One might begin to think that Logan enjoys going to Market alone, bent on exchanging things he perceives he doesn't need for things he thinks he does...and one would be correct. Dressed in his prince-like Hedgespun finery again, he strides confidently through the Market in search of the same vendor who took his childhood memory for a bit of eternal youth. Was it worth it? He's absolutely sure it was. And now, he's in search of something a bit more useful to the immediate here and now, perhaps: Hospitality's Hold.
The almost-elfin little servant at that stall waits by the brightly-painted vardo where Logan had found them before. It looks like the wagon was moved and came back, if he would notice such a thing: there are odd little intents where the wheels where last time, deeper than one might expect for how heavy that wagon ought to be. Maybe the ground was wet.
In any case, the tiny-wide eyed hob greets the princely-dressed Lost with an obseqious bow. "A pleasure to see you back again. Are we to gain your custom once more, sir?"
Logan notices, of course. He's very good at noticing small details. He offers the tiny hob his brightest smile, that light and shadow around him spinning and dancing, and even gives a small bow in return, placing one gloved hand over his heart. "Greetings. Indeed you are. I'm in search of a Contract known as Hospitality's Hold. I'm sure that you've heard of it." He squats down to be more at her eye level, brilliant blue eyes staring into hers. Its. Whatever the case may be. "Do you think you can help me out?"
She seems -- or gives the impression of being -- quite entracted by Logan, in all his shiny/not-shiny/shadowy/sunny glory. It does pay to flatter one's customers, after all. Her spidery-thin fingers clasp in front of her stomach, and she lets out a long, fluttering sigh. Her smile turns impish after he asks, and she nods her head once. "Oh yes. The question is, of course, always one of price. For that, a simple childhood memory may not suffice. Or perhaps it will, if it is strong enough. What deal shall I take to my master for its consideration?"
"Ask your master if he or she wants a childhood memory, or something...more refined," Logan says with a smile, holding her gaze. "Who /is/ your master, anyway?" It's asked oh-so-casually, but Logan's curiosity is anything but. Not like that's the reason he's here. It isn't! He's here for this Contract, to be sure.
The elfin thing looks puzzled at that. "You... you have met it," she replies, as if the answer is entirely obvious. She presses her lips together. "Unless it is essential, a childhood memory will do little. Perhaps an emotion. Your love for your favorite food? That is a bit more refined. Childhood memories are a dime a dozen here. No one wants to remember."
"That's right." Maybe Logan is just baiting her. After all, who could ever believe that a jar of goop could be anyone's master? "You're so authoritative, I could've sworn the one in charge was you. An emotion?" Logan pauses, for a moment. The look on his face goes oddly blank, but...only for a moment. Then his smile beams out, once more. "For my favorite food? Certainly, if you think that is sufficient. After all, what are the pleasures of the flesh compared to the ability to help others?" So genuine! So self-sacrificing!
"Oh, no -- no, sir. I could never." She blushes, though. At his latter words? There's a suspicion that flicks across her face, and then almost -- does she feel sorry for him? It's possible. "As you like." And without another word, she reaches to draw back the curtain and allow him to step inside the vardo. It's hot in there today, claustrophobic.
Sorry? For Logan? Why should anyone want to feel sorry for him? But he brushes it off, stepping inside with his shoulders back and his head held high. More than ready to give up something he finds expendable for something of greater value. How many things like this could he keep doing this for?
Inside the vardo, the tall tank of goop burbles and bubbles. The eyes turn and spin inside the gelatinous filling, bouncing slowly. One seems to focus on him for a moment, and then spins away again, before they both turn inside the goop, and focus in on Logan. The interior bubbles, and seems, almost, to steam. There's nothing said, and the elfin hob stays outside, worrying her hands together. She doesn't instruct him: he should know from last time that he has to put his face over the goop.
And Logan does so, without hesitation this time. In fact, he's actually smiling. Waiting for this to happen, and having no regrets about it.
It's just as gross as the last time -- the goop slides up his nose, into his eyes, covers hie head, leaving his fantastic, gorgeous hair and face a total mess as it slides right up into his brain.
Last time she did warn him that this sort of thing isn't precise, and Logan may find, going forward, that while he certainly has no love anymore for his favorite food, he doesn't have much love at all for really any food. It's not that food doesn't taste good. It tastes as good as before. It's just that there's not the same joy in eating something delicious. He might as well be waiting at a stoplight when he's eating a delicious meal. It's just another thing that he does, now.
Was it worth it? Only Logan can say.
Yep, absolutely disgusting, but completely worth it. Right? Is it worth it giving that up? The foods he really likes, incidentally, aren't much in keeping with his image of a healthy, modern Californian who takes care of himself. Those are mostly things he tolerates. The things he likes? All-American, childlike things like scrambled eggs, grilled American cheese on white bread, processed snack cakes, Cheez-Its. A lot of it is junk food. He didn't really need to be holding onto his love for that stuff anyway, did he? It never does him any good. So he gives all of that away, with the smile of one knowing that it's certainly all worth it. It has to be.
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