Mordelain
10-20-12, 02:50 PM
The Makassar caravan profited greatly from the midnight bazaars of Irrakam. Traders from across the globe came to the desert for that one week, every year, to capitalise on the industrious people like Suresh. Mordelain had to thank the man for pushing her to shop, if she had not, she might not have seen such wonders. There was silk from Corone, elven wine from Raiera, and in-between the stands, there was food from every village, plateau, and province.
Beneath the pearl moon, the troubadour wove through the crowds. She kept her purse well-guarded, as no doubt someone in the density of bodies would try to swipe it. Though she would lose little if a pick pocket did get lucky, her pride would not let her just walk away. Death would fall across the palisades, all for coin, and all for coffers.
“Come, come, and come again,” said a merchant, smiling so broadly the sun would have been eclipsed by the brightness of his well-kept golden teeth.
“I’d rather eat an ass,” she spat, moving on swiftly.
Her sandals padded over the sandy flagstones, leaving scythe like marks in the pattern. Where she trod, she revealed marble mosaic that had once been resplendent. Wearing a simple white blouse, with pleated sleeves, and a pair of slacks strapped tight with a knife sheath and silver buckled belts, she gave the impression of meaning business.
“Roll up, roll up, and roll up!” roared another merchant, arms flailing, chin wobbling, and salesgirls strutting back and forth in front of his camel pulled wagon. Their bikinis matched the bright golden fabric of the wagon’s awning, their intellect that of the camels. Mordelain paid them no attention. The crowd around the merchant’s stall, however, were enthralled by pretty, shiny, and cheap wares. She chuckled to herself, broke into a wry smile, and continued her advance to the far end of the bazaar.
A good ten minutes passed before she finally reached her destination. Sweating, brow beading with perspiration, and heart racing with excitement, she rested her hands on the edge of the merchant’s table. He moved, with a sharp breath, and peered through dusty spectacles. They were cracked, which made Mordelain question his business expertise. If he was as successful, and as rich as Suresh had made out, then surely he could afford new lens, if not those of the finest quality? She cocked her head to one side, let her hair, long and auburn, catches the moonlight, and smiled with warmth and heart.
“Greetings, Malaren, I come bearing business from Suresh.” She slouched.
“That old goat still sends mistresses to acquire his fetish?” he raised an eyebrow, a bushel of straw arced over wrinkly skin, and shifted atop his cushion throne. “He never changes.”
“I am neither his mistress, nor here for his fetish.” She had to wonder what strange acumen Suresh had for fineries she could not understand. On second thoughts, she wrinkled her lips; she did not want to know. “I have come because he said you could sell me something I need.” She leant over the table. Her hair dangled over the variety of silver pits, stoneware urns, and spiral laden vases.
“Oh?”
“I want to purchase Valaiyalman (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?18792-Rough-Guide-to-Fallien-1st-Ed&p=144363&viewfull=1#post144363), enough to lace with two kukris,” she dropped a small purse onto the table, between a vat of olive oil and a jar of eyeballs, “for starters.” She had much more she needed from him, but to whip a merchant into frenzy in Irrakam’s bazaars was to incite a price raise and haggling war that few men or women could survive without selling their soul to secure a deal. She had to play him very carefully indeed to ensure she got all she came for, for a price she was happy to pay.
The first in a serious of transactions I'd like to make.
Beneath the pearl moon, the troubadour wove through the crowds. She kept her purse well-guarded, as no doubt someone in the density of bodies would try to swipe it. Though she would lose little if a pick pocket did get lucky, her pride would not let her just walk away. Death would fall across the palisades, all for coin, and all for coffers.
“Come, come, and come again,” said a merchant, smiling so broadly the sun would have been eclipsed by the brightness of his well-kept golden teeth.
“I’d rather eat an ass,” she spat, moving on swiftly.
Her sandals padded over the sandy flagstones, leaving scythe like marks in the pattern. Where she trod, she revealed marble mosaic that had once been resplendent. Wearing a simple white blouse, with pleated sleeves, and a pair of slacks strapped tight with a knife sheath and silver buckled belts, she gave the impression of meaning business.
“Roll up, roll up, and roll up!” roared another merchant, arms flailing, chin wobbling, and salesgirls strutting back and forth in front of his camel pulled wagon. Their bikinis matched the bright golden fabric of the wagon’s awning, their intellect that of the camels. Mordelain paid them no attention. The crowd around the merchant’s stall, however, were enthralled by pretty, shiny, and cheap wares. She chuckled to herself, broke into a wry smile, and continued her advance to the far end of the bazaar.
A good ten minutes passed before she finally reached her destination. Sweating, brow beading with perspiration, and heart racing with excitement, she rested her hands on the edge of the merchant’s table. He moved, with a sharp breath, and peered through dusty spectacles. They were cracked, which made Mordelain question his business expertise. If he was as successful, and as rich as Suresh had made out, then surely he could afford new lens, if not those of the finest quality? She cocked her head to one side, let her hair, long and auburn, catches the moonlight, and smiled with warmth and heart.
“Greetings, Malaren, I come bearing business from Suresh.” She slouched.
“That old goat still sends mistresses to acquire his fetish?” he raised an eyebrow, a bushel of straw arced over wrinkly skin, and shifted atop his cushion throne. “He never changes.”
“I am neither his mistress, nor here for his fetish.” She had to wonder what strange acumen Suresh had for fineries she could not understand. On second thoughts, she wrinkled her lips; she did not want to know. “I have come because he said you could sell me something I need.” She leant over the table. Her hair dangled over the variety of silver pits, stoneware urns, and spiral laden vases.
“Oh?”
“I want to purchase Valaiyalman (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?18792-Rough-Guide-to-Fallien-1st-Ed&p=144363&viewfull=1#post144363), enough to lace with two kukris,” she dropped a small purse onto the table, between a vat of olive oil and a jar of eyeballs, “for starters.” She had much more she needed from him, but to whip a merchant into frenzy in Irrakam’s bazaars was to incite a price raise and haggling war that few men or women could survive without selling their soul to secure a deal. She had to play him very carefully indeed to ensure she got all she came for, for a price she was happy to pay.
The first in a serious of transactions I'd like to make.