Habit and Habitat.
Some things never change. And though the city had changed so much over the years she'd been gone, it was good to see life went on. Bargains are struck through the streets she passes through. Vats of dry goods line the carts of peddlers along alleys. Price banter, and the finesse of trade happen all around her in a loud din. She is focused, acutely aware of her guise. Tavern music fans along the clay-made walls and bounces back off the cobblestones underfoot. Up the hill there would be residences befitting her station in this particular invisible life. She will need a courtyard and a stable. A smithy's forge and stone would be nice, but not necessity. However, running water and facilities are not something she will bend on. Fastidiousness was a key to a clear mind. On this she was unyielding.
At the Community's center, where they read the daily news, she would find posted information on real-estate for sale. It seemed a bit silly and frivolous to purchase yet another residence in this city but her grand apartment on high, with its billowing silk curtains, white marble sinks, and limestone baths would call attention to a hobbled Free Woman who peddles as an Apothecary in a street kiosk.
One residence posted seemed to meet her criteria and price range. It had been seized for back taxes. The listing said it was 4 blocks south west and 11 blocks west of the Great Square. The area was home to some mid-level Brothels and Gambling dens the grunt level Warriors frequented. Not quite the Street of Coin and far enough from the Street of Brands, which could become a hecklers last address, she mused as she walked. Now is not the time, she snapped-to with the click-click of her walking stick. This new task was time sensitive, to say the least her reputation was being challenged. She was being tested.
Oman had been in Port Kar previous to her arrival here in Ar. It had been a long time since her services had been called upon. In her time of unemployment ( or vacation, if you will ) she had taken to learning the art of Poultices from the local Herbalist. The Herbalist, a sort of low caste physician, had imparted much of his knowledge. So she delved deeper into her new found role as an invisible. On one day while shopping for dried fungus on the docks she came upon a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. They of Black did not use names, only symbols to address orders. Oman's symbol was four waved lines stacked, the Sea of Information. The parcel had been placed on her wagons seat by unknown unseen hands. A rushed, hollow excitement had overwhelmed her when she pulled the cord which bound it. What hands had tied this? Inside was a gold coin and a Seal Tablet the size of her palm, it had been made of pressed salt and weighed one quarter a stone. The salt cake had been decorated with gold flake and dipped half in red ink; blood on the dagger. The coin symbolized payment. The embossed tablet told her to whom she would send the bill. Seasons change, but unchanging are its tasks, taxes, and trials. This trial would be fraught with danger. That thought had electrified her with an accompanying chill. A smile had lifted a corner of her mouth and her eyes had become fixed and dilated. There had been theft. There would be murder. Breaking the Seal in two along the red ink, she whispered out loud on a brisk sea wind, " I will do Murder for you, my Brethren." Black hair flew freely around her alive with the static of thrill. Salt crumbled and blew away as she ground the tablet in her fingers. The pact sealed and the contract accepted. That which had remained of the package tossed into the sea.
The streets in the area of the home for sale were cleaner. Down a wide alley, there was the residence, its outer wooden door fortified on both sides by a high stucco wall which bore a sign 'Property For Sale Under Foreclosure.' She entered the receiving area. Beyond it was a wrought iron gate and fence which lent further fortification. Passed the second gate was a courtyard of stones and in its center was an iron-clad fountain of sorts. The well had gears which when turned would draw water up into a large hammered copper basin. If you pumped it every day, water would flow freshly without mechanics. This had been a metal workers home perhaps, she imagined. On the ground floor of the residence there was a stable large enough for her small wagon and pack animal. To the stables right were servants quarters they were small but accommodating. The living quarters were upstairs. The stairs that lead up to the second story needed welding, their wrought iron brackets askew. Perhaps there had been a scuffle, she wondered. Looking around the courtyard to assure herself no one was watching, she jumped two stairs that were in dire need of repair, landing firmly on the front doors stoop. This door was locked.
Her ears twitched first the left then right. She pulled the hood of her cloak up, and drew it in towards her face. She knocked slowly three times, returned her hands to her walking stick, and waited. After a few minutes many locks began to click and shift behind the heavy door. She steadied herself, her hands clammy with adrenaline. The door opened carefully a crack, but no one showed themselves.
Some things never change. And though the city had changed so much over the years she'd been gone, it was good to see life went on. Bargains are struck through the streets she passes through. Vats of dry goods line the carts of peddlers along alleys. Price banter, and the finesse of trade happen all around her in a loud din. She is focused, acutely aware of her guise. Tavern music fans along the clay-made walls and bounces back off the cobblestones underfoot. Up the hill there would be residences befitting her station in this particular invisible life. She will need a courtyard and a stable. A smithy's forge and stone would be nice, but not necessity. However, running water and facilities are not something she will bend on. Fastidiousness was a key to a clear mind. On this she was unyielding.
At the Community's center, where they read the daily news, she would find posted information on real-estate for sale. It seemed a bit silly and frivolous to purchase yet another residence in this city but her grand apartment on high, with its billowing silk curtains, white marble sinks, and limestone baths would call attention to a hobbled Free Woman who peddles as an Apothecary in a street kiosk.
One residence posted seemed to meet her criteria and price range. It had been seized for back taxes. The listing said it was 4 blocks south west and 11 blocks west of the Great Square. The area was home to some mid-level Brothels and Gambling dens the grunt level Warriors frequented. Not quite the Street of Coin and far enough from the Street of Brands, which could become a hecklers last address, she mused as she walked. Now is not the time, she snapped-to with the click-click of her walking stick. This new task was time sensitive, to say the least her reputation was being challenged. She was being tested.
Oman had been in Port Kar previous to her arrival here in Ar. It had been a long time since her services had been called upon. In her time of unemployment ( or vacation, if you will ) she had taken to learning the art of Poultices from the local Herbalist. The Herbalist, a sort of low caste physician, had imparted much of his knowledge. So she delved deeper into her new found role as an invisible. On one day while shopping for dried fungus on the docks she came upon a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. They of Black did not use names, only symbols to address orders. Oman's symbol was four waved lines stacked, the Sea of Information. The parcel had been placed on her wagons seat by unknown unseen hands. A rushed, hollow excitement had overwhelmed her when she pulled the cord which bound it. What hands had tied this? Inside was a gold coin and a Seal Tablet the size of her palm, it had been made of pressed salt and weighed one quarter a stone. The salt cake had been decorated with gold flake and dipped half in red ink; blood on the dagger. The coin symbolized payment. The embossed tablet told her to whom she would send the bill. Seasons change, but unchanging are its tasks, taxes, and trials. This trial would be fraught with danger. That thought had electrified her with an accompanying chill. A smile had lifted a corner of her mouth and her eyes had become fixed and dilated. There had been theft. There would be murder. Breaking the Seal in two along the red ink, she whispered out loud on a brisk sea wind, " I will do Murder for you, my Brethren." Black hair flew freely around her alive with the static of thrill. Salt crumbled and blew away as she ground the tablet in her fingers. The pact sealed and the contract accepted. That which had remained of the package tossed into the sea.
The streets in the area of the home for sale were cleaner. Down a wide alley, there was the residence, its outer wooden door fortified on both sides by a high stucco wall which bore a sign 'Property For Sale Under Foreclosure.' She entered the receiving area. Beyond it was a wrought iron gate and fence which lent further fortification. Passed the second gate was a courtyard of stones and in its center was an iron-clad fountain of sorts. The well had gears which when turned would draw water up into a large hammered copper basin. If you pumped it every day, water would flow freshly without mechanics. This had been a metal workers home perhaps, she imagined. On the ground floor of the residence there was a stable large enough for her small wagon and pack animal. To the stables right were servants quarters they were small but accommodating. The living quarters were upstairs. The stairs that lead up to the second story needed welding, their wrought iron brackets askew. Perhaps there had been a scuffle, she wondered. Looking around the courtyard to assure herself no one was watching, she jumped two stairs that were in dire need of repair, landing firmly on the front doors stoop. This door was locked.
Her ears twitched first the left then right. She pulled the hood of her cloak up, and drew it in towards her face. She knocked slowly three times, returned her hands to her walking stick, and waited. After a few minutes many locks began to click and shift behind the heavy door. She steadied herself, her hands clammy with adrenaline. The door opened carefully a crack, but no one showed themselves.
She spoke clearly, " I have come to purchase this home and your debts."
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