The Events of the 5th of Malachite, 1072
"Are you sure, Master Aryn? We can not convince you to place an order for anything else?"
"No, Uram, I've told you a dozen times, no! What is there NOT to get!"
The Human diplomat began to trail back, forcing Aryn to slowly turn and walk backwards. Uram, clacking his rings together in a nervous motion, gave a small shrug of his shoulders. His mustaches drooped as he spoke, "It's just... you usually purchase more. Flour, say. Or cheeses. You've always been quite fond of our camel cheeses."
"No longer, Uram."
"And seeds. Without fail, you bought out our entire stock of seeds, for ten trips and running."
"Times change. Is there a point to your damn questions?"
Aryn came to a halt, and the diplomat Uram almost collided into them. Though much taller than the patchy-blonde dwarf, the diplomat seemed to tremble in his boots. Even with profits that rivaled ten of their normal stops, the merchants and their guard no longer liked to come out to the wastes. There was even talk of stopping their trips, that the lands were too dangerous, the Goblin hordes too much on the move. But of course, the unspoken truth hung over their party like miasma: all were scared of the denizens of the fortress. The Dwarves chilled them to their bones.
The only thing breaking the tense silence between Mayor and Diplomat was the clamor and din from the mess. A small muscle besides Aryn's left eye twitched arrhythmical, his lips curled up into the faintest of snarls. Both seemed to go unnoticed by the diminuative noble, as if his face was in this perpetual state of discomfort. A small flick of Uram's tongue wet his lower lip, and with a dry throat, he spoke.
"It's just... all you're buying is booze, and bolts. All you've placed orders for is whiskey, and bolts, and mauls. I'm just... concerned, is all. You must understand, this are the orders of a city preparing for war. These purchases are of..."
"Of what? Just spit it out, Uram. Spit out your accusations. Of a mad-man? Of someone taking hostages? Of someone preparing for the worst?"
"No, no! Of course not, I-"
"Save your breath, you cur. You, in your posh luxury, in you're.... in you're litter being carted across the sands, you're lamb-skin slippers that have only touched polished stones... what concern do you have except for profits and comfort? Are you concerned that the rest of your foul wagons will be left to waste and rot? All we need is ammunition for our souls and our 'rosbows. You want money? Is that it? Is that what you're fearful of, that our teeny purchases from your wagons will cause a mutiny? Fine! Fine!"
He laughed, the sound forced and hollow, and with hooked fingers snatched a hefty pouch from his belt. He tossed it hard, and the diplomat grunted as the surprisingly heavy bag hit him in the chest. It bounced off, and when it hit the ground it burst, solid silver and gold coins imprinted with diamonds and the royalty of ages spilling across the floors. Aryn gave a wave of his hand, an off-handed gesture dismissing the diplomat, and pushed his way through the doors to mess.
The Diplomat gawked at the coins, a single pouch that contained more wealth then they made during an entire circuit, barely hearing as Aryn began bellowing, "I don't care what you're titles are! You, Thresher! You, Planter! You, Brewer! Get out to quarry! Grab glass, grab mortar! You, Metalsmith! You, Grov... gather the rest of your urchin friends. Get to the damned quarry! THE KITCHENS ARE CLOSED UNTIL YOUR WORK IS DONE!"
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Topic: Migrursut: What Comes After The World Ends? [Epilogue] (A Community Fort) (Read 389169 times)