Post by Burgundy on Oct 18, 2021 13:28:11 GMT -5
San Faldo, the city of 365 celebrations – the very definition of a tourist trap. Ever since it was connected to the most beneficial trade route in the Grand Line, it has become flush with resources and business. Why, every day was a unique business opportunity, although to what end was questionable. Some days were better for some hearty adventures into capitalism than others, after all.
For example, today was San Faldo's Celebration 'Ala Barba', or what some liked to call National Beard Day. The breadth of citizens pacing the streets in jovial celebration either sported a ridiculous beard of some sort, or were wearing an obviously fake beard – even the women and especially the children.
One individual among these crowds stood out like a sore thumb because of how much of a stick in the mud he was being. Dressed in only the businessiest of suits, carrying a briefcase, with a sour look on his clean-shaven face. Were those things on his face side burns or mutton chops? It was at just the right length to be neither, it seemed, which meant it didn't count either. Of course this man was of little renown, and with that came a certain lack of credibility.
The sour look on his face was simply because he'd been refused a service he didn't suspect he could have been refused. Lawrence, despite operating as a businessman on the Grand Line for a while, apparently didn't have a certain requirement that was gatekeeping him from getting a certain ship he had his eye on. It was a 'business-class' ship, but as opposed to a real merchant ship with a ton of space for supplies, it was a caravel, which should have been simple enough to get from place to place without needing to fight every passing tide, with a minimal crew.
But he was apparently not 'enough' of a business, since he didn't even have any employee forms on hand. He'd mentioned to the salesman that he had simply left the forms on his other boat, and took off to go get them, but the truth was that he didn't have any employees yet. He'd planned on hiring just enough crewmen to man his ship comfortably after he got it, but he'd stubbornly gotten attached to this particular ship, so he didn't have one just yet. Of course, this meant he did have forms, they just weren't filled out.
So where was a dour accountant off to at this juncture, in which he needed an employee quickly and with the fewest possible questions, even if just for show? Why, where anybody in that situation should go, of course – To a tavern, in search of mercenaries! A simple hireling or two couldn't possibly be expensive enough to forestall his operation.
After asking around for some information, he'd managed to wring a clue to a good place to start from some tourists, who really just flippantly accused a specific place of being 'seedy as hell', but that was exactly the sort of place to find mercenaries and thugs of every variety. This specific place was known as 'The Drunken Flail' and was befittingly renown for the proclivity of its regulars to indulge in their baser instincts and skirmish over what seems to be trivial matters.
Standing in front of it, there was already fighting audible from within. Lawrence pinched the bridge of his nose as he considered his situation. He had a bit of a time limit here, the credibility of his lie was draining swiftly as time went on over these last three hours and twenty-seven minutes. Nothing to lose but some money and some face.
He pushed the saloon-style doors open and walked in, accidentally stepping on a squeaky floor panel as he entered and grabbed the attention of the whole tavern in one fell swoop. Many individuals caught mid-fight in a number of humorous poses, stalled out as though with a freezeframe. With so many eyes staring at him, one might expect him to quiver as much as they'd expect him to spit a one-liner. But the man who carried on such fears or fancies died around a decade prior at one business meeting or another, and in his place stood the overworked, stressed-out salaryman who just looked like he needed a drink.
Lawrence started walking to an out of the way table, saying offhandedly almost as though he didn't want to be heard, "I've got a job for anybody with sealegs and a good back." When he sat down and folded his fingers in front of him as he rested his elbows on the table, a handful of men just... stopped fighting to approach or talk with somebody else at their table? What were they even fighting about in the first place?
For example, today was San Faldo's Celebration 'Ala Barba', or what some liked to call National Beard Day. The breadth of citizens pacing the streets in jovial celebration either sported a ridiculous beard of some sort, or were wearing an obviously fake beard – even the women and especially the children.
One individual among these crowds stood out like a sore thumb because of how much of a stick in the mud he was being. Dressed in only the businessiest of suits, carrying a briefcase, with a sour look on his clean-shaven face. Were those things on his face side burns or mutton chops? It was at just the right length to be neither, it seemed, which meant it didn't count either. Of course this man was of little renown, and with that came a certain lack of credibility.
The sour look on his face was simply because he'd been refused a service he didn't suspect he could have been refused. Lawrence, despite operating as a businessman on the Grand Line for a while, apparently didn't have a certain requirement that was gatekeeping him from getting a certain ship he had his eye on. It was a 'business-class' ship, but as opposed to a real merchant ship with a ton of space for supplies, it was a caravel, which should have been simple enough to get from place to place without needing to fight every passing tide, with a minimal crew.
But he was apparently not 'enough' of a business, since he didn't even have any employee forms on hand. He'd mentioned to the salesman that he had simply left the forms on his other boat, and took off to go get them, but the truth was that he didn't have any employees yet. He'd planned on hiring just enough crewmen to man his ship comfortably after he got it, but he'd stubbornly gotten attached to this particular ship, so he didn't have one just yet. Of course, this meant he did have forms, they just weren't filled out.
So where was a dour accountant off to at this juncture, in which he needed an employee quickly and with the fewest possible questions, even if just for show? Why, where anybody in that situation should go, of course – To a tavern, in search of mercenaries! A simple hireling or two couldn't possibly be expensive enough to forestall his operation.
After asking around for some information, he'd managed to wring a clue to a good place to start from some tourists, who really just flippantly accused a specific place of being 'seedy as hell', but that was exactly the sort of place to find mercenaries and thugs of every variety. This specific place was known as 'The Drunken Flail' and was befittingly renown for the proclivity of its regulars to indulge in their baser instincts and skirmish over what seems to be trivial matters.
Standing in front of it, there was already fighting audible from within. Lawrence pinched the bridge of his nose as he considered his situation. He had a bit of a time limit here, the credibility of his lie was draining swiftly as time went on over these last three hours and twenty-seven minutes. Nothing to lose but some money and some face.
He pushed the saloon-style doors open and walked in, accidentally stepping on a squeaky floor panel as he entered and grabbed the attention of the whole tavern in one fell swoop. Many individuals caught mid-fight in a number of humorous poses, stalled out as though with a freezeframe. With so many eyes staring at him, one might expect him to quiver as much as they'd expect him to spit a one-liner. But the man who carried on such fears or fancies died around a decade prior at one business meeting or another, and in his place stood the overworked, stressed-out salaryman who just looked like he needed a drink.
Lawrence started walking to an out of the way table, saying offhandedly almost as though he didn't want to be heard, "I've got a job for anybody with sealegs and a good back." When he sat down and folded his fingers in front of him as he rested his elbows on the table, a handful of men just... stopped fighting to approach or talk with somebody else at their table? What were they even fighting about in the first place?