Roleplay City
Oberon Castle => OBERON CASTLE: Drink Today, Die Tomorrow => The Markets => Topic started by: Nemorensis on February 24, 2008, 01:18:11 PM
-
[[Anyone is Welcome!]]
Honeyed rays, seeping through verdant boughs of trees, kissed the sweet ground. Too late. A lively breath of spring had awoken the earth. The flower-speckled meadows had swayed with the inhale and exhale of the warmer winds, and the birds and animals had roused; but it was too late. Spring had flowered into a perhaps bountiful summer, withered into fall, and died into winter.
Nasir gently cursed himself. A spring ago, he should have arrived in Oberon. He was happy with what he had left in his caravan, and what little was ‘taxed’ on the route from Petra. Snow crunched beneath the colorfully veiled man’s canvas boots, and a drone of crunches preceded his, from hooves to sandals and even feet wrapped with cloth for the makeshift function of protection.
As Nasir walked, he perceived no morning larks chirping from the rime-ridden eaves of sleeping spindly oaks, and only the wolf’s wail resounded over all which seemed muted by snow. Even his crew, whispering forlornly of the weather in a Diaspora of languages, could not be heard over the intransigent winter silence.
Snow was a curious thing. Nasir remembered seeing snow glowing on the peaks of Mount Lebanon, and how boughs of it slept on fragrant cedars that peppered the land. This snow rained like feathers from the sky and dusted the ground in a glittery purity. He would have found it breathtaking, if only the traveling merchant could have alleviated the amassing nervousness which overwhelmed him.
The caravan heaved upon the looming ramparts and daunting drawbridge as the sun turned the silent snow into a shimmering stupor of light.
“My lord?” interrupted a caravan worker, gesturing to the guards that overlooked the caravan with expert inquisition. Rapidly, Nasir forced himself to abandon his worries.
“Talon’s blessings bestowed upon you. I am a humble merchant with a small shop here. I bring Oberon an abundant caravan of exotic luxuries,” spoke the man in a silken voice. He chided his natural reversion into accented English through his time spent on the trade routes, but now he gave himself a more defined motive to practice. Nasir reluctantly untied his muslin veil to expose his illustrious visage.
The guard was tormented in comparison. His nose was bright red from the kiss of frost, and his unstable gaze was ringed with dark circles of fatigue. A light smile smoothed the roughness of his countenance, having not been scrutinized or condemned by the imperious nobility or an over-ranking soldier for once.
“Let em’ inside!” yelled the guard in a thick English accent, as a blast of stagnant rank bellowed from the man’s mouth. Nasir feeling somewhat compassionate, or more so pity, presented the guard with two gleaming copper.
"You need this more than I do,” Nasir said, trying not to be taken aback by the man’s hands, callous at the palms and bleeding at the fingernails. The exotic man discreetly wiped his hand on the hem of his many layers of cloth.
The mangy guard smiled more enthusiastically which filled Nasir with some false sense of good deed. He concluded that the guard was just lazy; as bathing was free to guards at the bathhouse. With a glittering smile trained for vending, the man re-concealed his face coyly from the harsh elements and conducted the rest of the caravan to follow.
Nervously, the loaded caravans careened over the creaking bridge. One by one, the menagerie slowly swerved into the haven of Oberon. Nasir’s heart pounded. He could hear it audibly in his throat, even passed the many layers of protective cloth of his foreign attire. The climax of his fear was reached as the last of the trio of caravans slowly pulled into the ridiculously narrow streets, only to be intensified again.
A large snap resounded throughout the stifled snow-encroached alleyways. An outburst of Arabic, Italian and English among other languages resulted, causing many commoner gazes to avert from their work towards Nasir and his troupe.
“My lord! The wheel-stick!” A worker threw a galling voice towards the front of the caravan. Nasir, upon inspecting the final caravan of three, noticed that the axel had snapped. The horses stammered crazily in confusion, only adding to the teeming cloud of commotion. Several workers raced to calm the horses, only to be kicked in return. Others discovered the problem and stared blankly at it, as if there was nothing that could be done.
“It is called an axel,” Nasir replied, annoyed, as he viewed the splintered wooden beam. Through the stagnant confusion, the narrow passage coagulated at the drawbridge and copper-hungry merchants bantered from behind for the caravan to move.
“Pick the caravan up and move it! Move it over to the side…it only takes a few men!” stressed Nasir, only to be met by more stalling and hesitation. He was growing more impatient and anxious by the second. The on-looking crowd, talking in hushed voices, gave Nasir relentless brevity as they escalated into the hum of laughter and provoking comments. He felt the heat of humiliation radiating from his face. A grand show was the last thing he wanted to give the people of Oberon. His hands shaking, he gulped helplessly behind his cloth partition.
The last caravan was painfully shoved to the side with incredulous listlessness. While the workers were left to fend off any desperate citizen attempting to pillage, the other two caravans escaped the riotous horde and fled mercilessly towards the market.
Nasir calmed the horses urgently with a small dosage of hashish; their constant shrilling yells aggravating the surrounding people became too distracting. The atmosphere came to a détente as the journey neared its end.
The caravan enthusiastically rolled into a quieter winter market. However, the horses still parted a sea of diverse color and people as it traversed the busily confused area. Nasir entertained himself by guessing where foreigners were from, depending on their accents and clothing. He hoped to know them in the future.
The cries of other merchants and bartering alleviated his aching head for once, and his eyes, now irises of chartreuse bubbled with excitement through a vibrant veil of muslin cloth. He found the pungent whiffs of spices, rotting matter, and flowers to be commonplace in his memories…though not as diverse or as pungent as the souks of Damascus or Dubai, each memorable scent pulled a string of his heart.
Several attempts were made on his caravan to jostle through and pilfer, but no attempts were bountiful: a couple of old worn pots, dusty linens and piles of hay made up most of the contents of each caravan. A book was worth nothing to a beggar who could not read; for the most part, he would be safe.
“Damned wretch! Five copper for this rat-stitched coat? I wasn’t born to a bloody bacon-pig!” a commoner crudely shouted and expressed himself with derogatory gestures. The words curved Nasir’s lips into a smile. He absorbed the many stares, glares, and looks of intrigue as the train paraded through, nodding politely in return.
I am home, thought Nasir. The caravan came to a stroll near a row of shops opposite the middle vending area, and the exotic merchant sharply tugged on the leather haltering, bringing the entire caravan to a lurching stop.
The caravan came to a final rest at a small begrimed shop, sandwiched between more attentive shops either side. The slow and conscientious work began of carefully unloading and concealing the items from the public. In a chain, several cloth-wrapped items were passed into the dusty depths of the shop. Several sandy clay vases entered the shop, coarse cloth smattered by mud and dirt; and a few sacks of hemp fiber. The caravans created a façade that ensured the safety of the trifles.
“Go and salvage the caravan, I will take over from here,” demanded Nasir with a mounting fatigue. If it had been any other guards besides Nasir’s, they would have chortled and strolled away. Nasir did not have the characteristic of supremacy as many other merchants had over their entourage. A strange union forged between Merchant and Worker left other merchants dumbfounded. Such a bizarre mechanism seldom worked efficiently. A troupe of shivering workers enveloped themselves in l
“Where do I begin?” Nasir marveled at his father’s shop. Here he could already imagine what lucrative capabilities his own shop could be possible of. For now, only an old table, itself struggling to stand, caught his interest above the other trifles—everything else seeming to have been purloined. He began to place things around the table with little attention to detail. For now, he dreamt of what reputation he would need, and what kind of networks he could forge—the possibilities were endless finally opening a stationary shop.
For now, he was thankful that he was in such a culturally accepted place, and here he would not be discriminated against.
((Sorry it\'s so long. I wanted to revise this for a longer time...but I became too impatient. Maybe next time! ;) ))
-
The weather was the worst it had been in a while, Kysis looking out the tall slit windows of his street-facing wall and wishing it was not snow filling the sky. With a sharp pang he missed Greece. Kysis had not been back in Oberon for long, and already there was homesickness. He missed the smells, the sights, the sun. His skin was showing the latter absence, his rich olive tan having faded to a light shimmer of gold on his sculpted skin.
Weather or not, he would have to go outside. Ryanna was “ill” again, and though Kysis suspected something of his most loyal worker, who had never missed a day before. Perhaps later, if his Retainer decided to drop by the shop, Kysis could go check on her. It was worrisome that she would be gone so long, and unexplained.
Slowly, he moved away from the long, tall windows. The sunlight— what little came through the dense cover of clouds— filtered through the circular, stained glass window on the roof of his room, design of oranges and reds and golds splayed across his floor like a rug though their was none over the sand hued stone. Long, agile strides carried him across the long chamber, Kysis finding his warmest cloak, one he had purchased while in his home city of Kreos, for the sake of winter further north. It was strange that they would have something so perfectly suited, considering how much more amiable the weather could be in Greece, with the warm salt breeze and the glow about the whole place.
Kysis needed to stop thinking about Greece lest he find a reason to go back there so soon.
A thick, deep brown cloak was slung over his shoulders, concealing the crimson rust of his tunic and the stark black of his pants and boots. The clasp was fastened, a simple thing to do, just a twist, first part of the “hood” pulled up over his head. There was a stretch of cloth which hung down on the right side, meant to be wrapped around. It was one of those things Greece had picked up from their Ottoman neighbors, and as much as Kysis despised the Ottoman Empire, he had to admit the idea was a good one. It would work as effectively in the deep desert storms as it would in a snow storm, keeping the undesirable elements off.
With care he wrapped the cloth around, just once so the extra material hung over his left shoulder. His mouth and nose were covered, leaving just his sapphire eyes and fading tan in sight. The people of Oberon might not even recognize him, without his platinum hair in plain display, as Kysis usually had it. That only meant his trip to the marketplace would be a fast one, uninterrupted by those people who would stop him to congratulate him on his engagement to the Captain of the Guard, or ask him why in the name of every god in the sky and more, would he chose her. He was not in the mood to deal with it today.
“Alexandri, eiste anamenete?” Kysis was coming down the stairs when he spotted his guard— not too long ago his sister’s guard— standing in the entry of the manor, waiting in full armor as he usually did, a mace on one hip and a small shield on the other. With a sword on his own hip, Kysis did not feel the need for a guard, but the shop needed one. Kysis could not keep his eyes everywhere at once. Luckily Alex was already alert, quickly spinning and giving a salute, responding that yes, he was ready. Alex was the only one of the Liari Guards who spoke English more than “hello,” but Kysis did not feel like using that language, his second. Luckily he never had to use Latin, his third.
It was not too hard a walk to the markets, but Kysis noticed there had been something to stir up everyone there. Perhaps he was on edge a bit. Alex kept three paces behind Kysis and to the right, as he had been instructed to do. Kysis hated the idea of having a guard when he had originally been one, working under his uncle, the previous Lord Liari. The transfer of that title was still sinking in.
There was a caravan in the marketplace, and not too far from his own shop. That sparked Kysis’ interest. He hoped it wasn’t another damn weapons merchant. He was rather sick of them trying to move in on his territory. There was no way they could win, Kysis knowing this but wishing they would realize it. Oh well. Kysis still made more than enough money from his shop to keep everything running on the Oberon side of the business.
But who was the new merchant? Or who had just gotten in a rather dusty shipment?
Kysis dismissed Alex from his presence, the guard going and opening the shop, taking up his post. The young lord could tell when his guard was nervous. That was definitely now. Oh well. Kysis was too curious to pass it up, and there would not be any business in his shop so early. It would be fine.
Out of decorum, Kysis stopped a few feet away from the caravan, a few feet away from the shop entrance as well. Curiosity sparkled in his dark eyes, Kysis glancing over the things around without moving his head in the action. There was no way Kysis would miss seeing who this merchant was. Kysis doubted he would recognize the man (Kysis was assuming in the gender), considering how new he was to Oberon himself, and how he had been missing for a while in there, off to his homeland.
He waited. He was sure it would be interesting, too.
-
Kysis’ bold move was sensitively acknowledged, as no other curious bystander had dared get any nearer. Gestures and word of mouth, however conflicting, roughly translated from worker to worker. Gradually, workers began to fix their attention towards Kysis while they continued the delicate unpacking of the items. The operation went as intended, however, with little effort to conceal anything.
Abruptly, from inside of the faded canvas that embowed on the freight, an ebon woman approached in the slender allowance between both trailers. Tenderly maneuvering herself between the exhausted Arabian stallions, her deep complexion expertly camouflaged her. Her skin was kissed by a Nubian sun, and her eyes were edacious to suit. A bow fixed in her left hand, an arrow tense on the string, she took an audacious position in front of him.
“هل بإمكاني مساعدتك؟” ((Can I help you?)) she threw her voice behind her in Arabic to the other workers for support. Framed by detailed braids, her face was saturated in fear. A nervous grip held to her bow, as if she could let off an arrow at any instant, just by accident. The workers began to gather and watch the tense scene, but none availed to her aid.
“لحظة من فضلك”((Wait! Stop!)) a man yelled fretfully in response. The woman centered in on Kysis’ marine eyes with incredulity. A silhouette, amorously draped in an effervescent array of muslin fabric, strode preemptively in front of the young worker. His green eyes hazed as he searched for the trading merchant and impeccable English within him.
“Welcome, how can I help you? Please excuse her. She does not speak English very well,” he charismatically compromised with a lightening laugh, though Nasir could tell his man was not Briton by attire, he anticipated English was a circumspect appeasement.
With a moment of hesitation as Nasir subtly motioned the Nubian worker back amid the nosy oriental cavalcade, a hand of many diverse jewels discovered an entrance through the many incisions in the fluid veneer, with the other hand employed in holding back the many layers of cloth.
Each cloth discovered beneath the dusty ‘faded’ façade cloth increased in simplicity but profligacy. A fluid but slightly averse motion revealed Nasir\'s appearance behind the protective veil as a negotiation of greater trust. Hawk-like features were painted with a quaint but uneasy medeterrainean smile, immersed in a subtle pictish heritage.
Hand shakily extended, Nasir presented an anxious but overall hospitable greeting, and possibly an allusive apology to the sudden hostilities.
-
That language… it sparked immediate familiarity in his mind, setting off alarms. Though the language almost sounded like singing when spoken, Kysis saw it in an entirely different light. It was the language of the Ottoman Empire, what he had heard the ambassadors speak while they were in Kreos. The young lord had no idea what was said, but he could see the bow, feel the threat. Immediately his right hand fell downward to rest on the wire-wrapped hilt of his sword, cloak falling aside to give view of that blade as he did so. Could he even dodge an arrow at such close proximity? The odds were not for him.
The second voice did not sound hostile. Kysis did not remove his eyes from the ebony skinned woman, keeping her locked in his own cool gaze. If he was at all nervous, it did not show. Kysis had been shot by an arrow before. It couldn’t hurt too much to happen again. That was what he kept telling himself mentally, glad the thin-pressed line of his lips was covered by dark cloth. He was tense, yes, but the type of tense a cat got before the pounce.
It was interesting to see such bright colors in the middle of winter.
When the woman was dismissed, and apologies made, Kysis lowered his hand away from his sword. It rested on his right hip, a blatant sign that he was left handed. Kysis hoped that would not be an instant strike against him, considering what he had seen of Ottoman opinion on the matter. If he was to have a shop so close to this man, he would at least hope they were not on hostile terms…. even if Kysis had the rising suspicion the man was from a kingdom that wanted to overrun Greece.
Noticing the gesture of removing facial coverings, Kysis did the same, pushing back his hood, taking close note of the introduction, replaying it in his mind. An interesting accent, though Kysis did not recognize it. Shaking his head (not at any comment made), his platinum blond hair fell about his shoulders, no longer bound in strange arrangement by the cloth of his cloak.
Kysis nodded his head, as much of a bow as he would give unless some reason for more was allowed. He also reached for the hand, giving a firm shake as Captain Wilson had taught him to do. It was a northern thing, or at least that was how Kysis understood it. They did not shake hands in Kreos.
“I take no offense.” Kysis let his eyes dart back to where that woman went, making sure she was not aiming at him again. “I was merely curious about who would be my neighbor here.” His tone was measured, calculated, but also thickly accented. Speaking Greek so much recently had taken the northern dulling off his speech, and his accent was back in full swing. However, Kysis could not force a smile right now. Not after having a weapon pointed at him. Perhaps later.
Should he introduce himself? Kysis considered, then decided it would only be friendly. “I am Kysis Liari…. And you?” He had never been good at introductions, but he was trying.
-
The half-Levant purveyor seemed quite ‘sated’ as his silhouette was quite bulky, but his lean persona contradicted the notion. He appeared to move easily in the extensive regalia, and perhaps even made them a comfort zone for himself.
“Kysis Liari,” he rolled the words on his tongue like a wine connoisseur. In the midst of the handshake, the well-traveled man tried to place Kysis. By the distinct brogue, he would have narrowed down to a Mediterranean area; though the visitor’s lustrous blonde hair and blue eyes spoke of a more Germanic heritage. If he was indeed European Mediterranean, he only frowned upon the hopelessness of an acquaintance; after all, the Turkish Empire was stretching to the west. His eyes flickered candidly, followed by an equally level bow.
“Nasir al-Juwayriyyah Favershant,” Nasir cultural accent slowly transformed into a proper Briton accent nearing the end of his name. Nasir grew up with typical Lebanese hospitality, stemming from its Turkish influences; given the current situation and forgotten setting, his generosity would be postponed for a more suitable occasion.
“So, you are my neighbor? How thoughtful of you to introduce yourself. Tell me if there is anything I can do to mend our bitter impression,” Nasir spoke in a neutral inflection and an external smile chiming with magnetic finesse. He wasn’t certain if they would be contending or not; regardless, he felt responsible for having an employee nearly shoot him in the publicity of the market.
Logic aside, the man’s intuition somehow spoke of peace between the two. Time will tell. Nasir averted his gaze towards a hauling, rolling sound behind them. The injured caravan arrived on behalf of the strenuous, manual labor of the merchant’s underlings.
“Ah…here comes the final freight. What do you vend?” Nasir uttered under the groans of the workers carrying the caravan as the horses gingerly trotted on the cobblestone.
He draped the flowing cloth around his hand once again and appreciated the cloth sacredly, permitting his face bare. Briton prerequisites aside, Nasir naturally moved closer to the man, and not only to leave curious ears aside. He disagreed with such unhonest and unintimate terms even in business, which were an increasing trend.
-
It was interesting, seeing how the inflections were different on something so simple as a name. Languages had always fascinated Kysis. Someone who spoke a language he did not know also fell under that umbrella of interest, Kysis allowing his curiosity to win over caution (and prejudices). From what Kysis could see of the man, he looked very akin to the men Kysis had seen of the Ottoman Empire, but the hair— what he could see of it— did not entirely match. It made him think of a northerner.
And the name explained it all. That familial name was not Arabic, though the rest sounded it to Kysis. The young lord tried repeating a few times in his mind, but only managed to get Nasir and Favershant down. He lost the middle part at the second syllable, and after that he could not remember how exactly it was pronounced. An interesting language indeed, and it seemed much harder than his own, or Latin, or English even, though he could be mistaken. English was rather difficult, and Kysis was constantly finding words he did not yet know.
Kysis shook his head at the offer to make remedies. He could insert something about how he had had worse than an arrow pointed at him, had survived worse on the field of comment, but from the look of the man’s hands, how he held himself and most distinctly his face, Kysis decided those tidbits would not be appreciated. Still Kysis did not know what the man was selling. That wanted shred of information would come soon, Kysis hoped. If the man was a weapons merchant… he decided not to even think down that path. No point in making his mood sour without need.
An awkward rumbling sound caught Kysis’ keenly trained ears, the lord turning his head so he could see, eyes scanning the limping last part of the caravan, even as Nasir seemed frustrated by its arrival. Snapped axel. It was something Kysis knew how to repair, but did not have the supplies in Oberon to do so. That, and petty repairs were not his main field. Kysis had decided early on that branching out too much would make his business seem desperate and floundering, neither of which tags he wanted floating on his already precariously dangling reputation. Most people did not know what to think of the young weapon’s merchant, so Kysis would rather not soil the opinions which could still go either way.
“I deal in arms and armor, from Greece. And you?” Kysis turned his attention back to the man before him. He hated having his right side facing out towards the teaming market, but it was a necessary evil for the sake of the conversation. Kysis would bear it. He still did not know if the man was friend or foe when it came to business, and the anticipation was killing him. Kysis had to make a conscious effort not to fidget, keeping absolutely still, as he had been trained to be. However, he kept his ears trained to what was going on around him, since he could not really see the market at that point. Hopefully Alex was doing fine alone in the shop.
Kysis hoped he was not being too succinct with his wording. He liked to say what was needed and nothing more, an old habit which a lot of the other merchants in Oberon frowned at him for. Of course, this was friendly for Kysis, as devoid of emotion as his face seemed, despite the smile forced upon his lips. At least he could pretend at friendliness.
-
“Greece,” Nasir said with a defenseless sulk. A dreadful emotion flooded him. His speculation correct, the cloth-draped man bowed his head in grasping; another enemy? In the midst of his apt exposure, back turned away from the man, the man reflected little of his raw emotion in his doctored discourse.
“Ah, weapons. I will know who to come to, I guess!” he added with a pleasing animation. His eyes swept the boisterous market nervously. He steeped his lungs in a full breathe of fresh winter air, stifled by the maturity of the market. Despite his intuitive animosity, the man had nothing rational to hate him for... Could his views be so rapidly distorting already?
He had neither the hands nor the agility for drawing, much less handling a blade, he thought. That explained it. He simply could not comprehend how blades solved problems. He reprimanded his ignorance in such a commonplace subject.
“I sell an assortment of things. I have traveled many places. I suppose you could place the name of my store as…” he paused for a word to categorize the peculiar gathering of merchandise that sparked his eye. “Vintage. Yes, Vintage goods. You will have to come and venture inside for yourself once that everything has found a rightful place,” he expressed his accolades to the engaged caravan with minimal motion.
Nothing profligate or luxurious seemed to march from the caravan, only crude clay vessels seeming simple against the worker’s brilliant clothing, and linen-draped mysteries gave no hints as to which proper shapes it hid.
Whatever the worth, Nasir seemed to be prided in them. In fact, his fingers itched with an insatiable desire to sell them; one could almost tell, by the serrated movements of his stationary posture as he admired them. As he had studied Kysis earlier, he seemed either unnaturally happy, or more correct, he decided, naturally unexpressive. Regardless of having met him for the first time, he knew that there was a familiar thought between them.
Finally mustering the bravery, Nasir honestly addressed the matter and pivoted the conversation. “I...can’t help but feel that you are somewhat concerned. You and I both know this. If it is about our…erm…diverse affiliations…” Nasir pressed with a curled lip, he took a shallow breath. He was delving into unknown territory; all that was available to him was to hang fast. He unobtrusively backed slightly towards his caravan in instinct and somewhat masochistically anticipated a violent response.
“Hold me to my word, whatever it may be worth, that here I do not discriminate,” Nasir stated undoubtedly. Traces of an omniscient smile pervaded his falcon features as he nodded sagely.
-
It was very unusual to turn one’s back to someone unknown, a possibly dangerous stranger who had already been confirmed as armed. It could have been that Nasir was untrained in the way of tactics, which Kysis seriously considered. The young lord would never be caught dead in such garb as Nasir. It was gaudy with too much bulk and too little range of movement. Of course, in the safety of Oberon, Kysis probably did not need the mobility he insisted upon. Still.
When the man turned back to Kysis, he tried to force a smile. The sudden changes between thinking aloud and friendly pretenses had thrown him slightly off, but Kysis was growing accustomed to it. The man was a skeptic. That was fine. Probably a good thing, considering they were both merchants. Wait, vintage? Kysis had to pause for a moment, a platinum brow arching at the word as he tried to riddle it out. He had never heard the term before. “Vintage? I am afraid I am… unfamiliar with the term.”
Admitting his continued issues with English was not a thing Kysis liked to do. In fact, Kysis would rather never admit a single weakness, lest someone decide to use it against him. Would the man, who seemed amiable enough (despite his heritage), actually stoop to low blows? For some reason, Kysis did not think so. It seemed an irrational thought. His brain was yelling for him not to trust the man in any way, but it seemed like he could. Nasir had not been all subterfuge and flourish. Straight forward. That was something Kysis could appreciate.
That last accusation hit him hard. Kysis blinked a few times, somewhat surprised. Had he just…? Yes, he did. Well, Kysis wanted to set something straight immediately. “Concerned? I was merely concerned that you were another weapons merchant. I had no idea of your lineage when I approached, and even now, you do not fit the horror stories I was told since birth. A kingdom can be judged by its people, but a person cannot be judged by their kingdom.”
Would that serve, or would Nasir think otherwise? Kysis was not sure. In fact, Kysis was not sure of what had just come out of his mouth, himself. He hated the Persians of history, and the Ottoman Empire, even if his small splash of land had a treaty with them. Kysis hated easterners by principle. He had labeled Helen a traitor for marrying a sultan. And yet, he could feel himself not looking through a tainted lens at Nasir. Oberon was a different place. In Kreos, Kysis would have automatically been suspicious of Nasir, but here was neutral ground. It made a difference.
-
“Yes, vintage,” he replied, gradually meandering into his thoughts. His jeweled hands apparently tried to evoke a synonym from within him. The spokes of his hand were fluid in their explanation, and illustrated something of splendor and lavishness. He didn’t know any other words enlighten with accept in Arabic, but he was not disheartened.
He gave Kysis a puzzled look, glancing behind at his wares. “مُنْقَطِعُ النَّظِير,” he whispered with a dispirited sigh. Suddenly, his lime eyes sparked and an alleviated expression livened his face. “Ah, yes; things that are nonesuch; very few of it exists,” his hands flowed, an emphasis on two digits, along as if winding an invisible yarn. “You could also say things that are…not typical.”
“Oh, yes; of course… Fortunately, I do not sell armaments. I am not educated in the art of metallurgy; only mildly in Alchemy. I only know an amount of knowledge about gemstones,” he grinned knowingly. He hadn’t lied. He could turn copper into silver and gold (or bronze, rather) but he knew not how to cleanse metal or to straighten an edge, and he couldn’t forge an eating knife to save his life. Parsimony was not a vagrant in his principles. He seldom had the chance to call himself a carnivore, sustaining himself on local vegetation because it was not costly (and usually cleaner) than meat. He draped the same extravagant raiment every day over himself; a gathering of his fathers and mothers daily garments, because he purely did not tolerate himself spending money loosely.
With that in mind, Metals were highly cherished and uncomplicated pillaging targets, not only, but also expensive to acquire. Gems were no different, but he knew valuable gems from worthless ones and could hide the valuable ones easily. Everything he didn’t buy, his reserve surplus, re-circulated into more commercial enterprise.
“Really now,” explicit in his relaxing tone, his worries were thawing away. Could this fabled land hold true? His foremost concerns were regarding the safety of himself and his crew in foreign lands. Oberon appeared perfidious as any place, but yet, a place where ‘natural’ adversaries could conjoin under their own will and were peace was bountiful. The daily life of invariable warfare and hostility were disturbances in themselves—he could concentrate more on his business and less on assuring his continued existence.
“Yes,” he continued with a faint smile; “very well said.” Nasir couldn’t help but let his wit get the best of him—perhaps the Greek man had not recognized the Arabic; lest he lied. Taught to hate from the time he was born, had the man never been told accurately what it was that he hated? Perhaps the man had never seen an Ottoman Turk or a Levant in his life? He held fast to a precautious view until later on.
“I will visit your shop; I have desired a sturdy blade that can slice well through anything from butter to a chunk of cedar. Will you come to my shop when we are arranged?” Nasir asked rather forwardly while his curving lips suggested comfort, and with little inquisitive gravity; more within curiosity. He folded his hands together and strained them beneath the excessive cloth that sheathed his hands. He never reveled in applying learned rhetoric in the means of eloquence to press others towards his goods, and perhaps that is why he favored a shop of luxuries.
The eastern merchant derived contentment from knowing that his esteemed clientele fulfilled and indulged themselves in something out of the everyday; yet he became cautious about being officious. Nasir observed the unchanged bazaar tangentially while his eyes, in truth, focused on Kysis intently; he had long gained a grasp on reading expressions when bartering, but for features without change, Nasir’s clandestine awareness demanded perfection.
If the man’s enigmatic visage could even been cracked. Whatever lay beyond an artificial smile, Nasir felt unexplainably approving of it.
-
The description was a vague one at very best, Kysis trying hard to follow it. So, imported trinkets? That was what Kysis assumed. It seemed like that was what the man was saying, so Kysis asked no more questions on the matter. That would make things awkward. Kysis wanted this conversation to be as easy as possible. Good relationships in the market would do the young lord well, all the more since two new people in competition with him had shown up out of no where. Thinking of which, Kysis knew he would have to be getting back to the shop relatively soon. Eventually he needed to scout out the other weaponry in town, see how his own compared. From everything he heard, Liari steel was still the best Oberon had…
A nod was given at the description. It would do until Kysis actually got to see the shop, which would not be this day. Arranging everything, deciding just how to display it, recording projected prices; it would all take a while. Kysis would not ask to look around at a time it would interfere with getting things ready for business, which would take away some early business, in turn. That was not the way to start out on the right foot. Kysis scratched that idea.
But what did the man say in Arabic? It was bothering Kysis, every time he heard that language. And every time the words were spoken, a flicker had to show in his eye, which irritated Kysis all the more. He focused on keeping his cool exterior, not letting any of that inborn hatred show out. They were far away from the pissing contest that was the Mediterranean at the moment. He was glad that treaty had been secured with the Ottomans thus far. Safe trade route. As long as they continued to be a safe port, the Ottomans would not attack Kreos, right? Kysis sure hoped so.
Alchemy? Kysis had heard that term before, though he was not very familiar with it. There was a strange “doctor” in Kreos who claimed to be an alchemist, who could change all sorts of objects and Kysis did not understand the theories at all. He understood the forging process, though he would only make a half-decent blade if the mallet was put in his hands. Kysis was more for the testing. He was one of the first people to handle new weaponry ideas when they game out of the forge. The young lord wanted to keep it that way, too.
Kysis nodded again. Alchemy was an intriguing idea. Perhaps it could be brought up for a later conversation? As a not so every day event, Kysis was very interested in pursuing that topic another time, perhaps another place.
Was that sarcasm or truth? Kysis weighed the comment of putting something well, trying to remove the bias from the scales but having some trouble, all the more since Kysis had admitted to not knowing a word before. The man could have been truthful. Kysis considered that. But then again…. He would be cautious. Kysis had no way of telling what Nasir really meant, so he filed it away for later. Some more observation and the young lord might be able to riddle out exactly what Nasir was saying, face value or otherwise.
“Of course.” As formal as his answer must have sounded, Kysis really meant it. He was curious as to what sort of ‘vintage’ items were in there. It would deepen his grasp on the word as well. There was a spark of excitement roused in his brain, Kysis looking forward to returning home that night, telling Lam about the new word, the encounters of the day. He was always learning more English, and she was always learning more Greek. For a moment his heart swelled, but Kysis quickly swallowed it back, though warmth had crept into his previously hollow smile. There was a twinkle in his eyes which could not be hidden if he tried. Just thinking about the Captain made him feel such a way now.
“I am very interested in seeing just what entails vintage.” Kysis was silently proud of himself for reproducing the word as he had heard it. It would help for later. There had to be something he was missing. Kysis knew it. Oh! It hit him like running into a wall (which Kysis had not done, thankfully). “Did you want to see my shop now, or is it a bad time?” By bad time he referred to the process of unpacking that was taking place behind Nasir. It still seemed to be going. The merchant had definitely stocked up on merchandise before coming to Oberon for market.
-
“Excellent,” Nasir replied in a delighted tone. He hoped the vagueness of the store’s genre did not the warrior; if anyone else knew what the grimy little store featured, pillaging would consequence, Nasir worried.
“Come to your shop now…?” Nasir vacillated awkwardly with a weak frown, revolving on his leather heel to face the sight of his caravans. He surveyed their work critically, crossing his arms and rapping his fingers on his sleeve. Everything seemed to be progressing smoothly without mercurial consequence.
Making a brief visualization through vicarious experience and the countless miles traveled on the routes accompanying them, Nasir’s trust accepted assumingly. They could fend for themselves, and they did not have anywhere else to go.
The muted chime of coins was heard deep within the sheets of his many drapes; the jingle bringing a jovial grin to Nasir’s Arabic features.
“Let us go, then,” Nasir confirmed confidently. In a matter of seconds, social oratory conformity towards Kysis revealed itself an candid, almost guttural tone to his familiarities. “يشتغل,” he commanded towards his staff with a positive smile. This was followed by a series of playful banterings that caused some workers to laugh. His employees did not bother to assimilate; they continued to gingerly tow cargo from the caravans.
“Now then; lead the way, Sir,” Nasir conscientiously visualized what Kysis’ shop might look like; despite his outwardly pleasing façade, the foreign merchant was beginning another apprehensive cycle. He seemed to look older when he worried, even withering. Where there more Greeks, perhaps not as accepting as him? For now, he kept in mind what equipment was veiled within the layers of his contour-indiscriminant attire.
-
Alright, perhaps he had not missed something. Kysis almost regretted offering to show his shop now at the sound of that inquiry. He swallowed back his nerves, waiting expectantly. It always made him nervous, offering to show someone else the shop. Being as reclusive a person as he was, it felt like extending an appendage and allowing a stranger close inspection. Kysis did not like that. He did not want others putting him under a magnifying glass and picking and poking at him as they were prone to do, judgmental beings.
Of course, once the offer was made, he could not exactly retract it. That would make him loose all that façade of being comfortable and well situated in an instant. He would look like the confused, disoriented, young lord he really was. Kysis did not want that. Oberon was a battleground for him right now. Showing weaknesses at a time like this would be economic suicide.
So Kysis would not back down. He made the decision, so he would live with it. That was that.
Kysis led the way, as short as it was, to the next shop over. There was a large amount of open ground in front of the shop, where the exhibition (previous and to come) was to be set up. Kysis had bought that spot, and the spot his shop currently rested upon. It was a good sized, one level shop, one room. Extra equipment was stored off site, in the basement of his manor.
He opened the door and held it so for the guest. That was what he considered Nasir for now. A guest. It was a better term to think of him by than easterner. Kysis wanted to keep this friendly. So, he followed his guest inside, taking a moment to pause at the door (and close it) for the sight to soak in a little. Kysis really liked his shop.
The floors were wooden, stained a deep, rich walnut and lacquered. There were ornate metal shelves on either side of the room, velvet lining the holders where weapons sat on display. The wall across from the door had a glass-paned case, a very, very expensive piece for the shop. There was a Roman spatha on display within, as well as various other exotic weapons, including a scimitar designed after those used by the Ottomans. Three Greek spears stood propped on the back wall. Hung on a wooden plaque was a flail with a four foot chain and an arc-shaped blade. The hilt attached to the blade was reminiscent of the Egyptian lotus column tops. Surprisingly, the weapon was functional, but only in Kysis’ hands.
A guard stood at the back of the shop. Alexandri, the top guard of those the Liari family had brought to Oberon from Greece, stood at attention, eyes narrowed as they focused on Nasir. There was hatred in those eyes, but Alex remained silent and at attention, as ordered. It was good Alex was so loyal. Kysis did not want to deal with tension at the moment.
-
As Nasir left the spectacle of his personal caravan being grounded for longer than a fortnight, he couldn’t help but to occasionally survey from a distance, even if it was only one store away. The forthcoming settlement would be attrition on all that he ever knew, he recognized. Nasir smiled as per pleasantry prerequisites and entered into the store, ready as he ever would be for the plunge.
His hands timidly coiled into his numerous layers, trembling unnoticeably. The gawking sentry was the most initial alarm to the non-warrior; the man perhaps not viewing him, but his lineage in disgust; Abhorrence saturating the intimidating figure\'s face. The pressure only amplified from there as the myriad of ready weapons, all edgingly in arms-length, began to unfold as his vision adjusted.
Nasir thought gloomily: with the door closed, could anyone hear? Or would I be muffled? He viewed the Greek Spatha and the Turkish Kilij in contrast and some perplexity, veiled by a guarded smile. The diversity gave him hope; the idea that it served as a war trophy stole it away again.
“Remarkable. You have an excellent shop,” Nasir almost seemed as if his arm was twisted into saying it; he merely meant it in all honesty, but the attending protector and surrounding armaments only made him say it with a lesser self-evaluation of belief. He discreetly bit his lip.
“Tell me: what do you recommend is within my requirement?” Nasir\'s usually fluid tone became turbulent, his eyes fluttering impatiently around the many displayed art pieces of war as if his instincts urged himself to leave. If it had not been so cold, he knew he would have been sweating.
Ironic to him, traveling countless miles, only brought him closer to his enemies. His mind briefly flickered on the fanatical conception that they could essentially be truthful; his age-wrought instincts hindered him, nonetheless.
Deep within his panicky, indecisive core, he couldn’t help but feel inquisitive. Where had such dislike ever sprung? Had the clash begun from creation? It had seemed that since all that he could remember, they had fought. He mustered enough strength to persuade himself into gazing Alex honestly into his eyes. He forcefully permitted an almost absent, glowing smile. He searched for a rational explanation, while his hands absently tested an untrained, gingerly grip on daggers, as if one could shatter under his strength.
Then, and the instant was gone. His eyes fell to the floor like heavy stones, and he inconspicuously reabsorbed the fear deep into his bones. With a feathery cold lick down his spine, his pores constricting and his hair on end in shiver, he pretended to view the daggers almost expertly.
Possibly out of habitual custom, or perhaps just to impress, he kept an elevated and almost ceremonial posture and a refined gait, as much as such cloth would allow, and ambled through the intimidatingly impressive wares. He had competition, although this was not his genre.
-
“Thank you.” Though the comment might have seemed cut and dry, Kysis actually meant it. A great weight had lifted up off his shoulders. Perhaps things would not go sour between them? Kysis sure hoped so. First impressions had been alright, right?
And then he saw the look Alex was giving Nasir. For a moment Kysis had forgotten that a Greek would be in the shop rather than Ryanna, color draining from his olive-tanned face. Kysis looked from Nasir to Alex, then back again, letting out a sigh in the process. This was not good at all. If Kysis could read anything from stance and posture, as he had been taught to do since he first started combat training, Nasir looked like a cat trapped between water and a dog. That was not good at all.
“Αποχωρήστε, Alex.” Kysis gave his guard a stern look, eyes speaking the command as much as his cold tone of voice did. It took a moment. Alex remained there glaring and at full attention, and then he relaxed, if only in posture, hands folded neatly behind his armored back, eyes locked on the wooden floor before him as to not glare at Nasir any longer. It was a start. A feeble start.
“Can cut through wood or butter, right?” Kysis forced a smile as he recalled the description the flowery (linguistically) Arab had used. That description had given him little room to work with. Maces and clubs were out of the picture, but swords, daggers, knifes, the whole arsenal Kysis worked with, was still in it. That did not help at all. Kysis needed to narrow down the search. “Is a particular style or length preferred?”
In about a week’s time, Kysis was expecting a new shipment, with a knife his father kept referring to as a kukri. It sounded interesting, Kysis wanting badly to try it out. However, that would have to wait for later. There were enough things in the shop as it was, counting out all the new, exotic designs Marcos was trying to bring in.
-
Driving his nails into his palm as he held his hands together with a disarming smile, Nasir felt slightly relieved by the enigmatic command, and resulting he gradually dropped his posture into a more relaxed one. Greek was a language that he seldom heard on his trade routes, usually bypassing the area and its consequences all together. Nasir fiddled with his cloth coif as he turned to Kysis.
“I would be happy with anything—you see, I really do not know anything about weapons,” the man filed his nails idly against the metal of his rings; “Cheat me out of anything; I know naught of type or difference,” the merchant spoke strangely, almost inviting the notion. Suddenly, he chortled. “Wood or butter I can understand is a large range. By cutting, I mean…sculpting? Not too large?” Nasir’s glance floated towards the ceiling, as if asking some unseen being while his hands decided on a length and size.
Suddenly, his eyes filled with a cognitive gauge towards the arms. “Yes. Something that is sturdy…Oh, but I am sure all of your weapons are sturdy! Something not too big; that I can carry with me wherever I go,” the man rubbed his chin in thought.
He thought to bring one of his companions, but the last thing he needed was a brawl, Nasir being the only one to accelerate in diplomacy and understanding in his menagerie caravan. He veered from physical conflicts with verbal negotiations; his employee’s inclination falling to the edge of a blade to speak op inions.
-
The man seemed to like big, flowery descriptions with everything, Kysis bearing with it. He had always been a kind of person who got to the point and did so in as few words as possible. Efficiency, Kysis called it. He was near obsessed with being the most efficient he possibly could, so Kysis just kept a smile on and watched Nasir through his entire description, despite how much it beat around the bush. Which was a lot.
Carving was the only thing he needed to know.
Kysis was glad he had run into Valdis not too far in the past, as he had gotten a look at what she used to carve. She had been good at it to, so he trusted her judgment. Still waiting patiently, Kysis was relieved when it seemed Nasir was finally done giving vague polarities for his want, and nervous exclamations that he was not insulting the work by saying he wanted something sturdy.
He never would have taken it as an insult, whether Nasir apologized or not. A customer who did not care about quality had no place in his shop. However, someone who did care about quality (and if one knew a lick about blades or not, a person can always tell cheap craftsmanship) was more than welcome, and Kysis invited critique. Luckily his competition, the Gulbrand group, had already been in and been dismayed to see the quality of his weaponry.
Sapphire eyes roaming the area with knives, Kysis walked up to one in particular, looking at it for a moment. The blade was just slightly curved, sharper on the wider arc, though still sharp on the inner. Perhaps that would work. Kysis picked it up, spinning it around so he handed the hilt towards Nasir, the young lord gingerly holding the blade.
"This might do. I am not too familiar with carving, but I have seen a rather good local carver using a similar piece to this." Kysis admitted his lack of knowledge in the field from the start, to set things straight. He would not fake expertise and give a person a blade that was ill fitting to their purpose. Kysis would bring up the need for a permit, even for a knife meant only for carving, in a bit. If Nasir showed any interest, that is.
((sorry it took so long!!!! *huggles*))