Solo Errands

[Roland Eir]

24th of Fall, 517 Though he walked with a slight limp, it didn't take Roland as long to find The Bizarre as he'd expected. The Newcomer's Tonic, still working its way through his system, set him at ease as he traversed the streets of Alvadas. Though at times he found himself walking in the air, or leaping over hot coals, or ducking under a door come loose from a nearby home, he didn't seem to mind. It all felt very natural. Even knowing it was the work of a foreign drug. Roland smiled. The circumstances surrounding his taking of the drug were unfortunate, but the side-effects were more pleasant than he could have imagined. As for The Bizarre itself, it was fantastic. The indoor market was flooded with a warm light reflecting fondly on the plethora of wares available. The scents and sounds overwhelmed his senses delightfully, and he slipped right into the crowd of people. Frankly, the whole place was a thief's paradise. Foreigners as far as the eye could see, distracting locals and tourists alike with their wares. It took an effort to remind himself he was here not to take money but to spend it. Keeping his left hand firmly on the coin-pouch at his side, he waded through the sea of shoppers to see what was for sale. A towering Isur showed off a hammer of her own craftsmanship: Isurean Steel, and robust in design. It lacked ornament, but from the look it was a blacksmith's tool and not a weapon. A tailor meanwhile laid out a buttoned jacket. It looked like it was decent quality, but even Roland knew those prices were too high. Across the Bizarre two potters were in an argument over whose wares were finer. The pieces ranged from massive urns to shallow vases, all painted in garish colors or molded with intricate designs. The customers seemed more interested to enjoy listening the raucous banter than they were to actually buy. Carvers, spinsters, weavers, cobblers, even slavers lined the streets. From the shady to the refined, people of every race were there to browse. And the market just went on! From the outside the building hadn't appeared so massive, but Roland's legs were tired by the time he found what he was looking for. The merchant perked up as he approached, her human eyes looking him up and down. Rough-and-tumble as Roland looked, the coins jingled loud enough in his purse that she knew he was a customer. "Welcome sir," she offered, waving a hand over her goods, "To Mira's Cloths and Crafts!" The market stall was loaded with a variety of cloths and threads ranging from simple linens to silks and satins. Though admittedly her stock ran thin on the higher quality items. "Well thanks," Roland responded politely enough, his eyes more focused on the goods than their seller. "I'm looking for materials to make my own outfit. I'm... an acrobat." It was a new line of work for him, and he still wasn't comfortable with the title. The merchant smiled. "I have just what you're looking for then!" She reached down and rummaged around on her side of the stall, eventually emerging with a bright yellow velour fabric. "Perfect for a man with flair, such as yourself!" Roland could detect just a hint of sarcasm in her voice, and shifted uncomfortably in his drab brown jacket. She continued by pulling up a similarly woven cloth of royal blue. "Now, you could use this yellow--dyed with wildflowers from the sea of grass--for the base, and line it with this fine royal blue. We use a rare herb from the Kitrean mountains for that, which is why you'll find the price--" "I'm really looking for something simple." Roland interrupted, his head spinning from the prices displayed. "I've ne'er made something this way, it's just an experiment." Truthfully, he'd checked the tailors first and found the recommended outfits far too colorful for his tastes. It was silly, but he wasn't used to standing out. Even if he was an acrobat now and not a thief. "Maybe something more like that." He was pointing at a sheet of maroon cotton that dangled from the cart beside her stall. Mouth twisting in a frown, Mira re-stowed the fancier fabrics. "Very well. I suppose you won't be interested in the silver needles either." Tucking her fair locks behind her ears, she stepped around to the cart and retrieved what he asked for. A few chimes later Roland passed the money across the stall in return for a few yards of cotton, a spool of thread, and a simple sewing needle. "That should do you for a shirt if you're careful. If it's really your first time, that's probably all I'd start with. Come back... soon." The disappointment with the small transaction was clear on her face, but before Roland could respond another customer was approaching. "Hello! Welcome to Mira's Cloths and Crafts, what can I do for you today!" Word Count: 838

[Roland Eir]

Roland stepped off to the side, tucking the new purchases unceremoniously into his bag. The yards of fabric would bunch up in the bag, but he didn't know enough to care. His shopping finished for the day, he was ready to head back to the inn. He had work to do if he was going to be wearing a new shirt the next time her performed. Gingerly, he rested his bag over his shoulder. It pressed against the bruises along his spine, and he shook his head in annoyance. That would smart on the way home. Before he could turn back into the crowd, a man in a hooded tunic was stuffing a sheet of paper into his hands. "Don't believe the Speaker's lies!" the man hissed, dark eyes wide and genuine. "Read about the true threat to Alvadas before it's too late!" "What--" Roland started, but the man was already moving along the crowd leaving fliers in his wake. Intrigued, he shook the paper flat. The true threat... illness... the Vantha... Priests of the Seasons... What the hell is a Vantha? Roland wondered. None of it made sense. A little disappointed, he let the flier fall to the hard-packed earth. Just the ramblings of some madman. He'd heard a little of the illness. That woman, Madeira, had been struck with it the last season. But gods caused sicknesses, and it didn't sound like the "Vantha" were gods. Probably just a rival group in the city, at odds with these Priests of the Seasons. Putting thoughts of the flier behind him, he left the Bizarre and hiked home. The streets of Alvadas were a little less kind to him this time, and it was getting dark by the time his weary bones were marching up the steps to his room. "Oof," he gasped, unslinging his pack and laying out his new purchases. He rubbed his sore legs, remembering the mishaps from his first acrobatic performance. Should have bought a carpet or something to cushion the ground. Once he'd recovered and eaten a quick meal, he lit a candle and cleared the desk in the corner. The room was cramped enough, but he made it worse by piling his junk in the corners. He lay out the cotton on the desk, careful not to let wax from the candle drip on the clean cloth. Now, Roland had no experience with tailoring, but how hard could it be. Biting his cheek thoughtfully, he tried to decide where to begin. He needed some sort of pattern or template. That was easily solved! He grabbed a shirt from off his desk, draping it over the fabric. All he needed now was a way to... cut it. Cursing, he realized he should have bought some scissors. Scouring his gear, he eventually settled on his shaving razor. It was sharper than his eating knife at any rate. Humming, he set to the task of sewing a shirt. He did his best to measure based on his existing shirt. The razor didn't work as well as he had hoped. Out of its element, it skipped and tore as often as it sliced. Every once in a while he managed to draw a smooth cut, but more often than not he was swearing and going back to reslice a bit of fabric. It was lucky he'd chosen a dark red color he realized, nicking his thumb with the blade. "Ah! Petching gods..." he blasphemed quietly. Sucking on the wound, he surveyed his work. He wouldn't be winning any prizes, but hopefully it would sew together well enough. Word Count: 612

[Roland Eir]

With fingers made deft from picking pockets and locks, he pulled the thread through the eye of the needle with little trouble. Then came the truly difficult part. He'd watched his mother try and teach his sister to sew once, but the lesson didn't stick with him any more than it did with her. Drawing the needle through first one layer of fabric and then another, Roland barely breathed. He looked at the example shirt, trying his best to tell how close together the stitches were. It wasn't easy following the example. None of his clothes were particularly well crafted, but even they were better than this was turning out. More than once he poked his poor thumb, already sore from the cut. Frustrated, he wrapped it in a few layers of rags to stem the limited bloodflow and protect it from further wounding. Finally he understood what those little metal cups seamstresses wore on their thumbs were for. By now his candle was burning low, and Roland decided it was a task better left for the morning. In a few chimes he was off to a restless sleep, the unfinished shirt left on the desk. When the wan light of the sun woke him from his sleep Roland looked blearily at the fresh mess he'd made. Seconds ticked by as he stared at it, the gears turning in his head. He didn't want to continue. But that was life, and he needed to see this through. He flopped off of the straw-stuffed mattress, his bare feet cold on the hardwood floor. Settling in the old chair, he leaned over the desk. His thumb still stung from his work the night before. Already regretting it, he picked up the needle and resumed his work. A couple of bells passed before he was satisfied. He'd started with two halves of fabric cut into the vague shape of a short-sleeved shirt. Now he had... something. It had the right number of holes, in about the right places, but when he pulled it over his head he could tell immediately he'd made a mistake. For some reason the size was completely wrong. His shoulders barely fit through the bottom, and there was a ripping sound as his head popped out. With mounting frustration he saw that the threads were ripping apart to the point that he could see his skin. What had he done wrong? He'd traced one of his own shirts as a template! If that shirt fit, why didn't this one? Swearing, he pulled the ruined fabric over his head and tossed it back on the desk. "Waste of petching silver," he growled. Throwing himself back onto his bed, he lay stewing in his annoyance. There was no way he'd be making his own clothes. Word Count: 469

[Roland Eir]

Tying his coin pouch back on, ignoring the soreness in his body, he left for the market for the second day in a row. There was no way he was making his own clothes. Leaving the Cubacious Inn, he sighed to see the cobblestones sprouting wings and fluttering in the air outside. Newcomer's Tonic or no, he wasn't in the mood. Sticking to the side of the road he was glad to see the illusory creatures skitter and flap away from his presence. That was fine with him. A bell later it seemed that Ionu was not feeling generous that day. Roland shivered and brushed a light dusting of snow off his shoulders. Each street was as crazy as the last and the Bizarre was nowhere to be found. His long legs, previously striding with such purpose, now trudged morosely through the street. The determination from the morning was gone, replaced with a grim acceptance that this errand would take longer than he'd hoped. Another quarter-bell went by before Roland was forced to rethink his goals. A small bench sat on the side of the street, and he gladly took a seat. The whole road had taken on a garden-like atmosphere with a gravel path that meandered between flowerbeds and rose-bushes. There was even a tree, which shaded Roland from the unseasonably warm sun. All I wanted was to buy some clothes, he thought miserably. Looking up, he noticed a familiar looking building opposite the bench. The exterior was entirely white, recently painted, and bore a sign that read plainly: The Tattered Thread. Huh. How many times had he passed this looking for The Bizarre? Standing and crossing the path, he tried the door and found it unlocked. Pushing it open on well-oiled hinges Roland was suddenly in a world of color. The garden outside looked plain in comparison. Floor to ceiling were racks on racks of clothes. Big and small, bright and pale, dark and light. There were hats of fashions he'd never conceived and coats that draped below his ankles. Reds, blues, greens, purples, in hues he'd never even known existed! Much like The Bizarre the shop was much larger inside than it appeared. Beyond the racks of clothing were rows of mirrors. A woman was trying on a new coat in front of one, and before another a man stood on a block. A young man with shimmering dark hair swirled around him, taking his measurements with a bright ribbon. "Yes, he's a Vantha. And if you have a problem with that you can take your business elsewhere." Roland spun to find the source of the voice, a woman in a bright blue dress who stood with hands on her hips. "He's a what?" Roland stammered, wondering why she took such a harsh tone with him. Embarrassment flared in her cheeks. "Oh, forgive me sir. I saw you staring and I thought... it doesn't matter. Please, how can I assist you today?" Oh no, not so fast. "Hold on, I want to know. What were you saying?" He remembered the word Vantha from the flier the day before. "You mean you don't know?" Roland shook his head. Usually most people picked up on the fact that he was foreign. He was used to people assuming he didn't know things. In a way this was refreshing. "The Vantha are from way up north in Avanthal. Children of Morwen, they call themselves. That's their goddess, Morwen is. She's in charge of cold and winter, or so Voren tells me. That's him, by the way." She pointed at the tailor currently working in the back. "Anyway, some fools blame them for the sickness that fell on Alvadas last season. The Priests of the Seasons and their lot. It's madness if you ask me. The Speakers are taking the Vantha's side, luckily, but things have gotten really scary lately." "That's... too bad." So that was what the fliers were about. How truly strange, Roland thought, that people would blame something like illness on people. Mages maybe he could understand, but these Vantha seemed no more special than the average Mizaharian. This one was a tailor for the gods' sake. "Enough about that. How can we help you with your fashion today?" Roland quickly explained his problem, not mentioning his failed attempt at tailoring. The shopkeeper swiftly brought him across the store and began to show off clothes in a variety of colors and material that would work for his performance. She seemed so genuinely interested in her trade, Roland couldn't help but listen to her suggestions. In the end, he even agreed to a brighter selection of color. Like it or not, his new job was about getting people's attention. She liked the red on him, but she bumped it up a few tones to a bright crimson. The outfit they settled on was themed in bright red. For the colder season, since he was performing outside, she made it a bright red vest over a thin white cotton tunic. The pants were comfortable but tough, stretching just enough to account for his full range of movement, and were the same red as the vest. The most expensive part were the shoes, which cost more than the rest of the outfit combined. But Roland understood why: it was difficult to make shoes that would bend with the feet but stay firm at the toes. They would be good for climbing too, he realized with a smile. "I hate to say it, but it's all perfect." The frustrations of the morning were forgotten as he made his purchase. The walk home was surprisingly easy, even fortuitous: He managed to finish his shopping for the day at a furniture store with a large rug hanging in the window. When he returned to the Cubacious Inn he carried not only his new clothes in his bag, but a large, thick leather rug in his arms. Laid out over the cobblestones, it would make performances much easier on his body. It was heavy as shyke though. He leaned the rug in the corner and displayed the new outfit on the bed. The ruined first attempt at sewing on his desk was forgotten. Roland surveyed his purchases with a sly smile. This was an investment in the future. Tomorrow he was going to put them to a test, sore body or no. It was time to make some coin. Word Count: 1,111

Receipt :

Acrobat's (Dancer's) Shoes - 10 gm
Large, Common Leather Rug - 10 gm
Tunic - 5 sm
Vest (Dyed) - 4 sm
Pants (Dyed) - 12 sm
3 yds Whole Cloth (Cotton) - 23 sm
Spool of Thread - 1 sm
Sewing Needle - 5 sm

Total: 25 gm

Prices have been rounded up to make it easier on my ledger.

[Chameleon]

GRADE

XP

• Logic: 2XP
• Planning: 1XP
• Socialisation: 2XP
• Sewing: 1XP
• Endurance: 1XP

LORES

• The Bizarre: An indoor market
• The Bizarre: A thief's paradise
• Sickness: Caused by gods
• Razor: Makeshift scissors
• Sewing: Following an example
• The Tattered Thread: Colourful clothing shop
• Vantha: Children of Morwen
• Vantha: From Avanthal in the north
• Morwen: Goddess of the cold and winter
• Vantha: Blamed for the Fall 517 Sickness

OTHERS

I liked this! It was a nice way to run some errands, and inform Roland about some of the things happening in the city. You really captured the essence of Alvadas in your illusions, too - I love seeing people's take on the "ordinary" streets of Alvadas, and your's was very nice!

I hope you enjoy your grades - please PM me if you have any questions or issues concerning them! Mark it graded in the request thread, and have fun writing more!