"The Price of Death's Avoidance" Log Date: 8/17/99 Log Cast: Richard, Weasel, assorted Varati and Empyreans (emitted by Richard and Weasel) Log Intro: Plague has hit the streets of Haven, and for one particular trader -- and occasional thief, among other things -- plague has meant that his usual activities have had to be suspended in favor of keeping himself alive. And someone else, too, for that matter. Richard might be a thief, but the old saying about honor among individuals of that particular profession does indeed apply here. And so Richard's begun a search through the city, looking for leads on herb-sellers who claim to possess any treatments for the disease that is making people drop dead in the streets. A number of the denizens of the city are hawking various alleged cures, but Richard isn't about to choose one at random. There are some things even a betting man can't risk a gamble on, and his life is one of them. The only trick is, getting the information and the cure he needs while he still has the time... *===========================< In Character Time >==========================* Time of day: Night (Duskside) Date on Aether: Thursday, February 14, 3905. Year on Earth: 1505 A.D. Phase of the Moon: Waxing Crescent Season: Waning Winter Weather: Partly Cloudy Temperature: Cool *==========================================================================* As much of the traffic seems headed toward the Rialto, you follow. The Rialto - Haven(#159RDJM) Reigning over the Rialto is the very heart of Haven: the Delphic Citadel. It dwarfs the other buildings, which cluster around it like so many children seeking a parent's protection. Day or night, rain or shine, its walls seem to glimmer with a light of their own, as if, over the centuries, the magic within had slowly permeated the entire structure. The main tower soars higher than the tallest tree, and each side tapers inward so that it resembles a giant obelisk. Four smaller towers stand at the four points of the compass, representing the unification of each race under Delphi's government. And here is where they all gather. The Rialto is the famed marketplace of Haven, full of shops, stalls, and brightly colored tents. The shouts of merchants, the haggling of patrons, the music of entertainers, and the laughter of children create a nigh-constant cacophony that assaults the senses. But the Rialto is nothing if not exciting, and crowds often gather here for important events and public addresses. (Note: 'places' are enabled here.) Contents: Weasel MoonStalker Obvious Exits: Streets Delphic Citadel MoonStalker lurks in the shadows. It has occurred to Richard, as he stalks into the Rialto on this afternoon, that there is a chance he'll run into the point-eared chit that had nearly gotten him run in by the Hounds. He has, however, ignored this chance; bedamned if a cranky Sylvan's going to keep him from carrying out his business. Shoulders squared, dark head high, he strides into the marketplace with a deliberately lazy stride. Maybe _today_ he'll find one of those herbsellers. Even if he has to... *shudder*... wait in a line. A damned sight better than giving yourself up to the plague, after all! Night. The Rialto has begun to calm from it's previously bustling state. Unfourtunatly, whatever peace might have come to be is soon to cease. "PLAGUE CURES! WEASEL'S BEST!" Weasel, the midget merchant, yells. "BEST IN TOWN. BUY NOW AND I"LL THROW IN A FREE COFFIN." then, as an afterthought. "WHICH YOU'LL HAVE TO WAIT A LONG TIME TO USE!" Weasel Who can tell what crosses the mind of this mongrel? Everyone who knows him! They all know that money is the only thing upon his mind. 'Weasel' they've called him forever, and Weasel they'll continue to call him. He's a bit short, very thin, wiry, and with a slightly pointed appearance. He's got a pointy little beard, a pointy long nose, and a number of other things which make him not repulsive, but not particularly handsome either. Funny, how a body that size can produce a voice that loud, as if someone's stuffed a voice meant for a much larger man into Weasel's pointy little frame. Richard, picking that voice out of the sporadic hubbub in the marketplace, glances in that direction... and grins to himself, blue eyes glinting. He diverts his course, picking an oblique path to the little mongrel's location of the moment, wishing first to observe before closing in. Can't look like an eager mark, after all. The bizzare and abnormally loud sales pitch continues to spout from Weasel. "STRAIGHT FROM MY OWN SECRET SOURCE! GOTTEN FROM THE SAME STINKING VARATI THAT CREATED THE PLAGUE! WORKS GREAT! LOW FAT TOO!" he yells. The few Varati gathered around grumble and go away, having previously seen what happens to those who try and attack Weasel. The Empyreans, which are in the majority, however, seem even more convinced. Richard's mouth curls into a small lopsided smirk, as he insinuates himself in behind the wings of a desperate-looking Empyrean youth -- though he takes care not to let the rustling feathers brush him. Fortunately, he doesn't have to worry too much, for the lad surges forward, dropping feathers as he goes, and babbling anxiously to Weasel, "How much? I'll take some!" The lean black-haired man behind him goes totally unnoticed -- but now, Richard has won himself an excellent vantage point by which to scope out exactly what the little merchant is trying to pull. A few taller more important looking custormers are talked to before Weasel turns to the Empyrean boy. When he talks this time, it's not in the ear drum shattering volume that he previously employed. Still, it's louder than the normal persons voice. Richard should have no trouble hearing. "Weasel Say Zenchin Per Bag. Bag Have Seven Roots. Each Root Make One Cup Tea. Have Tea Everyday Of Weed And Be Cured." Surely, however, thats too expensive for such a lad. Indeed, that poor bedraggled Empyrean lad seems to be too badly off to pay that kind of money. "Please, dominus, please," he begs, "have a heart -- my betrothed, she is ill, I can pay maybe half that... please..." Frantic, trembling, he paws through his pockets in search of coinage, only to be shoved aside by a dirtier, bulkier member of his race. "If you can't pay, make room for someone who can!' the other Empyrean bellows. With that, then, Richard chimes in guilelessly, "A full zechin for a bag of roots? Ach, there's a sylve over in Bordertown chargin' a denarius for _two_ bags." Weasel glares a bit at the larger Empyrean man. before turning his head quickly to the boy who who was pushed aside. His sympathies go out for this particular story, and a sly grin visits his face for a short moment. Turning back to the one who pushed, he speaks harshly. "Two Zechin. Weasel Say Pay For One You Pushed Or No Get Root." and then turning in the direction of Richard, and speaking quite loud enough for everyone to hear. "Different Root, That One Do No Good. Weasel's Root Cure, Other Root No Do That." The big Empyrean flexes his white wings, drawing in a lungful of breath and ready to release an indignant bellow at this little worm who _dares_ suggest he should pay for this molting, cringing pitiful boy's ailing love interests... but he's pre-empted by Richard proclaiming in tones of apparent intellectual interest, "That so, mate? Funny, the sylve said the same exact thing about _you_." Horribly confused, the younger Empyrean looks about in several directions, from the black-haired Richard to the pointy little merchant to the bigger Empyrean that shoved him out of the way. "But," he blurts, "but, but..." His fine-boned features settling into a perfect poker face, Richard concludes, "'Course, maybe you could tell us why your roots're better than _hers_. For the sake o' shoppin' around, y'ken?" "Yes!" bellows the big Empyrean, thrusting a muscular finger down at Weasel. "What exactly are you selling, that we should pay half again as much to you?" WindSong enters the Rialto from the western part of Main street. WindSong has arrived. WindSong travels east to the intersection of Main and Vicina. WindSong has left. Weasel doesn't get angry. He just points a stubby little finger at Richard. "You Be Quiet Poofy Man." he turns to the big empyrean, and the crowd around him as a whole. "That Person Live Before In Tent City, No Could Heal. Roots Grow In Plague. No Can Heal In Tent City, No Can Heal In Haven." Richard mouths, 'Poofy?' in mock bemusement, but now, the casual commentary he's tossed out for the consideration of the knot of people around Weasel has done its work. The big Empyrean muscles his way forward, barking out imperiously, "Do we look like idiots? How do you know where the Sylvan used to live and what roots she's selling?" "She's a Sylvan -- they know roots, don't they?" someone else calls out bemusedly. The younger Empyrean gives a glad little cry, finally finding a tarnished denarius somewhere on his person, and then flinging himself at Richard to grab the man by the front of his shirt. "Where is she?" he begs. "Where's the Sylvan?" His nose crinkling up in what might almost be distate as the winged youth grabs him, Richard gestures off brusquely to the west. "That way. Corner of Fairway and Border. Can't miss her." With that, then, the Empyrean leaps skyward, flapping for all he's worth and shedding feathers as he goes. Two others on the edge of the crowd, eying Weasel suspiciously, take to the air after him. Weasel shrugs. This isn't about the boy and his betrothed any more. "Weasel Stuff Always Quality. No Get So Guarantee With Other." he says. "Go If Want To Waste Money. You Die Then." he says, letting everyone hear him. An argument breaks out amongst some of the remaining Empyreans, hissed whispers and desperate mutters exchanged back and forth in between the nervous flutter of wings. "He's not saying? Gods, I'm not wasting a zechin without a guarantee--" "He wouldn't dare cheat--" "Why didn't he answer the questions--" "Dirty little mongrel, what'd he know about healing anyway--" "You'd _better_ be telling me the truth about this," growls the big Empyrean, then, thrusting forth a meaty hand with a zechin on the palm, then. His wings furl out to their full impressive span, and from the look of him, he's ready to snap Weasel in half at the slightest sign of fraud from the little merchant. Watching all this, melting back out of the way to the fringe of the crowd, Richard smirks to himself. Oh, he's seen enough. Smells like a grift to him -- but he's not about to seriously step on the man's game. Call it professional courtesy, if you like. But he's also not going to risk any of his own coinage here, either. The unfurling of wings doesn't go without a response. Two burly mongrels armed with very evident shortswords step out of the crowd behind Weasel, giving a big show of being threatening and big. At the same time, Weasel places the bag in the mans hand and taking the coin in a single quick motion. "There Go." Now that this is done, he turns to the remainder of the crowd, finishing up his selling to them all. Smiling as he does it. Made a tidy profit, he has. This plagues not such a bad thing after all. Blue eyes watch Weasel's every single move, evaluating, measuring... and as he slips out of range of the little crowd and of the little merchant doing his business, Richard ducks off... but not far away. He sidles unobtrusively off across the marketplace, ostensibly to scope the rest of the place -- but every so often casting a surreptitious glance back at the short Mongrel merchant, waiting for a proper opportunity. No, he won't be buying roots from Weasel tonight... but perhaps he can buy something more useful, if he throws his dice right: information. Information? Weasel has information in scones. Litteraly. It's kind of like a fortune cookie. But thats probably not what Richard wants. So he'll have to talk to Weasel himself instead of one of his various helpers. Weasel finishes selling to all the various others, and then heads promptly over to a mongrel boy who takes the sack of roots as Weasel takes a tray with food on it from him. Heading towards a nearby table, he prepares to eat his dinner. It is said among the followers of Tyche that the Lady gives the touch of her right hand -- the touch of good luck -- to those who take advantage of opportunity when they see it. Richard, long familiar with the touch of both Tyche's right and left hands, vastly prefers the former. And so he deftly snatches up this opportunity, rearranging his apparently aimless course until it brings him to Weasel's table. Graceful, lithe, and silent until he actually speaks, the taller man comes up from the right side of the little merchant's table. Let's test Weasel's reflexes, shall we? A coin is fetched out of Richard's pocket, and the little silver circle is casually flipped in the smaller man's direction while Richard drawls, "Look sharp, mate." You'll find Weasel's reflexes are more than addequate. Not that he needs it. His ears are so trained and his mind so focused upon a single goal that he hears the light click of metal against nail just before you flip the coin. A single hand darts swiftly out and envelops the coin before pulling back towards his stubby form. The grubby little merchant looks up towards where you stand. "I'll take that as an apology." he says. Richard's mouth curls up on one side in a crooked grin, a narrow flash of white amidst the dark shadow of the stubble that haunts his jaw. Utterly unsurprised by the shorter man's shift in speaking styles, he settles himself lazily down in a seat on the table's other side. "I'm positively penitent," he replies blandly. "I can get even more contrite, if you're interested." Weasel waves the previously coin bearing hand, which is no longer so burdened. If you could call it that. His speech is in hushed tones, so that no one in the Rialto aside from Richard can hear his words, or tell that he doesn't need to speak poorly. "No need. Is there something you wanted then?" he says, getting right to the point. "Information." Richard, too, can get right to the point. And he, too, pitches his voice low and soft, the slight lilt of his accent being almost all that lets the smaller man's obviously sharp ears follow his words. "A zechin, if you've got a line on a _real_ cure for this plague. A denarius, if you can point me at someone who does." Weasel chuckles to himself for a moment. After a second of thought, he brings his eyes back to your face. His mouth curls into a wicked little grin. "Simply a Zechin? So you want me to such valuable information for the same price I was selling these?" He pulls a small bag from his pouch, which seems to be the same as what he was just selling about the crowd. Richard's sardonic little smile doesn't change shape, but it does change size, getting ever so slightly larger. "Ach, this is what I'm gettin' for bein' cursed with a long memory," he murmurs airily. "I'm guessin' you weren't payin' attention six years back when everybody who bought the 'cure' for the red spots off of Goldgrin Meg got the runs, then?" Abruptly, his smile turns feral. "Don't suppose you're after tryin' to top 'er now, are you?" Weasel 's grin turns icy then, and his beedy little eyes fasten onto yours. "It seems to me, sir, that you need something I've got. So, either you can pay me a nice little price of 6 zechin, or you can go elsewhere. I don't even .need. the business from this plague. It's just an interesting side market." The hand holding the small sack returns to his cloak. A match of wills, is it? Richard has the size advantage here -- but then, who doesn't, around Weasel? Unlike the burly Empyrean who'd been desperate enough to throw a zechin at the little Mongrel for his bag of roots, however, Richard seems to feel no need to flaunt his superior height here. Nor does he have the bulk to take the Empyrean's approach of physical threats -- and at any rate, Richard has never, ever been so crude, not in any of his years in Haven. He simply flashes Weasel a still larger smile, saying easily, "And this after I chased off more marks from Leafshimmer than I did from you -- and do I get _any_ gratitude? Two zechin." Weasel becomes somewhat less icy in kind. "I'm not interested in driving my competetors out of business. That'd be no fun at all. All I want is to make a nice profit. Five Zechin." "I'm not interested in dyin', mate," comes Richard's drawl, "but I'm not interested in havin' the runs for a week -- or shellin' out my gold only to turn around and die anyway." His blue eyes never waver. "Three zechin, if your whisper's a true one. Three panas up front and the other three when I get the proof." Weasel laughs. "Thats only the equivilent of two zechin, friend." he says, kind of empasizing friend in a way that indicates he doesn't mean it. "Four Zechin. Two up front, and two in a week." he says, and makes the posture he takes up makes it obvious that this is his final offer. If Richard's disappointed that his little feint through the merchant's defenses didn't work, he gives absolutely no sign of it, at least in his expression. "Math was never me strong point," he says without batting an eye. "Done, then -- two now, two in a week. _If_ it works." The smile fades off his fine-boned countenance, as he casually dips a hand into his jakke. When it comes out again the coins are not obvious in his grasp, but the taller man does flash his palm briefly at the shorter, enough to give a glimpse of metal tucked discreetly against his palm. Weasel takes from his cloak another sack much like the previos one, except for one major difference. The coloration of this pouch is red instead of brown, and it appears to be silk. "This is simply a more concentrated form of what I was selling earlier. Same instructions. It probably won't help if thier too far into the sickness, but it should help otherwise. Don't even think about it if its someone really sickly though. Even this won't help them." he keeps the pouch well within his grasp though, waiting to actually see the correct amount of money. Blue eyes flick a measuring glance from Weasel's face to the silk bag and back again; then, the black-haired trader slides his hand across the tabletop to rest right by the remains of the merchant's dinner. The hand turns over; Richard's thumb spreads the coins he's palmed apart, just enough to show, indeed, a pair of zechin. Then he turns his hand over again, releasing the coins onto the table with a muted *clink*. His gaze remains on Weasel's all the while, and he can be heard to murmur grimly, "I'll keep ye posted." The small bag is tossed in your direction as he grabs up the coins. Not quite as much profit as he would have made turning that into seperate bags to sell to the nomral Rialto goers, but it'll have to do, and when and if this person gets better then he'll have two more, a half decent price indeed. If he doesn't get his money, however, one can be sure that there will be a number of burly mongrels visiting on Richard. Apparently, for once, the slim rakish trader is willing to take that kind of risk. There's no sign of the sickness about him; his movements are steady, his color as healthy as the lower-class citizens of Haven generally achieve, his eyes clear. But as the coins and the bag are exchanged, there is still a certain tautness that suggests to the discerning eye that this man has more at stake than his own health. The silk bundle vanishes into his jakke, taking the same route the zechins had gone coming out -- and with that, Richard stands. He smiles once more, but it's a narrow little smile and it doesn't lighten his eyes. "Pleasure doin' business with ye, mate," is all he says, before he turns to vanish off into the night. [End log.]