RP: Inside Bolf’s Tent
A transaction takes place between two traders.
Starring: Isabel and Bolframmon
The inside of Bolframmon’s tent is lit with gently guttering points of multicoloured light, contained in strange lanterns of smoked glass. Arabesque shadows are cast around the wares laid out for sale, and saffron incenses smokes on the dark wooden shelves. Books of every colour of ancient leather are stacked in leaning piles, amongst rolled parchments and boxes of carved yew wood. The door, of draped cloth, is pulled back shyly, curiously, and a young woman steps wide-eyed into the tent.
Finding no attendant, Isabel approaches the little table, where several daggers of beautiful, scintillating alloy are arrayed for inspection on a cloth of silk. Below them, a sword, inscribed with unknown runes and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Isabel carries a simple cage of rain-rusted brass. Inside, a few subdued songbirds chirrup. Bundled over her shoulder are rolls of linen, calico, embroidered taffeta, and held in the crook of her elbow, oddly iridescent hand woven lace in guipure style. The young woman looks weary, and her hair has been made untidy by the recent rain. [Isabel] … Hello? Sir? Madam?
[Bolframmon] *heard in the distance* One moment!..
Bolframmon appears out from behind the counter, almost out of nowhere, the lanterns about the tent change colour to a bright blue upon his arrival. He smiles at his guest although his eyes show a brief moment of surprise. His customers were of varying ages and cultures but it had been a while since someone had entered his tent so young. But there was something else about her that he couldn’t put his finger on, it's almost as if there was an air of familiarity about her, it almost reminded him of home.
[Bolframmon] Good Afternoon my dear! How can I be of help?
Her voice is watery with nervousness. But she smiles and bows slightly.
[Isabel] … I have birds for sale, Sir, and fabrics too; none salvaged nor burned! Threads, too, pins, nothing State, no substitutes. The lace is good Sir, hand made… Now, a man of stature ought to have some embellishment… Customers don’t like to see a threadbare merchant … Shall we try this?
The young woman hefts the fabrics onto his small table and places the cage on the floor. The birds cheep and flutter anxiously. She lifts a portion of silk, dyed in a gradients of blue and presses it against Bolf’s shoulder.
[Isabel] Oh how it suits you! You’ll be the envy of all others! And how about a plump little bird or two for supper? Why, they’re delicious soaked in Armagnac…
Bolframmon raises an eyebrow at the young lady and smiles, she’d almost make a fantastic saleswomen if she didn’t sound so nervous. But why is she nervous? I’ve done nothing to make her that way... He takes the fine silk into his hands, making sure to keep eye contact with the seamstress
[Bolframmon] No doubt your wares are lovely and this is all well and good, but you’ve yet to answer my question; how can I help you? What exactly are you after miss?
She meets his strange eyes. Her own are a shade mismatched and her hands, against him, are gloved.
[Isabel] … Honest trade Sir - Shoes for the horse, tabac… The road is hard… And you can’t sell anything to these State-ones, they’d rather die from the cold than trade for a woollen cloak… Foul men. There. Now this seam should lie flat. A man should dress every day as if he might meet his bride, or his worst enemy!
He chuckles at the last statement His Bride or his Worst Enemy, last time he was well dressed she turned out to be both. He still felt like she was after something else, but he decided to play along. At the minimum he was getting some additions to his robes.
[Bolframmon] Very well then, let us trade! I have some fine tabac from down south that I’ll exchange for this lovely silk you’ve bestowed upon me! And that black songbird *He hears the songbird chirp, it sounds worried* and no I’m not going to eat you little one.
She makes a sound of discontent, moving around him to bunch the silk into dramatic drapes.
[Isabel] Well, how much tobacco? Silk is expensive Sir. Very. And this is almost certainly dyed with real lapis. It would be an injustice to let it go for nothing, and my Father, he’s a good man Sir, but he would be terribly angry, you see. You must get a good price Isabel, fifille, if we’re to eat! Yes, and the black one - well, you’ve excellent taste Sir, he has the finest voice of all! Only, the blacksmith has already offered me a pretty penny for him… I suppose I’d take a dagger, the tobacco, perhaps some oil for my lamps Sir, if you can spare it for a young lady? And a handful of your coin of course - for the lot.
She steps back, admiringly.
[Isabel] No brass of course. Now doesn’t that look handsome. Dazzling! You look clad in evening itself.
[Bolframmon] *he looks at the adjustments she has made to his robes, he grins at the handiwork* Well well, the young lady has beauty and brains it seems! I have plenty of tobacco to trade and you raise a hard bargain! But on consideration this is exceptional craftsmanship so I accept! But on one condition…
He places a hand on one of the ornate daggers, its handle decorated with runes and its blade intricate but clearly deadly.
[Bolframmon] What does one as lovely as yourself need a dagger for?
She looks aside. Her voice becomes a murmur.
[Isabel] Well... In case I meet my worst enemy of course... Since I am already dressed for him.
She bows in her blood red cloak.
Bolframmon looks at the young girl, finally understanding her nerves. Who is going after a young girl? Then he remembered how disgusting humanity can be, and they call him the monster.
[Bolframmon] Very well… then we must arm you with something that matches your attire my dear.
He reaches underneath the stall and pulls out a small blade, its blade straight on one side but curved at another, foreign symbols etched upon its bottom. It’s handle is leather leaving diamond patterns up to the guard and on its sheath, a a small charm hangs from it. Both handle and sheath almost matching the red of the young ladies cloak.
[Bolframmon] I received this on my journeys through the east, the little charm there is one of protection, may it serve you well… *he places the sealed weapon in both hands and presents it to girl*
Isabel takes the blade. Her careful, merchant eyes take stock of the item, the weight, and finish, all in a polite, but thorough manner. She thumbs the blade from its sheath.
[Isabel] … I’ll show him my blade is just as sharp as my wit and my tongue.
She lays the blade down on her bolts of fabric, and lifts the cage where the little wild birds flutter.
[Isabel] Well, come out, little fascienne. Shhh.
She eases open the little rusted door. The birds panic, but her quick, gloved hands seize the blackbird securely. She brings it from the cage, oddly subdued in her hands. A few threads of spider web cling to the feathers of the bird, and she picks them off. Bringing it close to her lips she whispers a few lulling words. It’s cheeps soften, until the bird’s eyes are blank and it is unmoving. Isabel brings up her other hand to close around its little neck. She pauses, eyes narrowing.
[Isabel] Are you certain you won’t have him for supper, chou? I will pluck ‘im for you.
Bolframmon raises his hand to halt her and shakes his head
[Bolframmon] No no, the bird won’t be eaten, it's much more useful as it is right now, more entertaining too.
He walks around the corner, returning with a black steel bird cage, its frame decorated with wires looking like vines and flowers. He props it on the counter before pulling out a small bag out of his robe sleeve. The bag is made of a similar material to his robes and looks somewhat full, it jingles as he places it down and opening it reveals a large variety of currencies. He takes out a few gold coins and slides them over to his customer.
Isabel looks over the transaction and the markings in the coins of soft, old gold. Bolf has been generous, and she gives a nod of thanks, before laying down the fragile, seemingly sleeping bird beside the coin. [Isabel] One less for the pot! He will wake up. Take him. She watches as Bolf also prepares a bundle of dried tobacco leaves, and she places the coin in her needleworked leather satchel as he does so, tucking the sword under her arm and the bundle of tobacco in the crux of her elbow. Isabel turns, shouldering her burden of silks, rags, and fabrics, and lifting her cage again. [Isabel] If I catch ‘im a Mrs. Blackbird, Sir, I will come back. They will duet.
[Bolframmon] *he smiles at her as he places the bird in his new cage* And I’m sure a lovely duet it will be *he bows* A pleasure doing business miss.
Isabel departs his tent, laden with her goods, returning his smile with a wink.
Bolframmon turns his attention to the bird, gently stroking its wing as it awakens. A brief tingling sensation flows through the tip of his fingers, a sign of magic.
[Bolframmon] Oh? *he flexes his hands as he closes the bird in its cage, the bird singing quite happily. He looks and grins at the bird* Curious and curiouser, wouldn’t you say my little friend?
