The merchants' square in the Parchment Burho was feisty today. Woe felt relaxed, in his native form, his self-totem. Feeling more himself than he had in seasons, perhaps. It'd weighed on him, he realized, the political position, being a public figure, accessible to everyone. It was not the life for him, he decided. Much preferred to handle things from behind the scenes, if at all. To make decisions he didn't have to take responsibility for. Let someone else enjoy the glory, if it meant they also bore responsibility for the weight of a crown. He'd not thought about it since leaving Scalvoris, but this trip had been a needed one, to get back in touch with his old ways. There was a true face to him, and he felt no compulsion to hide in here, of all places. A place sacred to his patron, and a place where you could be whoever you wanted, so long as you were willing to defend the person you were with your blood and steel.
Hawksters went wild, jockeying against each other in pricing duels, trying to make more money in the most peculiar sort of duels. It wasn't as much a novelty to Woe, perhaps, who'd visited Yaralon before. He knew that the Yari had interesting ways of dealing with disputes over the position of ones cart in relation to another, and determining the market value and share of this or that. It was an interesting paradigm, and naturally the cream flowed to the top of such a system, even if it meant that justice had a skewed result, which favored the strong and capable.
Woe wandered the merchant's square, contributing to this or that merchant's coffers with an acquisition of one sort or another. He made sure to stock up on the purple whiskey, and some other luxuries that were on offer, putting them in his bottomless coffers, where he stored much of his commodities. And just as swiftly as the goods were procured, the chest was gone to Sombran's Domain, where it would be safe from prying crowbars and thieves.
Eventually, his eyes settled on a peculiar item. It was a hilt, obviously malorite by the luster of it, at least to ]to his well-attuned eyes and assessment. He knew then who would win the bidding war, or thought he did. But perhaps the merchant had no idea what he held in store. Perhaps he favored other items for sale in this pricing duel.
The other an had books, tomes, and perfumes and leathers. Items that normally would've inttrigued Woe, were it not for a singular feature of that bladeless hilt of malorite. At the center of the diamond-shaped crosssection of the hilt, was a nel symbol, with ancient words that Woe could recognize upon it. Holy words of Chamadarst. Was this a precious relic of his patron, or else one of his champions? Then it should be Woe's.
Thus as the bidding began, he stood silent, staid and driving up the price as he wished of one or the other side. Woe generally knew when to stop ]bidding, reading the room and figuring the other bidders limits by way of both observation and keen knowledge of human nature. He could but easily read the faces of any in the crowd, and they began to hate him for his heedless raising of the prices, without actually closing on any of the items.
Then it came time for the bladeless hilt of malorite to come to auction. Many scratched their chins at each other, not seeming to know what it was or what it was for. It certainly looked different to most hilts. More like a ceremonial cross, some relic of a long-gone religion perhaps. So Woe tried to convey to the bidders around him by way of silent bombardment of meaning. They knew not from whence these messages came, but seemed to take them to heart. Few were willing to open a bid on the blade.
Yet the other merchant, with porcelain flask containing priceless perfumed oils, was having a field day on the bidding going for his flask. It was worth nearly a year's wage for most merchants.
