Post by Julian Randall on Nov 20, 2012 16:00:15 GMT -5
Months Ago ...
On that night, Vesper was burning, but Julian Randall was preoccupied with other matters. In a previous life, he had experienced such things firsthand, and he knew that all the food and gold in the kingdom would never stop the change that was coming to Britannia. As always, survival was paramount to this middle-aged merchant, but it was meaningless if he did not secure himself a place in the new order that would follow. As he made his way across the port city, Randall was threatened by rioters on two separate occasions. The first confrontation ended with a gift of coin, while the second required him to brandish the war hammer strapped to his back. Eventually, he reached the small island where the Vesper Customs was located, and entered the building.
"You're not supposed to --!" A young guard sputtered, as he nervously reached for his blade.
"A dozen rioters," the merchant interrupted. "Armed and headed this way. Don't believe we've much of a chance, but mayhaps we should stand against them. I tire of the constant flames."
The younger man glanced uncomfortably at one of the closed doors behind him. He started to speak, but his feet acted before his lips, and within moments he had fled.
A forceful kick brought Randall entry into the office that had so concerned the guard. He quickly surveyed, before relaxing his stance and addressing the room's sole occupant. "Lady Stower."
She was in her early to mid-thirties, wore thick spectacles, and her long blonde hair was thick with an unnatural shine. Her clothing was that of a noble, but in his eyes, she did not carry herself as one. "You shouldn't be here, Randall," the woman stated nonchalantly, as she concentrated on filling a small satchel with documents that were scattered across her desk.
"Then you remember my name," the merchant observed. "I had wondered, the way you ignored my requests for a meeting." Then he gestured to the pack she held. "You're leaving Vesper."
"No, but there are things best kept from the hands of rioters, as well as their flames."
"You misunderstand me," Randall emphasized each word equally. "You're to depart the city. Tonight. I don't care if it's by ship or by horse or by foot. But you won't be here when the sun rises."
"And why would I entertain such a thought?" She asked, not quite amused, but not yet annoyed.
"You call yourself Alionna Stower," he explained as he stepped closer. "You claim you barely escaped the fall of Magincia and fled here to Vesper. You invested your family's remaining wealth and have done well for yourself. You even hold a seat upon the Merchant's Council." He then paused a moment. "Except, there was a time that I was well acquainted with young Alionna and her entire family. You're not her."
Lady Stower smirked. "And if your information is correct ...?"
"You're Destaing's friend, the tavern b*tch. All the gold and fancy clothing and expensive perfume in Sosaria won't conceal what you are. A gutter rat remains a gutter rat."
"But I'm not the only one here with secrets," she taunted. "I know who you are."
"I assumed as much," Randall nodded. "But you impersonate a dead woman for profit. My secrets are for peace of mind alone. Which of us will survive the harsh light of day?"
"The Justicar will never stand for this!" The false Stower shouted, her temper rising.
"The city is aflame," he calmly reminded. "The Justicar has more important problems now. Don't expect his support if I'm forced to reveal your deceptions."
"You must want something," her face softened, practically begging.
"Of course," the merchant agreed. "I want a seat upon the Merchant's Council."
"Then ally with me," she pleaded. "I could arrange for that and so much more ..."
"Again, you misunderstand me," he said coldly. "I want your seat upon the Merchant's Council. And I'll take it. I've no need for your bargains. Anything worth having is worth earning."
"The Justicar won't stand for this ..." She quietly repeated, even as she surrendered her acceptance.
Besides, as they both would soon learn, Julian Randall had spoken truly. Vesper was burning, and the Justicar had far more pressing concerns.
On that night, Vesper was burning, but Julian Randall was preoccupied with other matters. In a previous life, he had experienced such things firsthand, and he knew that all the food and gold in the kingdom would never stop the change that was coming to Britannia. As always, survival was paramount to this middle-aged merchant, but it was meaningless if he did not secure himself a place in the new order that would follow. As he made his way across the port city, Randall was threatened by rioters on two separate occasions. The first confrontation ended with a gift of coin, while the second required him to brandish the war hammer strapped to his back. Eventually, he reached the small island where the Vesper Customs was located, and entered the building.
"You're not supposed to --!" A young guard sputtered, as he nervously reached for his blade.
"A dozen rioters," the merchant interrupted. "Armed and headed this way. Don't believe we've much of a chance, but mayhaps we should stand against them. I tire of the constant flames."
The younger man glanced uncomfortably at one of the closed doors behind him. He started to speak, but his feet acted before his lips, and within moments he had fled.
A forceful kick brought Randall entry into the office that had so concerned the guard. He quickly surveyed, before relaxing his stance and addressing the room's sole occupant. "Lady Stower."
She was in her early to mid-thirties, wore thick spectacles, and her long blonde hair was thick with an unnatural shine. Her clothing was that of a noble, but in his eyes, she did not carry herself as one. "You shouldn't be here, Randall," the woman stated nonchalantly, as she concentrated on filling a small satchel with documents that were scattered across her desk.
"Then you remember my name," the merchant observed. "I had wondered, the way you ignored my requests for a meeting." Then he gestured to the pack she held. "You're leaving Vesper."
"No, but there are things best kept from the hands of rioters, as well as their flames."
"You misunderstand me," Randall emphasized each word equally. "You're to depart the city. Tonight. I don't care if it's by ship or by horse or by foot. But you won't be here when the sun rises."
"And why would I entertain such a thought?" She asked, not quite amused, but not yet annoyed.
"You call yourself Alionna Stower," he explained as he stepped closer. "You claim you barely escaped the fall of Magincia and fled here to Vesper. You invested your family's remaining wealth and have done well for yourself. You even hold a seat upon the Merchant's Council." He then paused a moment. "Except, there was a time that I was well acquainted with young Alionna and her entire family. You're not her."
Lady Stower smirked. "And if your information is correct ...?"
"You're Destaing's friend, the tavern b*tch. All the gold and fancy clothing and expensive perfume in Sosaria won't conceal what you are. A gutter rat remains a gutter rat."
"But I'm not the only one here with secrets," she taunted. "I know who you are."
"I assumed as much," Randall nodded. "But you impersonate a dead woman for profit. My secrets are for peace of mind alone. Which of us will survive the harsh light of day?"
"The Justicar will never stand for this!" The false Stower shouted, her temper rising.
"The city is aflame," he calmly reminded. "The Justicar has more important problems now. Don't expect his support if I'm forced to reveal your deceptions."
"You must want something," her face softened, practically begging.
"Of course," the merchant agreed. "I want a seat upon the Merchant's Council."
"Then ally with me," she pleaded. "I could arrange for that and so much more ..."
"Again, you misunderstand me," he said coldly. "I want your seat upon the Merchant's Council. And I'll take it. I've no need for your bargains. Anything worth having is worth earning."
"The Justicar won't stand for this ..." She quietly repeated, even as she surrendered her acceptance.
Besides, as they both would soon learn, Julian Randall had spoken truly. Vesper was burning, and the Justicar had far more pressing concerns.