![august vance d7b [Bella] Avatar](http://storage.proboards.com/2628686/avatar/DvNvbwTedxrnGBeueqhm.png)
friends in low places || griffin
Jun 11, 2019 16:30:21 GMT -5
Post by august vance d7b [Bella] on Jun 11, 2019 16:30:21 GMT -5
The first time he’d visited One’s black market, Brynden must have been only ten—perusing its dark, labyrinthine streets clinging to his father’s heels, peering on tiptoes at tables stocked with dubious goods from weapons to antiques to exotic pets. That had been the first real taste he’d had of his dad’s work. He could remember the sense of pride and reverence that had prickled in his ten-year-old chest, watching his father haggle with shady characters for whatever he wanted like he was strolling through check-out at the grocery store. All it took was the mention of the right name, the right number, and the right stack of bills. That man had power.
Back then, Brynden had been the runt of the pack. His mother had given him birth with her final breath, and he’d popped out blue and skinny like he wasn’t done yet. He thought he’d be catching up to his brothers for the rest of his life, and in many ways he would. But his father had seen soon enough that he was useful in other ways, with his lean body and quick feet, and he’d brought Brynden to the market that day as a sort of test. How many trinkets could he steal from the tables without being seen? It had turned out to be nine, his lucky number, though his father might have kept a few of those vendors quiet.
No one had suspected that scrawny boy with the raven hair, barely tall enough to see over the tables. Now that he was older, taller, darker, and a bit more disgruntled, he blended in with this lot just fine. And the eye patch didn’t hurt, either, really.
Now as he meandered between tables he felt lucky to be equipped with his father’s familiarity and know-how. Vendors often set up their stands with side-gig items, fronts for what they were really selling, things as mundane as linen shirts or fishing tackle. Things that were quick and easy to set up when the Peacekeepers were heard to be lurking around. Right now, the man he bought his archery equipment from had his baked goods out, which Brynden knew from experience to be pretty damn good on their own.
When he got to the stand, he popped open a white pastry box and helped himself to a chocolate chip cookie. The proprietor noticed, and he cut another customer short to shake Brynden’s hand. “Viktor,” Brynden acknowledged with a mouth full of chocolate chips.
“If it isn’t the Bloodraven. I’ve got something for you to see.” Viktor looked both ways round the table, then reached underneath the black tablecloth and brought out a hard-shell guitar case, which he sat gingerly upon the table. When he opened it, Brynden leaned in. “Osage orangewood. Sixty pounds,” Viktor explained.
Brynden ran a hand over the length of the bow, gave its handle a try, his lips a straight line. It was one of the most beautiful weapons he’d ever seen, but there was a certain air of disinterest that one needed to pull off in this place to snag a good price on anything. Usually it went that if you ooh-ed and ahh-ed somebody would end up screwing you over. Not that Viktor would ever try to pull anything on him; Brynden’s dad had done him a favor a while back. The shopkeeper awaited his verdict. Brynden gave the string a tug, weighed the weapon in his hand.
“It’s nice and light. How much you want for it?” Brynden asked.
“For you? Twenty-five hundred.” Brynden hissed at that, and Viktor quickly corrected himself. “Two thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred.”
Viktor fidgeted a bit. “Nineteen hundred. That’s as low as I can go. I’ve got kids, Fontaine.”
Brynden scowled at being called by his father’s name, and Viktor saw it. The two met eyes and for a moment the vendor looked worried.
“It’s Bloodraven,” Brynden corrected, his voice low. But he let up. “Eighteen-fifty, and you give me that box of cookies.”
“You got it, kid.” As Viktor shook his hand again, Brynden laughed and clapped the man on the back, leaving him relieved and a little shaken. Viktor put the cookie box and the bow in the case and latched it with an air of paranoia and haste, then handed it over. “Keep that eye open today,” he said, “Keeps are everywhere.”
And as if on cue, Brynden saw a Peacekeeper walk by with his eyes glued to one particular girl, a lean figure with black hair down to her waist. The girl stopped at a stand across the alleyway—Brynden knew they sold daggers—and the Peacekeeper stopped too, just a little ways behind her. A young guy; must have just barely survived all six Reapings. The bastard was standing there trying to look nonchalant, but Brynden knew he was literally looking for trouble. He nodded a goodbye to Viktor, handed him his payment, and crossed the street towards the stalker with the guitar case in his hand.
He approached the Peacekeeper, hands fishing in the pockets of his jacket for what was left of his cash. “Long day, huh?” he asked. Then he leaned in closer, lowered his voice. “Listen, pal. That’s my girlfriend there. How bout you take this and call it a day?” He pretended to shake hands, but cradled in his palm were about five hundred big ones. Brynden leaned back, eyebrows raised; the kid clasped the money, spat on the ground, and took off towards what Brynden hoped was home. Some manners, he thought.
He’d heard somewhere that a good deed wasn’t a good deed unless you didn’t ask for a thank-you. But Brynden had always been a show-off. Unable to help himself, he sauntered quietly to where the girl was standing, slender fingers poring over the knives. If he were totally honest, she looked like she could be his sister—pale and slender, with dark hair like his. Must have been why he felt the urge to help her out. Only thing was, she towered over him, taller by six inches at least.
He noticed the dagger she was holding and leaned towards her, spoke secretively, “Looks like you were being followed, baby. Don't worry, I took care of it.” He reclined against the side of the table and grinned an ugly, tight-lipped smile. “I’m Brynden. That’s a nice toothpick you’ve got there.”
Back then, Brynden had been the runt of the pack. His mother had given him birth with her final breath, and he’d popped out blue and skinny like he wasn’t done yet. He thought he’d be catching up to his brothers for the rest of his life, and in many ways he would. But his father had seen soon enough that he was useful in other ways, with his lean body and quick feet, and he’d brought Brynden to the market that day as a sort of test. How many trinkets could he steal from the tables without being seen? It had turned out to be nine, his lucky number, though his father might have kept a few of those vendors quiet.
No one had suspected that scrawny boy with the raven hair, barely tall enough to see over the tables. Now that he was older, taller, darker, and a bit more disgruntled, he blended in with this lot just fine. And the eye patch didn’t hurt, either, really.
Now as he meandered between tables he felt lucky to be equipped with his father’s familiarity and know-how. Vendors often set up their stands with side-gig items, fronts for what they were really selling, things as mundane as linen shirts or fishing tackle. Things that were quick and easy to set up when the Peacekeepers were heard to be lurking around. Right now, the man he bought his archery equipment from had his baked goods out, which Brynden knew from experience to be pretty damn good on their own.
When he got to the stand, he popped open a white pastry box and helped himself to a chocolate chip cookie. The proprietor noticed, and he cut another customer short to shake Brynden’s hand. “Viktor,” Brynden acknowledged with a mouth full of chocolate chips.
“If it isn’t the Bloodraven. I’ve got something for you to see.” Viktor looked both ways round the table, then reached underneath the black tablecloth and brought out a hard-shell guitar case, which he sat gingerly upon the table. When he opened it, Brynden leaned in. “Osage orangewood. Sixty pounds,” Viktor explained.
Brynden ran a hand over the length of the bow, gave its handle a try, his lips a straight line. It was one of the most beautiful weapons he’d ever seen, but there was a certain air of disinterest that one needed to pull off in this place to snag a good price on anything. Usually it went that if you ooh-ed and ahh-ed somebody would end up screwing you over. Not that Viktor would ever try to pull anything on him; Brynden’s dad had done him a favor a while back. The shopkeeper awaited his verdict. Brynden gave the string a tug, weighed the weapon in his hand.
“It’s nice and light. How much you want for it?” Brynden asked.
“For you? Twenty-five hundred.” Brynden hissed at that, and Viktor quickly corrected himself. “Two thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred.”
Viktor fidgeted a bit. “Nineteen hundred. That’s as low as I can go. I’ve got kids, Fontaine.”
Brynden scowled at being called by his father’s name, and Viktor saw it. The two met eyes and for a moment the vendor looked worried.
“It’s Bloodraven,” Brynden corrected, his voice low. But he let up. “Eighteen-fifty, and you give me that box of cookies.”
“You got it, kid.” As Viktor shook his hand again, Brynden laughed and clapped the man on the back, leaving him relieved and a little shaken. Viktor put the cookie box and the bow in the case and latched it with an air of paranoia and haste, then handed it over. “Keep that eye open today,” he said, “Keeps are everywhere.”
And as if on cue, Brynden saw a Peacekeeper walk by with his eyes glued to one particular girl, a lean figure with black hair down to her waist. The girl stopped at a stand across the alleyway—Brynden knew they sold daggers—and the Peacekeeper stopped too, just a little ways behind her. A young guy; must have just barely survived all six Reapings. The bastard was standing there trying to look nonchalant, but Brynden knew he was literally looking for trouble. He nodded a goodbye to Viktor, handed him his payment, and crossed the street towards the stalker with the guitar case in his hand.
He approached the Peacekeeper, hands fishing in the pockets of his jacket for what was left of his cash. “Long day, huh?” he asked. Then he leaned in closer, lowered his voice. “Listen, pal. That’s my girlfriend there. How bout you take this and call it a day?” He pretended to shake hands, but cradled in his palm were about five hundred big ones. Brynden leaned back, eyebrows raised; the kid clasped the money, spat on the ground, and took off towards what Brynden hoped was home. Some manners, he thought.
He’d heard somewhere that a good deed wasn’t a good deed unless you didn’t ask for a thank-you. But Brynden had always been a show-off. Unable to help himself, he sauntered quietly to where the girl was standing, slender fingers poring over the knives. If he were totally honest, she looked like she could be his sister—pale and slender, with dark hair like his. Must have been why he felt the urge to help her out. Only thing was, she towered over him, taller by six inches at least.
He noticed the dagger she was holding and leaned towards her, spoke secretively, “Looks like you were being followed, baby. Don't worry, I took care of it.” He reclined against the side of the table and grinned an ugly, tight-lipped smile. “I’m Brynden. That’s a nice toothpick you’ve got there.”
