Indulgence

[Wynken]

Wynken observed the bazaar from it's busy center, standing amidst the bustle of a well traveled intersection. His cowl was drawn back to afford him greater peripheral vision. There was no need to hide in such a crowd, but he was well aware of the heightened potential for pick pockets. He was impressed by the enormity of the market, recalling the city streets of his homeland, and he welcomed the familiar sights and sounds.

It had been only days since he and Aislynn had met in the Promenade, and he was uncertain that she would maintain her courage. It was perhaps too much to ask that she permit him to sell her wares on her behalf. Truth be told, Wynken saw the promise of his new position as a mere excuse to indulge his exquisite taste.

He wished to be rid of the rags that he wore beneath his leather vest, looking for a fine black tunic, matching pants, and a pair of soft black leather boots. 'Perhaps silk would suite me', he mused. Having spent his adolescence with hardly enough food, let alone fresh fine linens, Wynken had few needs. 'Not all thieves steal out of necessity', he thought in rationalization of his desires. Wynken considered his life as a rogue to be a profession. It was a career and should award luxuries as such.

He focused his attention upon patrons more so than the tables of merchants, being much more inclined to procure his wanted items through less conventional means. Wynken had once, in a similar situation, identified a wealthy man of like stature, observed him over the course of several days, and broken in to his home at an opportune moment. Of all the skills of stealth and cunning for which rogues are known, patience is perhaps the virtue most oft overlooked, but is certainly practiced by all who excel in the art.

[Taskmienster]

[[I’m a terrible person, making you wait so long, but thank you for your patience. For the mod judging, I’m not writing as Task, but as an NPC to help out Wynken. I’d prefer, since it’s not Task, that I receive 50-75% of the regular rewards that might be rewarded. I leave it up to you since I have as of yet established that myself.]]

A goblet in hand, golden and glimmering in the bright light of the daytime tavern, the lordly looking man smiled and sipped from its edge. The Yearling was a demure tavern, filled with the common rabble of daily shoppers and shopkeepers that were taking their breaks from hawking wares. In the light, Fregheim and his companions, other would-be lords, were like a large fire burning brightly in the dead of night. The citizens that remained around them were dressed in dark garb, much the same colors that the nobles themselves wore, but it was drab and unwelcoming. Fregheim had seen them as much as he had noticed the chipped paint on the wall, initially when entering but never since then.

“Dear boys,” the young, strong man said. “I say we have about overstayed our welcome. The light is bright, but the men are not. Why not continue working through the bazaar?”

“This sloppy swap-meet?” A friend of the young noble said with a laugh. The older noble, though only by a couple years, tipped his goblet upwards and licked the last remnants of his fifth glass into his open maw. “What do you expect to find here other than beggars selling what little they have to fill their pockets?”

Fregheim rose from his chair and turned his golden chalice downwards, spilling a half finished glass of wine. The thin, tart liquid spilt onto the table and he smiled. It was always nice to know that the price of spilt wine was more than most made monthly. “It would be better than getting sloshed with the local rabble, I’m tired of sitting amidst the grime of the city and filling a gluttonous belly.”

All four of the men laughed and rose. They placed their glasses in their pouches, belted them tightly shut, and smoothed out the silk clothing that they all wore so elegantly. Fregheim tightened his belt, tapped the tip of his thin dagger, and smiled as he tossed enough gold coins on the table to pay for their drinks… and the tavern itself if he had willed.

Outside, the sun was bright, high, and unhindered by wandering clouds. A clear day greeted the men, only Groney seeking the shade of his hand after finishing nearly half a dozen glasses of wine. Freg slapped a hand, heavily to send the shaky man to wobbling, and laughed at his companion. “Tonight, boys, tonight we stay here before moving on and we celebrate our success!”

[Wynken]

Again, no worries. I can hardly find time to keep up with the threads I'm involved in...and my responsibilities are far less than your own. Thanks again!
Wynken had, some time ago, abandoned the intersection, from which he first beheld the market, and had taken to wandering. As he walked amongst the common townsfolk, the atmosphere continued to elicit memories of his youth. Children ran, playing in the streets, and merchants chided them for picking fruit from the tables as they passed. How many times was such fruit a day’s meal?, Wynken thought contemptibly, considering the luxuries that even pauper’s children take for granted.

As he neared the end of yet another market street, the crowd dwindled as did the carts and storefronts. The draw of wealthy consumers was disappointing for a market that boasted such diversity, and, spying a welcoming tavern, Wynken considered exercising his patience by calling it a day. “The Yearling.” He read the signpost dryly to himself as he approached from the distance. Exaggerating the irony in its name he added quietly, “the place looks as old as dirt”.

Unfeeling as he was, Wynken understood better than most the motivations and behaviors of people. The names change, they are stone rather than wood, and the doors swing out rather than in, but, from the poorest pub to the haughtiest alehouse, the regulars are always there for the same reasons. Finishing his brief contemplation of the human condition, Wynken moved once more in the direction of the Yearling. As he reached for the door, it swung open, pulled from the inside, and he stood aside as four jocund gentlemen filed out. They hardly noticed him, if at all, as he stood on the threshold watching and listening as they conversed. Always in the last place you look, he considered and chuckled inwardly at another irony.

[Taskmienster]

Fregheim smiled as his companions shuffled through the streets slowly, thanks to the belly full of expensive wine. Good company filled their hearts, slowing their stride even more. There was no reason under the bright sun to hurry their walk. “By the gods,” the noble said with a smile as he nearly skipped ahead of his three friends and turned to walk backwards and face them. “Does Althanas have a mind of her own? These days linger longer, the sun remains higher, and my face is as dry as the Fallien deserts.”

“At least it’s not ruining anything pretty,” Groney retorted with a hiccup. All the men laughed at the pass against their impromptu leader, even the young noble chuckled. “Can we find some gods forsaken shade? My head is throbbing. I don’t think that sitting inside the bells atop the city watch during a fire would be worse than what this light is doing.”

The men slowly trudged through citizens, heads high and shoulders erect. Even the drunken shuffling of the oldest of the group was nobler than the bent shoulders of the peasants that they pushed against. Fregheim smiled and led the small party to the shade of a hawker’s stall, shooing the man away from his livelihood with little more than a gloved swish. The chubby merchant tossed a handful of meat-pies onto a server’s tray and bowed to the four men before continuing his heated war against the others like him in the square. When one rang out louder, the rest quickly matched or beat the noise.

“What say we look for a bit of bread or something similar for our dear friend? Horace, would you like to accompany me? I’m sure James can keep Groney under his watch while we’re away.” Friend was hardly a label he would casually place on those with him, each being another young lordling waiting for their zombie-like fathers to pass. In time, each would be the keeper of their own households, playing the political game of chance and faux-virtue against anyone that stood in their way. Ambition would eventually, most likely, lead the four to be at each other throats at some point in the future. For the time being though, Fregheim was determined to make lasting memories with men his own age, hoping they would be remembered far into the future.

“Freg, you so certain it’s best to leave these two here? Gron might have had too much, but James was right there with him if you don’t recall.” Horace tapped the forehead of the over-weight James and watched as he swayed like a crooner’s rocking chair. He grimaced and swung an open hand at Horace, only to be greeted with empty air and equally hollow laughter.

“I’m sure they’ll be fine. We’re in a bustling market, who would dare touch a noble? The guard patrols this area as much as they do any other. I’m more worried about one of those two doing something stupid than the citizens.” The two men chuckled as they clapped hands on each other’s shoulders. Shifting through the outlining of the crowd stream, they rejoined the motion and continued on to find fresh bread and a flask of clean water. Something to sober up their two companions.

[Wynken]

As the four aimlessly and lazily meandered through the swelling throng of market goers, Wynken found little trouble keeping pace. In fact, on several occasions he found the need to cease his stalking gait in order to keep his distance. As he slowly and surreptitiously matched their steps, he observed the nobles as they appeared in such stark contrast to the hurried peasants. Though their clothes were fine and free of filth and their posture dignified and unbent by labor, Wynken noted that the differences transcended appearance. They moved without purpose and with little haste. Unlike the commoners who shopped and sold at the market, by all accounts, these four had no place to be and no particular reason to do anything.

Wynken didn’t loath the wealthy for having wealth, nor the working class for being poor, and he looked upon the scene in neutrality. He cared for politics and economics only insofar as the systems could be wielded or exploited for personal gain, and he found that, to that end, all things and all persons could be given purpose. However, he noted their frailty with contempt as the four aristocrats sought cover from the noonday sun. The common townsfolk, who had earned their scorn only through a lack of privilege, would endure countless hardships, the least of which being hours in the heat of the unforgiving sun. The wealthy wore their weakness as a badge, while the worker bore his strength as a burden.

He felt no need for moral justification as he watched the party with singular intent. They joked under the awning before disbanding, presenting Wynken with a possible opportunity. If his desire were for coin, it was a chance that he would have seized. However, as it were clothes and finery that he was after, Wynken merely maintained his distance and his observations of the two nobles who remained drunkenly beneath the shade of the merchant’s stall. It would have been difficult enough to separate them from their belonging in daylight, and doing so without soiling them with blood or the puncture of a blade would be quite impossible. Patience, he reminded himself as he watched the other two melt into the crowd, surely to soon return for their friends.

[Taskmienster]

Horace and Fregheim wandered aimlessly, only minutes since their departure from the two sloppy companions and they were all but forgotten. The two smiled and nodded to passing peasant, who only acknowledged them with their foreheads and bobs of their heads. Corone was not a place where the lowly caste of peons looked the proper in the eyes, it was the reason that the four had originally come to escape the civil war of Salvar. They wanted nothing to do with their fathers pride, the country’s split emotions, or the bitter tundra that offered only fur wrapped women and harsh spirits. The melting pot of Althanas, however, was welcome, warm, full of loose lips, and general respect.

“Whatcha say? Want to look around and see if they have any elven equipment from Raiaera, or any guns from Alerar?” Horace was smirking, the devious smirk that spoke volumes for his personality. He obviously had other ideas in his mind, maybe theft, maybe something else petty. Whatever it was that he was thinking about, Freg was interested in the legal and entertaining proposition of searching for elven goods.

“As long as we’re looking for something to sober up those two, we might as well look for some treasures while we’re at it. Salvar doesn’t get a lot of Rare-Raerer-, light skin elves goods. The only Alerar goods we get is for the war, and since we skipped out on that nonsense we’re probably not going to see a whole lot of that.”

“Sober up,” Horace scoffed, “If they want to sober up they’re going to have to wait for it to wear off. No amount of coffee, bread, or water is going to do them any good. That was fine wine.”


~*~

The two drunken nobles laughed as they told each other jokes in their own belligerent Slavic tongue. Heavy silk jackets were removed and placed at their sides, leaving only the white silk shirts under to comfort them. They looked to the sky, to the ground, and all around without control of their heads. The world was spinning for Gron, but James was simply worn out and drenched in sweat that dripped from his fat figure. Citizens looked at them openly with disrespectful expressions, only to be greeted by rude facial retorts by the overweight lordling.

“Go on,” he spat at one village boy who stood before them just a tad too long with wide eyes and an open mouth. “Get out of here you little git. Nobody likes a gawker, especially not one so ugly as you.”

[Wynken]

Halfheartedly rummaging through the random wares of a merchant’s cart not far from where they rest, Wynken maintained the majority of his attention upon the inebriated nobles. As the two descended into drunken indecency, abandoning their learned mannerisms in the absence of their more sober peers, Wynken considered again the differences and similarities of social beings. Regardless of cast or ideology and in spite of environmental nurturing, on some level we are all the same - crude and carnal. How quickly the pompous and dignified façade is relinquished in favor of tactless intimidation.

The boy remained, angered but undaunted by the noble’s hollow jibe. He was no more than ten years of age, and still he wore the burdened expression of a working man. Dirt clung to him from head to foot, and his clothes, though tough as hide, were worn and showed signs of tearing in many places. His hands were the worst, calloused and blistered from hours swinging an axe or handling a plow.

Wynken watched the scene with a grin as the peasant child raised his arm and let fly his half eaten apple. James stammered, completely taken aback, as the produce projectile left a slippery smudge upon his reddening right cheek. Though the soft flesh of the fruit caused little more than a welt on James’ supple skin, it struck like a warrior’s mace against the lordling’s ego. He simmered visibly and clutched Groney’s arm as if for moral support. More than half in the bag, Gron had been drifting in and out of consciousness and hardly paying attention to the goings on around him. He stared blankly at the boy, trying to discern what exactly had transpired. He hadn’t quite figured it out before the boy dashed off with James in pursuit.

[Taskmienster]

Gron shifted uncomfortably before the entire nonsense transpired. His eyes were half closed, the lids nearly shut but still able to peer through the slits covered by his lashes. Though the world around him was still visible, it was hardly standing still. The ground was turning like a ballerina on her toes, over and over again, when it would stop he would only hope would be soon. Gron’s head lolled back on his neck, peering towards the open sky, hoping the clouds would be more forgiving than the ground. The post of the merchants stall was uncomfortably stabbing into his back with its rounded edge; causing him to squirm just before the produce flew.

He heard it all, the comment from his friend all the way up to the thump of the apple against the bulbous body of James. It bounded off his fat and thumped him as well. He did not even flinch when it struck his shirt, or when it dropped in his lap. James grabbed at his arm, lifting his form from the booth, and then he was off. Gron was only half conscious of the sudden chase, and didn’t care to even begin to think about getting up to join in. “Fat lard needed to run.”

James, on the other hand, was irate. The small child had dared to do something about the showdown, taking a physical route over verbal. Being a noble, or at least an heir to a noble name, James was not going to swing first in any encounter… but he would not let someone have the last swing. Especially not a small child. The man charged after the darting child, ignoring the inconvenience that he posed to the daily commuters. Plenty of people were sent sprawling. The handfuls of goods were covered in dirt, livelihoods and days of saving spent only to have it dashed.

“Get back here you little runt, I’m gonna have you whipped.” It was as if that would draw him closer, make him want to come back to the fat, angry, and rude man that charged after him. James caught a glimpse of the dirty face that looked back. The eyes were wide and tears flowed from his face. He must have felt like he was being chased by a Khu’fein buffalo. “Stop running now!”

[Wynken]

The hawking cries of nearby merchants were momentarily silenced as James’ boisterous threats cut through the commotion in the marketplace. Many nearby shopkeepers cast a wary glance toward their wares in examination for evidence of theft. However, they soon recognized that the scene was of little consequence to their business. One by one the vendors resumed their chants, though many patrons remained distracted.

Wynken watched as the child disappeared into the crowd. James struggled to keep up but before long neither were visible, and even James’ voice was lost amongst the din of the busy bazaar. A portion of Wynken empathized with the boy, though he couldn’t discern if it was disdain for nobility or his affinity to the peasant child. He uncharacteristically thought to follow the boy, to rescue him from his arrogant aggressor, but he refrained. Instead, Wynken smirked and buried his concern as he considered that, 'even though they aren’t always just, consequences result from every action. I’d be doing the boy a disservice through my intervention.'

With that Wynken turned his attention toward Groney. The man appeared unconscious, and uncomfortably so. His shoulder leaned heavily against the metal post of the merchant’s stall, and his arms lay limp by his sides. His head hung awkwardly, cocked backward at an extreme angle such that the pole ran parallel with the point of his upturned chin. In his squirming, Gron had displaced his body from what little padding was afforded by his silk tunic, and it rested crumpled upon the ground next to him.

Wynken moved methodically from one cart to another, each time drawing nearer to the awning which housed the drunken noble. As he approached, he surveyed the crowd attempting to gauge their interest. Detecting none, he moved close to Gron and hovered over the shirt. With his foot, Wynken swiftly flipped the item upward and in to his waiting hand, and, in a fluid motion, tucked the garment into his cloak.

[Taskmienster]

Muskets and pistols were hardly available in a country like Corone, as the two nobles had come to find out. It was little surprise though. They were Salvarian heirs, a country aligned with the dark elves of the south, and yet the weapons of their allies were hard to come by. Horace assumed that if a country that bordered the most technologically gifted region was hard pressed to see anything more than advanced weaponry given as rare gifts, one so far from its borders and under no alignment would most likely see none at all. It was still something to pass the time, though. Fregheim had picked up a few Raiaeran daggers, common weapons but beautiful in their originality. Horace was a little bit pickier with his selection, having gained nothing from their romp through the bazaar other than an annoyance for the base selection that was on display.

“Even in Salvar there is more to see in a market place.” The two were strolling slowly, eyeing wares as their shadows grew. No rush carried forced their pace to quicken, no worries nipped at their thoughts. James was in a pursuit, Gron was slumbering almost peacefully. Neither of the two moderately sober lordlings was privy to the plight of the young boy, or to the thief’s self-appropriated levy being placed on a slumbering drunken friend. “Maybe we should head back? I’m sure those two have done nothing but rouse the rabble, or irritated the merchant whose booth we so bluntly assumed. I have seen nothing more than junk in these heaps, and my tongue is dry from this heat.”

“Not to mention the smell that comes from these people.” Fregheim spat with a chuckle. “I thought Corone was supposed to be a melting-pot of culture. Instead it seems to be more of a cesspool of what commoners call everyday toiling. You would think that a weekly bathing would rub off on some of these people, but it seems that none have taken that sweet virtue from any culture they originated from.”

Both men laughed. They turned their sights from the wares of the merchants and began to head back to where they had left their unsteady comrades.