inbox

[extortionate]

 

[ crystals, action, letters, etc ]

Comments

crystal

[sprent]

Did you draw those little pictures on the posters you put up?

[extortionate]

Yep. [ wait, ] Not th'ones on the back.

[ an advertisement for the opera, a broadsheet agitating against tevene immigrants, someone's funeral notice — shit art, all of it ]

real lol

[sprent]

You're very good! (Hands are tricky!) Do you take commissions?

[extortionate]

[ there's a pause, slight; someone nearer the ramparts might spy his forehead scrunching up in thought. uncharacteristic caution: ]

Thanks, [ is she fucking with him ] Sure. What're you looking for?

[sprent]

(Not at all.)

A portrait of somebody else, to give as a gift. What do you think?

[extortionate]

Think 's a helluva gift. [ approving ] You got a reference?

crystal

[untiltheyarent]

Have you ever cleaned vomit from between flagstones, Messere?

[extortionate]

[ give it some thought — ]

Nope. Y'want it out of a horse mane, though, what you need's a good comb.

[untiltheyarent]

I'm offering you a job, per your posting.

[extortionate]

Sure. Who puked?

[ if it's a griffon, he's charging double ]

[untiltheyarent]

I don't know. It was clearly some time ago.

[extortionate]

[ dry's easier, that's a discount. also fifi sounds pretty, so that's maybe a discount. ]

Show me where'n I'm on it.

[ "and can i show you dinner later" reserved for visual confirmation of who the fuck she is, again ]

crystal;

[grindset]

Here's a thought,

[sounds like an idea's casual attempt to express itself while busy hands are taking up most of the mind's computing power.

The following pause just... keeps going...]

[extortionate]

You get sucked back in that Rift? 'Cause I don't wanna break it to Stallion.

[grindset]

[Just a little longer,

and then,

the sound of one smallish hand tool being set down on the table, and another lifting in exchange.]

If you keep pictures of him, too, I don't want to hear about it.

[extortionate]

Got the tits for it. What's on?

[grindset]

Your clock.

[That's a freebie.]

All three towers are in various states of construction. This would be the ideal time to consider an upgrade.

[extortionate]

Your dwarf friend, she in with the guilds?

[ if they make plans, or lay hands on some, merchants’ll still charge a fucking fortune to cut the bits ]

crystal

[brennvin]

[ When the room assignments were posted, Astrid had laboriously traced the Trade runes on the paper, squinting at the shape of them and muttering the syllables aloud to herself to figure them out. And then finally lit up with delight once she realised that her new roommate wasn’t just someone she knew, but a friend,

but then a moment later, her brow crinkles. Pondering. So she gives him a call. ]

Is it, y’know… appropriate?

[extortionate]

Huh?

[ a muffled meow in the background. rustling. he rummages a bag, and one of the cats swipes, ]

Ow, fuckoff — What's appropriate?

[brennvin]

Sharing private quarters. Since you’re a married man ‘n all.

[ She’s not much for propriety, doesn’t mind shucking clothes in the communal baths, will fall into bed with a fleeting acquaintance— but an oath’s an oath’s an oath, and she’s seen that swan ring. Had brought it back to him at risk to herself, even. ]

[extortionate]

Ain't checked out of inns.

[ imagine how pricy that'd get, always asking for a single room. they don't get paid like that. but faint bafflement gives way to consideration: ]

It that kinda sharing?

[ wouldn't mind, astrid's pretty. only seems a bit pissing where you eat. ]

[brennvin]

What, no— [ unless…? ] I mean— could be, but seems like that’d get real messy, like—

[ Her brain is furiously spinning. There’s a brief pause, Astrid doing some rapid calculations, because wait he never clarified that original question, ]

But really though, aren’t you married?

secret satina

[delven]

[ On Satinalia afternoon, Lazar will find in his pidge a short square box, simply but neatly wrapped in plain cloth (the inside will prove it to be flour sacking) secured with a lavender ribbon. Inside are a selection of small cakes shaped and decorated like tits. Each pair is different in size, shape, or coloring, but all are glazed to a shine. The cakes inside also vary in flavors.

The scrap paper card reads, in a quick but reasonably legible scrawl: I can't afford foie gras or chiaroscuro, but tits are easy enough. No nuts in the cakes. Happy Satinalia! -- Evelyn
The other side has crossed out text that looks like translation notes on something Black Chantry-related.

[extortionate]

[ the card is returned to evelyn's pigeonhole folded carefully into the shape of the divine's hat. it's been placed atop ye olde pet rock. ]