[hr][center][h3][b][color=orchid]Solange - The Black Market[/color][/b][/h3] [sup][sup][sup][color=pink][i]Money isn't the root; it's the nutrients in the soil that let beauty grow.[/i][/color][/sup][/sup][/sup][/center][hr] The walk to the market was brief but still gave Solange plenty of time to fantasize about the axle of the wagon splintering, the barrel hiding Neh’miah tumbling out of the cart, and it cascading into the bay where it would be swept out into the sea. In her fantasy, a marooned mariner desperate for food and drink would see a barrel wash ashore on their island prison, crack open the cask, and succumb to despair as the remains of the molding barrel thief leaked out. The thought amused her enough to fight off the urge to walk up next to the barrel and rock it herself, an action she was sure would be intercepted by one of Vargas’s thugs. It was even enough to keep her taunting tongue tied as she glanced over at Maréngo. She was almost impressed by his ability to stomach the irritant. Had she oversaturated it with coffee? The sight of the market snuffed all thoughts of misery-making out of her head. Her eyes grew wide with greed as they consumed the stalls stocked with supplies and trinkets. Normally when she was in a market she was limited to shopping with her eyes and whatever discount she could swipe with her fingers. The parcel of gold grew heavy in her hand, the weight too much to bear. It needed to be spent. She ripped it open and an audible gasp was followed by a shuffling of hands as she stashed the money in a hidden pocket, well aware of the stickiness of the fingers of those around her. After Fontaine’s cut and the various expenses to maintain her botanical practices, it had taken Solange months of work to save up a tenth of what Vargas had just given. The stale performances weren’t even the worst of it—the amount of time spent in grueling, mind numbing conversations, so bad that she barely held back all of her urges to slash out their tongue or cut off her ears, compared to the price she was paid was pathetic. Crunching how much time she’d have to spend listening to a sailor squawk about his shipmates to make the amount of money in that envelope made Solange’s stomach turn, her cheeks burn, and her fist tighten. Her face darkened as she glanced around the market, trying to spot her companions. When Vargas had talked about the money for the ship and the gear it seemed so abstract that she hadn’t even registered it. Now that she had a fraction of the number he’d mentioned for his price, she was bewildered. Were these thieves and killers always being paid so well while women in her profession got the scraps and the sneers? She shook and spied a jeweler across the way, the morning sun glinting off of the silver and gold. The knock-offs she wore didn’t even glimmer. Her breath caught in her throat. She deserved a treat, didn’t she? She started towards the stand. Then she turned sharply. She would treat herself to fancy jewelry upon her return. Until then, she had to make sure she stayed alive, and the best way to do that was to prove to the others that she was of value. Ideally they would all come to their senses and see that she was worth dying for, but until then she’d settle for them at least wanting to keep her alive. She knew well enough that the best way to get someone to care about you was to seem to care about them. Solange found herself at Ziva’s Apothecary Supplies. She knew Ziva well enough, having tracked down her stall whenever it was convenient to find remedies for Fontaine’s girls. Generally the fellow running the stall did most of the sales while Ziva prepped the packages, yet he always shied away when Solange started speaking of the girl’s unsanitary symptoms. He seemed to recognize her, because Solange didn’t even have to say a word to catch a scowl from him as he tapped Ziva on the shoulder and turned away. Solange saw Ziva as a sort of herbalism contemporary. Ziva, well… [b]“You do not learn? I would ask why you are here, but a blindman could see the amount of paint around your mouth. So, whose dirty little pecker did you put your pretty lips too close to this time?”[/b] asked Ziva, squinting at Solange with one eye. [b][color=orchid]“Darling, you know I do not kiss and tell. Although in regards to the blind, I am less concerned with the blemishes as I am with the fragrance of my flower. You see, this morning I thought someone had hidden murdered animal in my bed because…”[/color][/b] [b]“Should really see to that delivery,”[/b] said the man as he hurried away from the stall empty handed. Solange and Ziva watched as he disappeared into the market. [b]“Has there ever been a better way to keep a man from infidelity?”[/b] asked Ziva, smirking. Ever since Ziva promised to share the occasional secret with her, Solange had accepted the role as the world’s most diseased harlot. All of it was to convince Ziva’s man that any working girl was a sickly, infested cesspit that was as likely to cause it to rot off as it was to get off. Solange did not know why Ziva didn’t trust the fellow. He didn’t seem like the whoring type, but watching him winge was enough to sell her on the premise. [b][color=orchid]“Castration, but that’s only fun once,”[/color][/b] said Solange with a dark chuckle. [b]“So, are you here for one of the girls today?”[/b] asked Ziva. [b][color=orchid]“Myself, actually,”[/color][/b] said Solange. She caught Ziva’s glance and stepped back with a mock hostility. [b][color=orchid]“Please, love, don’t give me that look like I’m an idiot, you know I can spot a social disease even before the belt is unbuckled.”[/color][/b] [b]“I know you say that. So, what are you looking for then?”[/b] Solange explained the situation of her trip without giving Ziva any ruinous details, and the woman presented several items to prepare for the most unfortunate of circumstances. A bit of back and forth later and Ziva was bundling up a package of inexpensive but proven medical supplies. She was about to tie it up with a ribbon when she looked up at Solange and said, [b]“You do have something to ward off the sailors, correct?”[/b] [b][color=orchid]“If raising my prices aren’t enough, I have also begun to win the affection of a very big and very violent Tork.”[/color][/b] [b]“I am not speaking of your virtue. I am speaking about the drowned. Ghosts of dead sailors. Sunken ships rising out of the depths, sailed by skeletons and spirits, seeking souls to consume before the night’s end. To go sailing without the proper equipment is suicide.”[/b] [b][color=orchid]“R-ridiculous,”[/color][/b] said Solange, feeling a chill run down her spine. [b][color=orchid]“If such things exist why have I never heard about it?”[/color][/b] [b]“Sailors know not to speak of it; it is bad luck. Serves as a signal to the dead. Helps them find their ships. Even knowing it is dangerous.”[/b] [b][color=orchid]“Then why tell me?”[/color][/b] barked Solange, her fingers rubbing at her throat as she felt it start to close. Did Maréngo know of such things? Why hadn’t Vargas been informed? Ziva shrugged. [b]“I thought you knew. But now you can prepare. Listen, I’ll tell you how…”[/b] Solange leaned in, listening intently as Ziva explained the necessary rituals to perform and items to prepare to fend off the spirits of the sea. By the time her explanation was done, Solange’s bundle had doubled in size as it was packed with water blessed by holy disciples of Leathe and pounds of purified salt to ward and protect. The thank yous pouring from Solange’s mouth were the most earnest words she had spoken in months, and the way her eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of her head as Ziva said that even these precautions might not be enough told the apothecary that she could fleece Solange for anything right about now. Ziva pulled a talisman out of her pocket, a black rope fastened around a piece of jade to make a bracelet. She held it out to Solange. [b]“Wear this on your wrist. If you ever find yourself confronted by a spirit of the dead, extend your hand forward. The jade will do the rest. Here.”[/b] Solange reached forward as Ziva snapped the bracelet back. [b]“This is a one of a kind spirit stone that protects the living from the dead. It’s incredible rare, worth over fifty gold, b—”[/b] [b][color=orchid]“Here!”[/color][/b] Solange didn’t even wait to hear the price drop Ziva was going to give her. Already, Vargas’s coin had swapped places with the coin and the bracelet was hanging from her left wrist. [b]“You are a smart girl,”[/b] said Ziva, wide-eyed. She didn’t even bother to protest. The gem wasn’t even true jade, but serpentine stone. The rope tied around it was worth more. Ziva quickly wrapped up the rest of the transaction before Solange could give it a second thought, not that she would. Solange stared at the stone with awe as she shifted the bundle under her arm and found her next stop, purchasing a black leather cloak to keep her dry if she was even needed above deck during a storm. Her final stop took her out of the black market and back to the legitimate storefront to stock up on general goods. She had also intended to seek out a book about the island of Gnok, either of some historical value or information on local flora. Solange instead found her nose in a book of maritime folklore and sea creatures called Faithless Fathoms: Living Below Leathe’s Light. She paid for the book, returned to the cart, and sat with her back to Neh’miah’s barrel and the book opened on her lap to a chapter about the Sumek. She reached back and tapped the barrel. [b][color=orchid]“You still breathing, love? Tap once if you’re alive, twice if you’re suffocating, and three times if—”[/color][/b] Her words pitched up into a question and grew louder as she saw Maréngo and sat up with a curious face.[b][color=orchid]“—you bought a monkey?”[/color][/b] [hider=Solange’s Purchases] 2 Apothecary’s Grace (10 Uses): 50 bits 2 Clotting Honey (? Uses): Unsure, going with 50 bits 12 Medicated Wraps: 1g 40 bits 30 Purifying Tablets: 50 bits 4 Blessed Waters: 1g 20 bits 2lbs of Purified Salts: 3g 20 bits Waterproof Cloak, Black Leather:1g 15 bits Oil Lamp: 15 bits 3 Oil Refills: 30bits Folklore Book: 17 bits Utterly Useless Trash Rock: Priceless 11g 7bits[/hider]