[General Store] Legwork (Solo)

[Trente]

512 SP 9th

The parchment rest heavy in his hand, his tongue rolling indecisively behind his teeth. "Quite the scholar stocking up with so much paper." The large man's voice rung with the tone of a scholar, all to its own. "You must be a student at the University. Ah, I remember my days there. Good ones, and I can say from experience that the lighter the paper the easier to manage." To this Trente gave a nod, believing the clerk's words true enough; the thinner would lighten his trek around the city considerably. "Feel this here, fine cloth fibers worked carefully into a smooth surface. What are you taking at the university?" Trente said nothing to the man's obvious push for him to buy the more expensive item. He had not asked for prices yet, though he could guess from experience alone, more experience than his appearance would suggest to the merchant catering to him. Trente appreciated when others did what he expected of them, in this case the man was attempting to sell him something. Fitting behavior for one of his occupation. He held the heavier parchment, composed of softened animal hide in one hand as he let the second grace the paper the man held, only to have it dropped into his palm.

And so, both hands laying fully stocked of Halabin's inventory, he responded calmly, still fatigued from the chaos which had enveloped the city after the storm. "Supposedly cartography, and the performing arts, though the storm has postponed them both for a time." He omitted his summoning class to avoid any uncomfortable questions. Even a man of wealth, originating in the university itself must admit to particularity of such a field. Or at least the Trente, of Syliras, believed so.

The clerk grinned over his glasses at Trente. "Ah Cartography, a much needed skill. Perhaps you will adventure in your youth, map the changes the storm has brought upon the world? Bring it back for our documentation." Trente doubted this sincerely. He had no interest in ever becoming a cartographer, and had taken the course out of pure curiosity. "And, to learn such a valuable skill one must have the best of tools. We have a section for the rest of a cartographer's kit as well if you would like me to show you toward it."

Trente left the man's words for a moment, giving only a half entertained smile at his merchant's wit, always pushing the sale, and instead thought upon his options. He had to admit, he enjoyed the look, and feel, of the hide parchment more, despite what the prices might entail. It was thick, bold, yet pleasingly common. Trente did not want to risk seeming mundane, however. His message was of great importance, but intended for the common person, not those that already padded their pockets with money.

"How much for the parchment, and how much for the paper?" The prices came fluidly, the man not even having to stall for a moment in thought. Trente envied his mind for numbers. Two Silver Nilos for the parchment, and four for the paper. Trente's brow tightened slightly, and his eyes drifted past the man before him as he thought over the calculations. He knew, through some stroke of luck, that five twice was easily ten. And thus, he figured the same to be of two five times. His paused blankly a moment considering this, and adding it carefully in his mind. Once assured he was correct he continued his process. He had established five sets of two silver Nilos, or one parchment, was one Nilo in total. So, he then, capturing that thought firmly in his mind he thought upon how many sheets he may need. Deciding upon one hundred his challenge increased significantly. Never had Trente been a man of numbers, and little had he seen of the inside of classrooms in his youth. 100 sheets, one Nilo per five sheets; he repeated his process in his mind, searching patiently for the next step in his equation. The next step revealed itself quickly: to determine how many sets of five fell into the collective of 100. To this he wasn't quite savvy enough to tell the similarities to the portion of the equation he had already undergone, and instead counted, his fingers tightening slightly upon the smooth papers in his hand as he did so. The whole process spanned no more than a minute, and Mr. Clarke accepted the time of deliberation without haste. Twenty sets of five papers, thus twenty Nilos fit nicely into one hundred, and the price seemed well enough to Trente.

His head throbbed slightly from the tightness still gripping at the base of his neck, hovering upon his shoulders, which was only worsened by the deliberate comprehension of numbers. Still, he smiled, more in relief than triumph and declared to the patient clerk, "100 of the parchment, please, kind sir. And, if you would include your sturdiest quill as well as an ink well as well."

Halabin gave a silent smile, sharing no secret to Trente with any others that take upon his manner. Trente knew well he spoke over others. Not their intellect, mind you, but their comfort. Still, he persisted, thinking upon his past. One never truly forgets their upbringing, and Trente found pride in his way. Perhaps it was better to be an exquisite oddity rather than a mundane adaptation. Though, perhaps Trente's inability to adapt was the cause of many of the problems he had found over the years. Still, none had seemed to crop up in Zeltiva, not quite yet. "Sure thing. That'll be Twenty two Nilos and one copper." The words came without thought or hesitation from the man of numbers, and Trente felt no jealousy as he reached for his coin purse. Proficiency in mathematics Trente would pursue, and value, but Trente did not believe in mastering any skills. Skills were to be distributed, balanced, just as the rest of life. Specialization breeds weakness.

Trente carefully placed the coins upon the wooden counter, controlling the sound mindlessly as he thought of another subject. Remembering the process of his job in full he gave another request without hesitation, one taken with grace by the clerk. "Also, a hammer and a bag of nails."

"Hammer will be five silver. Nails, however are out." Trente arched a brow in surprise, not expecting such a well stocked establishment to ever be out of anything, especially so mundane as nails. This caused a retort, almost defensive, but still tempered by a trained professionalism, which again Trente could respect, "Nails were stocked lightly before the storm, and our suppliers were hit too hard to continue their deliveries. The last of the building supplies were purchased several days ago. I'm afraid the storm had foiled your plans. If you wish to wait a day I may be able to special order a bag for you from the Shipyard."

The terms were acceptable to Trente, he had at least the night before the nails would be needed. However, he saw in the situation an opportunity to bargain, and considering this would be association money, out of his pocket or not, he should be stingy for once. "I suppose I could wait till tomorrow, though for the inconvenience a discount would be appreciated, for a patron with intentions to return." He meant of course himself, wishing for more the satisfaction of a discount than the proof in his pocket.

The lack luster offer send Mr. Clarke into a brief fit of chuckles. He shook his head promptly after taking control of himself once more. "No, I'm afraid special orders are more expensive, for I have to send my workers out early to gather inventories. If you want the nails I'm afraid you will need to pay the order fee now. Or we can just leave it to this." He motioned to the goods which had been expertly strung together by twine while they spoke. It was clear the clerk had no interest in taking such an order, both out of respect for the damaged Shipyard, and his own employees.

Trente was ultimately unoffended. He would gather the nails himself.

[Trente]

With the exchange of 22gm 5sm and 1cm, for the hammer 100 leaves of paper quill and ink well he left the shop behind him, carrying the parchment to the side as he worked his way toward the docks.

The father he worked his way down the city the more pathetic the streets became. The waves of Mathew's Bay had turned against them all during the storm, and those bordering the water had been taken the hardest, some building completely collapsing, even ancient ones weakened by time. Trente had no lineage in Zeltiva, and no past, though seeing such history lost still pained him. Though, he mourned more for those who lost their lives, most never washed back to shore. How ironic, Trente thought, that Matthews Bay, Zeltivas protection and salvation, as well as major trade route would be such a menace. How double edged all life was, and this reminded Trente of his lesson from before. That balance was key, to not rely utterly on one thing. He pondered upon how this lesson might be applicable to the Martial Association. All as he stepped through the broken and busy streets of the waterfront.

The shipyard was both the busiest, and most uncouth place. Ships which were half built before the storm lay crumpled even less than the raw materials that comprised them. The few boats that had been salvaged from the waters following the storm, wrangled in like free roaming sheep, almost whisked away by the bay's currents stood injured, and broken upon giant stands. The whole ordeal was impressive, the men working away noisily at the ships, with the speed of a doctor saving a patients life. To Zeltiva the project was, quite honestly, just that important. Without ships they would all starve, and die. Those not busily mending the ships were tasked to picking through the debris of the sad remains of Zeltiva's Shipyard.

Trente moves invisibly through them all, almost being struck by stray boards, of a haphazard worker, or flying rivets thrown by hefty sailors. Still, in tact, he made it to the central office, tucked discreetly away in the far corner of the battlefield. Trente looked sadly upon the pathetic building, ravaged mercilessly by the blunt of the waves. Half of it's base was cracked and showed sodden evidence of water damage. Outside sat a graceful boy, appearing no older than Trente did, which wasn't saying much, and frantically looking over sheets of papers, held fast with large shrapnel of the fallen building to the table against the unforgiving bay wind. Trente pitied the man. He seemed so displaced, so lost beyond his protective walls, and just as detached from the society of brutes carousing the workplace as Trente himself was.

"Excused me." Trente asked formally as he stepped closed, hefting his supplies onto the table before him, relieving his agitated fingers from the burden. "I should assume this is the," he paused to look upon the wreckage behind the desk, and man, "new office? I have a request."

The man watched Trente as he flexed his fingers and spoke freely to him. He was busy, indeed, with official guild orders, and strictly speaking was to turn all private orders away until the docks and boats were reconstructed. Still, it was against the man's nature to disregard requests, of any nature, and so to turn one away without first at least hearing them out, this seemed a shame, and so he asked quite plainly, "What do you need?" Trente attire was difficult to peg, and so he wasn't sure to expect a request for a ship, or something more personal.

Trente knew he was imposing upon the man, and so attempted to keep his explanation brief. "I don't wish to take more of your time, or my own, than needed. I simply require a bag of nails, for posting."

The man sighed, both from relief and exasperation. He was overworked, and outside his comfort zone, completely unsupplied for his job. All the records had been lost, and so he had been working beyond himself, making mistake after necessary mistake since the storm. He had had about enough of all the requests. Still, he had not requested something entirely unreasonable, and so he felt less pressure as he thought upon the request. "No," he said after a moment of deliberation, "No, I'm afraid no requests, no matter how small can be fulfilled until the docks are in order. The nails may be needed for the rebuilding efforts."

Trente glared, more at the situation than the man himself. The man took it unabashed, returning a stern glare. Trente realized his mistake immediately, provoking the man. "My apologies. Give me a moment to explain my efforts, and you may see that this too is for the good of Zeltiva. No effort surpasses that of the docks, but surly a single small bag of nails could be worth this." He had yet to share his specific plans with any other individual, most assumed him to not follow through with his declaration at the winter ball. However, Trente was not one to let oaths of any nature go easily. In this case he felt the story of his plans would not only give a chance of winning his supplies, but also help a man who looked to his wits end. After all, it was for the common man, such as this overworked individual who Trente was working so hard for.

"The Storm has taken everything from us. Our safety, our way of food, even our workplaces have been ravaged." He gave a wide motion toward the rippled building as his continued his speech. "In such a time we can't turn to gods, who have brought this upon us themselves, and we find ourselves isolated form the rest of the world. The only conclusion is to pull together. You sit here every day and see these sailors work before you. They are a small community, a unit that operated flawlessly." He looked upon the brutes then added, "relatively." This won a small smile from the patient man. Trente was glad to know he was not speaking to a closed audience. "What Zeltiva forgets is that we are all a community. Not just the guild, not just the university. We are all neighbors, we are all Zeltivan.

What I am doing is spreading flyers," another motion, this time toward his supplies, "that advertise a chance to draw closer to your neighbors, and find strength in the knowledge of others. The wisdom of others. And, most of all, the skills of others." He could think of more to say, to gear the words toward the man specifically, but he stopped. He felt he had spoken enough, if his words were not enough the man would not budge for anything. At this point Trente could still give a bribe and feel dignified. If necessary.

It wasn't. The man smiled, not sure what to think of the strangely dressed man who rambled about community in a time of devastation. Still, he felt the need to reward him, for no other reason than to repay the first smile he had since the storm. "Very well. I can get you a small bag of them, Mr..?"

Trente smiled, earnestly, "Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante." Then offered a shake of the hands to the man who gave but a bemused expression to the ostentatious introduction.

"Ethan Wayfarer, it's a pleasure, Mr... Trente." Trente smiled, he was not particular about what a helpful man called him.

[Trente]

Trente found himself back to his room not long before sunset. The darkness was coming later and later, and the days had become more and more taxing on the fresh administrator. Still, he found time for his meals, and his school work before finally settling down with the materials he had won that day. Carefully he unwrapped the parcel of papers, and set them upon his desk beside the rolls of vellum scrap he had taken from the library. Soiled on one side from failed scrawls of translations and copies the second sides often were left clear. Froogle Trente could be, when he wished.

With a dip of his new quill into the sheening ink he began testing lines upon the dimly lit paper. Sunset was a beautiful time, though soon enough the candles of his room needed to be lit, and the shutters drawn closed against the approaching cold of night. Trente knew it would take him the majority of the night to produce his advertisements, for the process for a man so uneducated was long.

He began with words spoken out loud, playing with tone and tense till nothing seemed to matter any more. He knew well that it didn't, the written word was insuperior tot he spoken. It lost its tone, it's charisma. Still, Trente pondered upon what words to deliver upon his vellum, and eventually his paper.

After some time, which in truth was lost to Trente, pacing the room in thought and speaking to himself, he took to his scratch. He had no doubt that his decision to bargain for a room to himself was a grand accomplishment on his part as he began leafing through the dictionary he had slipped from the library. He would return it the following day, but had felt no desire to work within the confines of that place. One he found to be quite smothering. Unlike his stylish, yet experienced room.

Plucking words from the pages of the dictionary, studying spelling carefully he was reminded suddenly of how atrocious his own spelling was. His speak had always been full with meaning, and variety. And so, he had always thought himself to be a master of language. His attempts at writing, however, proved this preconception wrong as the storm itself. All for the best, he supposed, avoiding vanity could never lead one astray. Unless, of course, vanity was deserved.

The spelling proved to be the easiest step of his process, second only to perhaps the selection of words, which had in truth taken much longer. It seemed odd to him, as he looked upon his haphazard writing, that so much time had been put into so few words. Words seemed of so much more importance when laid upon page, and Trente wondered why. He realized, after a time that in fact the words themselves were valuable, written upon material purchased with money, and upon another even more valuable. Perhaps writing had it's place, perhaps one more valuable than spoken word. Trente could not believe this, of course, not fully. The amusing thought was cast aside by the disillusion that no person could put a price on spoken word, because no person could control spoken word.

As his mind worked away at it's own riddles Trente's hands busied with their own chores. As if at the market testing for the perfect orange, Trente tested his own letters. He would draw, not write, upon the page several "O"s till one caught his fancy, the painstakingly alter it, practice it. His handwriting would be perfect, and to accomplish this he ceased to look at the letters as letters, but as small drawing. He would make each a picture, a masterpiece, unaffected by Trente's years of malpractice in the part of writing.

Soon enough, likely before the night fell half gone Trente found the perfect combination of words, illustrated with tiny masterpieces others would call letters. His accomplishments made him proud, though not enough to shine past the daunting truth that his project still promised much labour before yielding reward.

He began upon the first real page, leaving his scrap as just that, never to see the light of day, nor the eyes of those he sent his public invitation to. The letters fell upon the page with slow, and meticulous grace. His tense muscles forces breaks at times, after stubbornness lead his hand to shake against the strain of his work, tipping dark orbs of ink down upon the page. Soiled beyond repair, and in Trentes eyes certainly below the quality he demanded.

When the pages all lay drying about his large room, long before first light arrives, Trente took this as a personal accomplishment, and slipping from his clothes, and performing his nighttime routine came as a treat. He reveled in the feel of his sheets, and savored the several hours of rest as one would a sweet. He had not anticipated such luxury of time, and wondered if perhaps his penmanship, or writing had improved since last he attempted such a project. The thought carried him away into sleep, and he could not fear the morning light when he came, for he planned a nap the following day, to right the lost hours of sleep.

[Trente]

The following morning was met with a hunger, forcing Trente to belay his project for more food from the cafeteria, and he feared procrastination had taken upon him when he found himself enjoying a long bath, washing clean the past few day's soil. He shared his plans with a few regulars within the cafeteria, but his attempts to adopts assistance had ultimately failed.

And, so, once his excuses had all faded away under his lethargic hands he gathered his supplies together and took to the city. He thought it much like claiming it, taking upon it like a lover or perhaps a ship. Not to ravage, of course, but to lay his attention upon it. Trente had yet to travel each street of Zeltiva, and he regretted not taking the chance before the destruction of the storm had come. Still, better late than never, he could explore every crack of Zeltiva, till he found the most populated of areas.

Trente had yielded no more than perhaps eighty of the original sheets for his project, having either disregarded the others through laziness or claims of dissatisfactory appearance. Such as spots of ink, and the like. Still, the job was long, and his body felt the strain of the lugging and hammering before he was half done.

On rare occasions he would share his invitation personally to those that inquired to his behavior, still he found that the best words had been found upon his papers. In 10 days Zeltiva would come to him, listen to his words, and Trente in response would wait to here what criticism they would bring. Though he hopes for praise.

Such things, those of other people's will, could not be controlled nor changes, however. All Trente hoped for as he posted his flyers around the broken city was that ten days would be enough time to gather his own words, for speaking not writing. He still knew not what he to before the people, and knew it wasn't simply enough to gather them. He must lead them, if only for a short time.

His work had been to gather the materials to build the foundation of his ideals. Would he have the charisma, and would the people of Zeltiva have the wisdom to complete the foundation for their own well being? Trente thought to himself, "yes," as he looked upon a young sailor step curiously to the flyer on the wall, unarmed. Not for long.
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Citizens of Zeltiva.
Arm yourselves with skill, and a free mind.
Join the people who take hold of their own destiny.

The Exalted Storm Shrine. 19th. Midday.

-Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante, Equal Citizen of Zeltiva.


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[Arcane]

Rewards and Treasure! Experience Points +2 Mathematics +2 Negotiation +2 Philosophy +3 Rhetoric +3 Persuasion +2 Writing Lores Zeltiva: General Store Halabin Clarke the Merchant Halabin Clarke's Proficiency with Numbers Zeltiva: The Shipyard Ethan Wayfarer the Shipyard Coordinator Miscellaneous Ledger: -22gm, 5sm, 5cm +Inventory: Hammer +Inventory: Quill +Inventory: Ink (1 Oz. Vial) +Inventory (100 ea): Parchment (Sheet) Status Point: +20 Comments "Specialization breeds weakness"; interesting. Did you perhaps read Wendell Berry's thoughts on specialization? That's what I was reminded of when I read Trente's musings on this topic. I checked against the price list, but there is no Ink Well, so I assumed you were referring to the 1 Oz.Vial of Black Ink. Your calculations are slightly off in this regard, as reflected in the above. However, do let me know if I've assumed incorrectly and (lord forbid!) if I made a careless mistake too. That said, Trente is a rather persuasive and charismatic individual. I like his speech and the way he geared it towards the man's background, amongst others. Whether you intended or not, it is an effective use of rhetorical devices, or even the modern model of rhetorical appeals (refer to M. Jimmie Killingsworth's redefinition of rhetorical models if you're interested). I have accorded the maximum amount of SPs to this because the creation of the organization would have most definitely garnered Maria's attention, for better or worse. Currently, this organization proves to be a benefit, and her favor is reflected by the SP. This event, although it isn't as ground breaking as a "heroic glassbeak rescue", it is still (in my opinion) pretty ground breaking in that it threatens to shake or potentially upheave the political balance in Zeltiva between the established authorities, with Maria seeing the potential of this organization in increasing her personal power relative to the Sailors and the Scholars. All in all, this thread is an eloquent composition and an excellent read.