Homo_saxual

You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”

((How do you respond?))

"My story?" He chuckles, patting the pockets of his coat- There are many, every one weighted with one trinket or another. "No, no, you're not interested in my story. It's a bore. If you're really interested in talking, let me know if you have any coin in this half-sunk village of yours. It loosens my lips terribly well." Everything about him speaks of a man putting on airs, from the lilt of his voice to the exaggerated manner he digs through his pockets. Notably, he doesn't move to sit. He doesn't even move from the entrance of the tent. "Though I'd appreciate it, eh... Wiped off first, if you would."

The crone's eyes dig into him as he produces a pipe and a box of matches from his seemingly-endless coat; Worn, but of quality make. The wood is dark, and foreign to these parts, with a curling design etched into the side. It still shines with polish in places, though chips in others. The Merchant places it between his lips, eyes shut, and strikes a match. The light bounces off the thin rags that excuse themselves as a tent, everything so squeezed together it would be a fire hazard without the damp. The traveler's posture says he is relaxed, unconcerned, at ease. And yet, the crone knows he is anything but.

The pipe lights with some small effort, the waterlogged nature of the village seeming to seep into the air itself, thick and humid. He pockets the matches one more, exhaling a soft cloud of smoke. The crone watches, eyes sharp, expectant. The Merchant cracks his own open, with a gaze to match like crossed blades. There's a long moment of silence.

But The Merchant is not known for his fortitude, and cracks first. "Fine, fine. Lets get this over with. But know that I don't owe the old man anymore favors after this one." Then, grumbling under his breath: "Telling stories to old women, like I don't have places to be."

He takes another drag of the pipe, embers softly illuminating the face beneath the hood. Light too soft for him- For his sharp, defined features, and shrewd eyes. For another long stretch, he thinks. "... Years ago, I was a barefoot child running around the streets of Nevaehlen. You don't need me to draw you the picture- Stealing stale bread from the market, dirt so deep in my heels it never left. I'm sure you've seen plenty of them. An old man, a human man, took pity on me. Said I looked something like a son he'd lost. I never knew my parents, let alone their parents, but I let him call himself my grandfather. And I suppose I... Let myself get caught up in the charade as well." There's something bitter on his tongue with that, though it might have just been the tobacco. 

"He was a cobbler. One of the first things he did for me was put shoes on my feet, and then food in my stomach- Which I appreciated a bit more. I moved into his home, slept in the bed of a dead boy, and played the part. There was a roof over my head, for the first time in a long time. Walking in the footsteps of a ghost for the poor old fool was a small price to pay." Their lips curl at that, but it's not quite a smile. Their eyes tell a different tale, words laced with that false nonchalance.

The Merchant's fingers trace the edge of the pipe, warmth finally beginning to work its way through their fingertips. "Eventually, he packed up for somewhere shoes were more popular. Had an offer to work the back of a shop in Haelun'or. We didn't have the same luxury as the purebloods, of knowing for certain there would always be a job for us and a soft bed to sleep in. It would be hard work. But it was more coin than Nevaehlen, so we went."

"I was... Fourteen, when we first arrived. Winter had only just passed. I'd get to see five Haelun'or winters before I left again, and I'd have only one friend for all of them. She was my age, local parents. They kept to themselves- Maybe they had something to hide, but I never pressed." Only those with a skilled eye would notice the lie, as it slips easily past their lips. "She was miserable there, and so was I. Suppose we bonded over being two miserable brats." They take a long drag of their pipe- Mulling over their words, caught in the memory. There's a think layer of smoke beginning to settle in the tent now. "Then, we bonded over making each other a little less miserable."

Their eyes are slightly glazed over as they speak, focusing as they walk backwards through the years. "She was almost a sister. But, no good things last longer than we want them to. The old fool got sick, we didn't have money for a doctor, and there was no charity in that city for a wood-elf and a human that couldn't work anymore. I did my part, sewing up cloaks for a single mina each, using what he taught me- But I could barely pay off the bed he slept in." They press their lips together in a grimace. "You know the rest. He died, and I ran off. Joined a travelling caravan. Started learning the trade, how to make people sell the clothes off their back and buy them for twice the coin. They even taught me my way around a sword. I'd return to Haelun'or once a year at least, for Khione- The girl, a woman now. She always wanted to leave, but she had ties there I couldn't shake for her." Their next words are quieter, almost a murmur. "She never quite forgave me for getting free of that place without her."

"Eventually, I left the caravan. They were too slow for me, and I wanted to see more of this world. Ah, and this is the part of the story you wanted to hear, isn't it?" There's something bitter in his voice, sharp and half-hidden. "It was in a port city I met the golden-haired fool. There was an encampment of pirates on the shore who decided the locals were easy pickings- He wanted the glory, I wanted the reward. Working together seemed like the smart solution, even though he had been happy to march off and try to take them on his own. When we'd cleaned them out, well, putting our coin together for passage on the same ship seemed smart as well." 

He tilts his head down on the next inhale of smoke, and up on the exhale. There's a tear in the tent above him, a small cluster of stars shining through, like a sewn-on patch. The smoke escapes through the hole, obscuring the view. "By the time the two of us got off, we already had a plan. We were headed in the same direction, we fought well together, and didn't despise the other's company. That's all either of us needed in a companion. So we went on our way. And once I had sold what I had to sell, and he had saved who he decided to save, we got on the next ship together. And the next, and the next..." The Merchant huffs out a sigh. "Until it was time for me to visit Haelun'or again, and the fool came with me. When he and Khione laid eyes on each other, they were sickening instantly." He doesn't sound sick, though. He sounds fond.

"It was head over heels. I was happy for them, happy I made it happen, and happy to keep my nose out of it. When Pythagoras and I left and returned a second time, we came back with enough money for he and Khione to leave Haelun'or together. I let them build their home, wrote regularly while I rejoined the caravan, the whole domestic racket. Pythagoras and I traveled together many more times over the years, between them building their little family. If Khione was a sister, he was as much a brother." There's something complicated dancing behind his eyes- Warmth and resentment, intertwined. "What did I say earlier? Ah, right. Good things never last as long as we want them to."

The words beginning to spill from The Merchant are increasingly genuine, straying from his long-kept guard. As if realizing this, he snaps back to the present- His eyes icing back over, cold and dark. "We had a disagreement. He was being an idiot, and wouldn't see it. Throwing his body in front of the sword for strangers when he had two boys at home. He thought me selfish, and perhaps I was- But I would live to see those boys grow, and he might not say the same. We parted ways, when things came to a head. I joined a new caravan, wrote to Khione occasionally. But she could no longer find where to send the letters when the shores of Ramasar found me, and was too busy with those boys I imagine, when I left for Vectra. I haven't been back to this damn continent since."

"Until..." He chuckles, low and bitter, around another mouthful of smoke. "Until I got a letter from a mutual acquaintance, informing me of Pythagoras' death. That was a few years ago now. I had some things to take care of, before I packed up and left for the fool one last time. I'm here for Khione, and her sons. Nothing more. Certainly not the kind memories." Those last words have a bite to them. A wry smile pulls at The Merchant's lips, as he gestures forwards with his pipe.

"That enough for you, witch?" 

(Notes: Khione is dead, though he doesn't know that yet- Just to assure that this doesn't refer to any other "Khione"s that may be on the server. Also, let me know if there are any lore inaccuracies and I'll fix them right up!)