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[Berkley Whispers]

Repurposing this PC. Sorry, Konrad.

[Konrad Venger]

Shyke. It never bloody lasts.

Few things were so sad to Konrad as an empty baccy pouch. Usually so full and brimming with scented, smoky life, that morning he groped towards his bedside table and found a limp little sack bereft of all but dusty fragments. The sellsword had groans into his pillow and rolled over, heels over his hands pressed to his eyes.

How was he expected to start the day properly, without a good smoke first?

So it was that, a touch tetchier than usual (though who could know the difference?), he walked into the store he'd noticed plenty of times before, but never quite gotten around to visiting. His pouch had always seemed ample, after all, and he'd been so... occupied.

DING!

Konrad winced as the sharp, happy sound jangled in his ear and gods, had he really had that much to drink the night before? Honestly, growing old had no upsides as far as he could tell. His habitual frown deepened until the echoes had died away and then he cast his eyes about... and was impressed... until he saw the smiling face of the man behind the counter.

Too petching early for that shyke, too.

“Afternoon, friend. Can I interest you in a bit o’ fire? It’ll change your life.”

Kenash had presented plenty of grocers, shopkeepers, innkeepers, merchants and other self-employed businessman to Konrad, and he'd come to the same conclusion: bollocks, to the lot of 'em. Self-serving social-climbers whose smiles never reached their eyes, selling you dreams and spinning you a web of bullshyke so thick you could trip on it-

And there they'll be, with their hands in your pockets, which was all they petching care about.

And yet, he didn't bare his teeth not snort like a contemptuous bull at the man's comment. For one thing, Konrad was struggling to see the pitch - the shallow, fraudulent, only-for-the-mizas strategy - behind the man's smile. His eyes sparkled and his words were sincere, as far as Konrad could tell. Plus...

"Bit o' fire", he thought, small smile spreading across the unmarred side of his face as he focused briefly on the djed pulsing through him, fingers seeming to crackle for a tick with his own fire-

"We'll see," he said, in that lilting Sunberth accent that still growled and chewed gravel as it spat out words. "Jus' lookin' fer now."

And he began to do just that. Pacing the shelves, all of it well-lit and spaced out. Jars and glass tubs and bottles carefully, lovingly labeled and... gods, there were even descriptions on some of them. Konrad peered down to examine one and then... he felt it. That superlative feeling that you didn't have to be a Sunberth ganger to have, although such a life certainly amplified it. That ethereal tug and nameless "ahem?!" for attention that told you-

Someone's watching.

Konrad paused, trying to think and assuming the worst, of course. His fingers ran across sword and kukri and remembered the dagger in his boot, eyes flashed to exits and wondered how fast he could be through the window-

Then he heard it, and blinked. Someone giggled. His head snapped around just in time to see a brunette bonnet of curls bob across the top of the counter and then vanish below it. Konrad's paranoia ratcheted down a little and he rolled his eyes, switching gears from "Killing Mode" to "Default Irritation".

Wonderful. Bastard has a petching sprog in here, too.

[Berkley Whispers]

Repurposing this PC. Sorry, Konrad.

[Konrad Venger]

“I got decent ale and good wine if you wanna chase that headache. ‘Course, some blends go better with one or the other.”

Konrad knew it wouldn't be long before the fact some towering, black-clad bastard with a face like a Balicani's nightmare was stalking his store finally got too much for the man and he'd open his petching mouth. What he wasn't expecting, was that what vomited forth was actually helpful.

He stopped mouthing out the curly cursive words scribbled onto one jar and turned to find the man still busying himself over his counter. Neat little mounds of tobacco were being sorted and bottled, broken up further and annoying twigs and stubborn detritus thrown away. He wasn't staring, or sweating, or fidgeting like so many other storekeepers he'd seen; torn between hiding their fear and spilling words just to get him out.

Konrad felt a smile creaking into place, at last on one side of his face. He always liked it when a man made himself useful. So he replaced the jar and listened further, for so far, the man hadn't spoken an untruth.

“The name’s Ferdinand but everyone calls me Fer.”

Slow, measured footsteps were Konrad's reply as he walked up to the counter. His eyes weren't roaming anymore. They were fixed and unblinking on the man who'd spoken, placing his hands on it... fingers tapping gently in little rippling motions, from pinkie to thumb.

Intimidation came naturally to Konrad. It was as much a part of his life as the sword at his belt and the grit in his soul. But contrary to many a disparaging mind, he wasn't stupid. He knew when those things weren't necessary.

Just turns out that isn't very often, in my line of work.

"Konrad. People call me Konrad," he said, taking off his hat and setting it on the counter. As soon as he did he was aware of that little bug-eyed creature in the bright dress staring at him again. Like father, like daughter, it seemed. No fear or welling tears in those eyes. Just the open, honest curiosity of a child, right before she ducked her head back down and started drawing something new. "Swamp Weed's always been good t'me. That'n Temper, Slammer, but, ah... m'guessin' this ain't the place fer dat, aye?"

He chuckled at his own joke and some corner of his mind wondered what he thought he was playing at. Why was he bothering with this? What was he gaining? He wasn't a shopper, he wasn't some clueless Freeborn who went perusing the stalls and merchants, exchanging pleasantries and-

There were a dozen bodies in and around the city that bore the mark of his indifference to life and legality. Yet there he stood, and how he spoke, like someone... normal.

Petch it. Nothing from with a change of pace now and then.

"Heard Blue Vision's pretty good, too," he continued, scratching at his temple and wetting his lips. An ale sounded good right about now, actually. Maybe a couple of them. Best way to deal with too much the night before? Have a little more in the morning. "But yer the man who knows, aye? Wadaya' suggest?"

[Berkley Whispers]

Repurposing this PC. Sorry, Konrad.

[Konrad Venger]

Konrad was keenly aware that was... well, no longer as keenly aware, really. It took him a moment to step outside of himself, take inventory, and realize that the tightness in his shoulders and the stuff, clenched tension in his arms had oddly been replaced. His eyes weren't boring holes into the man as he spoke, nor were they flickering over everything and everyone like a potential threat. His ears didn't prick at every sharp sound, or search for the suspicious absence of sound...

Gods. Haven't even smoked the shyke, yet!

He listened carefully as Fer spoke with the loving detail of a man who truly enjoyed his work. Konrad always knew the type. He didn't just know his product like a salesman; he waxed poetical about it. He knew them in the ways of emotion and mood, like a mage knew djed, and by the time the sample was prepared, Konrad was convinced the man wasn't just bullshyking him, apart from-

"Think I'll take one a' those hookahs. For the patio, aye?"

When the shopkeeper turned to reach one of the oddly-bulging glass ornaments on the shelf, Konrad chanced a look down at the cacophony of color and squiggles that had been teasing the corner of his eye the whole time Fer had been talking. He squinted as he peered around chubby hands with slim fingers, slashing broad, daring strokes of color across the parchment.

Konrad frowned as he saw a figure in black (well, it was mostly in the lines) wearing a square black box with a brim, blonde hair past his shoulders... and scars. A child's idea of scars. Just lines on the skin, that could be rubbed away with soap and water and the hands of parents that could do anything.

He knew he should have sneered. Showed his contempt. Chuckled darkly at the stupid kid with her stupid picture. He didn't. Because the picture was smiling... and Konrad realized that was how she saw him. Because he was a kid, and she didn't see a monster.

Just a man with scars.

Stop this. A whisper old and comforting rippled through his mind. As it spoke he felt that tension return to his limbs, his neck, his very being. He thought, for just a moment, how stifling it could feel, after knowing something different. You're not like them. You never will be. Stop pretending.

The girl saw him silently studying her work and held it up for him to view just as Fer turned back around. The tobacconist would see his grizzled, gritty customer's face not chance a fraction as he looked it up and down... but mayhap the whiteness of his knuckles around the hilt of his sword would register, as he squeezed briefly.

Then Konrad realized he was being waited on, and he took up the hookah without any thanks or conversation. Not the attempt at civility before, just one man speaking to another on a bright and fine Spring day. Only a growled request for a cup of "grog" to enjoy his sample outside, for men like Konrad weren't used to places where wine was served.

Konrad didn't dwell on the strange series of events. How confusing it must have been, to see a man, however grizzled, slide from genial questions to gruff, thuggish bites of sound so quickly. He didn't want to think on it, or look at it, not it or them or... no... he just wanted his baccy. He wanted all that Fer promised him and ignored the light breeze and simmering Syna, planting himself at a table and packing the bowl of the hookah.

He didn't care. He didn't even have to force himself not to anymore. He didn't care, because life was simpler what you didn't.

OOCHa, not a worry, mate. I've waited longer.