Rhapsody in D. - First Movement - The Foreigner
Sat Apr 19, 2003 3:16 am
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Sweat rolled down the heaving, brawny arms of the two workers; their grunts of effort seemed in unison.
"What in bloody blazes?" barked old Pritchard himself, as he stormed to the back of the tavern, where the two big men were standing by a wagon, struggling to unload a huge, cubical box crafted of dark, stained wood; it seemed tremendously heavy, from the manner in which they carried it.
With a heavy, dull thud it struck the earth; one man glanced up from where he squatted by the handles bolted to the side;
"S'a supply order, m'sir."
"I didn't order any giant square boxes. Take'm back, lads!" Pritchard muttered, crossing his arms. Despite the size of the two men facing him, they blanched at the expression on the barkeep's face. Pritch was still an imposing man when the order took him.
"Can't. We've been contracted t'drop the supplies 'ere, sir, for yer cellar."
"By who?"
"M'ser, a Marquis al-D'arcu."
"Who in th'flaming hells is Marquis al-"
A smooth voice with a distinctly foreign accent cut in behind Pritchard; ice slithering into fire's path.
"Al-D'arcu, goodman Pritchard. Myself, in other words."
The 'tender turned to see an odd sight; a tall man dressed in black from head to toe; but he wore it in a smart, unnassuming manner; upon this man the black was a quiet comfort rather than some ominous fashion statement. It did, however, contrast starkly with his pallor; he seemed elderly, though of great vigor for his apparent age. His face, angular, hawk-nosed and bushy-browed; beneath the thick arches, which nearly met over his nose, his eyes struck forth, pale arctic-blue. His lips were rubicund and sensuous, framed by flowing moustaches; a tiny beard clasped the centre of his chin. The stranger wore a black top-hat and held a cane to his side in pale, spidery fingers.
"Forgive the undue intrusion, my goodman-" The term seemed, perhaps, to be a local one where he came from. "I had thought my messenger arrived to tell you of the stock coming in."
"What stock?"
"Spices from my homeland." Al-D'arcu bowed his head; lengthy, snow-hued ringlets brushed about his sharp cheeks. "A venerable supply, indeed. And useful in the preparation of many dishes."
Pritchard scowled; he did not trust the foreigner. A nobleman, at that - up to no good. And why was he so pale? If it weren't for the sun shining clearly overhead, he'd almost mistake the man for a -...
"How much's this going to cost, eh?"
"In fact, goodman Pritchard, my arrangement was to pay you, for the use of your storage space."
"Oh." That at least brightened the old man, though it hardly allayed his suspicions. More than a few things here simply did not add up; yet this Al-D'arcu had a pleasant manner of speaking and was soothingly polite - a stark contrast to the usual rabble he had swearing at him day in and out for doing his job.
Then he felt a heavy sack of coins placed in his palm; eyebrow cocked, Pritch checked through them and found them all in Myrken currency. This foreigner had done his homework.
"Ehhh. I'll let ye 'ave it, for a little while."
He found his gaze shying away from the intensity in the stranger's eyes; the pale blue circles seemed flat, like lakes of ice, and held an odd, predatory quality. He felt briefly as if he'd been in a staring match with a wolf, but when he blinked, he saw a man still standing there. Al-D'arcu seemed to snap out of a trance, and smiled courteously.
"Thank you kindly, my friend. I do hope you will keep my trust, and not partake of my spices too heavily while they are stored here. They are, after all, quite unique to my region. Good day."
As the stranger departed, Pritchard made an idle note to pilfer just a little of the foreign spice for his own use. The stranger seemed to expect it, and it wouldn't hurt, would it?
*******
Later, when the great nondescript box was lumped in the cellar behind a mass of barrels, Pritchard snuck down and did his damnedest to crack the thing open; but try as he might, the bounds would not give.
Muttering in frustration, he was called once more upstairs, and reluctantly left the box to sit and gather dust.
He promptly forgot all about it.
*******
The next day, the box began to slowly dissappear beneath a pile of imported, tinned dates stacked on top of it. No more was heard of Marquis Al-D'arcu, by the Dagger staff. The box, and its contents, were left forgotten, and undisturbed...
************************************
Sweat rolled down the heaving, brawny arms of the two workers; their grunts of effort seemed in unison.
"What in bloody blazes?" barked old Pritchard himself, as he stormed to the back of the tavern, where the two big men were standing by a wagon, struggling to unload a huge, cubical box crafted of dark, stained wood; it seemed tremendously heavy, from the manner in which they carried it.
With a heavy, dull thud it struck the earth; one man glanced up from where he squatted by the handles bolted to the side;
"S'a supply order, m'sir."
"I didn't order any giant square boxes. Take'm back, lads!" Pritchard muttered, crossing his arms. Despite the size of the two men facing him, they blanched at the expression on the barkeep's face. Pritch was still an imposing man when the order took him.
"Can't. We've been contracted t'drop the supplies 'ere, sir, for yer cellar."
"By who?"
"M'ser, a Marquis al-D'arcu."
"Who in th'flaming hells is Marquis al-"
A smooth voice with a distinctly foreign accent cut in behind Pritchard; ice slithering into fire's path.
"Al-D'arcu, goodman Pritchard. Myself, in other words."
The 'tender turned to see an odd sight; a tall man dressed in black from head to toe; but he wore it in a smart, unnassuming manner; upon this man the black was a quiet comfort rather than some ominous fashion statement. It did, however, contrast starkly with his pallor; he seemed elderly, though of great vigor for his apparent age. His face, angular, hawk-nosed and bushy-browed; beneath the thick arches, which nearly met over his nose, his eyes struck forth, pale arctic-blue. His lips were rubicund and sensuous, framed by flowing moustaches; a tiny beard clasped the centre of his chin. The stranger wore a black top-hat and held a cane to his side in pale, spidery fingers.
"Forgive the undue intrusion, my goodman-" The term seemed, perhaps, to be a local one where he came from. "I had thought my messenger arrived to tell you of the stock coming in."
"What stock?"
"Spices from my homeland." Al-D'arcu bowed his head; lengthy, snow-hued ringlets brushed about his sharp cheeks. "A venerable supply, indeed. And useful in the preparation of many dishes."
Pritchard scowled; he did not trust the foreigner. A nobleman, at that - up to no good. And why was he so pale? If it weren't for the sun shining clearly overhead, he'd almost mistake the man for a -...
"How much's this going to cost, eh?"
"In fact, goodman Pritchard, my arrangement was to pay you, for the use of your storage space."
"Oh." That at least brightened the old man, though it hardly allayed his suspicions. More than a few things here simply did not add up; yet this Al-D'arcu had a pleasant manner of speaking and was soothingly polite - a stark contrast to the usual rabble he had swearing at him day in and out for doing his job.
Then he felt a heavy sack of coins placed in his palm; eyebrow cocked, Pritch checked through them and found them all in Myrken currency. This foreigner had done his homework.
"Ehhh. I'll let ye 'ave it, for a little while."
He found his gaze shying away from the intensity in the stranger's eyes; the pale blue circles seemed flat, like lakes of ice, and held an odd, predatory quality. He felt briefly as if he'd been in a staring match with a wolf, but when he blinked, he saw a man still standing there. Al-D'arcu seemed to snap out of a trance, and smiled courteously.
"Thank you kindly, my friend. I do hope you will keep my trust, and not partake of my spices too heavily while they are stored here. They are, after all, quite unique to my region. Good day."
As the stranger departed, Pritchard made an idle note to pilfer just a little of the foreign spice for his own use. The stranger seemed to expect it, and it wouldn't hurt, would it?
*******
Later, when the great nondescript box was lumped in the cellar behind a mass of barrels, Pritchard snuck down and did his damnedest to crack the thing open; but try as he might, the bounds would not give.
Muttering in frustration, he was called once more upstairs, and reluctantly left the box to sit and gather dust.
He promptly forgot all about it.
*******
The next day, the box began to slowly dissappear beneath a pile of imported, tinned dates stacked on top of it. No more was heard of Marquis Al-D'arcu, by the Dagger staff. The box, and its contents, were left forgotten, and undisturbed...
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