Post by Deleted on Feb 2, 2014 4:06:04 GMT -5
The desert sun bared down heavily on the Bazaar of Spice Merchants, the meager shade provided by the portable stalls drawing the customers close enough to fall victim to the expert sales techniques of Zarazara Island's skilled merchants. One young woman, distracted by the heat and the unhappy child she held onto with one arm, had found herself in the middle of purchasing a bottle of ground cumin without fully realizing it.
"Is it fresh, you ask?" The portly merchant said apropos of nothing as he went to measure out the agreed upon portion. "Of course, of course! Ground not an hour ago!" His tongue flicked out of his mouth and touched the bottom of his bushy grey mustache as he bent over the large bag of spice. This boast was nothing more than a sales technique, of course, but the merchant assauged any potential guilt by reminding himself that it wasn't a complete lie. The shipment had just arrived; who was he to assume they hadn't prepared it immediately beforehand?
The old man paused as he felt his scoop brush up against something firm. He thought little of it until the powder began shifting and an insect emerged from the bag. The merchant stumbled back in shock, dropping his scoop and leaning against his storefront for support. The interloper took this opportunity to fly past him. It dipped slightly, nearly landing on the customer's face before righting itself and disappearing into the crowd.
"I-I can explain that," the humiliated vendor stammered, but his customer disappeared as quickly as the insect that had frightened her away. Meanwhile, said insect made its way to the flat, blue and purple roof of a nearby residence, hovering about a foot above it before suddenly and rapidly expanding into the form of a tall man in a coat ill-suited for the climate.
Greyberry stood on the rooftop for a moment, impatiently tapping his foot. The journey to South Blue had been easy but created what were, in his opinion, unnecessary complications. It had been decided by the higher-ups that a large ship leaving Baltigo for the Blues was likely to arouse suspicion, so Greyberry had been required to stow away on a series of ships, and instructed to procure his own on site after arriving in South Blue. This was only the first of his errands to complete on Zarazara Island.
The second, which had Greyberry wasting his time on this roof top, would become apparent shortly. Hearing the telltale beating of wings, he looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. A smirk crossed the officer's face as he spied the distinctive green and white plumage of the messenger, but faded as he abruptly nodded off. He was awoken not more than a few seconds later by the bird, which had landed in front of him and begun squawking to get his attention.
The highly intelligent Barista Bird was Liberica's favored method of communicating with field agents, and this was far from Greyberry's first encounter with one. The bird puffed its chest out in his direction, prompting him to kneel down and take the porcelain cup that was strapped to its chest. He was careful not to touch the bird itself, but could still feel the unusual amount of heat radiating from its body. Its unusual survival adaptation was working extra hard to cope with the desert heat, as well as keep its cargo at an optimal temperature.
Greyberry wrapped his fingers around the lid of the cup, but was interrupted by another, somehow angrier squawk from the bird. Muttering under his breath, he dug into his coat pocket with his free hand and tossed a few coins on the ground. Mollified, the bird scooped them up in its unusually large beak, gave a much more pleasant chirp, and flew off. Alone again, Greyberry ripped the lid off of the cup, staring down into its contents.
“That's a nice goatee,” Greyberry admitted, a twinge of sincerity sneaking into his normally blasé tone. The cup contained only ordinary cappuccino, but meticulously etched into the top layer of foam was a portrait of a man, in his twenties, perhaps, with sharp eyes and well groomed facial hair. Without any other information or distinguishing features, the man would be incredibly difficult to find, but Greyberry was confident that given enough time and effort, he'd turn up. He took a long draw of the beverage, destroying the picture before the identity of the agent portrayed could be compromised.
For now, he'd focus on his first task. The bulk of his operational budget had just been given away as gratuity, so buying a ship was currently out of the question. And while stealing one was a possibility, it struck him as a bit early in the operation to start drawing attention to himself. Luckily, one piece of intelligence he had been provided with before leaving Baltigo gave him a strong lead. One of the island's senators, a man named Attahiru, had vocally opposed the establishment of a WG controlled nation on Mount Obsidian. While Attahiru's concerns were mostly economic, he had been flagged as a potential source of support in the region.
Finishing his drink and setting the empty cup down gently on the rooftop, Greyberry prepared to set off and make his case to the senator. It wasn't a task he was well suited for; if Attahiru didn't immediately see the necessity of the Revolutionary cause there was unlikely to be much common ground between them, and furthermore he had no idea where to find the man. But locating one senator was sure to be a trivial task for a man who never sleeps. “Or at least, never sleeps for very long,” Greyberry thought as he awoke from a micronap and his body began to shrink and reshape, compressing into the much smaller form of a cicada. Beating his wings rapidly, he took off from the rooftop.
"Is it fresh, you ask?" The portly merchant said apropos of nothing as he went to measure out the agreed upon portion. "Of course, of course! Ground not an hour ago!" His tongue flicked out of his mouth and touched the bottom of his bushy grey mustache as he bent over the large bag of spice. This boast was nothing more than a sales technique, of course, but the merchant assauged any potential guilt by reminding himself that it wasn't a complete lie. The shipment had just arrived; who was he to assume they hadn't prepared it immediately beforehand?
The old man paused as he felt his scoop brush up against something firm. He thought little of it until the powder began shifting and an insect emerged from the bag. The merchant stumbled back in shock, dropping his scoop and leaning against his storefront for support. The interloper took this opportunity to fly past him. It dipped slightly, nearly landing on the customer's face before righting itself and disappearing into the crowd.
"I-I can explain that," the humiliated vendor stammered, but his customer disappeared as quickly as the insect that had frightened her away. Meanwhile, said insect made its way to the flat, blue and purple roof of a nearby residence, hovering about a foot above it before suddenly and rapidly expanding into the form of a tall man in a coat ill-suited for the climate.
Greyberry stood on the rooftop for a moment, impatiently tapping his foot. The journey to South Blue had been easy but created what were, in his opinion, unnecessary complications. It had been decided by the higher-ups that a large ship leaving Baltigo for the Blues was likely to arouse suspicion, so Greyberry had been required to stow away on a series of ships, and instructed to procure his own on site after arriving in South Blue. This was only the first of his errands to complete on Zarazara Island.
The second, which had Greyberry wasting his time on this roof top, would become apparent shortly. Hearing the telltale beating of wings, he looked up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. A smirk crossed the officer's face as he spied the distinctive green and white plumage of the messenger, but faded as he abruptly nodded off. He was awoken not more than a few seconds later by the bird, which had landed in front of him and begun squawking to get his attention.
The highly intelligent Barista Bird was Liberica's favored method of communicating with field agents, and this was far from Greyberry's first encounter with one. The bird puffed its chest out in his direction, prompting him to kneel down and take the porcelain cup that was strapped to its chest. He was careful not to touch the bird itself, but could still feel the unusual amount of heat radiating from its body. Its unusual survival adaptation was working extra hard to cope with the desert heat, as well as keep its cargo at an optimal temperature.
Greyberry wrapped his fingers around the lid of the cup, but was interrupted by another, somehow angrier squawk from the bird. Muttering under his breath, he dug into his coat pocket with his free hand and tossed a few coins on the ground. Mollified, the bird scooped them up in its unusually large beak, gave a much more pleasant chirp, and flew off. Alone again, Greyberry ripped the lid off of the cup, staring down into its contents.
“That's a nice goatee,” Greyberry admitted, a twinge of sincerity sneaking into his normally blasé tone. The cup contained only ordinary cappuccino, but meticulously etched into the top layer of foam was a portrait of a man, in his twenties, perhaps, with sharp eyes and well groomed facial hair. Without any other information or distinguishing features, the man would be incredibly difficult to find, but Greyberry was confident that given enough time and effort, he'd turn up. He took a long draw of the beverage, destroying the picture before the identity of the agent portrayed could be compromised.
For now, he'd focus on his first task. The bulk of his operational budget had just been given away as gratuity, so buying a ship was currently out of the question. And while stealing one was a possibility, it struck him as a bit early in the operation to start drawing attention to himself. Luckily, one piece of intelligence he had been provided with before leaving Baltigo gave him a strong lead. One of the island's senators, a man named Attahiru, had vocally opposed the establishment of a WG controlled nation on Mount Obsidian. While Attahiru's concerns were mostly economic, he had been flagged as a potential source of support in the region.
Finishing his drink and setting the empty cup down gently on the rooftop, Greyberry prepared to set off and make his case to the senator. It wasn't a task he was well suited for; if Attahiru didn't immediately see the necessity of the Revolutionary cause there was unlikely to be much common ground between them, and furthermore he had no idea where to find the man. But locating one senator was sure to be a trivial task for a man who never sleeps. “Or at least, never sleeps for very long,” Greyberry thought as he awoke from a micronap and his body began to shrink and reshape, compressing into the much smaller form of a cicada. Beating his wings rapidly, he took off from the rooftop.