August Auctions

[EgoFinitum]

Please note that you are bidding for the steel short sword Dirge, Gift of the End. The disclaimer that comes with this weapon is stated in the character profile linked, as well as an outline of the enchantments upon it. This auction ends in (roughly) 48 hours. Please keep all posts in character. This thread will be submitted for a "No Judgement" option when it is finished.

The Spectral Auctioneer did not actually look like a ghost. While he was certainly pale, his hands wrapped around the gavel with strength, his eyes bright and sharp despite the salt and pepper of his hair, the length of his beard, and the richness of his robes. His features were as sharp as the short sword behind him, from his hooked nose to the grimace on his face. Somehow beneath all this, there was an aura that radiated from him of danger and protection. The fact that the sword, plain if not for the fine leather that wrapped the hilt, hovered in midair behind him told of the taste of magic in the air. The podium itself that he stood at was lock and key, with an invisible shield about it that had been deflecting would be thieves for centuries. It was the length of the Auctioneer's reign that gave grit to the rumors that he was nothing more than a phantom. Yet everything he'd sold was real, every artifact as tangible and terrible as he promised. He only ever sold one thing at a time, and today it was this blade.

"Dirge, Gift of the End!" he called out, his voice rich with honey and the gravel of the grave. "This enchanted blade conjures the heat of fire. No finer steel blade will you find than this today, and it has had remarkably few wielders. Do we start the bidding at 20 gold? Do I hear 20?"

[EgoFinitum]

"No takers for 20?" the Auctioneer asked, an amused tone to his voice. "Surely you don't expect a better deal from the Bazaar. What about 15? 15 gold for an enchanted short sword?"

[Lightfoot]

Jasker, leaning against a nearby wall, remained silent as the auctioneer spoke. Auctions weren't normally the thief's type of affair, but there are times when stealing isn't always the best option. This was one of those times. He was rather amazed that no one had put forth a bid, but it seemed they felt the same as Jasker did. Being the first to bid showed too much interest, and in such an action, brought attention from others.

A thin tendril of smoke snaked out of his pipe as the halfling held it to his lips. He hated doing it, but upon hearing word of this auction, the term "time sensitive" was coupled therein. If the thief wanted the sword, he would have to make his interest known.

Jasker exhaled a cloud of smoke and raised his pipe above his head, signaling to the auctioneer his bid of fifteen.

[EgoFinitum]

"Sold." The auctioneer's voice seemed larger, weightier now than it had before. The sword behind him disappeared, as did his podium and the gavel in his hand. The cart that had been set up near him, piled high with bright cloth and pulled by two strong black horses slowly faded away. When all that was left was the man, he held out his hand. A pile of gold coins appeared there, glittering for but a moment until he too was gone. The crowd looked around, puzzled, and then turned their gaze to Jasker. The short sword that had been for the bidding was at his side, as if he'd been carrying it the whole time. If he were the kind to take careful inventory of such things, he might find his coin purse 15 gold lighter, or perhaps heavier with a sense of watchfulness underneath the bright canopy of the forest.

[Lightfoot]

"Well...," Jasker said to himself, "that was a cleaner grab than I had expected." He looked around the forest. The auctioneer -- and everything that had been with him -- were gone likes the hopes of a warm day in the middle of winter. "Perhaps too clean..." The thief could feel the difference in weight of his coin purse, recalled the auctioneer's sudden appraisal of gold coins in his palm.

"Neat trick," the halfling thought, trying to resist the sudden chill that crept up his spine. He pulled the shortsword, Dirge, from his side and unsheathed the blade. It emanated a strong warmth that helped relax the thief's nerves, just as advertised. How it had appeared there was just another mystery to add to the rest. "This better have been worth it."

Jasker had been across most of Althanas, and seen may strange things, but what had happened that day was new, even for him. It seemed the rumors of the phantom trader had been true. After noticing the other attendees staring, the halfling composed himself, sheathed the sword, replaced his pipe back on his lips. He gave the crowd his signature grin, and sauntered off into the forest, whistling a tune.

[EgoFinitum]

The night had drawn in, the sun sinking underneath the horizon. The road in the woods wasn't far off, and the trees were still well spaced. The churning and splash of a small stream nearby chortled, adding to the melody of bullfrogs croaking and insects singing in the bark. The easy snap and crackle of wood on the fire interrupted now and again. The stars were a splash in the sky overhead and the moon bathed the small thicket with light. The halfling had fallen asleep already, his blue cloak draped over him and one hand thrown over his face. His breathing was deep and even, but sighed now and again. The wind picked up, and a strange chill moved with it. He huddled further beneath the soft cloth when the cold came, before slowly blinking awake.

Before him, the spectre loomed. It was a girl on the verge of adulthood, bent over his pack where the sword leaned now. Her transparent hands were dipped into his effects, as if she were trying to paw through them. She lacked any tangibility to truly search, and a pained expression was on her face. Her fine dress was soaked with blood, ripped cloth on the silk bodice open to reveal an expertly placed wound of where a blade had once pierced between her rips and up to her heart. Her messy hair swayed and moved with a wind that didn't quite match the one that set the leaves in the trees to shake. After a moment, she stopped and turned gaze upon Jasker.

"Where is the mask?" Her voice was like a rasping whisper, barely there but full of accusation and sorrow.

[Lightfoot]

At first, Jasker said nothing, did nothing. He was frozen stiff, covered in a nervous clammy sweat. This couldn't be real. Maybe he was dreaming? The thief closed his eyes shut, counted, and opened them again. The young girl, pale face and covered in blood, remained. She had said something, whispered to him, but what it was he could not recall. Then it registered. This wasn't a dream. This was real.

All at once a great yell thundered out the halfling's small frame. In a tangle of movement he rolled to his feet, nearly throwing his cloak in the fire. He was a mass of hurried movements, wanting to grab a weapon from his pack, but with the spectral girl standing between him and it, he settled on a thick branch nearby. He held the wood in front of him like a sword, knowing full well how ridiculous he looked, as well as the futility of trying to use it.

"Wh-wh-who are you?" he stuttered. His hands shook, a fact the normally confident thief tried to blame on the chill in the air.

[EgoFinitum]

At first, she stiffened. Who was she? Didn't he recognize his victim? Had he simply killed too many with too much abandon to keep track of them all. She opened her mouth to yell, but stopped. His brown eyes were illuminated by the low fire, pupils filling them as anxiety took hold. She felt a pang of regret. A lady, after all, didn't act this way to an innocent bystander. She looked down now to where she'd been digging. The sword was there, the murder weapon that robber her of her breath. He owned it now, possibly from fishing it out of the river whence it'd been thrown. She stepped towards him, staying just on the other side of the trembling end of the stick he held out. She thought about batting at it, showing him that she was useless, but it might just scare him more. Instead, she managed a small curtsey.

"Charlotte, m'lord. Lady of the Webber household." Dead or not, she remembered her manners. "Please excuse my words, sir. I mistook you for a fiend." She turned so that she was no longer standing between him and his things and swept out a dainty hand to Dirge. At her gesture, it almost felt as if the metal was responding, flashing with orange in the firelight that was too supernatural to be a simple mirror of the flame.

"How long have you had this sword? Did you come by it from a man in a white mask?"

[Lightfoot]

He had to be dreaming. Not only had the spectral girl begun speaking with all the manners of a nobleman's daughter while introducing herself, but she even curtsied. Jasker was a fan of practical jokes... but clearly something was playing a joke on him, and he was no longer amused. The ghost stepped aside, motioned toward his things, and questioned him again.

"The sword? A mask?," he said stupidly, clearly confused by the entire situation. "No, no no. I won the sword earlier today in an auction, from a very pale... disappearing auctioneer. But he didn't have a mask." He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his ruffled hair and tried to regain his composure. "I wouldn't even be in this country if I hadn't been offered a lot of gold for this job."

A resigned sigh came from his lips, and he eyed the ghost girl. She now stood very straight and proper, and Jasker could see all of the harmful intent had left her. Now she was only a nice pale girl in a bloody dress standing in the forest late at night. The thief felt better already...

Very slowly the halfling walked to his pack, thick branch at the ready, putting as much space between himself and Charlotte as possible. He knelt down, keeping the girl within sight. He reached for the sword, unsheathed it and stood it up blade down in the ground. The blade seemed ordinary enough, apart from the high-end leather hilt, the fiery warmth, and the ghost it apparently conjured. He saw what had happened. How the sword glowed, almost pulsed, at her beckoning.

"This sword...," Jasker started slowly, "why do you care so much about it?" He looked at the ghost of the young girl and saw pain.

[EgoFinitum]

"I don't really care about the blade," she started, choosing her words carefully. "It never belonged to me. I've honestly only seen it once in my life." She smiled at the phrasing, despite herself. "I can't leave it though. It's the steel that killed me."

The campfire crackled and popped between them. Charlotte sat by the fire, daintily pulling her skirts around them so that they wouldn't get dirty from the earth. Despite the fact that they would never be dirtier than they were, she dusted the fabric at the knees and watched the halfling. If he had the sword, then they were tied for the moment, as where it wandered so would she. It was hard to remember that. She wanted to go home, but she didn't know how she'd get there. Remembering her first moments postmortem, she only knew that she stayed with the cursed weapon.

"My carriage was ambushed," she explained. "The men may have been thieves or assassins. I know not which. They all wore white masks with black markings. In any event, I just want to know why. My family was influential as far as wealth gives you power, but benign." She shrugged and pulled her feet in closer to her body so that she could lay her head on her knees. "I don't even know if my family is still alive or if they were all killed too."