Who wants to go on an adventure?
All James had to do at Cat-22 to get Uschi onboard is the merest reference to 'needing something at Market', and the Ogress was already lumbering to browbeat other sourfaced Wizened into joining, getting her supply pack, and putting on her guide outfit - which is the same as the rest of her assorted rags, only no boots. No boots? No boots.
For over four bloody hours, Uschi has lead James and C.B. through the Hedge, barefoot and practically silent. Aside from a lil' snafu with some pesky Will-O'-Wisps which tried to lead folk astray around The Slips, and a cloud of swarming stingers that needed to be dodged somewhere by Fanwood Fen, nothing very notable happened, save perhaps a stop here-or-there to pick some goblin fruit.
Now? Now they've arrived in the first square of the only Market in town.
Where the Wild Roses Grow, it is always day: the sun is always shining, and the Market is always open. Beyond the rose briar and the guards who check to make sure everyone has 'peaceknotted' their weaponry -- yes, that means putting a white bit o' string on that gun, Mr. Alexander -- and that nobody wearing any offending pink clothing, the streets of the Market sprawl out in many directions, each bustling with various Hobs, regional Changelings, and hopefully no True Fae.
For now.
Hasn't James been here before? Perhaps he knows where he wants to go.
That portly large portly fellow over yonder does: a tall Hob with furry skin is pushing what looks like a food cart made out of half a bicycle and a portable grill. Smells like pigfat and sour grapes. Occasionally the fellow whistles, as if to draw attention - just one of many such Marketeers, greasing the wheels of commerce. Probably quite literally, judging from the drippings around that grill.
James is relieved when Uschi and CB agree to go with him to the market. After his last visit to the hedge, he's much more wary than before, and so he asks two of the only people he knows in this town to join him and, hopefully, keep him from getting himself killed. He's a bit of a mess on the way, carrying only a shiny new baseball bat he picked up fro the local sports store as a weapon. Looks cheap too, so it'd probably splinter with a good hit. Luckily, Uschi's guidance saves him from having to find out for sure. Once inside the Market, he seems to relax just a touch. At least this place has rules. Rules he gets. He looks around, then to Uschi and CB, saying grimly, "I'm gonna find something that'll really fuck some shit up. Like...I screw up every phone I use, but I wanna just....break it all." He gives Uschi a smirk adding, "Gonna embrace the new me." Looking around, he heads off with perhaps too much confidence, "I bet those two we talked to last time have something, right? CB, you know anyone in this place?"
C.B., of course, hates the Hedge, hates the Market, and complains bitterly about all of it. But for all of /that/, why did he decide to go? Is it something like why he's complained bitterly about the Freehold for months, but still decided to join? Maybe. At any rate, C.B.'s gone all army store again in a pair of camouflage pants, army shirt, drab green t-shirt, dog tags tucked into his shirt, Korean jungle boots. Army-style rucksack on his back, and yes, he has two guns strapped to him, both peaceknotted, along with an odd accessory: a shiny silver bullhorn, clipped to the back of his pack. He narrows his eyes at James. "What the hell are you even talking about?" Yeah, he wasn't really privy to James' reasons for being here, unless James truly explained it. Must be some James/Uschi in-joke. "No, I don't know anyone. This place is a fucking stain on reality." Well then.
"Uh-huh Tell 'em, Sport." Uschi grunts as James talks about how he hates, what, technology? The half feral Ogress don't need to be told twice - although her shadowy focus may be elsewhere, as she's looking off down one of the side-streets... When C.B. pipes up, the Ogress snorts softly at his assessment.
Does Uschi agree? Impossible to tell. The Ogress is silently stepping up to the tall furry Hob with the food cart -- her singularly working hand taking out a cluster of green oversized pods, then pointing at some of the sacks of greasy treats hanging from the side of the grill, before grimy fingers are held in a V. Two? She wants two? Some silent transaction is being made, with the tall fuzzy Hob whistling and nodding and going about business of tossing around some glistening meaty-bits with an oversized spatula.
Although the Hob isn't exactly /minding/ his own: "G'day fellash!" Is it a good day? Well it's always day here, and the Hob seems to think it's good: a big, wide smile is given to both of the Wizened - showing of his singular tooth. "Sounds like you're looking for something special!" So.. So /friendly/. The Hob continues, looking at each Wizened in turn. "Now I know where you an get squeaky duck that'll remove any stain - but I reckon that isn't what you're really after. How can I help, fellash?"
James laughs a little at CB's response. "Really? It...doesn't seem that bad. Granted, I've only been here once before, but it's got a certain ambiance." When Uschi stops for a snack, James pauses, eyeing the...food (?) dubiously. When the hob speaks to them, he looks to CB, then back to the hob, answering with rare politeness, "I'm after something a bit more...dramatic, to be honest. Though a stain removing duck /is/ tempting." He leans in to sniff the food, asking Uschi quietly, "What /is/ that?"
"All Markets are bad. It's capitalism. Exploitation. Slavery. How could anything about this be good?" C.B. makes a face, one that only gets squintier as the hob addresses them. For once, he keeps his big mouth shut, though he does look at the hob like he's gearing up to ask him something very incendiary.
Uschi... Does not reply to James' question -- she's busying herself with inspecting the Ertwen in her hand, as if to silently show off to the food vending Hob how fresh and juicy they are. Not even C.B's assessment of the Market - right or wrong - is acknowledged. Pft. Such a callous Ogress.
Not like this Hob - he actually laughs, all heartily amused and taking the two Wizened in stride as he flips that meat-bits. "More dramatic? Now, did I heard you fellash sayin' something about breaking things..." The two Wizened get a bit of side-eye, like this Hob knows what /Wizened/ can be like - and the idea amuses him. More laughter - so laid back, even with C.B's sour attitude. "These here are Porkums! Trotter and tailfeathers, nothing wasted."
Uschi looks... Deadpan. Waiting, as the Hob starts filling a cone made from what looks like a nudie mag with greasy meatchunks.
"If it's short-term breakerage you're looking for, see Wanda. If it's something you wanna keep long as you can? Pickle and Spitz." The Hob says cheerily, like he's got the best gawd damned job in the world. "And if you wanna live deliciously? You're already here, friends."
James looks a bit queasy at the food, shaking his head, "Ah, that sounds delicious but, uh, I think I'm gonna pass. Big breakfast and all." He looks to CB and asks with a smirk, "You ready to go engage in some dirty, nasty capitalism? You wouldn't happen tohave a spare arm or something would you? That seems to be what those Pickle-Spit dudes were into, severed appendages. But, if they're where to go..." He shrugs and straightens his shoulders, "What about you, Uschi? You staying here for lunch, or coming with us?" He seems to be getting a bit cocky.
C.B. looks downright disgusted at the greasy cone, but he's looked disgusted all along, hasn't he? "What do you think?" he says to James, cranky as all get-out. Naturally cranky, the Hedge and especially the Market tend to make him even crankier than usual. "This is your bright idea. You better have something you're willing to part with. Don't expect /me/ to cover for you."
"Ah! Well if you find some room for more..." The friendly Hob laughs - belly shaking with mirth, as he turns away from the Non-Customers and busies himself with prioritising the Ogress who's offered cold hard Goblin Fruit as trade. Such is the nasty reality of dirty Capitalism. James and C.B. may as well be invisible now. Poor Wizened.
'Spare arm'?
The shadow across Uschi's face seems to darken, as those glinting nocturnal eyes flicker over into James' direction. The Ogress stares at him for a few long seconds, soaking up all that cocky attitude and sass - perfectly still, except for the slow gesture of her working right arm, as she reaches out to deposit the Goblin Fruit on the Hob's cart, and accept the nudie mag cone filled with grilled Hedgebeast.
When Uschi finally speaks to James, her voice is a low, gravelly croak: "...Be back for you."
Brief glance to C.B., like Uschi was sizing him and his army fatigues up --- haha, /human camouflage/, how cute! Assessment over and feedback most certainly /not/ shared, the Ogress turns away and begins lumbering off.
Leaving James and C.B. alone in the Market, to make their own decisions. Which was way Pickle n' Spitz, again?
James looks a bit worried at CB's statement, and pats the bag he's brought along, which looks rather full, "Yeah, I brought some stuff. I don't...I mean, I'm not sure it's the /right/ stuff? But...I'm pretty good at negotiating." He seems utterly oblivious to the faux pas he's made in joking about spare limbs, but he does look just a touch less cocky as Ushi wanders off. Turning to CB, he clears his throat and asks, "What about you? Do you hope to find anything?" He motions CB to follow, and heads down the paths, pausing now and then, but seeming quite sure of his direction, and with good reason, as soon they are in front of Pickle and Spitz, and he heads right in.
Oh c'mon, who is C.B. kidding? He knows damn well he's not really hiding from anyone in that camo. But that's not why he wears it. He watches Uschi wander off with a shake of his head. Ever since a certain arm-wrestling incident, he hasn't been a huge fan of the Ogress. "No. I'm not looking for anything," the Author says stubbornly, but the Hedge has a funny way of changing things sometimes, doesn't it? Never say never, Ceebs.
Prickle & Spitz - peddler's of fine... What do they sell again? Oh that's right: things lost and found. So, that means about everything - and from the sheer number of objects that hang, sit, stack, wobble and gather dust on the shelves of their shop, it's almost like -anything- could be found here. Surely that's an illusion, though... Then again, maybe not.
Beyond the stacks of this-and-that, there is the vendor's table: strings of bells and odd jars with questionable contents surrounding the trays of junk/treasure. There are no severed libs today - but the two Hobs are standing back there. One tall and slender with a long-nose, long-ears, brown mottled skin and a spiny back -- he's like a hedgehog with human limbs and elfish face, really. The other is tiny and pinkish, bright blue eyes glinting like ice water, with tattered wings hanging down her back like a veil, the webs of her fingers noticeable as she gestures to the other.
Prickle and Spitz are talking to one another, in a rapid-fire chatter. It's no Earthly language, that's for sure - although it's got the quality of almost, /almost/ sounding familiar now and then. Negotiations should be interesting.
James clears his throat as he enters to get their attention, "Hello there." He saunters around, looking at the wares like he knows what he's looking for, trying to seem discerning as he leans in to examine some knick knack. "Interesting."
C.B. examines things on the table, though he seems a little uneasier to touch anything. Mostly he's just wandering around with his arms folded, scowling at the vendors and their strange wares. "Careful," he tells James. "You never know what they'll ask you for in a place like this. If I were you, I'd be on my guard."
Spitz -- that is, the smaller web-fingered one -- stops chattering as she hears James' greeting. She says nothing, but Prickle steps up -- beetle black eyes shiny and keen, as he clocks James; there is a subtle sound of acknowledgement, like a piano key being stuck and fading away.
Prickle's attention shifts to C.B. as the other Wizened speaks, although he looks back to James almost immediately. Spitz doesn't, though -- her interest has been piqued, and the slender, pinkfaced elfish Hob is moving up to half-hide half-lean out from behind Prickle -- those bright blue eyes fixed on C.B., or at least the bullhorn attached to his waist.
The piano note sound fades into something more coherent, as Prickle speaks to James: "Looking to dip your toe, sir?"
James frowns slightly at Prickles, clarifying with a touch of admonishment, "I told you last time, it's a very nice toe, but I'm not in the market for one." He points at a jar and asks, "What's in that?"
There is a discordant chirping sound from the spiny-backed Prickle after he listens to James - gently folding his hand on the vendor's table in front of him. Oh. Oh that was laughter, perhaps? He inclines his head to Spitz, who makes a noise like two cicadas fighting in the tubes of a pipe organ, before she lapses into silence - her bright blue eyes fixed on C.B.. No more commentary from Spitz.
Prickle looks back to James, and his mouth broadens into a smile - polite, by Hob standards. "Who said anything about any toe besides the ones in those shiny shoes of yours?" The hob bobs a head in the direction of James' feet, then makes a chittering sound - hand lifted and waved dismissively in the direction of the jar. "Capsules of Sweetblood. Eat one, and you'll go down smooth." Prickle blinks - a thin membrane if milky white flashing over his beetle-black eyes briefly. "Is that what you've come to find today?"
James grins at Prickles, sparing Spitz a glance before focusing on the one who's been designated to sell him something. "Me? I'm looking to ruin some stuff. Like..." He pulls out his phone, a cheap burner, and glares at it, showing off how it fritzes when his gremlin glare is focused on it. "Something like that, but.../more/. You got anything like that?"
GAME: James spends 1 Glamour with reason: gremlin glare
While Spitz is off in her own slice of fantasy, giving C.B. the ol' blue eyed ocular patdown, Prickles' attention is fully on James. Out-of-time tapping of those spindly Hob fingers as he listens, "Stuff... In ruins?" The Hob starts to move -- eyes still fixed on James, and for a split second he seems pleased, or at least intrigued when the burner comes out. What is this?!
When James gets all Gremlin Glare at the electronic, Prickle stops his search on those shelves there for three beats - only to side step a foot or two, and restart his search on these shelves here. After a moment, he pulls out what looks like an old Sony walkman - only where there should be headphones, there is a long thin vine with what looks like thorns for earbuds. "How about this -- it will tell the listener what they want to hear, until it will not. Very addictive."
...Is Prickle purposefully misunderstanding James? Could be he needs more context from the Wizened.
James actually seems intrigued by the item offered, and he leans in to examine the walkman with a real curiousity and a touch of covetousness. But in the end, he shakes his head as he starts punching buttons, working on resetting the phone so it works again. "No, not that. Something like...Something that'll just blow things up! Or, maybe not /blow/ the up, but...uh..." He considers, looking around for inspiration, "Stop them from functioning."
Headshake to the wares? The Hob's shoulders shrink a bit, and he moves to oh-so-carefully place the Wyrd walkman back on the shelf. Spindly hands brush it lovingly - but stop when James speaks. If Prickle had eyebrows, they may be raising -- instead, the Hob's forehead is pushed up and far to many wrinkles appear on that otherwise smooth pixieish face. "Blow, like the Wind? We have Hoarflakes in stock - make even a greasy imp such as yourself ease through the sky like the finest cord of Harvestman silk."
Prickle turns - in the same moment so does Spitz: they share with one another a very secretive and very twisted little smile. It lasts only a beat, then in unison they turn back to their respctive Wizened: Spitz peering at C.B., Prickle focused on James.
"What functions, where you are from?" Prickle must know he's being difficult, right?
James sighs and takes a moment to gather his thoughts, glancing at the stoic CB for help before turning back to Prickle. After watching him for a long moment, and looking over the wares on offer, he finally seems to feel he's struck on a good way to ask. "Do you have anything that would make me a better," he chokes out the words a little, scowling as he says it, "Greasy imp? Stronger. More powerful?"
That sound happens again! It's like a coiled metal wire being raked with the edge of a knife: oscillating and sharp. It's Prickle laughing, apparently full of Wyrd mirth at James' request. That scowl may as well be sweet nectar for the Hob marketeer; this exchange looks like it's giving him life. "/Stronger/? Yes? We have a crowbar bathed in briar blood and baked in a burnt out beemer that will bash to bits any single object it's bounced against - will that make you feel stronger? Yes?"
Beetle black eyes turn, as Prickle tries to spot the burner that James had before. "...But if it's power - we have Contracts, much coveted - Royal Oil, fit for a powerful Gremlin; you can douse your targets in flammable grease that cannot be extinguished, and wear a crown for all to see..."
Perhaps closer to what James is really looking for - but what does Prickle know? That strange impish smile spreads wide, wide, wide across Prickle's face. "What does power look like to you, Lost?"
C.B. is very protective of that bullhorn, by the way. He'll put a hand on it like it /is/ a weapon if there's any greedy hobs staring it down. "What?" he spits at Spitz. "I don't /want/ anything, you numbskull. Who knows why the hell /he/ wants anything from the likes of you." C.B., very good at Not Helping. At that last question of Prickle's, C.B. turns to glower at James. "Be fucking /careful/ how you answer that question, unless you want to end up in a situation you didn't bargain for."
James actually considers that last question as if Prickle has brought out an existential crisis, even before Cb warms him. What /does/ power look like to him. For a moment he slumps a bit, sighing heavily and looking sad, mumbling, "I used to know..." But then he squares his shoulders, remembering why he came here, and says, "That's what I'm gonna figure out. That oil thing, that...maybe. That's one of those, uh, what'd she call them? 'Gobbo contracts'? You got any more of those?" He glances at CB to see if he has earned approval from his response, asking jokingly to Spitz, "You got any ice that could get a person to chill?"
Greedy Hobs?! Spitz looks like a very lovely young woman, who just so happens to very much-so a pixie. "You smell like earth." She chimes in C.B's direction, then starts to move - picking up a small silver tray. On it there are a few things: a small bowl of what look like seeds, a handful of brass bullet casings that are making a dull buzzing noise, a bright blue crystal and a strange pebbly leather pouch with odd markings branded on the outside. Drifting over to C.B., she holds them up for his inspection - bright blue eyes watching his face. "Take your best shot? There's always something for those who look - even if it is to stop them - here, on earth, or in Dreams."
Meanwhile Prickle is wrinkling his forehead at James again in what could possibly be dawning comprehension. The milky white eyelids fog up those eyes as he blinks twice, then begins to nod. "Goblin Contracts... For a greasy imp... Who wants 'things' to 'blow up', but not fly -- break down, but not freeze over... Ah. You are looking for..." Prickle fades off, turning around -- shelves are peered at, leaving James hanging for a moment, before the Hob finally picks up, uh, a single wooden clog. Is something written on it? He turns and holds it aloft, looking at James with wide black eyes. "Sabotage! Perhaps?"
"Power? That's a trick," C.B. tells James, poking him in the shoulder. "Don't get 'that oil thing,' it's fucking dangerous. And stupid." He squints at his fellow Wizened at the chill comment. He may not entirely get what he means for...various reasons. Then he scowls at Spitz. "I do not." To be fair, he smells more like ozone. And whiskey, and cigarettes. He peers at the pouch, but looks like he doesn't even want to touch it. "What's this supposed to be for?"
James watches Prickles search for a moment, though he does get distracted as Spitz approaches CB, watching the other man's response curiously. "Yeah, I don't have any desire to be the dude that created 'the great spontanious combustion debacle of 2018', really. And power is...probably an innacurate word," this with a little nod of concession, "But it's close." As Prickles lands on an idea, James turns back to him, raising an eyebrow, "Sabotage? That...sounds interesting. What's it do? And what's the trade-off? Seems we can't do anything without something shitty happening."
Spitz' bright blue eyes remain fixed on C.B. - even when she's scowled at. It's like it makes no difference to her. "As you say, sir." Obviously she does not believe him. The Hob must think he -stinks- of Earth. But isn't the customer always right? Her crystalline voice chimes on to answer his question; "That is a pouch made with Dream Charm's in mind -- they protect Mortal dreams from incursions by Gentry. Isn't that a funny thought? But you need to know a Mortal to make it matter, and like all -good- things, you need to sacrifice to make it stick. But as you say, you probably want for nothing." Those bright blues sparkle as Spitz look at the bullhorn, the guns, the camouflage, then C.B's expression. "...Except, perhaps, the promise of true escape."
Prickle, meanwhile, is still holding that single sabot aloft, watching James' raised brow with a wrinkled forehead of his own. "Sabotage!" He repeats. "Have you ever heard of the Old Miller's Tower? It was a realm where the very fabric of itself was woven by the hands of dreamers, living high above the clouds. The sound of the machines could be heard farther than a horse can run in a day - deafened anyone who worked there, story says. It is also said, that one young weaver - not unlike yourself - returned there, with this very Contract in place, and brought everything down with a single word: the silence of those machines caused the whole world to collapse, and now there is only... Shreds."
Dramatic pause. Prickle admires the clog; "It hurt her, but she got out alive. Just. So did her companions. It was what one calls 'a win' - well, for one. A loss for The Other."
C.B. turns briefly to squint at James, but then he looks at Spitz again. "True escape? What's that supposed to mean?" He briefly listens to Prickle describe the story of Sabotage, and even he has to smile a little. He has his own little version of Sabotage, one might say. There's an appreciation there, despite all the barking he's done.
James listens to the story with a curious intensity, then nods slightly. "Hmm." That's all Prickles gets at the moment as James turns to fully watch Spitz try her sales skills on CB, and more importantly, watches his reactions to her offerings. "Poison?" He guesses with a little smile.
"True escape," Spitz echoes back to C.B. - lowering the tray as she watches the Author. "By Distracting the Hounds -- we know the way, to distract all of ones enemies; a terrible din arises, a protective confusion, be it in the fog of war or the middle of what I am told you people call 'malls', which is a market hall? Wherever you are, whatever the circumstance, all of your opponents will be distracted - giving you and your companions the opportunity to escape, entirely unhindered. Truly. Sir, it is like buying time." A smile spreads across her face - exposing rows of tiny pointed teeth beneath those sweet pink lips. "If you have the strength of will to spare."
Prickle merely squints at James as the Gremlin gives his own sales pitch a less than awestruck response. The wooden clog covered in writing is lowered, and practically hugged to his chest - while the spines on his back twitch. Are his feelings hurt? Maybe he's feeling a touch prickly. The shoe is lovingly caressed, while Prickle says-- actually has he said something? There's just this odd gargled chirping bark noise, quickly followed by a trill of amusement from Spitz.
"Poison?" C.B. raises an eyebrow at James. "I'd rather just stick my gun down my throat." He mimes pulling the trigger before his gaze wanders back to Spitz. He listens to what the hob has to say. Sadly...he seems interested. A touch of lightning crackles deep in his blue-silver eyes. "And what would you want for /that/ in return?"
James turns back to Prickles and eyes him up and down, focusing on the clog for a long moment before saying, "That would almost suit. I suppose it'd do." He puts on a look of begrudging acceptance, as if he's really settling on this offer. "If you throw in that easy escape for my buddy though..." He reaches into his bag, grabbing the first thing his hand lands on and pulling out...a recently discontinued set of over-ear headphones in bright, neon pink. They've clearly been used, given the numerous tween-friendly stickers that have been attached. "I'll trade you these, not-so-gently used headphones. /And/ a broken end-user agreement." The papers of said end-user agreement are slowly pulled from the bag as well, like it's some big reveal of a precious item.
Spitz' ice blue eyes widen into round orbs, her smile broad and pointy as she watches C.B. mime pilling that trigger - how curious she is! How amusing these Earth dwelling Changelings are! Another trill of amusement. Seems like somebody loves her job. "We would ask for a dash of your potential, the last words you remember calling out in desperation, and one round from each of your sidearms." A beat. The Hob adds, almost as an after thought, leaving things open for negotiation apparently: "Do you have any extra toes?"
Meanwhile, Prickle looks back up at James as the greasy Gremlin starts negotiations. The Hob's impish face goes politely neutral as he listens, but the spines on his back twitch. Beady eyes follow the headphones -- mmm, delicious emotional resonance from emo teenagers - but he looks less impressed by the end-user agreement, and when he speaks... It's a little prickly. "Sir, your 'buddy' over there is involved in his /own/ transaction. What /we/ are discussing is between /us/ alone." Ah. Well. There's that, then. The Hob sniffs in and lifts his chin. "Headphones - broken promises - a bushel of your potential - and the second strongest memory you have of accomplishing something that ended not in your abysmal failure, but your tremendous success. The last time you fixed something. We want that. Agreed?"
"Like I can remember anything I say," C.B. rejoins. "And what do you mean by 'potential'? No extra toes." He glance over at James and Prickle, suspicious as ever. Nosireebob, even making his own transactions, he's not comfortable with it, nor is he comfortable with James signing his life away on the dotted line, either. But C.B.'s already said his piece about all of this. So he turns back to Spitz and asks, the suspicion no less in place, "What is it you'd /do/ with such potential, exactly?"
James shakes his head, "A bushel of ....no." He considers, looking annoyed that his attempts to get CB's possible purchase thrown in has failed. "The headphones, the broken promise...The last time I fixed something, sure..I don't care if that gets lost..." He hesitates then, and glances back over to C.B., waiting to hear Spitz' response before going any further, since it's a good question really.
"That'll do." Spitz chimes - wait, does that mean she thinks 'like i can remember anything I say' as being said in desperation? Hob's ideas on what emotions or intentions are may be a little twisted. Her wings inch up, only to fall down when C.B. says he has no toes. "That's a shame... Well..." She seems ready to start explaining potential, but stops to look over to her brother. Something James has said has given her pause.
Prickle's spines have been ruffled - sticking up as James shakes his head. "'No'?" A glance to Spitz, and the two of them make little chirping noises, before turning to look at each Wizened in turn.
"You are both new customers, so we will try and be clear..." Prickle says - with Spitz picking up the next lines; "...Potential freely given, is absorbed back into the whirl of Fate - it becomes the currency, which powers the great wheel..." Spitz fades out, Prickle fades in. "...Which in this shop, is turned by our hand: we set the prices. There is no more negotiation. If you want what you travelled here to find, then you pay the price we set..." Prickle steps to the side, and grabs a jar -- it is murky blue glass, with a faint glow. Spitz moves to put the tray of objects back down, reaching instead for a jar like her brothers as she speaks, "...Which is fair, each of us get what we want -- and now that leaves us with only one question..."
The two Hobs turn, hold out the jars to each Wizened, and speak in unison. "Do you agree to our terms of sale?"
It's okay. C.B. says /most/ things in desperation. It's what he's about. The hobs' explanation produces a look of distaste on his face, nose wrinkled and lips pursed. He waits to see what James will do first before he does anything, because his dislike for this entire process hasn't really changed, and he's probably wondering why he's participating in anything in the first place...
James listens with genuine interest and dawning understanding, shooting CB the occasional glance. When it seems he's going to have to be the first one to respond, he gives a curt little nod, standing up a little straighter. "Well," he says, "If there is no room for negotiation, then I'm afraid that there is no deal. I'm happy to discuss a fair and equitable exchange, and as you say, I'm new around here, but I have a hunch that those are sucker rates. As you've made clear, I can't speak on my friend's behalf, but /I/ will look elsewhere." He places the headphones and the paperwork back in his bag, all polite and business-like formality. "I do appreciate you taking the time to show us your wares, and explain a bit of how the system works. It was...informative." Considering that, he pulls the paperwork back out again and sets it on the table. "Consider this a tip... for the education."
Prickle and Spitz have begun to move in unison now - standing next to one another, watching the quiet C.B. less then they are the business casual James over there. Spitz makes a small chittering sound, associated with amusement - looking to C.B. as if she thinks the dour Author will be in on the joke. That, or she's watching the peace-knotted weaponry. Prickle is watching James with the even headed coolness of a Hob who has been selling Goblin Contracts in his Market Shop for ta very, very long time.
"If that is how you feel, sir, good day - no need to leave your jetsam." Prickle's headbobs in the direction of the papers. "The information we've shared is free, and news travels fast in the Market. We are here, and you know the asked price in exchange for a Contract of Sabotage: headphones, a broken promise, a memory of a strong success, and a bushel of your potential. Good day."
Spitz looks to C.B., her blue eyes open and curious. From the tray she was holding, the ornate pouch is lifted and she bobs her head in its direction. "Agree now, and you can take this - save you time?" Seems like she's less keen to lose a sale. Weird duo.
C.B., apparently, is less of a salesman than James. If he's already agreed to this devil's bargain that is a hob transaction, then he may as well get it over with. Besides, what need does he have for, well. /Anything/ of his? "Yeah, yeah, sure, sure," he grumbles at Spitz. "I'll do it." He just shrugs at James. "They're all unreasonable. I don't know what you're expecting."
James seems to falter in his decision-making when CB actually makes a deal, considering and finally sighing and rubbing his face, "Really? /You're/ giving in to the sales pitch? Damn, I don't think I'll ever get the hang of this." Looking miserable, he gives Prickles a hang-dog look and says, "Fine. Headphones, broken promise, a memory of success...and a bushel of my potential." This last seems to be the hardest for him, and he sounds utterly defeated as he says, "I suppose I won't need it any more anyway."
Spitz's wings flutter behind her, as she starts getting ready for the transaction; "We have your words; now we need those two rounds, and your dash of potential..." Her ice blue eyes flick to C.B's sidearms, and then the Author's ink stained hands - all the while moving to open the dimly glowing blue jar, and place it on the vendor's table. "Spit your potential into here, when you're ready." That done, she does about gathering the little pouch and a small dust-covered scroll with a heavy wax seal.
Easy as that? Easy as that. The jar may be glowing on the outside, but if anyone looks within it's nothing but a black void.
Prickle and Spitz look at one another, as James' resolve seems to be, ah, put to the test. Are they smiling?
"Agreed!" Prickle says, moving to open his own jar and set it on the table closer to James. He then turns to go and fetch the sabot, holding it tenderly while speaking to the Courtless Gremlin; "Worry not, sir - it won't be wasted, and just imagine how powerful you could feel - how much better..." Oh now he's just throwing words around. But both of the Hobs await payment.
"You probably won't. Let's be honest here." Those are C.B.'s cheerful words when James says he won't need any more potential. Meanwhile, he reaches into his guns -- one Hedgespun, one not -- and pulls out an inky black bullet and a perfectly normal bullet, which he extends towards Spitz. Then his brows raise. "You want me to spit?" He shrugs and smirks, muttering, "There's a first time for everything, I guess," before hocking a loogey straight into that creepy voided jar.
James frowns and does as he's told with the whole spitting and whatnot, seeming mildly confused and hesitant. The headphones and the papers come out again, and he holds out his hand for the sabot. "I doubt I'll feel better, or more powerful, but I'll certainly be getting...something." He looks to CB and asks with a little smirk, "You're probably right. Gotta lower those expectations."
Inky black bullet?! Spitz' eyes go wide for a moment, little chips of glittering ice - guess who thinks she got the better deal here. Or does she? When they're handed over, she simply moves to place them in a small box decorated with tiny bird feet. After the loogey is spit, she smiles politely and moves to present C.B. with the small pouch and dusty scroll. "It will vanish, after reading - but the Contract with stay with you for... As long as you choose to keep it."
Prickle meanwhile is maintaining a higher level of professional decorum - when the headphones are handed over, the Hob sniffs them readily and goes as far as to lick one of the ear pieces. Ew! That done, then papers are accepted - crumpled up into a ball, and tossed over his shoulder. This done, he moves to check that James has spat into the void - what can Prickle even see in there?! Finally, he moves as if to hand over the sabot, but stops -- tilting his head, and holding a spindly finger up to try and press the back of James' hand with a small teaspoon. Where did he even get the teaspoon? "Think of the memory, sir - then Sabotage is yours."
"That's right," C.B. agrees with a smirk. "Lower those expectations." But the smirk seems to vanish faintly, after the pouch and scroll are presented. He scowls at Spitz. "Yeah. Thanks." Now he's stuffing them in his rucksack like they barely matter. How rude!
Solemnly, he turns to watch James and the Giant Memory. Or second-most important something-something memory, whichever comes first.
James just heaves a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. He focuses on the memory, that feeling of adrenaline and joy as he won a big case, the first case he won as the lead. As he remembers, he mutters as if to console himself, "Doesn't matter. Not my life now. Doesn't fucking matter." His eyes flash open after that memory, so precisely remembered, begins to fade, and holds out his hand again. "And now my purchase, please."
"Our pleasure." Spitz chimes to C.B. - her crystalline voice oddly stiff, like she was remembering the lines from someone else's memory. Judging by what these two sell here? Maybe she is. Ice blue eyes watch the agitated Author, as he stuffs away his newly bought wares. What does Spitz care what he does with them? They're C.B.'s problem now.
Just as James' memories are Prickle's. The rush is absorbed, some way or another, and the Hob makes that noise - like a tightening wire. Trill of excitement or amusement or just acceptance, who knows. The wooden sabot is pushed in the glum Gremlin's direction, and Prickle says quietly; "Break the clog when you're ready, gain your Contract with Sabotage."
This done, the two hobs move back - going to stand together behind the counter - watching the Changeling with strange smiles and wide eyes. "Good day."
Is it a good day?
It is always day Where the Wild Roses Grow. The sunlight is just as bright and blinding when James and C.B. choose to leave the shop. Surely, back where they started, they'll be able to find their guide and make their way back home -- that is... If Uschi isn't already lurking in the shadow of some stall, picking her teeth and waiting.
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