Of Scribes and Stolen Scrolls

[Taliel Escabre]

(Closed to whatever character Cyrus joins this with...)

Bird and children hustled and bustled, mothers and shopkeeps shooed them away as the smell of goods wafted heavily in the air. Mutton, pies, roasts, turkeys, chocolates, and fruits all assaulted Taliel's nose, taking a heavy grip upon his collar and tugging them towards their various stands. Oh how his stomach ached for a good meal. He had not come to Radasanth to taste-test, however. He had come to peddle his goods, much in the same fashion that those around him were. The sounds from everywhere were joyous and happy, and all-together lightened the scribe's mood. He had traveled far from Raiaera, and was much happier in the presence of humans for a change. The respect the elves had for him only went so far, and even that was slightly diminished after he'd accidentally smashed a very precious artifact they had found.

But now Taliel was hundreds of miles away, enjoying the crowded streets, shouting vendors, and even- to an extent- the smelly beggars. It reminded him of how good he had it, even if things did not always look so shiny and nice. Sure, there had been times when the circumstances looked so bleak that he would have gladly taken the spot of one of the corner-sitters, holding out a small tin can and requesting hand-outs. But he had perservered, and was now much better off than these homeless folk.

Approaching a slightly empty corner, Taliel began to set up shop. He had rented a cart from one of the local merchants, and was only forced to pay twenty-five gold pieces an hour. Thinking he had found a deal, the scribe eagerly took advantage of the offer. The assembly of said cart, however, was quite an ordeal. He had been given little assistance by the merchant he had bought it from- the fat man stood and laughed at his insolence as he tried desperately to plug random wooden shaft 'A' into random wooden slot 'B'. Finally, once the cart was assembled, Taliel loaded his goods upon it and slowly wheeled it down the cobbled streets. This alone had been no easy task either, as each little chink in the ground would cause his stand-on-wheels to shutter and creak uneasily. The scribe took a deep breath, however, and continued.

Now that all had been set up, the scribe set to arranging his scrolls in exotic patterns and creative manners. At least, in his opinion they were creative. In reality all he had done was layer them and tack some fake scrolls up on the side of the cart and smiled to passers-by. It seemed common folk had little use for such scrolls, and even when the scribe worked up the courage to announce what he was selling, he was drowned out by those around him. Taliel soon realized that he had not quite chosen the best place to set up shop. To his right stood a man selling amazingly well crafted swords. Their blades were of a unique look, as well. Twisting and winding, their steel glinting in the bright sun that shone overhead. Men flocked to the stand, eager to purchase such weapons.

To his left stood what would normally be a rather bland attraction- an elderly lady handing out chocolates. However, once she had offered Taliel one, he realized out delicious each one was. It melted softly and surely in his mouth, the peanut butter that filled it so rich and creamy. It made his knees weak to think about it, but knew that his stand was easily outclassed.

Standing in front of his stand, back pressed against it so as to avoid being trampled by the shoppers, Taliel cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Crafting magical scrolls here! Spell scribe extraordinaire, open for business. For a mere 100 gold, you can conjure up a creature that will do house-hold chores for you! Get it here!" he yelled, trying his hardest to attract attention. Still nothing. The most attention he'd received all day was from the elderly lady, offering him a chocolate every so often.

Which he was obliged to take, of course.

[Deadnight Warrior]

Artume Zauvir was a man accustomed to some measure of comfort, at least when in travel. So when he had decided to give Valhalla, his horse of grey flames, an entire day of rest within his adamantine figurine, the man with hair of charcoal hue resigned himself to staying in town. When one was used to riding a flaming steed through the plains of Corone, reverting to walking was often a hard thing to do.

Fortunately, he had picked a magnificent day to stay in Radasanth. The sun was high and bright in the sky, raining light down upon the loveliest of carnivals. The streets were an eternal melody of speech, music and all varieties of sounds, the number of which was only surpassed by the amount of gold changing hands. It was a vendor's dream, the perfect venue in which to test new wares or ideas, or simply make some money for the coming winter months.

The human looked upon it all from the second floor of one of the town's many inns. His eyes squinted through the light to try and pierce through so that he could observe the many things happening. The bustle put a smile on his face. He'd been looking forward to this day.

Swords by his side, for despite the nature of the fair, he did not feel comfortable without some kind of protection, Artume was soon downstairs and leaving the inn. The outside was waiting for him, along with the many different items he would peruse.

Time went by, and Artume was not altogether impressed with what he'd seen. Most of the weapon kiosks, though lovely, either held items not up to his standard or simply too expensive. There was no happy medium for a man with his qualifications, both economy-wise and in terms of demand.

He approached another stand, his eyes swaying carefully across the weapons on display. All swords, all looking rather nice. Perhaps he'd been too hasty in judging this fair's goods.

"Hail, keeper" called Artume as he pushed past a few onlookers to approach the counter. Apparently, people were more interested in looking than buying.

The man working the counter, a stout dwarf with a great grey beard that reached far below the wooden doorway, possibly even lower than the stool the dwarf used to lift himself up, and blue eyes not unlike Artume's, turned to acknowledge him with a loud voice. "Aye! Y'here to buy?"

Zauvir nodded, albeit with a bit of a twisted grin, suggesting he needed to examing the swords before making a decision. "Let me see the blade there."

The dwarf handed him a long, curved sword, evidently used to a potential buyer needing to get the feel for a weapon before thinking about purchasing it. Artume stepped back, cleared some space about him and swung a few times. Light, fluid strokes, designed only to help him get the feel for it. Frowning, he brought the blade up and held it forward, staring down the length of the steel.

"Fucking dwarf," he spat, throwing the blade handle-first back over the counter, knocking down some displays and startling the citizens about. The dwarf, too, was angered, but to a lesser degree. "Your blades are unbalanced! Amateur work, and an insult to anyone who considers themself any brand of warrior. You pretty them up to make people buy, but your weapons are of limited quality."

He didn't even wait for a reply, rather moving along as the dwarf picked up his things and struggled to refute the human and keep the attention of the interested onlookers. It seemed to work, for Artume had made himself appear rather unbalanced with his display. In truth, he merely had no patience for the stupid.

The next merchant surprised him. Not with any fancy display or attention-grabbing yell, but with his simple setup and rather honest approach. The lad minding the station looked young, but was surrounded by parchments with strange words on them. Artume didn't know what they were, so he simply approached and asked. "What are you selling?" He asked, as kindly as he could.