Setting
Encompassing some 120 acres, flanked on all sides by old stone and masonwork buildings, the South Barochai Bazaar contains nearly 13km of aisles housing vendors of all shapes, sizes and sorts peddling and buying goods and wares of nearly any type imaginable, including some that were short of legal. Bootleg items and blackmarket goods were commonly bought and sold in the seedier aisles of the marketplace, the local authorities almost seeming to blatantly ignore the transactions for fear of riot. Though impressive in size, the fact the bazaar required vendors to set up their own structures to accommodate their goods and services led to the overall aesthetic of the place to be an uncoordinated mish-mash of all sorts of ramshackle booths and stands constructed out of all sorts of material from wood and metal to being practically operated out of small vehicles, most covered with some sort of garishly colored length of cloth or other thin, draping material to use as a makeshift roof that would shelter both proprietor and inventory from the unforgiving rays of the sun. To add to the unique atmosphere, the odors of the market were distinct in their characteristically nebulous nature; the mix of produce stands, butchers and fish sellers, various stalls where locals would cook servings their prized family recipe for anyone who passed by with a few coins to spare and room in their stomach to fill and the earthy, musky aroma of thousands of moving, sweating humanoid bodies collected in a pungent bouquet that stood out in the fact that no individual component stood out on its own. Some would say the bazaar was rather noxious to behold, even from a distance, while others insisted they enjoyed the aroma and overall atmosphere.
South Barochai Bazaar
This open-air bazaar boasts dozens of vendors hawking everything from fine handmade clothing to fresh fruits and organic vegetables, along a wide boulevard opening to South Barochai Square. In the shady corners, less legal merchandise can be found, but in a public place like this, who knows who might be listening and watching.
Minimap
northwest |
north |
northeast |
west |
You are here. |
east |
southwest |
south |
southeast |
South Barochai Bazaar is a part of 
Apocrypha.
17 Characters Here
Doulbro war prince [1] ok introductions Name:Doulbro. Occupation:ex-god. Age:three hundred thousand years old.
Jace Millers [0] The Demiangel
Yumi Michiko [0] Small target, long range? Not a problem
Pinky and the Brain [0] "What are we going to do tonight Brain?" ... "The same thing we do every night Pinky..Try and take over the world."
silver Smoke [0] “smoke doesn't always mean a fire”
Spectre Monroe [0] a mercenary sniper
Kyle McLoughton. [0] A Payemyndii Soldier
Character Test [0]
Eve Colombera [0] 'They say 'you exist only in what you do'... You don't exist at all!'
Dragora Dawnelle SilverFang [0] *She walked in and glided past everyone.She stood about 5'6, she had a black with green trim kimono top on cut in half to reveal a thin belly with scars on each side,her pants were just normal black leather with a green emerald belt and latched in between
Start Character Here »
Setting
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OOC: Inaugural Junkpunk thread! For information, go to these threads: Character RP and Nation RP. Anyone is welcome, don't be afraid to join in!
It was approximately high noon; the sun looming high overhead, its heat radiating down from the heavens. This heat was probably a bit higher in this region of the world than others, considering most of the Hub straddled the line between mild mediterranean and semi-arid climate zones, although its general proximity to moving water helped cool at least the more coastal regions, such as the great, sprawling and ancient capital city of Barochai, with a refreshing breeze to offset the dry warmth.
Even in such mid-day high temperatures, the southern portion of the city was bustling with activity. This district was home to the massive South Barochai Bazaar, which in its nigh century-long history, has attracted both local and foreign visitors en masse. It was hard for some to imagine this sprawl of merchants and customers began as a meager gathering of only a couple of dozen local vendors selling to those living in the apartments surrounding the plaza. The marketplace itself encompassed some 120 acres, flanked on all sides by old stone and masonwork buildings, containing nearly 13km of aisles housing vendors of all shapes, sizes and sorts peddling and buying goods and wares of nearly any type imaginable, including some that were short of legal. Bootleg items and blackmarket goods were commonly bought and sold in the seedier aisles of the marketplace, the local authorities almost seeming to blatantly ignore the transactions for fear of riot. Though impressive in size, the fact the bazaar required vendors to set up their own structures to accommodate their goods and services led to the overall aesthetic of the place to be an uncoordinated mish-mash of all sorts of ramshackle booths and stands constructed out of all sorts of material from wood and metal to being practically operated out of small vehicles, most covered with some sort of garishly colored length of cloth or other thin, draping material to use as a makeshift roof that would shelter both proprietor and inventory from the unforgiving rays of the sun. To add to the unique atmosphere, the odors of the market were distinct in their characteristically nebulous nature; the mix of produce stands, butchers and fish sellers, various stalls where locals would cook servings their prized family recipe for anyone who passed by with a few coins to spare and room in their stomach to fill and the earthy, musky aroma of thousands of moving, sweating humanoid bodies collected in a pungent bouquet that stood out in the fact that no individual component stood out on its own. Some would say the bazaar was rather noxious to behold, even from a distance, while others insisted they enjoyed the aroma and overall atmosphere.
Regardless of the sights and scents, wandering the rows of peddlers and craftspeople was a priceless resource for anyone with a particular item in mind for barter. One would often find items they were not even actively hunting for simply by standing on the edge of an aisle and listening, filtering the cacophonous din of idle chatter and the almost lyrical cries of various stall personnel trying to attract interested parties to browse their offerings. Even information could be bought and sold here, if one knew what and who to look or listen for. Then there were those with keen enough senses that could pick up on tips and hints without paying anything to anyone at all. Some were either too oblivious or too over-confident in their illusion of security and anonymity to remember to keep bits of knowledge unspoken, or at least encrypted, in public. Eyes and ears in key locations could pick up more bargains than even the most thrifty housewife on a day-long shopping trip.
Argyros was one of those keen observers who liked to set his fishing lines out into the living waters of the bazaar and trawl to see what he could snare. It was his job to pick up these things, being an agent in the employ of the nation of Eudemonia. He was not there to spend money, but to collect what he could from the public grapevine for his superiors to sort through and see if any of the fruit was worth harvesting and further cultivation. He was, quite simply, perfect for this work; born and bred to blend in through talents of mind and body, able to blend into the woodwork so well that even under intense interrogation, witnesses would be hard pressed to recall anything significant about him, much less match him to any kind of profile.
Most of the forms Argyros adopted, with his unusual ability to intricately control his anatomy through acute psionic focus and shift his form to imitate that of other humanoid beings, were fairly benign. He preferred to be plain and insignificant to most casually wandering eyes; just another face in the crowd. In his default form, which he preferred to use when simply collecting information without making any direct contact with individuals, was fairly unobtrusive, though not unattractive: a Selekusion with largely Eudemonian features, medium height and of a lean build with light olive skin, burgundy eyes and thick, unruly black hair and full beard. His clothes were modest and plain, neutral tones, nothing flashy or gaudy to attract unnecessary attention and no significant accessories or design features to denote any sort of position or affiliation that might earn the focus of certain parties.
As he made his rounds within the maze of the bazaar, he scanned the crowds, turning his head occasionally to better pick up on distinct conversations, latching on to certain keywords and phrases which might indicate an interesting snippet of fact or rumor. Every so often, he might absentmindedly browse through a seller's stock, inspecting items with idle interest before moving on; perhaps stopping by a small cafe stall or fruit seller to purchase a local brew of coffee or a fresh sample of local bounty to consume as he appeared to wander the economic mecca without plan or purpose.
It was approximately high noon; the sun looming high overhead, its heat radiating down from the heavens. This heat was probably a bit higher in this region of the world than others, considering most of the Hub straddled the line between mild mediterranean and semi-arid climate zones, although its general proximity to moving water helped cool at least the more coastal regions, such as the great, sprawling and ancient capital city of Barochai, with a refreshing breeze to offset the dry warmth.
Even in such mid-day high temperatures, the southern portion of the city was bustling with activity. This district was home to the massive South Barochai Bazaar, which in its nigh century-long history, has attracted both local and foreign visitors en masse. It was hard for some to imagine this sprawl of merchants and customers began as a meager gathering of only a couple of dozen local vendors selling to those living in the apartments surrounding the plaza. The marketplace itself encompassed some 120 acres, flanked on all sides by old stone and masonwork buildings, containing nearly 13km of aisles housing vendors of all shapes, sizes and sorts peddling and buying goods and wares of nearly any type imaginable, including some that were short of legal. Bootleg items and blackmarket goods were commonly bought and sold in the seedier aisles of the marketplace, the local authorities almost seeming to blatantly ignore the transactions for fear of riot. Though impressive in size, the fact the bazaar required vendors to set up their own structures to accommodate their goods and services led to the overall aesthetic of the place to be an uncoordinated mish-mash of all sorts of ramshackle booths and stands constructed out of all sorts of material from wood and metal to being practically operated out of small vehicles, most covered with some sort of garishly colored length of cloth or other thin, draping material to use as a makeshift roof that would shelter both proprietor and inventory from the unforgiving rays of the sun. To add to the unique atmosphere, the odors of the market were distinct in their characteristically nebulous nature; the mix of produce stands, butchers and fish sellers, various stalls where locals would cook servings their prized family recipe for anyone who passed by with a few coins to spare and room in their stomach to fill and the earthy, musky aroma of thousands of moving, sweating humanoid bodies collected in a pungent bouquet that stood out in the fact that no individual component stood out on its own. Some would say the bazaar was rather noxious to behold, even from a distance, while others insisted they enjoyed the aroma and overall atmosphere.
Regardless of the sights and scents, wandering the rows of peddlers and craftspeople was a priceless resource for anyone with a particular item in mind for barter. One would often find items they were not even actively hunting for simply by standing on the edge of an aisle and listening, filtering the cacophonous din of idle chatter and the almost lyrical cries of various stall personnel trying to attract interested parties to browse their offerings. Even information could be bought and sold here, if one knew what and who to look or listen for. Then there were those with keen enough senses that could pick up on tips and hints without paying anything to anyone at all. Some were either too oblivious or too over-confident in their illusion of security and anonymity to remember to keep bits of knowledge unspoken, or at least encrypted, in public. Eyes and ears in key locations could pick up more bargains than even the most thrifty housewife on a day-long shopping trip.
Argyros was one of those keen observers who liked to set his fishing lines out into the living waters of the bazaar and trawl to see what he could snare. It was his job to pick up these things, being an agent in the employ of the nation of Eudemonia. He was not there to spend money, but to collect what he could from the public grapevine for his superiors to sort through and see if any of the fruit was worth harvesting and further cultivation. He was, quite simply, perfect for this work; born and bred to blend in through talents of mind and body, able to blend into the woodwork so well that even under intense interrogation, witnesses would be hard pressed to recall anything significant about him, much less match him to any kind of profile.
Most of the forms Argyros adopted, with his unusual ability to intricately control his anatomy through acute psionic focus and shift his form to imitate that of other humanoid beings, were fairly benign. He preferred to be plain and insignificant to most casually wandering eyes; just another face in the crowd. In his default form, which he preferred to use when simply collecting information without making any direct contact with individuals, was fairly unobtrusive, though not unattractive: a Selekusion with largely Eudemonian features, medium height and of a lean build with light olive skin, burgundy eyes and thick, unruly black hair and full beard. His clothes were modest and plain, neutral tones, nothing flashy or gaudy to attract unnecessary attention and no significant accessories or design features to denote any sort of position or affiliation that might earn the focus of certain parties.
As he made his rounds within the maze of the bazaar, he scanned the crowds, turning his head occasionally to better pick up on distinct conversations, latching on to certain keywords and phrases which might indicate an interesting snippet of fact or rumor. Every so often, he might absentmindedly browse through a seller's stock, inspecting items with idle interest before moving on; perhaps stopping by a small cafe stall or fruit seller to purchase a local brew of coffee or a fresh sample of local bounty to consume as he appeared to wander the economic mecca without plan or purpose.
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Orestes composed part of the sorry gallery that was humanity, and by extension, life on the hub. Sitting at one of the many run down stands of the area and slumped over a half-empty glass of some sort of beverage and the remaining skewers of what was a lamb kebob, he mulled over the earlier part of the day while simultaneously looking forward with no small amount of trepidation, his spirit seized by an inexplicable and mysterious anxiety. Wrenching the tablecloth in his hands, fibers showing stress from the exertion, his hands quickly shifted to his right pocket, fumbling about his wallet as if an imbecile or a tourist, fatally bad form in an environment such the bazaar, with his immense size perhaps being the only ward of the potential thieves and pickpockets no doubt hungry for such an obvious opportunity.
Giving an indecipherable grumble to the elderly man and what was presumably his son, he produced a whole 50 credit bill from his pocket, slapping it on the table, shifting the paper to reveal two more one hundred credit bills beneath the 50, his hand planted firmly upon the cash as if some cast iron statue forbidding access to the treasure lest the pair provide the appropriate sacrifice. Wiping the streaks of sweat from his brow as he shifted his gaze to the two, he cleared his throat and addressed them in his characteristic tone, the softness of his voice betraying the very nearly barbaric exterior that was Orestes.
Claud
He said, that single word causing the older man to seize up and begin to hurriedly attend to the large hunk of roasting lamb in a manner most conspicuous. The old man would have no part of it, but the younger was still interested, nervously looking at the large sum, what would amount to more than a week’s income on a busy streak. Orestes, shrugging, left the money on the table, to produce another hundred from his wallet and slid it towards the man.
You have a family, yes? Maybe a young wife?
He began to say to the air, his hand returning to the money once more as his free hand began to shift around in his shirt pocket, producing a cigarette case. With a quick tap of the case to his lips, he allowed the cigarette to loosely hang from his mouth while tapping the box once more against the table, a single cigarette jutting out from the vessel and awaiting the man’s grasp. With a shaking hand, the man took the offer and with a few deft strokes of Orestes’ lighter the stand’s aroma of roasting beef and fried falafel was peculiarly contrasted with plumes of cigarette smoke
Yep, good friend of mine in the Eastern Wars was a family man like yourself. Did right for his family and always did the best for them. Had a daughter too… but the world rewards such nobility.
He stated, eyes drifting from the scenery about the bazaar to an intense stare at the man, shifting the money towards him as he took a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. The message becoming all too clear given the context. Claud was something of a merchant of no small amount of infamy within these locales, primarily dealing in human “merchandise”. Betraying his location for the time being was surely a death sentence should the prick ever find out, but as the credits kept rolling in from Orestes’ wallet, greed began to nag at the young man and his youthful ambitions. Besides, Orestes didn’t have any plans on letting Claud stay alive for much longer, anyway.
Hurriedly grabbing the money as best he could from Orestes’ steely grasp, he leaned forward and began to speak in a low, panicky whisper
Club Toulon on Prieste Alley, just down the street and to the left.
Orestes gave a nod, releasing his grip from the money as the man went for it, committing the name to memory as he abruptly left, marching forward and through the crowd with a near total disregard for any sort of secrecy or discretion as he began to blaze a trail into the urban wilderness
Giving an indecipherable grumble to the elderly man and what was presumably his son, he produced a whole 50 credit bill from his pocket, slapping it on the table, shifting the paper to reveal two more one hundred credit bills beneath the 50, his hand planted firmly upon the cash as if some cast iron statue forbidding access to the treasure lest the pair provide the appropriate sacrifice. Wiping the streaks of sweat from his brow as he shifted his gaze to the two, he cleared his throat and addressed them in his characteristic tone, the softness of his voice betraying the very nearly barbaric exterior that was Orestes.
Claud
He said, that single word causing the older man to seize up and begin to hurriedly attend to the large hunk of roasting lamb in a manner most conspicuous. The old man would have no part of it, but the younger was still interested, nervously looking at the large sum, what would amount to more than a week’s income on a busy streak. Orestes, shrugging, left the money on the table, to produce another hundred from his wallet and slid it towards the man.
You have a family, yes? Maybe a young wife?
He began to say to the air, his hand returning to the money once more as his free hand began to shift around in his shirt pocket, producing a cigarette case. With a quick tap of the case to his lips, he allowed the cigarette to loosely hang from his mouth while tapping the box once more against the table, a single cigarette jutting out from the vessel and awaiting the man’s grasp. With a shaking hand, the man took the offer and with a few deft strokes of Orestes’ lighter the stand’s aroma of roasting beef and fried falafel was peculiarly contrasted with plumes of cigarette smoke
Yep, good friend of mine in the Eastern Wars was a family man like yourself. Did right for his family and always did the best for them. Had a daughter too… but the world rewards such nobility.
He stated, eyes drifting from the scenery about the bazaar to an intense stare at the man, shifting the money towards him as he took a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. The message becoming all too clear given the context. Claud was something of a merchant of no small amount of infamy within these locales, primarily dealing in human “merchandise”. Betraying his location for the time being was surely a death sentence should the prick ever find out, but as the credits kept rolling in from Orestes’ wallet, greed began to nag at the young man and his youthful ambitions. Besides, Orestes didn’t have any plans on letting Claud stay alive for much longer, anyway.
Hurriedly grabbing the money as best he could from Orestes’ steely grasp, he leaned forward and began to speak in a low, panicky whisper
Club Toulon on Prieste Alley, just down the street and to the left.
Orestes gave a nod, releasing his grip from the money as the man went for it, committing the name to memory as he abruptly left, marching forward and through the crowd with a near total disregard for any sort of secrecy or discretion as he began to blaze a trail into the urban wilderness
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He was sweating. This was not unusual nor unexpected, especially in such mid-day heat. Hell, the vast majority of the rest of those gathered and milling around in the bazaar were in much worse condition as far as perspiration went, if not in other ways. Argyros did not care for the sticky feeling of his own sweat making his hair and clothes cling to him as if static charged, and his expression soured just a bit as he began to move again, through the swells of people, to seek temporary shade. As he walked, smoothly maneuvering through the crowds of distracted shoppers and browsers, many barely ambling along at a snail's pace, often weighed down with either purchases or small children, serving little more purpose in the aisles than that of a living roadblock to be dodged, his attention was still keenly surveying the scene around him.
After only a few minutes of elbowing, slyly slipping past and damn near dancing his way through the throng, the sarkastriboi stopped in his tracks, now using his modest height to scan over the mass of humanity at a small stall where food and beverages were served. Something about one of the men there struck him as familiar in a rather severe way. Those clockwork prosthetics, that Syriachoi build and barbarian charm – there was no denying it, although the fact the Kataphraktoi tended to stick out like a sore thumb did not remotely help to conceal him even amongst such a cluttered group of people. Argyros squinted to attempt to make out more details, deftly skirting his way through the people around him to get closer, but not too close, as Orestes seemed engaged in some sort of exchange with another, younger man at the stall. Money was flashed, obviously a bargaining chip, which lead the agent to wonder just what the colonel was up to and whether it was official business or something more personal.
As the other Eudemonian seemed to finish whatever dealings he was executing at the stall and began to stalk off in a very intense fashion, as though he had quite the fire lit under his heels, Argyros began to follow, hastily dodging and edging around others until he was quite close behind the larger, older man. His orders for the day were to observe and listen, and this was falling well within those instructions, as well as satisfying his inherent curiosity. Calmly, with hands jammed into his pockets, he fell into step next to the larger man, although it wasn't easy given the hurried pace Orestes had adopted, and glanced sidelong at him, giving a light tap on the man's arm with the back of his hand to get his attention.
Oi, filos... Spare a smoke?
An innocent enough request, especially considering Orestes had been quite plainly smoking one himself. The keyword being the Eudemonian term for “friend”, rather than a common dialect one, which would hopefully prevent the Byblonian from immediately brushing Argyros off as a simple nobody trying to bum a cigarette off of him as made his way toward whatever pressing purpose he had in mind for the time being. Besides, depending on what exactly it was that Orestes was so keen on doing, the sarkastriboi might even be a good source of assistance. The younger man punctuated this with a small grin, one people often described as “creepy” as he waited for the Syriachoi to notice him. He would not mind getting a free cigarette out of the deal, either.
After only a few minutes of elbowing, slyly slipping past and damn near dancing his way through the throng, the sarkastriboi stopped in his tracks, now using his modest height to scan over the mass of humanity at a small stall where food and beverages were served. Something about one of the men there struck him as familiar in a rather severe way. Those clockwork prosthetics, that Syriachoi build and barbarian charm – there was no denying it, although the fact the Kataphraktoi tended to stick out like a sore thumb did not remotely help to conceal him even amongst such a cluttered group of people. Argyros squinted to attempt to make out more details, deftly skirting his way through the people around him to get closer, but not too close, as Orestes seemed engaged in some sort of exchange with another, younger man at the stall. Money was flashed, obviously a bargaining chip, which lead the agent to wonder just what the colonel was up to and whether it was official business or something more personal.
As the other Eudemonian seemed to finish whatever dealings he was executing at the stall and began to stalk off in a very intense fashion, as though he had quite the fire lit under his heels, Argyros began to follow, hastily dodging and edging around others until he was quite close behind the larger, older man. His orders for the day were to observe and listen, and this was falling well within those instructions, as well as satisfying his inherent curiosity. Calmly, with hands jammed into his pockets, he fell into step next to the larger man, although it wasn't easy given the hurried pace Orestes had adopted, and glanced sidelong at him, giving a light tap on the man's arm with the back of his hand to get his attention.
Oi, filos... Spare a smoke?
An innocent enough request, especially considering Orestes had been quite plainly smoking one himself. The keyword being the Eudemonian term for “friend”, rather than a common dialect one, which would hopefully prevent the Byblonian from immediately brushing Argyros off as a simple nobody trying to bum a cigarette off of him as made his way toward whatever pressing purpose he had in mind for the time being. Besides, depending on what exactly it was that Orestes was so keen on doing, the sarkastriboi might even be a good source of assistance. The younger man punctuated this with a small grin, one people often described as “creepy” as he waited for the Syriachoi to notice him. He would not mind getting a free cigarette out of the deal, either.
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An older man who looked to be in his late forties awkwardly stumbled down one of the more cramped pathways of the bazaar, grumbling out half hearted apologies as he rudely bumped past one person or another. The man pulled his off the thin green coat he was wearing and tied the sleeves around his waist, as the heat was getting to him. The man was looking for good stall to grab himself something to eat when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. A rather attractive looking woman was waving him over from amongst the shade of two larger tents, positioned in the small space between the structures where people could maneuver themselves quickly from one major pathway of the bazaar to another. The path looked curiously empty, but the man found himself entranced by the woman's sultry curves and slinky attire. He stalked his way over to the woman and reached out to place his hand on her shoulder, and she stepped back with a giggle, flicking her hand out to reveal a fan she was holding. She snapped her fingers and fan spread to shield her face before it was used to gently brush air towards her, causing the black curls of her hair to swirl about in the light wind. The man stumbled for a moment and but was able to manage keeping his balance. His face shifted to an expression of annoyance and he garbled out a what could barely be called a sentence. "C'mon darlin', let me sample the goods if I'm gonna get eh interest in making a purchase." The woman frowned in return and preformed a dismissive wave of her fan in the man's direction, her voice was one that sounded like it was european in nature, she was a rather stereotypical rendition of a gypsy in her attitude and appearance. "This brute is all yours Louie." was her reply to the man's comment. The man gave a questioning look to the woman and as he tried to ask "Who is this Louie?" an arm came around his neck and pulled him into grapple from behind.
That would be my name, Jarid, though I prefer Luigi, thank you very much. It's a pleasure to meet you, amico.
Luigi's grip around the man's neck tightened, and the one now named Jarid shifted his weight for only a moment before he stopped trying to get free. Now, the figure who desired to be known as Luigi while taller, was hardly a man of stature enough to hold a built man such as Jarid in place on his own, so one would wonder why Jarid wouldn't try to get himself out such a dangerous hold. One who was slightly more observant would notice that Luigi's opposite hand was holding a knife to Jarid's abdomen, and the blade was already pressed hard enough against the material of Jarid's collared shirt to have torn through the cloth and was pressing into the flesh just enough to pierce a few top layers of skin and draw the smallest amount of blood from the man's body, this was a clear sign of the kind of situation he was in. Jarid groaned angrily at Luigi as he did his best to turn his head with Luigi holding onto him. "The hell do you want!? How do yah know my name?" the man barked as if he was still in control of the altercation.
I have my sources. But anyways I just wanted you to see some jewelry I acquired recently.
Luigi spoke in a rather casual tone. The lightly tanned skinned man could barely control himself in his stance, he fought the urge to really hurt the man, as he knew real violence had to wait. Jarid looked to Luigi's arm and his face sunk as he caught eye of man's watch. Now Luigi's watch appeared to be just a normal watch like any other, and it was, the strap of the watch was what important in this case. On the brushed metal surface of the strap was a small collection of engraved clips of different sizes and designs, made from a variety of metals and even a few jeweled ones. A specific piece came into his sight, one that matched the logo plastered on the green coat about Jarid's waist. A similar time piece could be found on Jarid's person, although the amount of clips was higher in number. Luigi's grin was almost curved high enough to touch the edges of his classic handlebar mustache.
I see you noticed you and I are one of the same, and that is most likely the reason why I haven't plunged this dagger into your innards, amico.
Luigi's casual tone remained as he spoke. Jarid spat back "I ain't doin' no flyin' today, yah crazy bastard." a statement to which Luigi chuckled in reply. The thin but moderately built man that was Luigi shoved Jarid away and into the thick wooden pole of one of the tents they were wedged between, and twirled the knife around in his hand before sliding it into a small sheath on his hip. He reached into the fur topped pilot's jacket he was wearing and pulled a leather glove out to match the one he was wearing on his other hand, and pulled it tightly into place, covering the watch he was wearing. Luigi's eyes narrowed as he looked down to the man before him. His accent remained despite his serious tone.
Oh don't worry amico, you won't be flying today, we are going to have to wait till nightfall as it is going to take awhile to move your plane from your truck on the east side and get it flight ready.
"How did you know where my plane was?"
Like I said I have my sources. Now then, my associate here will meet you at the southern edge of town at sundown to take you to your aircraft. Albeit with more fitting attire I presume?
He bowed slightly as he motioned to the woman who had been quietly fanning herself the whole time, she closed the fan as she was acknowledged and slid it into a small purse that was hanging over her shoulder. The woman spoke in a voice that was different than the one she had first used, its tone was deeper and was lacking the accent. "Names Thomas, I'll be wearing a black suit and tie, I'll see you later." Jarid looked to the "woman" with a wide eyed expression on his face as she started sauntering away from him, and he was almost shocked sober at the thoughts running through his mind. Luigi had to forcefully pat the older man on the cheek to get his attention. Luigi tossed a small object to the man's chest, and as luck would have it, Jarid was able to catch the small piece of metal hurled at him as it bounced off of his chest. Jarid cocked an eyebrow as he stared at the coin that had been through into his hand. "What the hell is this for?" the man questioned through gritted teeth.
I thought you'd grab a side of cold beef, you'll need it.
Jarid could barely get out a "What?" before a tightly clenched fist slammed into the man's face. Even in his drunken state, a punch like this wouldn't be enough to put a man like Jarid down, but his head was turned sharply enough to bring it right into the pole he had been shoved into early, and his cranium bounced off the wooden structure like it was a rock. Luigi stepped back to let the man collapse to the ground, and knowing he wouldn't be out for long, decided it was time to make a getaway. Luigi reached up with his hands to tidy up his mustache, a hairy feature he considered to be art upon his face. He spun around and trotted after the skilled female impersonator who had been distancing "herself" from the two men. He slid his hands along her bare arms and adjusted one of the thin straps of her dress back onto her shoulder. Thomas, as she would be known when she wasn't "on the clock" as he called it, reached into the purse on her arm and pulled out a cigarette and a long holder, twisting the two together. Luigi being the gentleman that he was reached into his coat and pulled out a lighter, and with a quick flick of his thumb he brought the small flame to the hand rolled tobacco that was on the end of the stick placed between her lips. He spoke to her in a suave voice that bared only a hint of his previous accent.
I've got a few hours now, Miele, how about you and me grab a drink to go with that smoke eh?
Thomas turned his body and bumped the taller male away from him with a motion of a rather feminine looking hip. A smirk crossed the youthful transsexual's face, and a jagged line of smoke exited the corner of his lips. "I have to go clean up and get changed, this transformation doesn't just happen in a few minutes you know." The man giggled girlishly as he shrugged Luigi's other hand off of his shoulder and continued walking, soon to disappear into the crowd. Luigi stepped back and scratched the side of his head in thought, mumbling to himself.
First trap I've ever considered stepping into on purpose. Maybe I should give the leaf a break.
Luigi reached up and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead as he trotted out from between the tents himself, and started peeking at the stalls about him for something to catch his eye. He felt a little rest and relaxation was just the thing before a duel, and the first thing he needed was some more comfortable surroundings.
That would be my name, Jarid, though I prefer Luigi, thank you very much. It's a pleasure to meet you, amico.
Luigi's grip around the man's neck tightened, and the one now named Jarid shifted his weight for only a moment before he stopped trying to get free. Now, the figure who desired to be known as Luigi while taller, was hardly a man of stature enough to hold a built man such as Jarid in place on his own, so one would wonder why Jarid wouldn't try to get himself out such a dangerous hold. One who was slightly more observant would notice that Luigi's opposite hand was holding a knife to Jarid's abdomen, and the blade was already pressed hard enough against the material of Jarid's collared shirt to have torn through the cloth and was pressing into the flesh just enough to pierce a few top layers of skin and draw the smallest amount of blood from the man's body, this was a clear sign of the kind of situation he was in. Jarid groaned angrily at Luigi as he did his best to turn his head with Luigi holding onto him. "The hell do you want!? How do yah know my name?" the man barked as if he was still in control of the altercation.
I have my sources. But anyways I just wanted you to see some jewelry I acquired recently.
Luigi spoke in a rather casual tone. The lightly tanned skinned man could barely control himself in his stance, he fought the urge to really hurt the man, as he knew real violence had to wait. Jarid looked to Luigi's arm and his face sunk as he caught eye of man's watch. Now Luigi's watch appeared to be just a normal watch like any other, and it was, the strap of the watch was what important in this case. On the brushed metal surface of the strap was a small collection of engraved clips of different sizes and designs, made from a variety of metals and even a few jeweled ones. A specific piece came into his sight, one that matched the logo plastered on the green coat about Jarid's waist. A similar time piece could be found on Jarid's person, although the amount of clips was higher in number. Luigi's grin was almost curved high enough to touch the edges of his classic handlebar mustache.
I see you noticed you and I are one of the same, and that is most likely the reason why I haven't plunged this dagger into your innards, amico.
Luigi's casual tone remained as he spoke. Jarid spat back "I ain't doin' no flyin' today, yah crazy bastard." a statement to which Luigi chuckled in reply. The thin but moderately built man that was Luigi shoved Jarid away and into the thick wooden pole of one of the tents they were wedged between, and twirled the knife around in his hand before sliding it into a small sheath on his hip. He reached into the fur topped pilot's jacket he was wearing and pulled a leather glove out to match the one he was wearing on his other hand, and pulled it tightly into place, covering the watch he was wearing. Luigi's eyes narrowed as he looked down to the man before him. His accent remained despite his serious tone.
Oh don't worry amico, you won't be flying today, we are going to have to wait till nightfall as it is going to take awhile to move your plane from your truck on the east side and get it flight ready.
"How did you know where my plane was?"
Like I said I have my sources. Now then, my associate here will meet you at the southern edge of town at sundown to take you to your aircraft. Albeit with more fitting attire I presume?
He bowed slightly as he motioned to the woman who had been quietly fanning herself the whole time, she closed the fan as she was acknowledged and slid it into a small purse that was hanging over her shoulder. The woman spoke in a voice that was different than the one she had first used, its tone was deeper and was lacking the accent. "Names Thomas, I'll be wearing a black suit and tie, I'll see you later." Jarid looked to the "woman" with a wide eyed expression on his face as she started sauntering away from him, and he was almost shocked sober at the thoughts running through his mind. Luigi had to forcefully pat the older man on the cheek to get his attention. Luigi tossed a small object to the man's chest, and as luck would have it, Jarid was able to catch the small piece of metal hurled at him as it bounced off of his chest. Jarid cocked an eyebrow as he stared at the coin that had been through into his hand. "What the hell is this for?" the man questioned through gritted teeth.
I thought you'd grab a side of cold beef, you'll need it.
Jarid could barely get out a "What?" before a tightly clenched fist slammed into the man's face. Even in his drunken state, a punch like this wouldn't be enough to put a man like Jarid down, but his head was turned sharply enough to bring it right into the pole he had been shoved into early, and his cranium bounced off the wooden structure like it was a rock. Luigi stepped back to let the man collapse to the ground, and knowing he wouldn't be out for long, decided it was time to make a getaway. Luigi reached up with his hands to tidy up his mustache, a hairy feature he considered to be art upon his face. He spun around and trotted after the skilled female impersonator who had been distancing "herself" from the two men. He slid his hands along her bare arms and adjusted one of the thin straps of her dress back onto her shoulder. Thomas, as she would be known when she wasn't "on the clock" as he called it, reached into the purse on her arm and pulled out a cigarette and a long holder, twisting the two together. Luigi being the gentleman that he was reached into his coat and pulled out a lighter, and with a quick flick of his thumb he brought the small flame to the hand rolled tobacco that was on the end of the stick placed between her lips. He spoke to her in a suave voice that bared only a hint of his previous accent.
I've got a few hours now, Miele, how about you and me grab a drink to go with that smoke eh?
Thomas turned his body and bumped the taller male away from him with a motion of a rather feminine looking hip. A smirk crossed the youthful transsexual's face, and a jagged line of smoke exited the corner of his lips. "I have to go clean up and get changed, this transformation doesn't just happen in a few minutes you know." The man giggled girlishly as he shrugged Luigi's other hand off of his shoulder and continued walking, soon to disappear into the crowd. Luigi stepped back and scratched the side of his head in thought, mumbling to himself.
First trap I've ever considered stepping into on purpose. Maybe I should give the leaf a break.
Luigi reached up and dragged the back of his hand across his forehead as he trotted out from between the tents himself, and started peeking at the stalls about him for something to catch his eye. He felt a little rest and relaxation was just the thing before a duel, and the first thing he needed was some more comfortable surroundings.
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Orestes responded in a fairly predictable fashion to the man’s dubious intentions, turning around in a manner obviously indicative of a pressured, suspicious man. Attempting to swipe away the man’s eager grasp with a wide motion of his arm, he took several steps backwards before eyeing the man up and down. His suspicion was palpable, something all the more obvious as he shifted his position so his right side faced the stranger. Giving some notice to the man’s Eudemonian features, hardly a consolation given the environment of the Hub, he was taken back by the rather frank nature of the man’s use of the mother tongue.
Given the totally unofficial nature of the mission, Orestes began to ponder what the man could be doing with his limited knowledge of the Eudemonian espionage agencies, wonder if perhaps this man was sent to monitor him. However, how could his superiors even suspect what he was doing here, never mind send an agent to pinpoint him amongst what must have been a crowd of thousands.
Orestes’ more trusting side won out in the end, the large man producing a cigarette from that very same case, extending his hand to allow the man to pluck the cigarette from the container at his leisure.
Hm, would suspect Eudemonians in places like these. Never figured you people for merchants.
Given the totally unofficial nature of the mission, Orestes began to ponder what the man could be doing with his limited knowledge of the Eudemonian espionage agencies, wonder if perhaps this man was sent to monitor him. However, how could his superiors even suspect what he was doing here, never mind send an agent to pinpoint him amongst what must have been a crowd of thousands.
Orestes’ more trusting side won out in the end, the large man producing a cigarette from that very same case, extending his hand to allow the man to pluck the cigarette from the container at his leisure.
Hm, would suspect Eudemonians in places like these. Never figured you people for merchants.
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That small hint of a grin widened significantly as Orestes stopped and whirled to address the sarkastriboi. Argyros anticipated the larger man's cautious suspicion, as it was usually frowned upon for an agent to cavort with others in the employ of Eudemonia while on the job, but who would know besides him? A slender hand rose to brush a few damp strands of rather wavy black hair aside as the operative took the offered cigarette from the fancy little case Orestes possessed with a grateful nod. He said nary a word as he planted the tightly wrapped rod of tobacco between his lips and produced his own lighter from his pocket, a polished, stainless steel piece of fine craftsmanship, sporting a subtly engraved Vergina sun on one of its broad faces that was just barely visible as Argyros flipped the lid up, a pillar of flame erupting as if on command for him to tease the business end of the cigarette with until it smoldered properly.
A long drag seemed to illustrate the extended silence between the men as the sarkastriboi savored the smoke, finally exhaling it through his nostrils before addressing the colonel's comment, slipping his lighter back into the pocket from whence it came. Almost as an afterthought, he pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index finger and pulled it away from his mouth to speak, beginning first with a light chuckle.
True enough, filos. I'm in the business of information; the eyes and ears of our beloved homeland, you see. Just picking up what people so carelessly throw out into the public trough, so to speak, and I saw you over at that stall, so I decided to see what such an esteemed soldier would be up to in a place like this. Hardly seem like the shopping type yourself.
That creepy grin never left his face as he returned his smoke back to its proper perch, lazily resting on his lips, toward the right side of his mouth, as a lethargic serpent of blue-grey smoke rose from it; the tip occasionally swelled into a bright amber glow as he would grasp it with those same two fingers and draw from it, pull it away and blow the smoke back out rather fluidly, as if it were second nature. He was somewhat tempted to append an innocent bit of humor to the end of his statement, asking if perhaps the Byblonian's wife had sent him out to run errands, but he was unsure whether or not the larger man would find such a remark amusing or offensive. Argyros did not like the odds if, hypothetically, he were pitted against the soldier and his artificial limbs. It was better left unsaid, and it was no loss, really. Occasionally, he would turn to look back toward the crowds he came from when he first spotted the Syriachoi, as if he had noticed something worth his attention, although he could not quite place just what it was pulling his focus away.
There. He noted a man looking a little too well groomed to be a typical bazaar-goer. He was not particularly familiar, nor did he seem to be one of the scummy sorts that occasionally happened along, most likely doing nefarious things such as transporting and dealing in contraband, prostitution or services of ill-will, but he did not mesh well with the average patron of such a location. Argyros noticed the man seemed to have a lot on his mind and looked to be in search of something specific as he slowly made his way toward the two Selekusions. The sarkastriboi deliberately averted his attention, focusing again on Orestes as far as any third party observer would be able to tell, although half of his senses were devoted to monitoring the fair-haired individual as he drew ever nearer. That one was probably worth keeping tabs on as well.
A long drag seemed to illustrate the extended silence between the men as the sarkastriboi savored the smoke, finally exhaling it through his nostrils before addressing the colonel's comment, slipping his lighter back into the pocket from whence it came. Almost as an afterthought, he pinched the cigarette between his thumb and index finger and pulled it away from his mouth to speak, beginning first with a light chuckle.
True enough, filos. I'm in the business of information; the eyes and ears of our beloved homeland, you see. Just picking up what people so carelessly throw out into the public trough, so to speak, and I saw you over at that stall, so I decided to see what such an esteemed soldier would be up to in a place like this. Hardly seem like the shopping type yourself.
That creepy grin never left his face as he returned his smoke back to its proper perch, lazily resting on his lips, toward the right side of his mouth, as a lethargic serpent of blue-grey smoke rose from it; the tip occasionally swelled into a bright amber glow as he would grasp it with those same two fingers and draw from it, pull it away and blow the smoke back out rather fluidly, as if it were second nature. He was somewhat tempted to append an innocent bit of humor to the end of his statement, asking if perhaps the Byblonian's wife had sent him out to run errands, but he was unsure whether or not the larger man would find such a remark amusing or offensive. Argyros did not like the odds if, hypothetically, he were pitted against the soldier and his artificial limbs. It was better left unsaid, and it was no loss, really. Occasionally, he would turn to look back toward the crowds he came from when he first spotted the Syriachoi, as if he had noticed something worth his attention, although he could not quite place just what it was pulling his focus away.
There. He noted a man looking a little too well groomed to be a typical bazaar-goer. He was not particularly familiar, nor did he seem to be one of the scummy sorts that occasionally happened along, most likely doing nefarious things such as transporting and dealing in contraband, prostitution or services of ill-will, but he did not mesh well with the average patron of such a location. Argyros noticed the man seemed to have a lot on his mind and looked to be in search of something specific as he slowly made his way toward the two Selekusions. The sarkastriboi deliberately averted his attention, focusing again on Orestes as far as any third party observer would be able to tell, although half of his senses were devoted to monitoring the fair-haired individual as he drew ever nearer. That one was probably worth keeping tabs on as well.
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Luigi calmly wandered from stall to stall, he was just wasting time until a rather forcefully scheduled duel would commence, and didn't particularly have any goals in mind. He turned to the side as he stepped away from the stand from a low quality jeweler and a bearded man who was conversing with someone bearing clockwork replacement parts. His eyes never met theirs, but he could tell by at least by the large man's appearance that they weren't the kind of people who would appreciate his company. They weren't from around here, at least one of them wasn't anyway. He stopped in his tracks and sharply spun on the heels of his boots around to face a direction that wouldn't take him directly in route to their meeting, and quickly walked away. He reached his hands into a pocket of the dark beige work pants he was wearing, his other hand adjusting the thin rectangular goggles that were on his forehead, holding down the backwards borsalino cap he had on his head, a shade that matched the patches sewn onto the knees of his pants and the elbows of his undershirt, though the elbows couldn't be seen thanks to his brown leather pilot's jacket.
He whistled a tune as he cut a path past the men in the most casual way possible. Obviously, if he pretended that they weren't there and kept moving he could just pass on by unnoticed himself. Maybe it would be safer if he just waited out his time in the hotel, maybe even dared to get some sleep before a fight for once. He made a beeline for one of the open tents and looked down at the table to what was upon it with a feigned look of interest. His lips curved into a frown as he realized he had just walked up to a place dealing in old weapons of war. Knives, axes, and other such sharp implements where laid on tables and racks before him, and he knew this would probably not be the best place to hang around if you didn't want to get the attention of those around him. He scooped up a sword off the table which caught the attention of the person moving back and forth on the other side, communicating with customers as he went by. He looked over to the weapon with a false expression of curiosity and drew the blade a few inches from the scabbard.
So how much for the sword?
"If you have to ask, that particular item is something you can't afford." was the reply. Luigi took a second look at the table and noticed that some of the items were tagged with a small string and bit of paper, varying amounts of numbers scribbled on them in either pencil or ink, with a multitude of corrected or altered prices. The sword, like a few of the other finer items a real collector would actually consider getting his hands on, weren't labeled at all. He slid the blade firmly back into place and set it back down on the table. He took a deep breath and then dismissively motioned with his hands towards the piece of war memorabilia and moved about to look at things in the rest of the tent, ever making his way farther and farther away from the pair he had turned away by stepping in here in the first place.
He whistled a tune as he cut a path past the men in the most casual way possible. Obviously, if he pretended that they weren't there and kept moving he could just pass on by unnoticed himself. Maybe it would be safer if he just waited out his time in the hotel, maybe even dared to get some sleep before a fight for once. He made a beeline for one of the open tents and looked down at the table to what was upon it with a feigned look of interest. His lips curved into a frown as he realized he had just walked up to a place dealing in old weapons of war. Knives, axes, and other such sharp implements where laid on tables and racks before him, and he knew this would probably not be the best place to hang around if you didn't want to get the attention of those around him. He scooped up a sword off the table which caught the attention of the person moving back and forth on the other side, communicating with customers as he went by. He looked over to the weapon with a false expression of curiosity and drew the blade a few inches from the scabbard.
So how much for the sword?
"If you have to ask, that particular item is something you can't afford." was the reply. Luigi took a second look at the table and noticed that some of the items were tagged with a small string and bit of paper, varying amounts of numbers scribbled on them in either pencil or ink, with a multitude of corrected or altered prices. The sword, like a few of the other finer items a real collector would actually consider getting his hands on, weren't labeled at all. He slid the blade firmly back into place and set it back down on the table. He took a deep breath and then dismissively motioned with his hands towards the piece of war memorabilia and moved about to look at things in the rest of the tent, ever making his way farther and farther away from the pair he had turned away by stepping in here in the first place.
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Amongst the confusion of the bazaar, sat a rather quaint table made of frosted glass and some sort of steel alloy painted white. A large umbrella would jut from the center of the table up over it, giving it some artificial shade. Two matching chairs adorning each side of the table, although turned sideways at the moment. Sitting on the table was a coaster with a glass filled with a colorful drink of some sort, a straw protruding from the glass, colored brightly lime green it hung from the side of the glass, waiting to serve its purpose.
Sitting in the right seat at the table was a rather out of place looking gentleman. While he was quite noticably human or at least terran, not much more could be said withouth looking at his attire. A simple straw hat would adorn his head, while strands of azure ice blue hair would stick out from under it from place to place, falling deftly ahead of the shades that sat squarely on his face. A bright tropical overshirt being worn over his torso made him stand out almost frighteningly of any crowd that might have been near in the Bazaar. A simple pair of matching shorts would be seen if you happened to look any lower, finally ending with a pair of sandals that completed the outfit.
Taking a moment, he would get up and reach under the table to produce a rather large sign. Pulling it out he would hang it from hooks on the umbrella hanging over the table. Upon inspection of the sign, it is clear that it was hand-written and constructed with ready available materials. The writing on the sign was heavily noticably and remarkably clear considering it was done by hand, reading "BLAZE DAMASCUS. PERSON FOR HIRE! INQUIRE WITHIN <--" With an arrow pointing to the seat next to him at the table.
"It is...going to be an interesting day.."
Sitting in the right seat at the table was a rather out of place looking gentleman. While he was quite noticably human or at least terran, not much more could be said withouth looking at his attire. A simple straw hat would adorn his head, while strands of azure ice blue hair would stick out from under it from place to place, falling deftly ahead of the shades that sat squarely on his face. A bright tropical overshirt being worn over his torso made him stand out almost frighteningly of any crowd that might have been near in the Bazaar. A simple pair of matching shorts would be seen if you happened to look any lower, finally ending with a pair of sandals that completed the outfit.
Taking a moment, he would get up and reach under the table to produce a rather large sign. Pulling it out he would hang it from hooks on the umbrella hanging over the table. Upon inspection of the sign, it is clear that it was hand-written and constructed with ready available materials. The writing on the sign was heavily noticably and remarkably clear considering it was done by hand, reading "BLAZE DAMASCUS. PERSON FOR HIRE! INQUIRE WITHIN <--" With an arrow pointing to the seat next to him at the table.
"It is...going to be an interesting day.."
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OOC: Sorry about this... but due to certain circumstances, I am officially leaving RolePlayGateway. Details on my departure and reasons for it can be found here.
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