Who: Simon Torquill [Narrative/Open for NPC replies] What: Simon hopes that maybe this time making a sketchy deal with someone with powerful magic will end well for him. Simon is wrong. Where: Degula III marketplace When: August 4 Rating: Pending
Simon told himself when he decided to join those going to this little 'commerce planet' that he was just getting a feel for the place he'd found himself in beyond his own room. And that was a great part of it; he never liked feeling lost, and there was a small part of him that wanted to enjoy the first real freedom he'd had in decades to find the supplies to brew something simply for the pleasure of the work, and a larger portion that wanted better reassurance that E--that she wasn't here. If he'd been able to wind up here awake and mostly well despite the elfshot, surely the woman who had given him the recipe for it could do so with even greater ease. And if she could, he knew she'd follow him if only to exact her revenge, if not to put him to use to hurt and control these strangers as she'd set him against even his own family.
But his employer was a small concern, and the possibility of finding brewing supplies even smaller, when set beside the chance his dearest girl's quest might have somehow brought her here. It was entirely unconscious by now to scan every crowd for a flash of her shimmering hair, to stand and try to tease out the perfume of campfire smoke and sweet roses that had lingered on her skin since the first time he'd held her and made promises he'd been unable to keep.
Neither happened, as they had yet to happen for over one hundred years. But as he was near to accepting this was one more place to strike from the terrifyingly long list of places August was not and was letting his eyes wander the market stalls to consider the alchemical worth of the wares, he heard mention of some woman who could give anything, for a price. And maybe others from the ship would have scoffed, but he had the Luidaeg as a reluctant sister-in-law, and while he couldn't think what he still had left to sell, Simon couldn't let himself pass by such a figure without at least trying.
"My daughter," he said, without preamble and in a voice only kept steady thanks to decades of concealing anxiety from those who would turn it against him, "returned to me, precisely as she was when last I saw her, so I know it is her. Whatever you can find in me that would somehow be equal to her worth, it is yours."
After all, he'd already given absolute control of his person to women who were not here and in the case of at least one would never be anywhere again. Anything else seemed utterly inconsequential, especially when placed beside the mere idea of August.