Threats and Supplies.

Threats and Supplies.

Postby Vanidor » Sun Mar 15, 2009 4:39 pm

"You aren't supposed to be here... Gods above, the only reason they didn't hang you s'cause of some..." The man cut off as the iron spike was raised and presented before his face. He took a breath and rested his bulk against the wall behind him. "Look. Aeryn. I can get you the things you want, but it'll cost. This isn't like the old days, eh. The Constables, they pay attention to things we didn't watch. They... Their mission is different from what ours was, you know that."

The heavyset innkeeper raise a towel to mop his face, sweat was starting to bead upon his brow. He never liked having to deal with the former Marshal. Not then. Especially not now. In the past, at least, the coin had been good. That was the only reason he agreed to this now. "Their mission? Our mission? It did all be the same, you fat bastard. Uphold the political will of someone else. Protect the people if you can. We did it. They do it. All the same. Cinnabar is just a prettier face than mine, or Bromn's, was, eh. Prick. Just get me what I want, or your flaming balls I will cut, eh. And then feed them to your goats."

Aeryn peered at the innkeeper a moment, then leaned back into the shadows of the alleyway, pulling his cloak 'round about him. "Deliver them to the warehouse on the east side of town. I will take care of the rest. And... Thank you, Gerrus. Your debts, they are forgiven." Then down the back alley he went, boots sucking up the mud in Aeryn's wake.

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire


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Postby Vanidor » Mon Mar 23, 2009 5:55 pm

The man had been staring at the pair of letters for the better part of the last two days. A man had found him finally, in the rundown tavern he had decided to room in, deep in the shadows of the wall the rung around the city. A small snort of a laugh. Pride? Yes. Aeryn was full of it. Most from his land were, for they were a proud people. Aeryn had no problem admitting that he took it a step further. He was a veteran of the coup. He had fought in Orvere. He had bled besides heroes like Ariane and Burel and many others. His blood stained more of this province than many of those who called themselves defenders. He had a right to be proud.

Unlike some of those others. What he didn't have was the self-restraint to not let it overcome him in the manner in which it had. He had all of the pride, but none of the humility to agree that others had been pivotal as well. But. Glenn had been right that he had spent much with the elves recently. A soft sigh, and then, he raised his head and looked at the items had had collected this past week. Gerrus, the innkeeper, had been a scrounger before the Brotherhood had picked him up. He knew how to get things.

For now these things sat upon the table and nearby chair; An old Straka tabard, the indigo faded and the wool musty. A shortsword, the blade rusty and notched. A satchel that was dusty and worn. He wasn't sure why he wanted that. Nor any of the six other things he had had his old thief collect for him. It was as random a list as ever, and he didn't know why any of it had been on his mind. Why he had to have them. Well. No. He knew why he had the man find him a pair of Thessilaneian gift boxes. Those both had a reason.

One he was using now. Not the intended target, but those boxes weren't all that hard to get a hold of. Well, maybe here in Myrken, but these two had been found, yes? In any case. He had mulled over the first letter for most of the last day. The second for most of this. He had never been a master of words, instead being able to tap into his passions and rages. That was why he had spent so much time looking over the letter before sealing it with a drop of black wax and pressing a myrken shilling into that same nub.

The letter was set into one of the two boxes, the thing snicked closed and was then wrapped interweaving crimson and white cording. There was more white than red, which meant much to Aeryn. He wondered if the recipient getting this would know the meaning of the wrap and weaving. Shoulders rolled, as it really didn't matter. As long as he knew, to himself, he would be content.

In the morning he'd have it sent along to another man, who'd deliver it to another, and then to another, and then another. Eventually it'd get to the trader woman, Rhaena, with none of the deliverymen knowing who exactly it came from.

One should always be drunk. That's all that matters... But with what? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you chose. But get drunk. - Charles Baudelaire


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