It was the the alias," Ibus replied.
"The one you know of," Seris said, looking away from the man to take a final swallow from his cup which was empty once more.
"The one that you know that I know of," Ibus remarked.
Seris ignored the posturing of the man; although, the warrior was fairly certain that the merchant was likely telling the truth about knowing more than he had let on about his various cover identities.
"I'll need to know the place and whatever rules that they've cobbled together for their little assembly," Seris said.
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