AMIA ARCHIVE • View topic

Last edited by Strom on Tue, Jul 01 2014, 18:18 PM, edited 1 time in total.

[Some minor creative license was taken in regard to L'Obsul's docks, though I assumed ICly given the pit's location as a centre of trade it'd be busy! Should this not be the case, ignore the relevant parts -- I'm relatively new to the UD. ]

Venorik's pale eyes gazed into the darkness, cutting through it as he neared L'Obsul's docks. The shifting bodies of dockworkers, slaves and drow overseers filtered back and forth, though in particular the svirfneblin sought the arrival of but one vessel.
Hours passed, as he stood in silence, watching. His stomach rumbled, and he ran a hand down over an empty belly giving it a pat, hoping it would appease the rising hunger inside him, "Not long now.." He muttered, casting his eyes aside toward the small crate he'd bought with him.

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A black sailed skiff pulled away from the pier, giving way to the next boat in the que and lurching from the mist of the undersea he could see the silhouette of the ship he had been waiting for. Hunger seemed to vanish, as a wave of apprehension washed over him - sparing a moment for a small mutter for courage, the deep gnome hefted up his crate, and moved into the throng of L'Obsul's workers toward the gangway the elegant drow boat was heading for.
Glancing briefly toward the haven, he could see the Spider Bearer's unique shape, those large paddle-wheels and metal hull making it stick out from the wooden, and mushroom carved ships that dominated the small area. He waited, keeping out of sight behind a large pile of boxes until the passengers coming ashore were well out of the way. Only when Quartermaster N'lathen was alone, did the gnome approach. He ensured he was in full view when nearing, bowing low with a flexability his lithe frame might only suggest. Almost enough that the tip of his long, gnomish nose touched the wooden planks of the ground beneath them. His voice was something like glass, as his scarred throat - and what remained of vocal cords which seemed to persist only by some will beyond understanding - left his voice a raspy, hollow thing to witness.

"My most humble greetings, malla jabbuk. I represent a small consortium of trade headed by Brin'Trin of Cathyr, my master. I have with me, a small offering of our services.." With shaking hands, he moved the crate toward the dark elf's feet. Letting his tongue wet suddenly dry lips, "Within' you will find a selection of fine fungi and moss. All edible, and with my masters hand could be prepared into food for your city's benefit. We offer s-services, the harvest of mushrooms, the fermenting of ales and wine... The preparation of foods, and delicacies - supplemented by s-spices and rarities from the surface. All we seek, most humbly, is guidance on how to apply for the permission t-to trade with your glorious city.."

With that, the gnome bowed low once more. Leaving the crate of carefully harvested crops for the Quartermaster as gift. He dared only look at the dark elf's boots, lingering in the hope of a response.

An eyeball weaves through the crates and architecture of Nec'perya's harbor, nosily peeping around with its many eye stalks as it hums--yes, hums--to itself a cheery, upbeat tune. Catching sight of the curious exchange of Gnome and Quartermaster, its humming stops and the beholderkin lurks to blatantly eavesdrop. Once it would see the Gnome stepping away from N'lathen, it would opportunistically swoop down to intercept the Gnome's course. "Hello, Hello.." It would speak in Undercommon.

Last edited by Strom on Tue, Jul 01 2014, 18:19 PM, edited 1 time in total.

As the eyeball hung in the air, it's stalks casting mere flickers of shadow across the various crates in which it lurked, it would have time to note the gnome's attire. He was dressed in the trappings of a servant, and from the immaculate nature of his appearance - it seemed habitual, almost obsessive attention to detail was present on every aspect of his bearing.
Given the grubby, brow beaten nature of most deep gnomes - he had likely been trained to act as a man servant, or butler at some point in his life. When habits are taught by a whip - they die hard. Even free of his former occupation, the enterprising creature seemed despite his clothing, diminished.
His form was wiry and lithe, and the beholder-kin's writhing eye stalks would note that his throat is a web of scars. The ragged wounds seemed to have healed only by the grace of crude stitching at the time - leaving them knitted in thick ridges and deep white lines.
He remained bowed, for a lingering time - if he got an answer or not was difficult to tell over the murmur of voices and crack of whips as overseers forced a pack of lumbering surfacers from the hold of a rickety slave ship.

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The gnome's heart was still hammering in his chest, as he left the encounter with the dark elf. A small wheezing breath escaped his lips as he moved through the throng of activity - eager to get away from the dangers of such a dubious crowd. Small and quick as he was the eyeball's many eyes granted it the perception, magical and natural to it's aberrant being, to keep track of the gnome as he slipped toward the end of the gangway.
Venorik almost seemed to relax, as he ran his trembling hands calmingly down over his jackets. Smoothing out the dark material habitually, to straighten his coat-tails as he stepped from the end of the pier...
What he didn't expect - quite clearly - was an eyeball to lower it's toothy maw into view. Startling with a small jump, it's voice seemingly caught the gnome off guard, and there was a mistrusting narrowing to his pale eyes even as he ducked away from a large orog hefting a crate clumsily. It was a long moment, as the instinct to flee was suppressed with a visible crane to his neck.

"... What do you want, creature?" He rasped, in that hollow tone. "I have little to offer your jagged maw - but half-starved bone." His hands lowering as he attempted to move around the hovering critter, his pale hues darting over it - to perhaps find an angle to escape it's gaze. Though with all those eyes, even the svirfneblin looked doubtful.

The eye stalks weaved and waggled like sentient snakes as each ocular orb swayed from the Svirfneblin and the environment around them. Its center eye's focus was only for the anxious gnome however. The eyeball wore its triangular toothed maw in what might be interpreted as a Beholder grin. Of course with such features as its own, it could only look predatory to a stranger. When it spoke again, it was immediately foul-mouthed and crass. "Woah.. We've only just met, I don't want your bone! Not surprised it's half-starved though, you probably run from every bodacious Gnome lass you see like you are now trying to run from me. Not that I blame you though: even I'm prettier than some of those Gnomes." The beholderkin swiveled around the merchant, its roughly spheroid body hovering with ease. It wouldn't take much to feel that the creature's eyes were upon the visitor. "I /overheard/ you brew liquor. Can I taste some? This city could use more liquor variety. Maybe if it's good I'll pass a word along, aye? Rub my back, I'll rub yours? Or perhaps.. rub my stalk?" Clearly, this eyeball was aberrant even among aberrations. Its demeanor might hint that it was must have been a familiar. "I'm called Neth. What are you?"

The svirfneblin's own eyes rolled slightly, he moving a few steps as the beholderkin orbited him like a mutant moon, he suppressed the disgust as he felt one of the tendril-like stalks drift too close to his shoulder, "Mm, and with such an introduction you expect charity?" He rasped sardonically, "I would imagine your idea of bodacious ... terrifying at best, so I shall take that as a compliment." The gnome wheezed irritably, before perking a brow. A glint of something other than wariness lingering in his silvery hues as the eyeball continued it's rambling."Liquor? Then wherever your ears might.." He looked over the orb for a moment in simple bemusement, ".. reside... they are sharp. You can keep your stalks to yourself, and away from my back. I might even consider your proposal, If I knew just whom would be the benefactor of your... good word?" The mercantile creature then finally paid that hideous face a proper glance, the grinning maw was noted as he folded his arms across his chest, there was still a racial inclination toward suspicion however. He shifted on his feet from time to time as if ready to bolt if those many eyes focused too keenly.

"Oh yeah, well when someone mentions liquor in my vicinity there's a rippling effect I feel in the Weave and I am immediately attuned to their conversation," the beholderkin claimed mendaciously, bobbing itself in a confusing, full-body "nod". Its center pupil rolled dramatically within its large perimeter and Neth pointed an eye-stalk forward towards him, "You would be the benefactor of my good word, fungus brain..! If you mean the recipient.. Then the answer is an important wizard and city-planner. Bonus: She's not usually the sort that will immediately incinerate your quivering frame until but your charred boots remain forlornly in the stone if you've a modicum of respect, and I've already deduced you're not a complete fool around the Drow. Your dress. The scars. You must be someone's slave, yes?"

"Excellent.." He simply commented, "... Though gracious hosts I wouldn't want the Zau'tar getting the credit for my work, after all."
The gnome tilted his head toward the vague description of the ear to which the eyeball whispered, Venorik seemed to start walking gesturing with a sweep of long fingers for his odd company to follow, as he moved toward the Sea Caves and upward the gnome remained silent. His throat was not suited to idle chatter, finally when the tightness in those damaged cords lessened he spoke once more. It came suddenly, in a gravel-like whisper, after almost five solid minutes of quiet.
"I have been a slave, toiling in dust. Yes." He looked over the aberration for a moment, "In time the word slave became servant.... and my duties were no longer prying gems from rock, but pouring wine for dark elves, and tending to the fungi in their gardens. Which is where I have garnered the knowledge necessary... For my current occupation."
The scars he did not mention, he didn't need to in truth - if Neth knew of drow, he certainly knew of their punishments.

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Soon enough, stepping from a swaying lift with the beholderkin in tow the svirfneblin moved into the dingy crowds swiftly, as they mulled the top-most layer of L'Obsul's tiered structure, making his way beyond the small stall he and his current master had overtaken for a few segments of the cycle.
Neth's many eyes may catch a glimpse of Venorik's master in passing, a crinti of Cathyr. Unique half-drow of the south. He was taller, and broader than most half-bloods though seemingly of more grace than average too. His grey skin, was an even light tone, and carefully trimmed facial hair, and exotic attire marked him quite clearly as foreign to the north. A mephit hovered around the cook's fire, snickering and stroking the coals into dancing flame. Around the embers, the smell of food lingered, as the crinti carefully prepared a meal for some dark-elven traders. Like the gnome he seemed adept, in what passed for manners in dark elven company. That razor's edge between grovelling and subtlety.
Though the gnome spared his master only a shared glance, and a low, but brief bow -- clearly theirs was a relationship based upon trust, than fear.

The trust, that profit was a true motivator.

And the results were clear, the gnome lived comfortably, so long as he worked for his privileges. As he led Neth to their caravan a small distance away from the activity, and gestured to a row of hand-made fermenters and a small distillery tucked away in a yurt-like tent, the beholderkin could see clearly such labours were intensive.

"Neth, wasn't it?" He rasped, gesturing to bottles on a low gnomish table. They were recently bottled, and unlabelled but each was distinct in it's own way.
The thick, murky glass of one vessel designed to be durable and contain pressure - was the first the servant introduced, "Fire Liquor, the favorite of grey dwarves. Surfacers that visit liken it to a drink they call 'whisky'... " There was a shrug, "... Quite simply, fire lichen only grows near fire nodes. As the fungus grows, the heat causes it's moisture to start fermenting, by the time it's harvested it holds many other properties." He extended a finger toward a small glass left on the table, as he took up the bottle. "Observe..." His breath wheezed a little, as he poured with steady hands. Steam rose from the liquid, as it emerged from the bottle heated. And the gnome took a look over the creature. "Try it if you wish, though I've only seen a dark elf touch it after a... trying day." There was a thin smile, "It's potent enough to get a dwarf drunk after all. Elves treat it with caution."
Truely, it was a potent brew, some strange mixture of saki and scotch, it was easy to see why a dwarf might take to such a thing. The heat of the fluid too, caused the stomach to warm and the breakdown of alcohol happened much more rapidly, leading in most cases for it to be sipped carefully.

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"Ah...Here we have rum, distilled from the Jerran's Puffball..." He motioned to a dark, rich looking fluid. "A popular drink... Though more-so on our trade visits to Amia. Surfacers fancy themselves pirates after few glasses..." He gave a thin-lipped smile once more, fleeting like all his emotions. "... I'll leave the judgement to you, there."
All the same, he left a large glass of that for the beholderkin too, watching what curious measures it took to drink, with morbid curiosity, and a small shake of his head.
It was a smoother liquor than the first, with a more complex flavour. Still it was rum, and the aftertaste was easily savored.

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Leaving Neth to satiate himself with the liquors, he gestured. Trusting the eyeball's auxiliary stalks to pay some attention as the primary focused his drinking.
The long fingers of the gnome's hand pointing out two crude looking barrels, "Barrelstalk Beer." He rasped, "... Cheap to make, tastes like it was stewed in a boot. But to miners and slaves... it dampens their throats and helps them forget their labors."
The then pointed, to a fire slowly smouldering in the centre of their camp, on top of which a large lidded cauldron simmered, "Ripplebark Broth... To most, known as Slave Soup. Bland, and tasteless. But one bowl will keep a laborer's stomach happy for a day, or happy enough... Currently we sell it to the Zau'tar, in return for leasing this stall. But between my master and I, we can likely produce enough per day, to feed seven or so house slaves..."
The smells of the crinti's more upmarket foods drifted about the camp, in turn. Roast Rothe, platters of delicate mushrooms, salads of moss, lichens and lesser fungi. Deep river fish. But, it was the careful application of surface rarities to the menu that seemed to keep them popular with the traders. Spices, made blander underdark foods much more interesting, and tea steeped from leaved plants brewed slowly in large pots.
As the eye stalks swept about, it might spy bags of harvested mushrooms, carefully labelled.
"Now... Assuming a city planner, and important wizard, was present aboard the luxury of that curious ship they've built. We would be most interested to trade with them. . I have always admired the Zau'tar in one, very clear way, Neth. They are still here, after so many of their ilk lie dead? And why...? Because they know the value of coin, and making an environment where it can be generated. Naturally, they are called the rulers of a heap... " He wheezed, "... It is true, but their compound below is lavish from this heap's wealth. If Nec'Perya has markets with such opportunity, consider my master intrigued, and myself." He poured himself a tiny glass of liquor. "... Well, naturally I would be honored to offer my services, to compliment his own."
Venorik, let the steaming fire liquor course down torn throat, soothing the ache with it's warmth. "With the right oppertunities we could bring surface rarities to our stalls; Fruit. Rice from the far west. Spices, Herbs, exotic meats; pork, lamb, fowl."

He then pointed to the ramshackle equipment they'd assembled from the heaps of L'Obsul, and the careful spending of coin. Massaging his throat with one hand, ".. And with decent facilities. Much rarer commodities." He extended a fingertip then, toward a large decanter. It was clearly left-over from his time as a servant, crystal and holding a dark, deep red wine -- so much so it was almost black. "Velvetine... Difficult to make anywhere, let alone in L'Obsul. As such I have only this bottle decanted. The richer we become, the more time I will be able to invest in such luxaries. And, naturally... we would favor the city, nay, the house of those who grant us such generous opportunity."

Neth hovered along after the Gnome once the beholderkin had realized, to its disappointment, that Venorik had no immediate samples to offer on his person. In the quiet moments of their travel, the eyeball entertained itself by searching the cavernous walls and tunneled out distance with its eyestalks, the monstrous pupils dilating and shrinking in and out of focus of whatever they were perceiving. Once the Svirfneblin rasped through the silence with an explanation, Neth bobbed its head and agreed. "Oh, yeah. I'm an elevated, glorified servant myself. It's lush living, being a familiar. That's why I make sure to blast any tressym I see. Competition. Well that, and I hate cats. I'm way more useful than those purring fleabags, anyways. Not that I think my Master is into flying cat rodents. I just enjoy vaporizing them."

Hovering off the lift, the eyeball familiar paused to feast his many eyes around them. "Ah, L'Obsul, grandest piss-pan this side of the Underdark. Better than cooped-up Nec'perya. Only place I've ever been where I feel the walls are looking back at me." As they moved through the crowds, Neth made sure to stare down each and every passerby that looked at itself too long. The return stare was usually enough for them to shuffle forward and away hurriedly, and Venorik could hear the beholderkin snickering behind him, "I hear talk of warriors with thousand league stares that chill blood, but nothing beats a stare that actually chills blood. Or whatever it is the crowd's fear tells them I am capable of." It seems it was no trouble at all for Neth that talk didn't come easy to the Deep Gnome, as it had more than its share to give.

Neth didn't notice the hulking (well, for something that looked at all like a Drow) Crinti first, by the mephit. Its central eyed spied upon it and one of the aberration's eyestalks lunged and aimed forward threateningly, cocked like a Lantanese pistol. "Competition." Yet it would relent on seeing that the creature was actually just part of the kitchen staff. Or perhaps the mephit was spared by the Gnome's well-timed gesturing of the alcoholic beverages. The eyeball had priorities, after all, and near the top of that list was consuming flavored, non-lethal poisons. Once the beverage had been poured, an eyestalk summoned it over towards its triangle-toothed maw with a Mage's Hand, or a telekinetic power very similar to it. Neth's conjuring eyetalk lifted and the entire contents of the Fire Liquor glass was flung back into its mouth, splashing somewhere behind its teeth. "Mmm, spicy. That's good stuff!"

The beholderkin would tackle the tall glass of richly flavored rum in the same manner, announcing a low, "Ooohh.." when it was done. The strange creature didn't actually seem any less sober from the drinks. Were Venorik to stare back into the eyeball's mouth, it would notice it didn't even have any kind of obvious alien esophagus to digest the liquid, which made the aberration's appetites all the more curious. "I'll take your word on the beer. I've had plenty of boot." It didn't feel the need to elaborate on that point, and instead listened to the rest of the Svirfneblin's pitch. Well, most of it. It cut to the point towards the very end. "Alright, alright. I'll arrange an audience for you, ehh..? The Velvetine is like to peak my Master's interest. I don't understand her thirst for wine--too fruity--but it'll grab her attention, at least. Oh.. But if you're going to give her food samples, make sure the ingredients are native to the Underdark, aye? You're really going to have to ease her into the whole Surface ingredient thing."

"Excellent.." He rasped in simple reply. His eyes studying the creature for a moment carefully. Though the svirfneblin are an emotionally repressed people, there was something there in his eyes; surprise, excitement, suspicion. Some combination of the three that such a cautious race likely had a word for. It was not lost on the man that the familiar was the most curious of creatures to form such an agreement with, but Venorik simply gestured to a bottle of the fire liquor. Still steaming like sake as he jammed in a stopper, and pushed it toward the familiar wordlessly. A simple bribe. But, one to keep his memory of their meeting fresh long enough to pass some sentiment onto his mistress - or so he hoped!
"My name, is Venorik. My master, Brin'Trin of Cathyr. . . We will prepare for a visit or summons from one of your jabbress' ilk, should she grace us with her presence personally -- we will endeavour to make her time well spent."

[Nec'Perya]: A question, of trade.

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