Taking Care of Business

by **Roscoe** on June 12th, 2014, 8:46 pm

40th of Summer, 514 AV

OOC :

It had been a very long summer. Decidedly the longest and most arduous Roscoe could ever recall experiencing. He had just wanted to pass through Kenash. He had never intended to stay, never intended to get mixed up in so much. His life was not one of constant political intrigue and fashionability and land grabs or anything like that. Though it might be that one day, he hadn’t intended to get into the game so early. He was just a wayfaring traveler looking to hold over for a day or two on his way to Riverfall. But so much had happened since then. He had done so many things, seen so much, met so many people. Nyxie, Willum, Lancaster, Jed, Estrellir. People he would call friends, people he would call strong. The first weeks, the first month, those were tough days. He was still recovering from his failings in the Spring, still trying to wrap his mind around that infernal letter, still living as a weak man, ruled by emotion and circumstance. But he had risen out of that. And it had only been by watching the example of those he now might even consider his betters. Men like Jed Radacke, women like Estrellir Konrath, truly remarkable folk. Truly unlike anything he had ever encountered. As time had gone by, it became abundantly clear that Kenash was never meant to be a curse. It was not a punishment, nor was it an accident. He was sure of it- the gods led him here. They brought him to this place, this city on the swamp, to test him and make him stronger. To prepare him for the long difficult roads ahead. He’d said a daily prayer of thanks to Wysar for the last week, knowing that it was only by his blessing he had come so far.

But Kenash was not simply a city where the gods would test his mettle, where they would mold and shape him. It was more than that. The place itself, it was truly wonderful. A paradise in its own right. They had the most delicious rum he’d ever tasted. The finest ales. The most beautiful women. They had gambling, they had vicious flora and fauna. They had battle and conflict. They had beautiful art. But most importantly, they had tobacco. And not just any tobacco. The tobacco in Kenash was truly an art in and of itself. A beautiful, nearly flawless creation. The smoke was smooth, the flavors were varied- though all were grand. It was a smokers dream come true. That is, it was Ros’ dream come true. And he had decided that today, with the calm about the city following so many intense and difficult events, he would treat himself to a blending session. The first step of that was clearly laid out before him: He needed to get some tobacco. He had run out of his personal stash of Swamp Weed weeks before. It had been tough times, with no tobacco and so much drama. Slaves running off, Rujaro attacks, all the dynasty brats fussing about the wedding and being fashionable. Ros figured he’d earned himself a good smoke. And petch anybody who disagreed.

His first stop had been Sweet Secrets, a little shop run by one of the Zulaca, and the place where he acquired the famous Zulaca sweet tobacco. That particular meeting had gone by with significantly more gusto than Ros had expected from the nuit. It probably had something- more like everything- to do with his lack of proper dress and his unwillingness to purchase new clothes from the shop. His seemingly indomitable will to maintain his status as unfashionable earned Ros more than a few odd looks and undoubtedly plenty of scorn from the brats that ran the city. For the life of him he just couldn’t understand why clothing was so petching important to them around here. Like it was life or death. Like you weren’t even a real petching person if you didn’t wear blue and silver silks. Yes, and even if you got the colors right you’d better not be found wearing cotton. For all the beautiful and wonderful things Kenash represented and offered, he could not get behind that particular peculiarity. But it didn’t really bother him. If the worse he ever got was not being invited to parties or a mean look and hurried transaction by a shop owner, then so be it.

In light of all that, Roscoe did not let himself be surprised to encounter the same treatment at the Iron Pipe. But no matter. He got his tobacco, he got a fresh pipe, and that was enough for him. He’d gathered up the cloth sacks they were divvied up into and walked himself on over to Reed Park on Blade Island. It was a location he’d discovered on a recent walk through the city and it offered an experience unlike any other. He found himself not sitting on a bench in one of the larger, open deck areas where people would linger to fish and talk. It wasn’t even noon yet, and the park was still mostly empty, giving him all the time and privacy he liked to enjoy his most favorite pastime.

He sat there on the bench, not even moving to do anything with the tobacco sitting beside him but just taking in the view. The reeds stretched on into the distance, covering all but a few snaking streams of fast moving water, lending a constant rustling noise to complement the mild watery rush. Laden atop those background noises were all manner of unique natural instruments. At least four different species of bird were distinguishable amidst the chatter, belting out their hums, their chirps, their screeches. All so chaotic to the ear at first, but after a moment they became instruments in a natural symphony. Along with that were the occasional splashes caused by the muskrats entering and exiting the water, or the fish jumping as fish were wont to do. Or the periodic yelps thrown forth by the otter that inhabited the marsh. And even that was only the song of the reeds, and their was so much more to this piece of art. All around insects flew, big and small, among and away from the birds, all flitting through the air. Some were bigger than a mans hand, with their vibrant colors and the low hum of their wings beating against the crisp morning air. Some were slow and majestic, crawling along the pier at an easy pace, fearing nothing. The birds themselves came in an array of colors. Reds and blues and greens and greys were all easily visible somewhere in the air. Then there were the smells. The water in Kenash had a pungent aroma, though not a bad one. It smelled of life, of all the things living in and around and through it. Like the wet fur of the otter, like the scales of the fish swimming all throughout. It was an animal smell, but by no means a bad one. All that was lacking was touch, and under different circumstances that may too have been indulged. But not today.

After taking several moments to take in the majestic beauty that surrounded and consumed him, Roscoe turned to the bags of tobacco, ready to add to the beautiful symphony that was his life.

by **Roscoe** on June 15th, 2014, 10:18 pm

The first thing he would do in order to begin moving in the right direction was giving each different tobacco a smoke to familiarize himself with the taste. Once that was done it should be a simple task to mix and match for different effect and optimal flavor. At least, he figured it ought to be simple. He had never himself attempted blending before, as he had never lived in a place so rich in tobacco that was worth smoking and blending. So he hoped that he would see good results. In his mind it seemed easy enough, you would take the two tobaccos and just mix them. Adjust amounts to give certain flavors more or less strength, and then light up and enjoy. In any case, it wouldn't be long before he would gain an idea as the the ease or difficulty of his attempted task.

He chose to smoke the Zulaca Sweet first. He had heard from those others who were as enamored as him with the great weed that Zulaca was one of the truly premium smokes in Kenash. They were all Nuit, and apparently they had been at it for so long they were able to actually change the plant itself and make it superior to most other kinds of tobacco. Truly a wondrous, if it was true. He reached for the bag, and holding it open slightly he lifted it to his face to smell it. With a long, deep inhale, Roscoe absorbed the scents and flavors of the raw tobacco and let them sink in. The first thing that he noticed was that it smelled good. Damn good. There was a strong front of something close to a sugary scent. It definitely lived up to its reputation of sweetness, but it wasn't overpowering. Laden throughout the burst of sugary sweetness were distinct and powerful notes of raw, unadulterated, glorious tobacco smell. He likened the scent to eating a steak with a little honey drizzled on it, a wonderful combination of basic and sweet flavors and scents. It was unlike anything he had ever smelled before.

Next, he grabbed a little and rubbed it between his fingers, letting it fall back into the bag as he did so. It was in excellent condition, as he had expected it would be. Very moist, but not wet. Lots of small strands of thin leaf, and the occasional chunk of stem or vein that lent so much flavor to the mix. Reaching in again, he grabbed just enough to fill his bowl halfway, and began packing. He let the relaxation that traditionally accompanied the packing ritual wash over him. He put about half the tobacco in, and compressed it tightly into the bottom of the pipe. Then about half of what was left, and packed it firmly, but more lightly than the bottom. Finally, he placed the last little bit in and packed it very lightly. Then he took a small pull on the pipe to ensure the air was flowing properly. It was working perfectly, allowing enough air through to fuel the burn when the time came, but not so much as to indicate loose tobacco. When packing you never wanted too much loose tobacco, as it would burn too quickly and too hot, ruining the experience. But as is it was perfect.

With everything in place, he struck a match and held it upside down for just a moment, to allow the flame to grow along the stick. Then, holding it carefully, just above the bowl, he gave several strong pulls through the pipe. This caused the flame to be pulled downward and ignite the top layer of the tobacco. While this was taking place, he rotated the flame in circles over the bowl, allowing it to make contact with the entirety of the bowl of tobacco, and preventing uneven burning. The first few pulls yielded no noticeable results in smoke or burn, simply hot air being pulled into his mouth. However, as the match neared its end, smoke began to plume out of the bowl, and the last few pulls yielded thick, satisfying mouthfuls of smoke, indicating that the first step of the light was completed. However, the process was not complete yet. Removing the pipe from his mouth, Roscoe used his right thumb the tamp down the thin layer of ashes that had formed over the top of the tobacco. This created a seal on the heat, preventing too much smoke from escaping and keeping the light from going out. Now the pipe was ready to smoke.

Replacing the stem in his mouth, Roscoe gave a long, easy pull, allowing an excess of smoke to fill his mouth almost entirely. He then removed the stem from his mouth and simply let the smoke sit. He was astounded at some of the flavors he was able to detect, and truly impressed with the sheer quality of the stuff. The sweetness that was so overwhelming when he had initially smelled the tobacco, which had then overwhelmed the smokier, tobacco scent, had now done a sort of exchange. The primary flavor he detected was a strong tobacco taste, followed by a very noticeable undercurrent of a sugary sweetness, though now it had more of a cooked sugar taste, but not burnt. It was very interesting, and unlike anything he could remember smoking before. They just didn't grow tobacco this good anywhere else, as best he could surmise.

So, having now tasted it, he made a mental note that the Zulaca tobacco was primarily a smokey flavor, but with a definite sweetness to it. It was good. He was eager to move on to the next tobacco and experience more of the flavors of Kenash, but managed to stop himself from giving up on the current bowl. He reminded himself that smoking was about ritual and patience. It wasn't a pastime for people who were eager to do everything at once. And so he leaned back on the bench and simply enjoyed his tobacco and the view.

by **Alexander Hamish Moore** on July 17th, 2014, 8:04 am

Kenash was an interesting place. Alex had come to the city many times over the years he traveled over the Kabrin Road, each time he was impressed, and awed by the beautiful buildings, and sights. He looked down at the bandage on his hand, a mark of permanence in the city. It afforded him a small amount of privilege, but mostly it was to keep tabs on the people in the city. He had never been to another place where you had to be marked to stay. It was a painful, and strong reminder that the dynasties were in complete control, and you were only free at their behest, and if you didn’t have a purpose they would give you one- along with shackles. But, if you played by the rules, and were productive and useful, you could make enough money to buy a snippet of the luxuries the city could offer. Even if you could never truly join the ranks of the privileged.

Alex had rather enjoyed the season, it was an exciting city, just under the gilded surface. He had heard of attacks, he couldn’t remember the name of the group responsible. The Sitai plantation had been fairly calm, compared to the wild rumors and gossip that Alex had heard on occasion. But today, he could forget about the responsibilities of his work. He had a day to relax, and had woken early to enjoy it. The sun was still down, and the nocturnal animals of the swap were calling loudly, piercing the thin walls of his tiny cottage. He had grown accustom to the barrage of sound, it was almost comforting in its rhythm and consistency. He didn’t know what animal belonged to what call, but all would be well while the plantation was cloaked in their noise.

He went outside and stoked a little fire he was allowed to keep, and he filled a small iron cooking pot with water and set it in the coals and embers to boil. He was shown how to boil a small portion of oats, and other grains, but he could never do it right. It took almost a bell before he had a small meal of mushy, and over good grains. He smothered it in honey that he had to make it palatable. It was rather disappointing, he admitted to himself. When he was done, he washed up with a bit more warm water and left for the city.

He would be traveling on foot, there were carriages that he could take, but he wasn’t sure if they would be running even before the sun had risen. He didn’t mind the walk either way. It was cool in the early hours, especially right before the sun begins to rise. Alex spent the time thinking of his home. And his mother. For all his wandering, and wanthing to be away from home- he sometimes missed the familiarity of his early childhood. And he missed his family. But, his father was dead, and his mother was all but gone. There was nothing left for him to return to. Kenash was his home for the moment. Perhaps it was a brief stop on the road he would travel through life, or maybe Alex would carve a bit of the city out for himself. He smiled as he thought of him putting down roots here, of living in a permanent home. Of marrying and making a name for himself. This little bit of fantasy put him in a good mood as he traveled the road by the dim light of the moon.

By the time he reached the city gate, if you could call the little fence that surrounded the city, Alex was ready to dance. One of the biggest things he was glad to be away from was the tall, stone walls of the Stormhold Citadel. Kenash seemed so much more open, and free. It was a marketing ploy, of course. But today, Alex didn’t care about all the political meanderings hidden just below the surface. Today he would enjoy something simple. Alex sat on the Glass Beach as the sun rose. He had seen the sun rise nearly every day for twenty-two years. But no two were ever the same, each one was special, and brought with it myriad opportunities. The gentle breeze blew on his face, as the sun rose in the east. It was rather nice, and peaceful. But soon the Kenash heat, and humidity would surge over the city, driving most people out of the sun and off the beaches. Alex was no exception to this rule, and as he stood slowly, he wondered where he would go next.

His stomach answered that question, as its low rumbling joined the birds calling in the morning light. Alex didn’t know what time it was, but most places seemed to be opened, and he remembered stopping into a butcher shop that sold little sandwiches just inside the gate. He walked to where he thought it was, and saw the sign hanging over the door. The shop wasn’t too big, and it was the first building inside the gate. It was open, but didn’t appear to busy just yet. Alex stepped into the butchery, and only waited briefly before he was next to be served. He ordered one of the sandwiches, and quickly left the shop.

He crossed the closest bridge to Reed Park. He hadn’t spent much time there, so his day off would be the perfect time to become acquainted with the little board walk suspended over the flood prone area. The tide was high, and Alex could see the abundance of life moving through the reeds and water. Alex sat on a bench fairly close to another man, but he kept to himself as he watched little mammals play and swim in the shallow water, eating what ever they could get their tiny paws on. It was a rather amusing sight.

A gently breeze brought with it a smell that was familiar to Alex. A sweet, smoky smell, that gently lingered in the nostrils. He paused and closed his eyes, quietly enjoying the breeze that brought the smell. And memories of the road, and full caravan wagons returning home to Syliras. The smell of tobacco was a warm reminder of what always seemed like a quicker journey home. As if the trail was downhill, or grew shorter during their brief layover in Kenash. He turned towards the man, who seemed to be enjoying the tobacco as well. Kenash was truly a wonder, a place where you could stop, and enjoy the simple things it had to offer. Even in the company of strangers.

Secret :

by **Roscoe** on July 30th, 2014, 1:10 am

As he allowed himself to be lulled into complete relaxation by the tobacco, everything seemed to slow down. With each plume of smoke that rolled off of Roscoe's tongue, everything appeared more crisp. Big problems and stressful thoughts became simpler. The park seemed to stand still. It was as close to a perfect moment as he could ever remember- since he came to Kenash anyways. But soon his thoughts began to drift to less pleasant things, as thoughts often do when allowed.

A cool morning breeze washed over the boardwalk, bringing with it the smell of the salty Suvan, and a plethora of memories of days in Sunberth. He often forced himself to view those days in a positive light- after all, he was supposed to believe in something, right? Supposed to stand for something bigger than him. That was what Andreas had given him. What he lacked in parenting skills he made up for in vision. And yet, in the quietest moments of greatest solitude, when peace gained its momentary foothold in Roscoe's soul, he sensed something wrong about the whole thing. Some chink in the armor of his philosophy, some foundational error. But what? That was the question. He had finally grasped that his purpose was the removal of the weak that shackled society, and yet when he had nothing but his thoughts about him, that just seemed..... Wrong. Not the kind of wrong that makes something completely invalid, but like it was missing something. Like he had missed the mark somewhere and his soul was trying to tell him. Or maybe it wasn't anything in him. There was always the possibility that it was the gods directing him.

Unable to get the itch in his soul to leave him be, he relented and offered a prayer to Wysar, albeit an unspoken one.

'Wysar, mighty god of conviction, I have followed you many miles and have sought you for guidance and wisdom as often as I have needed. You have never neglected to answer my requests, and I again come to you seeking the wisdom I lack. Wysar, am I misguided? I have always acted with conviction, ever since I came to know of you- It has driven me in all things. But I feel a pinprick deep in my soul, an itch that forces me to consider that I may be going in the wrong way. I do not know how I ought to respond, Wysar. Have I really been wrong? Should I seek my convictions from the gods and not from men? This is an itch and a pain that only brings darkness and confusion to me. I ask you to give me wisdom, give me clarity, and lead me to do what I ought to do.'

After he finished the prayer, Roscoe felt a strange emptiness. As though he had given to the god all he had to give in that prayer. It was not an exhaustion, but rather a sense of finality, as though something had been accomplished. Though what that could be he did not know. In any case, the itch was gone, and he was able to lift his mind and spirits to their former state, simply enjoying the tobacco and the beauty of the park.

It was at this point that someone approached the bench Roscoe was seated on and sat down, leaving a fair amount of space between the two of them. Looking over to examine him, Roscoe took note of several things. He was a young man, probably around Roscoe's age. Blonde hair, though not perfectly blonde- it was somewhat dirty in color. And sloppily cut too, though Roscoe couldn't exactly make too much of an issue out of that. He cut his own hair often enough. He also took note of the brand on the young mans hand- he was a freeborn as well. After spending a few more minutes smoking, and enjoying the silence, he decided it was probably time to get to know his neighbor.

Without turning his head, Roscoe pulled the stem of the pipe slightly out of his mouth, and began speaking. "Beautiful, isn't it? It astounds me how much of an artist the very ground we walk on can be when left to its own devices. No person could ever produce such a thing." He left the statement hanging there, hoping the man would answer with a reply of some sort. Usually the most interesting people were the ones who didn't require formal introductions to have interesting conversations.

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by **Alexander Hamish Moore** on August 11th, 2014, 6:13 am

When the man spoke, it was quiet, and didn’t disturb the peace of the park. The thick and pleasant memories in the smoke slowly evaporated, replaced with the canvass presented by the delta of the river that ran and flooded the city often. Alex was well acquainted with the beauty that was put before them by Caiyha. Alex had been born in the towering walls of the citadel that is Syliras. The walls sheltered the city, and while they were stifling, many people found them sublime. A testament to the will and strength of the knights that manned the walls. However, Alex found them confining, and he believed his father did as well. The Moore’s had seen the resolve of the men and women wearing the mark of knighthood, and found them wanting when compared with the resolution of nature. That was the reason they had become hunters for the city.

Even the most simple and utilitarian structure erected by man seemed opulent and wasteful when compared to the beauty set forth by the goddess of nature. Every tree, every blade of grass, every flower a shrine to her immutable power. Every animal a disciple of her permanent reign. And when man walked out of the walls, and into her realm they too were weighed and measured. Any person found lacking was prey to her laws. A lesson that few people would have to experience, even in the chaos of the world. There were intrepid souls that would venture through the wilderness, to test their mettle against the apex predators that stalked the lands. There were people who wanted to make coin, and the indomitable would clamor to their cause. Not for the coin, but for the adventure.

Myriad predators and terrible forces that hunted the lands made it easy to over look the quiet and simple beauty that Caiyha seemed to gently paint with the most delicate of brushes. The soft tide drawing patterns in the yielding mud on the bayou was a pure pleasure that only few would enjoy. In this quiet park in Kenash, early in the morning, in the company of a man who’s simple pleasure brought back fond memories, Alex would be able to enjoy all the Goddess of Nature could provide. “Aye.’ he started quietly, “Caiyha can create wondrous things.”

Alex unwrapped the waxed paper wrapping his sandwich, and quietly produced a small knife to cut it in half. “Would you like half of this, its rude to not share a meal with a neighbor.”

Open Taking Care of Business