A Fistful of Rent (Private)

[Maric Fissure]

Winter 510Av the 9th day-

Maric felt the chilled breeze of early winter buffeting his tattered brown polyester coat. The loose darker brown t shirt barley visible between the unbuttoned collar of his overlaying jacket. It looked unhealthy, as if sick and clinging to Mr. Fissure's body, falling woefully short of his wrists. The man peered down the dark dirtied gray alley with a single deep blue eye; this forsaken place which was barley touched by the red sunset falling on his back. He didn't want to, but he had to. The flu was vibrant and kicking the old folks of the town into their graves, their many cumbersome stories buried along with them. He'd only been down Stumble Alley twice before. He knew the stories of The Disappearing Drunk and the two elders who lived their. He was on edge, but he needed to check the Majestic and couldn't go to the docks, Byron would be wanting his protection fee. If this didn't pan out, Maric would have to face the baron anyway.

Cautiously he started down the alley, its gray tower walls only slightly illuminated, the dankness struck his nose and made the old wound under his cotton eye patch itch. His left eye scanned for the not unfamiliar sign of the majestic; It dangled in the breeze eerily. The sparsely populated streets were filled with not but shadows clinging relentlessly awaiting the suns death and their rebirth. He grasped the handle of the old door and pushed it gentle. The wood creaked as the doc walked into a dimly lit room filled with many trinkets. He stepped up to an older man cased in shadow, and relieved himself of his question hoping for a positive answer. "You wouldn't happen to have any devil's plant root would you? Or any other herb of that nature for aiding those with severe cases of the flu?"

[Rynvard]

Dust. Everywhere, in everything. Dust.

A funny thing, dust, Ryn mused, strolling leisurely through the piles of gadgets and tables of toys. Dust gets into your shoes, your eyes, your clothes, and yet we don't realize the full extent of its power. Dust clings to more than just fabric and iron; it clings to the very soul of anyone dumb enough to walk into its domain. It weighs you down like a sack of lead.

Ryn sighed as he picked up a small red box. The paint was starting to peel off. The Vantha man scoffed at the shoddy work. He'd seen five year olds carve and paint better crafts. Almost as if the darned thing had heard his insulting thoughts, the box lit up with a sudden burst of electricity, shocking the short man. Toughened from years of everwinter, Ryn didn't drop the little tricky thing. Instead, he brought it closer to his face to inspect it. Its power increased, and this time Ryn did have to drop it. The trick toy clattered on the tabletop, careening into more innocent looking devices that, by now, Ryn was sure to contain some painful trick. The Vantha inhaled sharply from the pain. Bad idea.

A messy conglomerate of dust, the smell of blood, cobwebs, and Morwen only knows what else javelined its way into his lungs, threatening to suck what life the starved Vantha had left in him. He fell into a coughing fit, his body doubled over from pain and surprise.

"Bloody..." murmured Ryn, as he regained control of his body. "Aye. Lesson learned, ya little runt."

Just then, the old wooden door to the Majestic opened. Curious, Ryn turned his neck back towards the door, his body still facing away. He followed the man's progress from the door to the desk clerk.

"Oy, ain't that a sight for sore eyes," muttered Ryn. The old man that tended the money wasn't a man to be trifled with. His eyes spoke of murder, his breath smelled of blood. But this man, a tall olive-skinned man of no great consequence, was striding up to the killer elder with such authority, confidence... desperation.

Curiosity killed the Icewatch bear, thought the Vantha, while at the same time following in the blonde man's wake. The big human's mud-caked brown boots kicked up the dust - that ubiquitous, oft underestimated dust - and Ryn's bare feet subsequently stomped it back into submission.

He stopped at a small enough distance behind the tall, broad, fuzzy-chinned man to intervene if something were to transpire.

Morwen guide my hand, Rynvard Snowsong silently prayed.

[Mastermind]

OOCPolyester doesn't exist, your jacket would more likely be cotton. The shopkeep watched Rynvard with a scowl as the Vantha browsed the wares of the Majestic. His scowl deepened when his customer picked something up. "Ye gunna buy that, boy?" he growled, when the lightning box clattered to the table. "It's all used up now, so ye'd best be paying for it." His tone suggested that dark and terrible things might happen if the shopkeep didn't get the coin he wanted. He glared at Rynvard with hate filled eyes, unblinking, until the bell on the door jingled, announcing another entry. The old man's menacing eyes turned away from Rynvard to the newcomer, but the hate never left them. Apparently, he hated everyone. As Maric approached him, his hands slid down from across his chest, disappearing behind the nipple-high counter, and his jaw clenched, as if expecting trouble. When the doctor only asked a question, the shopkeep's jaw relaxed, but his hands stayed out of sight. "Do I look like a have any petching herbs ye twit? All me goods are there behind ye. Have a look, but don't ye bother me less you gunna buy some'tin." His voice was baritone and nasally, as if his nose had been broken a time or two. It certainly looked the part.

[Maric Fissure]

Maric simply gave the disgruntled man a nod adding a "Sure," as the finishing touch hoping not to try the beligered old mans nerves. It was better to talk less than more for a man of his status in Sunberth. Years of living on these streets had taught him that. The clerk obviously wasn't in the mood for visitors, but what shop owner in the town was, especially since this town was well know for its criminals. And if not that, its destitution. When you are low on cash, things tend to rearrange themselves. Principally morals. He swiveled right to find the abundant stockpile of trinkets facing him ill organized mirroring the rest of the anarchical town. He rummaged for a while finding nothing. The numerous shelves filled with everything, from books to drugs. He scoffed at the poisons that lay strewn about in their vials and wondered for a brief moment whether or not the grizzled store owner partook in these mind warping tonics.

No. This man was much to on edge for that, too focused and leery of dangers in the alley. He'd seen the mans face contort with tension before, as he'd approached the desk. That was Marics assumption anyway. As he turned full circle his eye laid itself by a shady window. The filtered sunset filed through with its last breath, giving Fissure a bit of hope. "There it is." He spoke aloud without meaning to. A grin lit his face in triumph as he approached the pot. He picked up the pot looking the plant over throughly, his left eye bouncing every which way. Followed almost immediately by a stiff look of concentration. The plants luminous yellow flowers seemed out of place in such a shop, the thin green stems shooting out from under each individual bud. I'ts devil's plant alright, but only one. I can't fight multiple virus cases with just one batch. "Its what I've got," Maric muttered under his breath. He picked up the pot gently, turning to find someone beside him, braided emerald green hair and bright golden eyes stunning him for a moment.

The dimly lit store hid more stories of the man, but Maric could make out a long thin body of average height; As well as a few odd looking facial features. It was almost plank like. He knew he'd seen this kind of man before, however it had been a long time since he'd spoken to a Vantha. For a few slow drunken moments memories of Ravok flooded him, until he realized he was staring that is. He held the pot close not knowing the persons intentions. "Sorry." He said earnestly looking towards the counter and its forlorn clerk again, quite ready to be rid of this place.

[Rynvard]

A plant? Here? thought Ryn. However surprised the Vantha was, he didn't let it show. He prayed that these two knew nothing about Vantha eyes, for his Queen's gifts began their subtle shift into the deep tones of green that matched the braids he was so proud of. A swirl of emerald was beginning to show on the fringes of his irises. His face, however, remained nondescript. His mouth lay flat, neither in a taunting smirk nor a hateful scowl. His facial muscles remained relaxed. His skin remained unflushed. It's hard work staying alive.

Ryn considered the man in front of him. His shifty eyes and tense muscles told Ryn enough. No need to be afraid of this man; rather, he should be afraid for this man. The blonde man's clothes spoke of experience living in Sunberth. With his submissive nature, Ryn wondered how plant-man could've survived this long.

WIth a simple shrug, Ryn brushed off the plant-man's half-hearted apology.

"Mind where ya throw those pitiful 'sorry's of yours, neh?" he said in Common. Then in his more comfortable language, Vani: "Death waits for you."

How he loved that language. Vani's lyrical tones and musical inflections made it very easy to disguise emotion and provoke responses. The simple phrase in Common - "Death waits for you" - suddenly became a fear-instilling song when translated to Vani. That was the tricky thing about Vani for most people - it isn't merely a translation of words that gives Vani its qualities. It was a translation of the deepest meanings of the words. It required the translation of the speaker's very spirit, and to do that, the translator had to be very intimate with the darkest reaches of his own heart. As a result, even if the man didn't understand Ryn's words, the malicious melody would surely give him enough of a hint.

He pivoted swiftly on one foot and strode to the desk. He met the piercing eyes of the elder with his own. What stories would you tell, if your heart would let you speak them? Ryn wondered inwardly. Outwardly, he produced a cloth sack that held his savings from doing odd jobs over the last few seasons. He pulled out 250 gold mizas, tossing them on the table.

Careful now, Ryn, thought the Vantha. Ain't you remember that barkeep last season? You handled that with the tactfulness of a Common-speaker. Intimidate or hesitate? Which? Which would this man respond to? Oh, ice it, here goes...

"Enough to cover a parlor trick," growled the small, most unintimidating man in Sunberth. He leaned against the dirty counter without breaking eye contact with the clerk. Control your fear, ya moron.

Fear would show in his eyes, Morwen bless him. He was always proud to show Morwen's gift to his people: the essence of her skyward lights. But today it might betray him. Quick, thought Ryn. Last emotion. Curiosity? Yes. Curiosity about the plant man. Think about the plant. What a wondrous color that plant...

[Mastermind]

As his two patrons interacted, the shopkeeper looked on suspiciously with the eyes of a hawk. A weird noise emanated from his throat, after which he spat a hunk of phlegm out across the counter, onto the store's floor. There was a loud clicking sound as well. The old man stepped back from the counter as Rynvard approached. His eyes turned to saucers at the amount of coin he found in front of him. Then they filled with murder. The shopkeep's hands flashed up, a loaded and winched crossbow in them. Rynvard found the metal tip of a crossbow bolt staring him straight in the eyes. "Aye," the man said. "Me thinks tha'll cover it. Now ye scram, boy, 'for I end ya." Louder he said, "Ye too, boy," clearly speaking to Maric, though his eyes never left the Vantha. "Leave tha' pot and git ye outta me shop."

[Maric Fissure]

Maric's eye had followed the Vantha as he turned and approached the counter. Pitiful sorry's? His head bobbed sideways as he thought about the words he hadn't quite understood. He'd heard a bit of Vani, but nothing to write home about. He said you.... and uhhhh.. As he struggled with the translation he saw the small stout man who had just given him the cold shoulder remove what looked to be about twice what Mr. Fissure had in all his entirety. No, not here he's making a huge mistake. Maric saw the greed in the shopkeepers eye's with his own. His whole body tensed and he took a quick deep breath as the man pulled a crossbow on the unsuspecting Vantha. After the shopkeepers spiel the doctor relaxed a little, knowing he had an old trump card he hadn't hoped to use again on one such violent man. The light of the sunset paled making the figures of the room seem stiff, as if wax replicas of some historic moment. "A bad flu virus has taken root in the city, I could be helping you with this plant next. Besides having a doctor give you full medical attention for free wherever, and whenever wouldn't be to bad would it." Maric hoped he had implied this in an obvious enough manner.

His face was calm now, full of the knowledge gained from the seven long years he'd spent in Sunberth. His tattered cloth linens clung to his body, still and protective. The blue intense iris planted atop the shopkeepers face with firm determination. "In exchange for my services free of charge, you'll keep the money on the counter while I keep the plant and we will all go about the rest of our day peacefully." A sternness was apparent in Marics voice as he suddenly felt more confident, speaking the words aloud from his head being the primary booster of his confidence. In accordance the realization of the ground he held and its advantages kept his words moving fluid like water. "Consider that if you shoot us you gain nothing more, perhaps just two bodies and a visit from some other unwelcome guests. Not to mention a broken pot and dead plant with an arrow right through it." His words were cool and yet inside he was on fire. Don't let this man be one for grudges.

[Rynvard]

When the elder pulled the loaded crossbow and shoved it in Ryn's face, it took everything he had not to pull back when every muscle fiber screamed, "Get away!" and Ryn had to scream back, Not yet! This much was to be expected, though clearly not wanted. What he didn't expect was the shopkeeper turning on the plant man as well. He had planned for his own life or death situation; he hadn't planned on involving blondie as well. Rage boiled inside him, but Ryn doused it with icy fear. If he had to choose between fear and anger, at this point, he needed to choose fear.

Ryn's heart pumped wildly, and a blue as clear and merciless as the ice itself quickly took over his eyes. His palms and armpits began sweating. He knew if he lifted his hand right now, dust would be stuck to them, the sweat acting as an adhesive.

You can't die yet.

It was her voice, crystal clear as the day he met her. The one he'd been searching for these few seasons, longing for these many years. She often spoke to him in his mind. Ah, mental collapse at its finest. As always, Ryn had no choice but to reply. I won't. Not until I tell you what I need to tell you. These words of mine need your ear to complete them.

While Ryn's internals began collapsing at an alarming rate, only his eyes betrayed any sort of fear on the outside. Still, he didn't leave the gaze of the shopkeeper. The moment he broke eye contact, he'd lose the battle. His mind whirled along, fueled by adrenaline and determination. Forceful, strong, cynical.... He'd begun listing what he felt from the elder. Soon he'd spin off into paths to walk, and he'd choose the least likely to get him killed, all while listening to the good plant man's - excuse me, doctor's - spiel and including that new information in his scheming.

Just as the doctor finished his proposal and warning, Ryn let out the breath he'd been holding - silently, of course. He'd finished his plan just in time; he didn't know how much longer he could control his fear trembles. Now all he had to do was carry his plan out, and wait for that alternative he hadn't thought of to manifest itself. It always did, and he would handle it. Not because he thought he could. Because he had to.

[Mastermind]

The shopkeep was clearly on edge as Maric made his proposal. Likely he hadn't seen such an amount as lay before him in the entirety of his long and miserable life. The hand around the firing lever of the crossbow tightened, moving the mechanism just the tiniest amount. It was enough, however, to make the weapon creak slightly. "Flu?" said the old man. "Me ain't heard a no flu. An' me dun need a fancy pancy docta eitha!" A short but mirthful guffaw escaped his lips. "Bodies ken be sold, boy. This is tha Berth, aft'all. 'Sides, ye clearly dun know who owns the place. He'd sort out any such vis'tors in a right hurry." He laughed again, then continued, his voice turning hard and more serious. "Now me said, get out! Or ye blood'll be soakin' tha floor 'for the sun finishes its setting." "And put the petching pot down!"

[Maric Fissure]

Maric frowned at the negative response from the man with the crossbow. "Fine." He looked down frustration courting his face. What a complete waste. He turned and lowered the pot back on the table gently. "Those lives are on the both yours and the barons heads." The unappealing healer took his time as he approached the old wooden door. There was no use in making trouble, so Mr. Fissure walked nonchalantly out the door, hearing its creaking and groaning for the second time over. He stepped outside in the dim fading red light and moved away from the door against the bricks, waiting and plotting his next move.