The air of Mistral still carried the sour stench of refugees. He could almost smell the fear, desperation, and anxiety pungent in the air as the ocean itself pressed into the courtyards and taverns that were never meant to hold so many people. The young lord kept his coat immaculate despite it all; his black and gold military-style coat was a cutting stark against the dull, weary rabble. He stood apart, always apart, the lion refused to mingle with the herd.
He had been summoned here on business that barely warranted his attention — arrangements of shipping, arms, and aid, the kind of matters his father absolutely delighted in turning into ledgers and contracts. Alaric’s mind was elsewhere: on Atlas, on Beacon, on the endless tangle of duty that had only grown heavier since the academy’s fall. But most of all... the faces of his teammates' deaths were burned into his mind.
He exhaled slowly and stilled the memory threatening to resurface, only to have it replaced with an immediate insult most foul that reached his ears.
A few paces away, a ragged faunus, draped in dirt-covered clothes, begged for essentials from a shop stall with a few liens in his hands. A bread and water to feed his child. The merchant named his price with the look of one who knew that the man's desperation had no power over negotiation. Twice the market rate. No, three times.
"Terrible business, the fall of Beacon. But you understand, don’t you? Supply and demand. Refugees must eat, but we have to eat too. Surely you can stretch your purse a little further."
Alaric nearly crushed his molars hearing this. "Disgusting."
He began walking, and he made no attempt to hide his disdain.
"You, merchant. Explain yourself."
The shopkeeper turned his gaze. His protest came quickly, oily and unconvincing.
“Ah, why young fellow, surely you understand-”
"I understand what exploitation is when I see it. Do not take me for a fool," Alaric cut in, ice-blue eyes narrowed. “You dare wring coin from the ruined and haggard, and call it 'profit'? A carrion picks a carcass with more dignity.”
The shopkeeper sputtered at the young man's words, caught between disbelief and anger. Alaric ignored him and picked up the lien on the table, pressing it back into the refugee's hands. Then, without ceremony, the young lord drew his own purse from his coat and slammed a card on the table.
"You will give bread and water to this man by the price you've called. And all your goods in this shop are now forfeit. All of them. You WILL deliver them to the relief houses. Consider your profit tonight… confiscated, unless you'd prefer I buy out your entire business instead by nightfall and a phone call."
The merchant’s face purpled, but the imperious glare from the young lord’s expression silenced protest.
