Matters of Import, 12th Day of Fall 509
First light peaked through the thick film of her canvas tent. Living out of a tent had its unique challenges, for example organization. As Sybel stretched languidly, her foot knocked into a rogue pan. Sitting straight up, she peered through heavy lidded eyes at the aberration. Why in the world was a pan sitting in the middle of her makeshift floor? Racking her brain, she rubbed her face sleeply and gave a fitful yawn. Slowly, the details began to present themselves as she got up and began to tidy. Yes, as always there was a lot of ale involved. In her recollection she tried to cook something… Oh drunk cooking was always less than advisable. Sybel grimaced. It couldn’t have ended well. Her vague hope was that she didn’t set fire to something important. Her other set of clothing lie strewn about here and there, a symptom of her frequent casual, drunken disrobing. Muttering to herself, she collected each piece of fabric and tossed it back toward the vicinity of her pack. Not exactly the most thorough cleanup, but it would have to do.
As she went to exit the flap, she realized with alarm that she was naked. Amused she took a careful step back, hoping the flash of nudity wasn’t seen by anyone camped nearby. If it was, then it may have brightened their day a bit. Literally. With lament Bel admitted to herself she’d gone pale, her normally luminous gold skin a coffee-with-cream color. It plagued her to no end. Sighing with remorse, she grabbed the carelessly discarded pieces of her wardrobe and pulled something hastily on. Once satisfactorily dressed, she then decided it was appropriate to try the leaving thing again.
Stepping out into the open world, the sun blinded her. That was odd, given the pearly gray sky being barely touched by Syna’s hand. There was next to no light, but her head throbbed with agonizing cruelty. Then it hit her. The rest of her cookware was strewn about the area she’d set up in, and she gazed at it warily. That must have been the end of her cooking endeavors, she thought with a grimace. Despite the blinding pain now pulsing through her skull, she slowly collected her pots and pan, hoarding them back into the tent where they belonged.
But what had sent her into such a rage? Now there was a mystery in itself. Drunken stupor concealed all things and yet sobriety revealed them. That philosophy was probably a healthier choice than the one she committed herself to, but who was she to judge? Still, the matter of the cooking puzzled her. There must have been something preventing her from going forward once she’d pulled out all her utensils. A step in the whole process that came before the “building a fire” bit, thank Ovek. But what… A small light flipped on in her head. Oh. Ingredients.
Her stores had been running dangerously low for a week, but she’d conveniently neglected to take a trip to the market. Once the sun had set and she’d finished her otherwise all-consuming training and book-reading, Sybel had this awful habit of… Well getting drunk. It was becoming an affliction, she noted. How endearing it must be to camp near a howling, dancing, naked-getting heavy drinker. The clamor from the pots and pans along must have roused the people sleeping nearby. No wonder all her neighbors hated her, she thought glumly.
So off it would be to the market then. It was time to flex her haggling, as it’d been laid dormant for entirely too long. There were nothing wrong with a good deal early in the morning, and the businesses surely opened after dawn. Hopefully there’d be nothing standing in her way. The operative term always being 'hopefully.' After all, more often than not the opposite was true. Being cynical served to avoid disappointment. That was the best she could say for the nagging voice in the back of her mind.
Drawing her deep green cloak about her shoulders, she whisked into the heart of Syliras proper – the Stormhold Castle. Most of the citizens resided there, which made for easy dealings. The place was drafty and filled with cracks, but the marketplace had always been a wonder. So many stands and vendors... On a particularly busy day it could be hellish, there was almost always excitement to be had. That thought in particular heartened her, and she shielded her irritable mind from the usual morning agitations. There should be something for people like her, something like ale but not quite. She’d heard of something once… What was it? Co- something… Maybe coco? It didn’t seem right.
Walking along the cobbled path, she admired the bustling carts and workers that passed by. It was nice to see backbreaking labor had such a limitless timeframe. Her dry mind cracked jests as she strolled along, trying to maintain a semblance of decency. Chipper attitudes were as much commodities as the goods being hawked in the city, she reflected. But perhaps that was just her. She hummed a cheery little tune, trying to lift her dismal spirits.
As she entered the long, stony corridors of the castle, she frowned. It was emptier than usual, but that was to be expected. Something about the lifeness nagged her, and begrudgingly she conceded the point that she should not be up that early. At least there was only torchlight to contend with. She emerged in the open hall of vendors, her eyes scouring each booth. They were tended by their respective merchants, so that meant the trip hadn’t been a waste.
She approached a nearby stand, hawking dairy goods and other small commodities. Her discerning gaze caught the quality and form of all the different objects – gallons of milk, hunks of cheese and loaves of bread. A good place for starters. She picked up one unwieldly loaf and flagged down the harried looking woman standing behind the counter. “Well?” The woman said with an air of self-importance. “Can I help you?” Sybel eyed her speculatively, lips pursed. “You know, this loaf is oddly shaped. I couldn’t help but notice its lack of consistency.” The woman gave a beleaguered sigh. “Must be my son again, always botching the kneading of the dough.” She shook her head. “Sorry miss. You still interested?” Sybel suddenly grinned. “Well you’re a fine woman. I doubt very much you’d produce a loaf of lesser quality. At the remark she beamed. “Well I thank you very much. They say I’m the best.” She grinned back. All was going according to plan. “Now then, how much did you say it was?” As if the vendor had really said much at all. “Oh, it’s two coppers a loaf.” She replied, clearly disarmed. “Well,” Sybel tutted, turning it over in her hand. “I’d say it would go for a bit less unfortunately. I’d be willing to take it off your hands for one, if you’d be willing.” The woman nodded vigorously. “Will that be all?”
She frowned, perusing the rest of the merchandise. “Well your milk seems fine, and I’ll take a gallon. But what of this cheese?” She picked up a hunk and eyed it, her expression shifting from concern to seeming acceptance. “It’s certainly better than the bread, no question.” The merchant smiled. “Oh yes, from the finest cows. I make that personally, no one else does it better.” She nodded in assent. “How much for it?” The woman shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Well, a single silver for each.” Almost theatrically, the Benshira’s eyes widened. “A silver!” She exclaimed, turning it over. “Why I saw cheese in Zeltiva of this quality for five coppers a piece!” Her face was the mask of defeat. “I couldn’t dare pay over that.” The woman opposite clucked, hesitant to miss a sale. “Well my lady, you seem to have a keen eye...” Yes, that was exactly the right thing to say. “I supposed I could give it to you for five.” Sybel smiled a bright smile. “That’s kind of you miss. I will take four wedges of cheese, two of these loaves and a gallon of your milk then.” She said this expansively, her arms sweeping across the surface in a grand gesture. The woman nodded vigorously. “Of course, my lady.” So she was a lady then?
As the plump seller gathered the wares and wrapped them accordingly, Sybel suppressed a triumphant whoop. Still had it that magic, she mused. Once she had your hooks in the vendor, it as easy as setting the price. Not all sales went as smoothly, but food was easier to come by in the more populated areas. This woman would get her due, despite the fact desert-dweller had systematically worked her over. The coin exchanged hands, and she threw in a curt little bow. “Pleasure doing business with you.” She added. The woman produced a cheek-splitting smile. “Same to you, my lady.”
As she collected her things, her she scanned the rest of the room. Some fish might do nicely, and her stomach growled pointedly at the thought. Maybe some carrots too? It would all go nicely together. The closest hawking produce was run by a tight-lipped looking fellow, so she decided to weigh the options carefully. There were surely others who sold tubers and other root-growing vegetation. As she strolled carefully through the rows of brightly colored stands, one n particular caught her eye. It was a fish shop, run by a lank old fellow with a jovial expression. This should be fun.
She approached and curtsied in a smooth motion, eliciting a comical response. The man laughed loudly, a merry sound. “What a jolly girl for so early,” he said, clearly amused. “What can I say?” Engaging with the wares, she stepped closer to examine the fish. “Quite a catch you’ve got, fine sir.” She admired. “May I look more closely?” He eyed her for a moment before agreeing. “You seem honest enough.” His gaze fell upon her already bundled purchases. “As long as you’ve already bought somethin’, I don’t see why not.” She smiled gleefully, and picked up a savory looking piece. “Are this fresh?” She asked, the scales shimmering in dim light. “Absolutely little lady,” he replied. But something about the response seemed forced. Holding the lifeless beast up to her nose, she sniffed delicately.
“Are you sure?” She pressed, shifting it from one hand to another. Her hands were going to smell like fish for the rest of the day, she noted with a little pang of regret. Regardless, she continued to look it over. After a time, he cleared his throat. “Well,” he began reluctantly. “Perhaps some have been kept over from last night in the icebox.” Yes, of course. One had to make due with what they had. It was an absolute guarantee that at least some of the morsels were a bit old – nothing that would bother her personally, but negotiation was always based in principle. Sybel didn’t care that much, but a person paid for their nonchalance. Instead why not utilize the discerning practices her Father had taught? “How much would you ask for it?” She inquired politely. “Two gold a pound, but…” He adopted a mournful expression. “I could sell you a few for a bit less.” Now he knew a bit better. Sure, it didn’t seem like he was being had, but it was clear his instincts had gotten the better. After all, the reply was sort of vague. Not wanting to press the issue further, she allowed him the space to think.
Finally after she had picked up and examined Yahal knows how many fish, he spoke. “Well per the pound I’ll charge you one. Half-price.” With a sunny regard, she agreed. “Certainly, sir. Very kind of you!” Another curtsy for good measure. God, she reveled in this. Finally she peered back at the angry looking man after gathering her goods. The one who stood tragically behind his little area. The outfitting for his shop was as drab as the face he wore. This would require a slightly different tack.
Sadly, she approached. “Sir,” she said. He tipped his head in silent greeting. “How much for your carrots?” The reply was curt. “One gold per ounce.” Well that left no room for debate. Grimly she looked over the carrots. “Are you sure,” she asked in tones of sudden outrage. “Even in Nyka the carrots are finer than these.” Sybel looked taken aback. “I’d think you would say five silvers in the least. Look, see…” She shoved the vegetable under his nose and he cringed back in distaste. “They’ve got brown spots.” She pointed at the little dark speckles, dotting the face of the carrot.
“You can cut them off.” He reasoned, taking on a pleading tone. Must be pressured to make a sale. “I could but you’d have to pay me for it.” Callously she dropped the poor plant in front of him. “I’ll take them for seven silvers.” Her voice rang with finality. Dejected, he sighed. “Alright then,” already weighing and packaging her purchase. It hadn't been half price, but those sorts of deals were exclusive to agricultural goods. When trading with import and haggling fees, your opponents played the same game you did. Therefore it was natural that beginners started with food, and worked their way up. It had been good practice, she reflected with pride. Perhaps she'd buy up some goods for her next adventure, see how much she'd get.
On the way out, she nearly skipped. Yeah, still had that way with words. Now it was time to find some ale, perhaps. After all, it was certainly the evening bells chimed somewhere. With that she flitted out of the Castle and back to her tent, hopefully to get a better handle on her gurgling, empty stomach.
First light peaked through the thick film of her canvas tent. Living out of a tent had its unique challenges, for example organization. As Sybel stretched languidly, her foot knocked into a rogue pan. Sitting straight up, she peered through heavy lidded eyes at the aberration. Why in the world was a pan sitting in the middle of her makeshift floor? Racking her brain, she rubbed her face sleeply and gave a fitful yawn. Slowly, the details began to present themselves as she got up and began to tidy. Yes, as always there was a lot of ale involved. In her recollection she tried to cook something… Oh drunk cooking was always less than advisable. Sybel grimaced. It couldn’t have ended well. Her vague hope was that she didn’t set fire to something important. Her other set of clothing lie strewn about here and there, a symptom of her frequent casual, drunken disrobing. Muttering to herself, she collected each piece of fabric and tossed it back toward the vicinity of her pack. Not exactly the most thorough cleanup, but it would have to do.
As she went to exit the flap, she realized with alarm that she was naked. Amused she took a careful step back, hoping the flash of nudity wasn’t seen by anyone camped nearby. If it was, then it may have brightened their day a bit. Literally. With lament Bel admitted to herself she’d gone pale, her normally luminous gold skin a coffee-with-cream color. It plagued her to no end. Sighing with remorse, she grabbed the carelessly discarded pieces of her wardrobe and pulled something hastily on. Once satisfactorily dressed, she then decided it was appropriate to try the leaving thing again.
Stepping out into the open world, the sun blinded her. That was odd, given the pearly gray sky being barely touched by Syna’s hand. There was next to no light, but her head throbbed with agonizing cruelty. Then it hit her. The rest of her cookware was strewn about the area she’d set up in, and she gazed at it warily. That must have been the end of her cooking endeavors, she thought with a grimace. Despite the blinding pain now pulsing through her skull, she slowly collected her pots and pan, hoarding them back into the tent where they belonged.
But what had sent her into such a rage? Now there was a mystery in itself. Drunken stupor concealed all things and yet sobriety revealed them. That philosophy was probably a healthier choice than the one she committed herself to, but who was she to judge? Still, the matter of the cooking puzzled her. There must have been something preventing her from going forward once she’d pulled out all her utensils. A step in the whole process that came before the “building a fire” bit, thank Ovek. But what… A small light flipped on in her head. Oh. Ingredients.
Her stores had been running dangerously low for a week, but she’d conveniently neglected to take a trip to the market. Once the sun had set and she’d finished her otherwise all-consuming training and book-reading, Sybel had this awful habit of… Well getting drunk. It was becoming an affliction, she noted. How endearing it must be to camp near a howling, dancing, naked-getting heavy drinker. The clamor from the pots and pans along must have roused the people sleeping nearby. No wonder all her neighbors hated her, she thought glumly.
So off it would be to the market then. It was time to flex her haggling, as it’d been laid dormant for entirely too long. There were nothing wrong with a good deal early in the morning, and the businesses surely opened after dawn. Hopefully there’d be nothing standing in her way. The operative term always being 'hopefully.' After all, more often than not the opposite was true. Being cynical served to avoid disappointment. That was the best she could say for the nagging voice in the back of her mind.
Drawing her deep green cloak about her shoulders, she whisked into the heart of Syliras proper – the Stormhold Castle. Most of the citizens resided there, which made for easy dealings. The place was drafty and filled with cracks, but the marketplace had always been a wonder. So many stands and vendors... On a particularly busy day it could be hellish, there was almost always excitement to be had. That thought in particular heartened her, and she shielded her irritable mind from the usual morning agitations. There should be something for people like her, something like ale but not quite. She’d heard of something once… What was it? Co- something… Maybe coco? It didn’t seem right.
Walking along the cobbled path, she admired the bustling carts and workers that passed by. It was nice to see backbreaking labor had such a limitless timeframe. Her dry mind cracked jests as she strolled along, trying to maintain a semblance of decency. Chipper attitudes were as much commodities as the goods being hawked in the city, she reflected. But perhaps that was just her. She hummed a cheery little tune, trying to lift her dismal spirits.
As she entered the long, stony corridors of the castle, she frowned. It was emptier than usual, but that was to be expected. Something about the lifeness nagged her, and begrudgingly she conceded the point that she should not be up that early. At least there was only torchlight to contend with. She emerged in the open hall of vendors, her eyes scouring each booth. They were tended by their respective merchants, so that meant the trip hadn’t been a waste.
She approached a nearby stand, hawking dairy goods and other small commodities. Her discerning gaze caught the quality and form of all the different objects – gallons of milk, hunks of cheese and loaves of bread. A good place for starters. She picked up one unwieldly loaf and flagged down the harried looking woman standing behind the counter. “Well?” The woman said with an air of self-importance. “Can I help you?” Sybel eyed her speculatively, lips pursed. “You know, this loaf is oddly shaped. I couldn’t help but notice its lack of consistency.” The woman gave a beleaguered sigh. “Must be my son again, always botching the kneading of the dough.” She shook her head. “Sorry miss. You still interested?” Sybel suddenly grinned. “Well you’re a fine woman. I doubt very much you’d produce a loaf of lesser quality. At the remark she beamed. “Well I thank you very much. They say I’m the best.” She grinned back. All was going according to plan. “Now then, how much did you say it was?” As if the vendor had really said much at all. “Oh, it’s two coppers a loaf.” She replied, clearly disarmed. “Well,” Sybel tutted, turning it over in her hand. “I’d say it would go for a bit less unfortunately. I’d be willing to take it off your hands for one, if you’d be willing.” The woman nodded vigorously. “Will that be all?”
She frowned, perusing the rest of the merchandise. “Well your milk seems fine, and I’ll take a gallon. But what of this cheese?” She picked up a hunk and eyed it, her expression shifting from concern to seeming acceptance. “It’s certainly better than the bread, no question.” The merchant smiled. “Oh yes, from the finest cows. I make that personally, no one else does it better.” She nodded in assent. “How much for it?” The woman shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Well, a single silver for each.” Almost theatrically, the Benshira’s eyes widened. “A silver!” She exclaimed, turning it over. “Why I saw cheese in Zeltiva of this quality for five coppers a piece!” Her face was the mask of defeat. “I couldn’t dare pay over that.” The woman opposite clucked, hesitant to miss a sale. “Well my lady, you seem to have a keen eye...” Yes, that was exactly the right thing to say. “I supposed I could give it to you for five.” Sybel smiled a bright smile. “That’s kind of you miss. I will take four wedges of cheese, two of these loaves and a gallon of your milk then.” She said this expansively, her arms sweeping across the surface in a grand gesture. The woman nodded vigorously. “Of course, my lady.” So she was a lady then?
As the plump seller gathered the wares and wrapped them accordingly, Sybel suppressed a triumphant whoop. Still had it that magic, she mused. Once she had your hooks in the vendor, it as easy as setting the price. Not all sales went as smoothly, but food was easier to come by in the more populated areas. This woman would get her due, despite the fact desert-dweller had systematically worked her over. The coin exchanged hands, and she threw in a curt little bow. “Pleasure doing business with you.” She added. The woman produced a cheek-splitting smile. “Same to you, my lady.”
As she collected her things, her she scanned the rest of the room. Some fish might do nicely, and her stomach growled pointedly at the thought. Maybe some carrots too? It would all go nicely together. The closest hawking produce was run by a tight-lipped looking fellow, so she decided to weigh the options carefully. There were surely others who sold tubers and other root-growing vegetation. As she strolled carefully through the rows of brightly colored stands, one n particular caught her eye. It was a fish shop, run by a lank old fellow with a jovial expression. This should be fun.
She approached and curtsied in a smooth motion, eliciting a comical response. The man laughed loudly, a merry sound. “What a jolly girl for so early,” he said, clearly amused. “What can I say?” Engaging with the wares, she stepped closer to examine the fish. “Quite a catch you’ve got, fine sir.” She admired. “May I look more closely?” He eyed her for a moment before agreeing. “You seem honest enough.” His gaze fell upon her already bundled purchases. “As long as you’ve already bought somethin’, I don’t see why not.” She smiled gleefully, and picked up a savory looking piece. “Are this fresh?” She asked, the scales shimmering in dim light. “Absolutely little lady,” he replied. But something about the response seemed forced. Holding the lifeless beast up to her nose, she sniffed delicately.
“Are you sure?” She pressed, shifting it from one hand to another. Her hands were going to smell like fish for the rest of the day, she noted with a little pang of regret. Regardless, she continued to look it over. After a time, he cleared his throat. “Well,” he began reluctantly. “Perhaps some have been kept over from last night in the icebox.” Yes, of course. One had to make due with what they had. It was an absolute guarantee that at least some of the morsels were a bit old – nothing that would bother her personally, but negotiation was always based in principle. Sybel didn’t care that much, but a person paid for their nonchalance. Instead why not utilize the discerning practices her Father had taught? “How much would you ask for it?” She inquired politely. “Two gold a pound, but…” He adopted a mournful expression. “I could sell you a few for a bit less.” Now he knew a bit better. Sure, it didn’t seem like he was being had, but it was clear his instincts had gotten the better. After all, the reply was sort of vague. Not wanting to press the issue further, she allowed him the space to think.
Finally after she had picked up and examined Yahal knows how many fish, he spoke. “Well per the pound I’ll charge you one. Half-price.” With a sunny regard, she agreed. “Certainly, sir. Very kind of you!” Another curtsy for good measure. God, she reveled in this. Finally she peered back at the angry looking man after gathering her goods. The one who stood tragically behind his little area. The outfitting for his shop was as drab as the face he wore. This would require a slightly different tack.
Sadly, she approached. “Sir,” she said. He tipped his head in silent greeting. “How much for your carrots?” The reply was curt. “One gold per ounce.” Well that left no room for debate. Grimly she looked over the carrots. “Are you sure,” she asked in tones of sudden outrage. “Even in Nyka the carrots are finer than these.” Sybel looked taken aback. “I’d think you would say five silvers in the least. Look, see…” She shoved the vegetable under his nose and he cringed back in distaste. “They’ve got brown spots.” She pointed at the little dark speckles, dotting the face of the carrot.
“You can cut them off.” He reasoned, taking on a pleading tone. Must be pressured to make a sale. “I could but you’d have to pay me for it.” Callously she dropped the poor plant in front of him. “I’ll take them for seven silvers.” Her voice rang with finality. Dejected, he sighed. “Alright then,” already weighing and packaging her purchase. It hadn't been half price, but those sorts of deals were exclusive to agricultural goods. When trading with import and haggling fees, your opponents played the same game you did. Therefore it was natural that beginners started with food, and worked their way up. It had been good practice, she reflected with pride. Perhaps she'd buy up some goods for her next adventure, see how much she'd get.
On the way out, she nearly skipped. Yeah, still had that way with words. Now it was time to find some ale, perhaps. After all, it was certainly the evening bells chimed somewhere. With that she flitted out of the Castle and back to her tent, hopefully to get a better handle on her gurgling, empty stomach.
