Board Thread:Roleplaying/@comment-3293219-20160410002122/@comment-5543592-20160410213506

Crimson had a quest. As he made his way towards the city, he eyed the ground, and found something to his liking. Picking a flower with blue pedals from the ground, he lifted it up and stuck it in the front pocket of his uniform, then pulled his hood forward, shadowing his face.

As he passed by a salesman cart, the man totting a whole open crate of silverware by wheelbarrow. Crimson stood just a bit behind him and tapped him on his far shoulder. The man turned his head in that direction, and Crimson reached out and deftly swiped a fork, knife, and spoon. A piece of each. There was some right poetry in that. In the same move, he pulled three throwing knives from his belt and stuck them into the man’s crate, then started off again.

“Hey…   Hey!”   He heard the cries behind him. “Get back here!”

But Crimson was already off, and the man with his wheelbarrow wasn’t fast enough to catch up. Besides, Crimson had left an exchange behind.

He made for the large, wide ramp into the city, but first scouted out the women. Good looking lot of ladies there were here. May have been an elven city, but there were plenty of regular sized women about. He picked out one in particular, analyzing what she wore. A fine red dress, pulling a pony by its reins that carried a fair amount of luggage on its back. No, he knew where she was going.

“Oh, my apologies!”   Crimson said in a raspy voice as he bumped into her. “Didn’t see you there.”   He fumbled blindly patting at her leg, trying to figure out where she was, fingers brushing her pocket.

“That’s alright.”   She said in a gentle tone. “Do you need any help?”

“No, no, I’m just fine, ma’am.”   The Redguard rasped, stumbling away.

As he stalked up the walkway into the Falinesti proper, hawkers called out to him, advertising his products. But he wasn’t interested, no sir. Not him. He was on a quest. He whistled as he danced up the steps. A simple tune, easy and familiar, with an accompanying beat playing in his mind. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick, energetic. He straightened out, pulling his head back, straightening posture out again after he encounter with the woman. He strolled up the walkway, but found himself less and less pleased with his flower. It was not the proper offering for the god with whom he must meet. Too obvious, too soft. He spun it in his fingers, thoughtful, softly whistling his tune. No better ideas came to him. This area was too fancy, with fine wooden houses and plants and men clipping green things. The streets didn’t even stink of horse dung. It was hard to think in a place like this; everyone knew the best thinking happened in alleyways and slums. Places where the brain had to be alert, even panicked— where the bugger knew that if it didn’t perk up and get some geniusing done, you were likely to get yourself stabbed, and then where would it be?

Yes he needed to get some geniusing done alright.

Crimson cocked his hood up onto his head, grinned, and checked the sign hanging from the nearby streetlamp. Exactly where he’d wanted to go, and not a clip paid. He started whistling and strolled along the walkway, keeping an eye out for a better offering. What would the god want?

Maybe that? he wondered, eyeing a line of people waiting at Old Malachi’s cart in the market square, wanting to buy some of his fried potatoes.

Seemed a good bet. Crimson wandered over. “Need some help, Malachi?” The old man looked up and wiped his brow.

“Crimson? When’d you get back in the city?”

“Just today. Been looking around, seein’ the sights. You need some help?”

“Five Septims a small pouch, eight for a large, Crimson. And don’t eat none of the stock, or I’ll fry your fingers.” Crimson grinned, slipping behind the cart as the man turned back to his brazier and stirred a batch that was frying. Crimson took the customers’ money— and didn’t eat much of the stock— until the last man in line arrived, a fancy-looking fellow in a doorman’s jacket.

Probably worked at one of the inns down the lane. Good tips at those jobs. “Three large,” the man said. Crimson got his potatoes, took the man’s money, then hesitated. “Actually,” Crimson said, holding up a Septim, “do you have change? We got too many heavy pouches.”

“I suppose,” the man said, digging in his nice eelskin wallet.

“Great, here’s a pouch of twenty.”

“I’ve got two fives and ten singles,” the man said, putting them down.

“Thanks.” Crimson took them, then hesitated. “Actually, I’ve got plenty of ones. Could I get that pouch’a’ten I saw in your wallet?”

“Fine.”

Crimson gave him a handful of coins and took the ten.

“Hey,” the man said, “there are only seven here.”

“Whoops!” Crimson said.

“What are you doing, Crimson?” Old Malachi said. “There’s more change in the box under there.”

“Really?” Crimson glanced down. “Damn. Okay, how about you just give me my twenty back?”

He counted the man back thirteen and poured the coins into his hand. The man sighed, and gave Crimson the twenty. “Can I just get some sauce for my chips?”

“Sure, sure,” Crimson said, squeezing some sauce onto the pouches, beside the potatoes. “That’s a nice wallet. Whaddaya want for it?” The man hesitated, looking at his wallet. “I’ll give you this,” Crimson said, plucking the flower off his ear and holding it out with a pouch of ten Septims.”

The man shrugged and handed over the empty wallet, taking the pouch and stuffing it in his pocket. He threw the flower away. “Idiot,” the man said, marching off with his potatoes. Crimson tossed the wallet up and caught it again.

“Did you shortchange that man, Crimson?” Old Malachi asked.

“What’s that?”

“You got him to give you fifty, and you gave him back forty.”

“What?” Crimson said, stuffing the wallet in his back pocket. “You know I can’t count that high, Malachi. ’Sides, gave him ten extra at the end.”

“For his wallet.”

“Nah,” Crimson said. “The flower was for the wallet. The pouch was ’cuz I somehow ended up with an extra ten completely on accident, very innocent-like.” He smiled, helped himself to a pouch of chips, and went wandering off. That wallet was nice. His god would like that. Everyone needed wallets, right? He got it out and opened and closed it repeatedly, until he noticed that one side was worn. Blazes. He’d been cheated! This wouldn’t work at all for an offering. He shook his head, walking along the walkway promenade. A pair of urchins sat on one side, hands out for coins. The melancholy sound of a busker rose from a little farther down the path. Crimson was near the Havel, a nice slum, and he caught whiffs of their distinctive odor.

Fortunately the aroma wafting from a nearby bakery overwhelmed most of it. “Here’s the thing,” he said to one of the urchins, a girl not seven. He settled down on his haunches.

“I haven’t travailed enough.”

“… Sir?” the girl asked.

“In the old stories of quests, you gotta travail. That’s like traveling, but with an ailment stapled on. Headaches and the like; maybe a sore backside too.”

“Can … can I have a coin, sir?”

“Haven’t got no coins,” Crimson said, thinking. “Damn. In the stories they always tip the urchins, don’t they? Lets ya know they’re the heroes and such. Hold here for a sec.”

He stood up and burst into the bakery, real heroic-like. A woman behind the counter was just pulling a rack of meat buns out of the oven. Crimson slammed his fork down onto the plain wooden countertop, leaving it flourished there like a legendary sword.

“How many buns’ll you give me for this?” he asked. The baker frowned, looking at him, then taking the fork. She turned it over in her fingers.

“Mister,” she said, “this is silver.”

“So … how many?” Crimson asked.

“A bunch.”

“A bunch’ll do, fair merchant.” A moment later he emerged from the bakery holding three large paper sacks filled with a dozen buns each. He dropped a handful of change the baker had insisted on giving him into the urchins’ hands, then held up a finger as their jaws dropped.

“You,” he said, “must earn this.”

“How, sir?”

“Take these,” he said, dropping the sacks. “Go give the stuff inside away.”

“To who?” the girl asked.

“Anyone who needs them,” Crimson said. “But see here, now. Don’t eat more than four yourselves, all right?”

“Four?” the girl said. “All for me?”

“Well, five, but you bargain hard. Little cheat.” He left them stunned and danced along the edge of the walkway, passing the busker, who sat strumming an old lute.

“Something lively, minstrel!” Crimson called, tossing the silver spoon into the man’s overturned hat, which awaited tips.

“Here now,” the man said. “What’s this?” He squinted. “A spoon?”

“Merchants are apparently desperate for the things!” Crimson called.

“They’ll give you half a hunnerd meat buns for one, with change to boot. Now, give me ‘Ragnar the Red,’ minstrel!” The man shrugged, and started plucking the song from Crimson’s mind. Ba-bum, ba-bum, ba-bum. Quick, energetic. Crimson rocked back and forth, eyes closed. The end of an era, he thought. A god to be appeased. He heard the two urchins laughing, and opened his eyes to see them tossing meat buns at the people they passed. Crimson smiled, then kicked himself in a smooth skid along the edge of the walkway, which was slippery with a coating of slime. He managed to go a good ten feet before losing his balance and slipping.

Which of course, plunged him right over the side.

He reached his arm out, deftly, and snagged a vine before he plummeted to his death, and that swung him into one of the dripping waterfalls, dousing him. Coughing, he pulled himself up onto the side of the walkway. Well, maybe this would count as a travail. If not, it was probably poetry, considering what he’d done to Juliette this morning. That was the way to go. Eyes forward, back turned toward the past. No sense getting your nose stuck in things that don’t matter anymore. He continued on his way, trailing water and spinning the last of the silverware— the knife— in his fingers. This was not the right offering for his quest. He was pretty sure of it. But what was? He stopped at the next bridge, then stepped back. A short man in a uniform he didn’t recognize was walking down a nearby street with a little book in hand. Trader’s carts were sitting here in various positions, most partly up onto the walkways. The man in the uniform stopped at each one, writing something down in his book. Crimson followed after him.

“Here now,” he asked the man. “What’re you doing?”

The little man in the uniform glanced at him, then back at his notebook. “New city ordinance about the parking of trader’s carts requires them to be left in an orderly manner, not up on the walkways like this.”

“So…”

“So I’m writing down the registry numbers of each one,” the man said. “And we’ll track down the owners and charge them a fine.”

Crimson whistled softly. “That’s evil.”

“Nonsense,” the man said. “It’s the law.”

“So you’re a guard?”

“Fine enforcement officer,” the man said. “Spent most of my time inspecting kitchens before last month. This is a lot more productive, I’ll tell you. It—”

“That’s great,” Crimson said. “Whaddaya want for the book?”

The man regarded him. “It’s not for trade.”

“I’ve got this here nice wallet,” Crimson said, holding it up, water dripping out the side. “Recently cleaned.”

“Move along, sir,” the man said. “I am not—”

“How ’bout this?” Crimson said, yanking out the knife. The man jumped back in alarm, dropping his notebook. Crimson snatched it, dropping the knife. “Great trade. Thanks. Bye.” He took off at a dash.

“Hey!” the man shouted, chasing after him. “Hey!”

“No tradebacks!” Crimson shouted, running for all he was worth.

“Come back here!”

Crimson dashed out onto the main street along the thick truck of the tree, passing a couple of old men sitting on a tenement’s steps near the entrance to the slums. Crimson ignored them, holding his hood to his head and running all-out. The guard was a determined one. Followed Crimson a good ten streets before slowing, then stopping, hands on his knees. Crimson grinned and ducked around one last corner before slamming his back against the bark of a building, beside a window. He was pretty winded himself.

He’ll probably file a report, Crimson thought. Hope the fine they make Jude pay isn’t too large. He ought to find something to bring back as an apology. Maybe Jude needed a wallet.

Crimson heard something beside him, and turned to see a Bosmer woman with spectacles leaning out the window to look at him curiously. She was holding a pen, and just inside the window a half-finished letter lay on the desk in front of her. Perfect. Crimson tipped his imaginary hat, snatching the pen from her hand. “Thanks,” he said, opening the notebook and scribbling some words. As she cried out, he tossed the pen back to her, then continued on his way.

The final destination, the god’s dwelling, was not far now. He veered down a street that lined the tree and quaint smaller townhomes. He counted them off, then turned to the right and stood facing it. The god’s temple. Aysia Hall. She’d moved here a little while ago. He took a deep breath, banishing the music in his head. This had to be quiet. He crept carefully up the long walk to the front door, pulled his hood down to his shoulders, and then pushed it open.

There was a friendliness to the air as speak spoke in low tone, conversing about their day. One voice in particular drew him. The voice of a woman in a red dress who had taken pity on a supposedly blind man earlier today.

“…and I reached into my pocket and it was gone.”   She exclaimed to the bartender who was listening with a half ear. Likely the woman had fished for her ring, found it missing, and had proceeded to tell the nearest soul her tale. Real talkative, this one was. "That ring was a gift from my aunt!  A priceless heirlom.  Lost!"

She’s perfect, Crimson thought. He slunk up behind her, all quiet like, and tapped the woman on the shoulder.

She whirled around with a confused expression on her face.

“’Cuse me, goddess.”   He said, fishing into his pocket and proffering the ring to her with a bowed head. “But me thinks you dropped this a while back.”

The woman raised curious brow at him as she took the ring held it up to the light and then slide it onto her finger. She turned her attention back to him. “Goddess, huh?”

Crimson lifted his head and met her eyes, before grinning at her. “Not flattering enough? I’ve got a few dozen more in my back pocket, if you want to hear them.”

He pulled up his booklet, lent to him by that nice fine-enforcement-officer, and flicked it open.

The woman gave him a calculated smile. “I think I have some time…”