Piripiri enjoys herself, in spite of herself. She slurps down the last of some spiced noodles, the wrong kind of spice, they should be a low heat that builds like at ho- and that thought slams behind a ironwood door that locks, yet again, and she swallows. They were... good noodles, yes, that seems safe, and while nobody here seems to have any sort of noble modesty, it's not that she hasn't seen the common folk revel before. Her hood up, a half-veil covering her eyes (gray, of course, don't offend the locals by claims to priesthood you do not have), hands carefully gloved, her lips painted a matching gray to recede into the background, an umbrella patterned subtly so as to not draw attention as unadorned or as the fanciest of the lot blocking the rain from it's furious assault on the ground. There's music, there's great cheer through the street, and while none of the smells are the right smells, they are delicious smells regardless, and her host has been most welcoming.

What is their relationship? Why, to everyone on this street, they are newly in business, exporting the fine woven cloth of this area to Hymair for her house to sell and become the stronger for. Of course, like any good outfit, there are layers there. Beneath the surface, of course, there is the dance of Dominion agent and Dominion aligned, looking for loyalty or at least purpose: it's not like we all work with them for the same reasons, and a loyalist, a oathbound, and a opportunist walking alongside each other will end in folly. Then there's the layer of a merchant willing to sell intelligence, nothing harmful, for the right price, as all great merchants do. Under the polite and friendly relationship, they are sizing each other up, wondering if they can be associates, business partners, or even the rarest of treasures, friends.

But the polite and friendly thing to do when one's host is as attentive as Azazuka is to give a gift. Not a bribe-gift, not a friend-gift, a gift of thanks, and those need work. Which is why Piripiri has her eye out for just the right kind of flower, not a bouquet, a single flower, to pair with the poem she's composing in her head. The understatement is the point, after all: you cannot out-spend one so much richer in coin than you, so you must compete in another form of richness.