[Witches' Horses] Chevalier de Grammont
Title: dealing in the back room
'Verse/characters: le Chevalier de Grammont; Sinclair, a merchant gent
Prompt: coastal_physics: "Sinclair, cigar smoke & whisky"
Word Count: 310
Notes: precursor to planning. Voice is not solid, much to my frustration; may get expanded at some point.
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The room reeked, only slightly pleasantly, of tobacco smoke of various brands and types, spilled golden-toned alcohol, and a little of the rushes underfoot, because apparently real vegetation was cheaper than a good sturdy floor that could be industrially scrubbed.
For all the smells, both offensive and merely unfamiliar, it was a decent enough place to meet with a man. He'd been here nearly an hour and nobody'd tried to knife him yet.
And if a little of his whisky went the way of the rushes by his chair's feet instead of his mouth, well. It would hardly be the first spill of the day.
He was even mostly dried out from the trip up from the stable he'd left the horse at--the skies had opened up and dropped a bucket on his head halfway to the meeting point they'd agreed on by singer.
The landers stuck out in the crowd, and he tried to watch them for his contact as much as possible through the patch side, instead of his uncovered eye. He had no wish to have a potential contract snatched out from underneath him by another captain--if that was going to happen he'd be the poacher, thank you.
But his man eventually showed, another two small glasses of golden liquid later, and they haggled, easy Russian words passing from the lander's bearded mouth and nearly as easy replies from his own.
"Considering the nature of the cargo," he ventured, after they'd agreed on a price for the transport, and the man crossed his hands over his belt and the ample belly beneath it.
"An extra ten percent if you wait for the weather to clear but still make the delivery date."
"Assuming the forecast is accurate, deal. If not, I'll call you."
"Agreed," the man grinned, and signaled for a round of vodka to toast the deal.
'Verse/characters: le Chevalier de Grammont; Sinclair, a merchant gent
Prompt: coastal_physics: "Sinclair, cigar smoke & whisky"
Word Count: 310
Notes: precursor to planning. Voice is not solid, much to my frustration; may get expanded at some point.
---------
The room reeked, only slightly pleasantly, of tobacco smoke of various brands and types, spilled golden-toned alcohol, and a little of the rushes underfoot, because apparently real vegetation was cheaper than a good sturdy floor that could be industrially scrubbed.
For all the smells, both offensive and merely unfamiliar, it was a decent enough place to meet with a man. He'd been here nearly an hour and nobody'd tried to knife him yet.
And if a little of his whisky went the way of the rushes by his chair's feet instead of his mouth, well. It would hardly be the first spill of the day.
He was even mostly dried out from the trip up from the stable he'd left the horse at--the skies had opened up and dropped a bucket on his head halfway to the meeting point they'd agreed on by singer.
The landers stuck out in the crowd, and he tried to watch them for his contact as much as possible through the patch side, instead of his uncovered eye. He had no wish to have a potential contract snatched out from underneath him by another captain--if that was going to happen he'd be the poacher, thank you.
But his man eventually showed, another two small glasses of golden liquid later, and they haggled, easy Russian words passing from the lander's bearded mouth and nearly as easy replies from his own.
"Considering the nature of the cargo," he ventured, after they'd agreed on a price for the transport, and the man crossed his hands over his belt and the ample belly beneath it.
"An extra ten percent if you wait for the weather to clear but still make the delivery date."
"Assuming the forecast is accurate, deal. If not, I'll call you."
"Agreed," the man grinned, and signaled for a round of vodka to toast the deal.