[open]

[heirring]

WHO: Wysteria & YOU
WHAT: Anchor-related adventures and/or drama in fantasy September.
WHEN: Kingsway
WHERE: Various
NOTES: Some anchor and rift-related peril; open stuff is in the comments, but may use this as a catch-all. If an open prompt doesn't suit you, feel free to wildcard me or hit me up and I can write something bespoke. Prose or brackets is a-okay.

Comments

[heirring]

The flush of relief is palpable in her face. Luckily, the tradesman in question has little motivation to detect an obvious lie so much as he clearly simply desires to escape this whole conversation. He is glancing off in some direction which holds neither of them, searching the metaphorical horizon for some motivation to extract himself with.

Evidently only one person in this conversation is very eager to have it. Happily, she is ready to fill the void where anyone else might speak all on her own.

"And so you see, we will agree on the value and terms as presented and I will return next week to review and receive what you have acquired on my behalf. I am willing to even put this partial payment up right away, which is considerably more than I ought to do. Imagine! Paying to receive nothing at all in return for a whole week or more. It indicates a great deal of faith in you as a businessman, sir."

Finally, the beleaguered merchant turns his attention over Wysteria's head to Barrow. In the key of pure misery, he asks, "Are you really a Warden?"

[thereneverwas]

Barrow knows that look well, on account of nearly wearing it himself. But the question is clear: whether to worsen the day of a stranger, to whom he'll likely never have to prove himself again, or to aggravate Wysteria in her mission, which he will no doubt hear about for the rest of his life and possibly longer.
It's really no choice at all.

"Like the lady says," he replies brusquely, casting her a sidelong look as if to say: I better get an expensive drink out of this.

[heirring]

He is almost certainly not a Warden, says the merchant's expression, but as they say: any port in a storm. So after a moment, the man slowly extends his hand to Wysteria. She eagerly delivers her sheaf of papers into it, and then follows it with a simple cloth purse clinking and clanking with coin.

"Very good. Now, if you will supply me with a stamped letter of intent so that I may return here and collect in a week's time then I will be on my way."

And thus, with a miserable grunt, the trader retreats to his place in the shade. In this short interim, Wysteria flashes Barrow a very wide smile. And then back comes her merchant with a bit of parchment. It's thrust into her hands and promptly squirreled away somewhere on her person.

"Thank you and good day sir. Now come along Warden, we have much to discuss!"

Heel, turn, etc. She mercilessly links arms with Barrow and makes to dredge him along with her.

[thereneverwas]

For someone as large as himself to be towed along so effortlessly is a feat indeed, but Barrow is more than glad to be free of the theatrics and glances down to Wysteria with a look of cautious disapproval.

"If someone comes after me," he begins wearily, already knowing deep in his soul that this is a lost battle.

[heirring]

"Whyever should anyone come after you? It's my name on the chit and besides, I fully intend to stand by the deal I have just struck."

She pats his arm consoling as she they go.

"However I must thank you for playing your part so astonishingly well. I had no idea you were such an accomplished actor, Ser Barrow. With that glum look and furrowed brow, you might consider joining the Wardens in truth."

Ha ha ha, she's hilarious. Sorry Ellis.

[thereneverwas]

A groan escapes him, and Barrow waves his hand as if to dismiss her, not even interested in discussing why he should never, ever be a Warden. There's something else more important on his mind, anyway.

"Please don't call me Ser," he mutters, "I'm not a knight. Barrow's just fine. Or that other thing." Like Messere, but less Orlesian, more... Rifter-y.

[heirring]

"I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to," seems quite serious, but she is moving along at a clip, so who can truly say. "Now then as a reward for being such a ready accomplish, let us—"

Exactly what she means to offer him as a prize is interrupted by the sudden interjection of an aborted pained noise and Wysteria's stride (ordinarily quite regular, to the point where one might describe her pace as relentless) faltering.

[thereneverwas]

Stopping abruptly at her side, Barrow's hand flies to grip Wysteria's shoulder as though to catch her, even if she hasn't exactly fallen.

"Miss Poppell?"

All gruffness has evaporated from his demeanor, replaced by concern.