Day of Tomes, 13th of Suhin, Year 401

“Done. I’ll be back later, Rory. Try to stay out of trouble today,” he grinned.
“No promises,” the salesman replied around his sandwich.

Rory watched as Jack walked out of the Yam and winced as the nightbringer flinched back from the daylight before donning his hood. 

He finished the sandwich, then had Tilly bring him a hot cup of tea to finish up breakfast and start the day properly. 

“Tilly, love, where can I sell a bulk order of healing potions?” Rory asked.
“The guild’d likely buy ‘em from yeh, laddie. Or you could try your luck in the bazaar,” she replied.
“What about the Blackwickes?” he asked.
“Ol’ Eleazar won’t give yeh a good price, lad. He’s all ‘bout cuttin’ corners buyin’ an’ brewin’ ta trim the price down across the city,” she said.
“Why?” Rory set his cup down.
“Ol’ man is soft, I say. Wants ev’ryone to have access to cheap potions,” her brow scowled, but her eyes and lips smiled.
“Seems like Jack and Erin’s kinda bloke. I’ll try the guild, then the Market Ward,” Rory smiled.

He pushed away from the bar, dropped a couple of coins to cover Layla’s drink and a tip, then headed toward the door. Before he reached it, he stopped and turned back to the keeper.

“Tilly, where can I get some decent clothes?” he gestured to the bright summer colors of Mistelein’s fashions.
“Try the Dapper Scale, up the road till it splits. Turn right, second shop on the same side,” she smiled.
“Thanks, Tilly,” he grinned and walked out onto the street.

Like Jack, he sighed in contentment as he walked through the crowd. Unlike Jack, the salesman melted into the throng and flow of the street, all but invisible to the average person as he made his way up the street. The tailor’s shop was right where Tilly said, a quaint little building of ceramic brick and green trim with a spool of thread on the hanging sign.

When Rory entered he was instantly greeted by a bright blue lizardfolk with a pale cream-colored underbelly. The slender lizard was dressed in a feminine-cut doublet and a strange dress that did a remarkable job of flattering her tail. She, well probably she, was short, around four feet tall, and he realized that all the lizardfolk they’d seen so far were roughly the same height as the average dwarf.

“Welcome to the Dapper Scale, g’vra. What can this humble merchant do for you this morning?” the clerk chirped and bowed deeply with her hands over her chest.

Rory raised an eyebrow at the word with the odd glottal stop that had failed to translate. He’d circle back around to it later.

“Good morning, love. I’d like to look at some outfits in the local style, preferably something in a professional cut,” he smiled warmly.
“You have great fortune this morning, g’vra. The master has no other appointments. I shall ask him if he will see you,” she dipped her head and walked toward the back of the shop.

A few minutes later, the clerk reemerged, followed by an elderly lizardfolk with a faded, dark blue back and a similar cream-colored underbelly. The elder was dressed in an immaculate doublet and greatcoat, cut for his frame. The bottom of the coat was cut to allow his tail freedom, and beneath the garment, Rory could see a pair of breeches cut to accommodate his digitigrade legs. The most notable feature of the old lizardfolk, though, was the pair of long catfish-like whiskers that hung down nearly to his waist.

Rory absently noted that the lizardfolk seemed built more like salamanders than the gator or dinosaur-like lizardmen from most fantasy stories he’d seen. Unlike a salamander, the lizardfolk had tiny, delicate, though clearly visible, scales. He was a few inches taller than his assistant, but the most notable difference seemed to be the darker coloration and the absurdly long whiskers.

“What can this old maker do for you, g’vra?” the elder rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, like grating stone.
“I’d like to look at some outfits in the local style, preferably whatever merchants commonly wear. If you’re capable of producing armored cloth, I’d like to see those options as well,” Rory smiled.

The old lizard smiled, revealing the inside of his mouth was purplish-black, with a mouth full of reverse-hooked teeth and a bright blue tongue.

“If you don’t mind me asking, I’m from very far away. What is your species called?” Rory flashed the tailor a dazzling smile.
“This old maker’s people are the Umiyra, who once dwelt upon the islands and the coasts of the Vylornes and the Nameless Seas, but now have spread across the lands and oceans,” the old lizard smiled gently again.
“Thank you… maker?” Rory offered.
“This old maker’s honoring among the humans is Weaver, g’vra,” the lizardfolk replied and bowed again.
“That seems a bit spot on,” Rory smiled wryly.
“The true names of the Umiyra are for our most trusted blood companions, g’vra,” the tailor again smiled gently.
“Last question,” the salesman smiled as the old lizard nodded patiently. “What does g’vra mean?”
“It has no meaning other than g’vra. It is an ancient title passed down from the time before time, given to those whose honoring one does not yet know,” the lizard inclined his head in a nod.
“Then in that case, I’m Rory,” he made a similar motion to the lizard’s bow, which elicited a pleased smile from the tailor. “Anything else I should observe while interacting with other Umiyra?”
“It is inappropriate to call one of the people by g’vra after one has learned the honoring. It indicates one does not respect the path the other treads, or the other’s progress upon it. It is always appropriate to bow when one greets a new g’vra, and when an exchange of honorings is given. Now, Rory, seeker of knowledge, this maker is pleased to show you his wares,” the tailor turned and motioned for the salesman to follow him into the back of the shop.

Several hours later, Rory exited the Dapper Scale dressed in a stern, black waist-length doublet with a low collar and a column of silver buttons starting at the left shoulder. Paired with the stylish jacket was a new pair of black breeches and a black greatcoat with silver trim, which the Weaver had tailored to within an inch of Rory’s life. The effect was as sharp as the price tag, but the clothing was entirely enchanted with minor self-repairing and temperature-regulating features. 

Given the second and third glances he got as he walked back toward the Market Ward, Rory was of the opinion that the steep price tag had been worth it. 

During his jaunt toward the business quarter, he absently responded to the sordid messages the other three were exchanging about half-giant blacksmiths and Layla teasing Erin about their, no doubt, steamy bathtime. He chuckled to himself.

Rory: So the tart is fed?
Layla: Oh, so satisfied. ｡◕‿‿◕｡
Erin: It wasn’t like that…  wait, how are you doing that?
Jack: How are you doing that?
Layla: shia_lebeouf_magic.gif

Rory rolled his eyes at the succubus’ antics. It was good that she had taken care of her issue, but he made a mental note to have a chat with her about pushing her limits under more controlled circumstances.

As he passed into the district, he activated Fair Trade and began wandering the stalls, conversing pleasantly with various merchants about what they sold, what the market was like during early autumn, what goods would be in demand come winter, and a hundred other questions both subtle and overt that the skill presented to him as he meandered. One of the side effects of his Superior Sign of Reason was that instead of taking seven or eight hours to familiarize himself with the market, even one as large as Moryven, he could do the job between lunch and dinner.

He made some inquiries around the Ward about off-loading his healing potions, but it seemed his best bet really would be the guildhall. Apparently, the Hunter’s Guild was something like a non-profit organization and would sell the potions at cost once they were purchased, which meant they wouldn’t be looking to undercut him to make a profit. 

Privately, he was frustrated with the ridiculous realization that Moryven was a city famous for its alchemists, and he’d brought hundreds of potions with the idea of making a significant profit. The thousands of gold he’d planned to reap from his efforts in Mistelein was a rapidly shrinking number, and he estimated he’d be lucky to come away with fifteen hundred for his trouble.

All the same, it was a relatively sizeable sum, and it would serve as the seed capital to create a true fortune, allowing the Chosen to buy and sell, acquire and divest, as they liked. He couldn’t magically summon a Starbucks, a Four Seasons, and a Michelin-star restaurant to Ayrgard, but he could buy comfort far in excess of the common standard of living.

As he headed back to the Molten Yam to take stock, organize his resources, and wait for the others to meet up for dinner, his superhuman Observe skill noticed a greasy dwarf watching him from halfway down the street. The dwarf was dressed in nondescript clothes, but his doublet was half unbuttoned, revealing a light chain shirt beneath the clothing. Rory’s skill also picked out the way the dwarf fingered the concealed dagger strapped to his forearm. He wasn’t so much hiding as just attempting to blend in with the crowd. 

Poorly.

The Yam was between Rory and the watching thug, so he opted to duck inside.

“Thar we are, Tilly. Ah was wonderin’ when one o’ yer guests would be returnin’. Ah was beginnin’ ta feel impatient. Yeh know how ah don’ like ta be kep’ waitin’,” the thick dwarven burr was somehow different from the accent Rory had become familiar with.

Rory stepped down into the Yam’s taproom.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” he smiled, the expression sharp. 

Sitting at the far end of the bar, where most of the lights had been extinguished, leaving the intruder cast into shadow, was the dwarf that had spoken. He wore a suit similarly styled to the one Rory had purchased at the Dapper Scale that morning, and an armored greatcoat in the same make. Rory’s Appraise skill immediately identified the garb as fantastically expensive.

“Eckon Madpike. Ah’m Branick’s boss, and the leader o’ the Union. We’re a local guild what looks after the laborers and lit’l folk o’ Mor’ven,” the dwarf lit a thick cigar in the gloom, the cherry flaring ominously as he puffed a cloud of smoke into the light.
“A passel o’ bloody thugs is what yer men are, Eckon!” Tilly shouted from behind the bar.

Rory heard the creak of leather and the subtle click of a trigger being fingered. His attention was naturally drawn to the other end of the bar, where his eye slid, quite unnaturally, off a slender person dressed all in black. Rory could see the assassin’s clothing, their general build, and especially the crossbow held loosely atop the bar, but the rest of the black-garbed figure’s features defied his ability to assess.

“Where are Erin and Layla, Tilly?” Rory ignored the thugs.
“Went into town to have lunch,” came the dwarf’s nervous reply.
“Where are my friends, Master Madpike?” Rory calmly asked.

Rory: At least two thugs inside the Yam. One assassin type with some kind of stealth skill or magic. One big fucking dwarf with expensive armor. One outside, probably a thief type, dagger in the left sleeve. Almost certainly more spread around.

“Ohh, aren’t yeh the polite lil’ dandy. That’s fer me ta know, boy, an’ fer yeh ta worry ‘bout,” the dwarf’s toothy smile was illuminated in the dim light by the cigar.

Erin: What?!
Rory: Oh good, you’re fine.
Layla: We’re down the street, having coffee.
Erin: We’re on the way, Rory.

“I think you’re lying, Eckon. My mates are fine. You’re clearly here for us, so what do you want?” Rory calmly sat down near the door, keeping one eye on the assassin.

Jack: I’m in the Market Ward. On the way.
Rory: Slow roll it. I get the feeling this one’s a talker. Be mindful for tails.
Jack: I’ve got one ahead of me. Smells like that idiot that was trying to shake Tilly down last night.

“Oh, aye, boy. Ah’m here fer yer master, the lich what gave me lads a scare,” the dwarf blew out another cloud of thick smoke.
“Well, luckily for you, my burly friend, you happened on the most reasonable member of our bunch first, so you should likely start talking before the rest of my companions return,” Rory grinned.

At that moment, Branick burst through the door of the Yam in a dead run, stumbling down the steps into the taproom.

“THE LICH IS HERE, ECKON! He’s right behind me!” the greasy dwarf screamed.

Jack burst through the door, the heavy oak slamming against the wall with a thunderous crack. He paused on the landing, cloak flaring behind him and black eyes blazing in an inferno of abyssal fire. A forest of shadow tentacles coiled menacingly around him, impossibly dark even in the dim light of the inn. His longsword was already in his hand, streamers of withering power trailing in a sweeping arc as he brought the crimson blade up and leveled it at the assassin. 

Dark mana drummed in time with Jack’s heartbeat and spread into the taproom like a wave of oppressive power.

“Too late,” Rory smiled darkly.

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