2017-05-26: Just a Nice, Normal Commission, Nothing To See Here
- Log: Just a Nice, Normal Commission, Nothing To See Here
- Cast: Noah Hawthorne, Gwen Whitlock
- Where: Adlehyde Adventurer's Guildhouse
- Date: 5/26/2017
- Summary: Noah needs materials for a little project of his. Gwen has a cart and a horse. They make an agreement. (Note: This deal conveniently takes place before the Adlehyde Metal Demon Invasion.)
===========================<* East Centalo Island *>============================ The eastern side of Centalo Island is idyllic. This is among the wealthiest and most prosperous parts of Adlehyde. The largest settlement is Saint Centour, but smaller towns dot the countryside here. Even here, though, one can find ruins and bits of the past. The greatest of these is the enormous wall known as "The End of the World." It rises higher than some mountains and forms a curtain along the eastern horizon for much of the island. This effectively cuts Centalo in half, as boats approaching the fabled Lost Land on the western half of the island have never returned, and the titanic megastructure has never been climbed. Despite this, the farmlands and villages here are peaceful, and far away from the troubles of the mainland. BGM: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfRBmqBlzzQ <Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
The easiest place to meet Noah Hawthorne for a chat these days is at the Adlehyde Adventurer's Guildhouse itself. Typically sleepy throughout the early hours of the day -- Drifters are not by most standards early risers -- it has seen a sudden spate of unusual activity over the course of the last week or so as numberless provisioners and mercenaries respond to the notices that Noah himself left on the board.
As much as he may dislike being caged indoors, it's convenient to his needs, and he's set up 'shop' in one of the booths along the wall. Motes of dust bubble through the bolt of sunlight that spears through the window there and splashes over the tabletop, now covered in stacks of documents, letters, hand-transcribed information left for him on Memory Cubes, etcetera. Situated behind them he seems peculiarly out of place: he is neither built nor attired for clerical work. Still, pen in hand and hazel eyes nailed to a contract in front of him with all of the determined focus that a tumbler of whiskey can facilitate, he makes a convincing run at looking as though he knows exactly what he's doing.
Even as he sits there, waiting for the person he agreed to meet to arrive, another courier appears seemingly out of nowhere and drops off a stack of folded inquiries. He glances aside at them, double-takes at the size of the pile, and then lets a long exhale bleed out of his chest setting down his pen and briefly closing and rubbing his eyes. He does not appear to be getting much in the way of sleep.
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
One of myriad of Drifters snooping into the Guildhouse is one Gwen Whitlock, who slips back the hat from her head as she walks in, allowing it to dangle from a cord around her neck. Running her gloved hands through her short hair, she looks around- first to the left, then to the right, then on the resolute-looking man sitting at sort of a make-shift booth nearby. "Noah Hawthorne?" She approaches with a friendly grin and her left hand at the ready to extend every freelancer's choice weapon in regards to business- The Handshake. If he confirms, Gwen states, "Gwen Whitlock-"
"-Super courier," says a tired clerk behind another desk, a regular who is clearly in the running for Noah's 'least sleep' award. Gwen looks over her shoulder and points a thumb over it. "What he said. I understand you've been a busy guy, puttin' up all these notices. I happen to specialize in getting packages from point A to point B, so I was wonderin' if maybe my business could possibly help in gettin' some supplies to yours. For a fee, of course. But I reckon it'll open up some more venues for supplies for..." The confident smile dips. "... the... thing, that you are doing."
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
Noah's hand falls away from his face as the bootfalls that approach his booth don't veer off in some other direction, and the voice that he hears, slightly above him, is angled down in his direction. He blinks repeatedly to clear the rub-induced blurring, until Gwen's person resolves into all of its particulars, including that outstretched, gloved hand of hers.
He takes it, gives it a shake, and then gestures at the bench seat on the opposite side of the table. There's not enough room to clear everything away, and in any case things seem to be sorted into piles with specific purpose, so he leaves it all where it is. Should her curious eyes take to wandering, there's a great deal to be gleaned from what's visible. Most of what he's purchasing are perishables, but they're far from the only items he's buying. He'd asked in one of the notice board advertisements for firewood, but the contract on the table lists wood stocks in sizes and quantities more appropriate to construction. Same goes for the -- stone blocks?
"Noah. Hawthorne. Have a seat, Gwen." His accent is peculiar, a mingled jumble of influences from different places, perhaps. He flicks a look at the weary-looking clerk, then drags a small smile out of hiding. Even exhausted, it causes his eyes to glitter. Smiles come easy to Noah. "Let's talk about what you can do. This isn't small-ticket stuff we're talking about. How are you planning to move it?"
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
Give them a nice firm handshake to let them know you're confident. Gwen read that in a manual someplace. And that she does, even if the metal hand on her right would've done the job far better with little effort. It's a subconscious thing: never shake with the hand you blow bullets out of, even if it isn't loaded.
Taking a seat at the bench seat indicated opposite him, storm blue eyes occasionally chancing a few flicks of a glance down on the papers on the table. Hm. Perishables. Yes, Gwen can certainly handle those. Lumber. Definitely. And-
Stone. wait what
Noah mentions the potential weight of the items. Gwen manages to keep that constant smile on her face, even as she inwardly panics, trying a grand attempt to do the math in her head. Her cart was cleared for how much weight?
Fake. It. Until. You. Make. It.
"I see." She raises her hands slightly, palms up. "Well, I got a cart. Well, it's a wagon, really. Four wheels. And a horse. It can handle a decent amount of weight. How big are we talkin'? I could always get somethin' special if we're talkin' stone or whatnot." Wait no gwen, you know what's going to happen there, you'll haul the damn thing yourself "My horse is from true Badlands stock- he can get things to where they need to be, no matter what. Barrin', well, political borders and whatever, but y'get what I'm sayin'. And, well, I'm from the Badlands as well, so I guess that makes me much the same."
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
It's an easy question and it should have an easy answer. She keeps smiling, but there's a pause, and Noah's task becomes trying to decide what that pause signifies. Is she out to steal things, and not really a courier at all? But no -- the clerk knew her. That tired little chiming-in that he did may have just kept her in the running for a job.
Maybe just new at what she's doing. Maybe just not prepared for the size of the job, but in need of the gella.
He tilts back in his seat, lifting one arm to array it along the back of the booth seat, head canted fractionally over to one side. Weighing. Considering.
"It's a lot to move. I've been negotiating the costs of transportation into my contracts -- but I think we can swing this to the benefit of the both of us. I'll pay you less to move them than I would've had to pay them, but you'll get to move the whole lot -- as long as you can stay ahead of the deadline. You fall behind, you're out. Timing on this is not negotiable." He ticks a brow upward after a long moment, turn his hands over, spreads them. "It's a lot of work. Even with the reduced pay it's probably more than you could make taking freelance jobs around Adlehyde."
And if the information that Cassidy gave him is right, there may not be an Adlehyde for much longer, anyway.
"Think you can handle that, Badlands?"
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
The clerk definitely knew her, title and all. And, with that air of a fresh-faced teenager (if a bit older), she could very well be new. Or, worse, making it all up as she went along.
%R She's not impulsive enough to not allow him time to think, glancing back at Noah with eagerness as he begins to speak again. She nods along agreeably, crossing her legs as, meanwhile, her mental calculations come up with a few numbers.
'Don't push it'. 'Think of your horse'. 'This is over your head'.
Then Noah offers a number of his own, if just as vague in numerical value. That settles it. "And that there was what I was thinkin', too. Now, I can't move a mountain in a day, but I was certain there were clients who just can't make a journey or two, even if there's money on the other side of it. So, if you can give me an idea of the quantity and variety we're talkin' about, I sure could. No need for specifics right now, 'course. And if you need testimonials-"
The client speaks up with a tired voice, as if on cue. "... You have another parcel for Mr. Barret, Miss Whitlock."
Gwen looks up. "-Another? Man, I'm jealous. Does that woman ever stop writin'?" The clerk sighs and shakes his head, but not before giving Noah a smile in return. Gwen herself switches her focus back to Noah, chuckling. "Er, well. Point is, I sure can. If my horse and car- er, wagon can't handle it, we'll figure out what to do from there, but I got a few ideas."
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
'If you can give me an idea of the quantity and variety we're talking about,' she says, and the corner of Noah's mouth twitches once. He lifts both of his hands, opens them to either side of the table, palms slanted upward on angles, as though presenting her with the whole of the well-organized mess thereon. Which is what he's doing, actually. "This," he says, in case it isn't abundantly clear, "Is the quantity and variety. Feel free to have a look."
It's probably for the best that he doesn't yet know the name Vin Barrett. He tracks that exchange in silence, but it means nothing to him. If only he knew.
"I need to know soon. I don't find out from you soon, I'm going to have to go with somebody else. I can't stress that enough, Gwen. This has to be done before the Exhibition. All of it."
It's a tall order, to be sure, and a strange request into the bargain, perhaps, but people rarely ask questions about the whys of a thing when someone with money is throwing that money around in large quantities. It's the prerogative of the wealthy to spend money poorly, one imagines -- though Noah hardly looks well-to-do.
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
"-Ah. I see." Gwen gives a single nod regarding the pile of papers. She thinks on it, picking up a few random sheets of paper, looking them over, then placing them back in their proper piles.
It'll be well-paid work, but it'll be a lot of it. Probably more at once than she's had to handle in a while, if ever. And he needs to know soon.
And it all needs to be done before the Exhibition. "My guessin' is that I may be the only person crazy enough to get this done." She plops the final stack of papers down, takes in a breath, then lets the grin on her lips spread like wildfire. "Well. This just means I gotta start sooner rather than later. Y'got a deal. Though, I gotta ask, what's all this for? You buildin' a new city or something?" Crazier things have happened, especially out in the Badlands.
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
Patience isn't historically Noah's strong suit, but he's had to demonstrate buckets of it since taking it upon himself to helm...whatever this is, whyever for. He puts some of that to use now, sitting there in his lazy backward lean, arm draped and eyes lidded, watching her look through the documents that surely have nothing to do with an expedition -- and that's the prevailing narrative, at least publicly. That he's setting up some sort of expedition.
One look at the contracts says that can't possibly be true, unless it's an expedition unlike any ever undertaken before. And while that's possible...
The odds are not good.
She signs up anyway, and then asks the million-gella question flat-out -- something nobody else has done, possibly because it's usually safer not to dig too deeply into the jobs being offered at the Guild. Paranoia is alive and well in Ignas, and people are cagey at the best of times. They probably thought that asking too many questions would get them tossed out. Gwen doesn't get tossed out, though. She gets a lazy, leonine smile from her tablemate.
"Could be," he allows, smile widening enough to contain a flash of white. He looks amused enough by giving her the answer that it's not clear whether he's joking or not. That does seem to be the extent of what he's willing to say, because he draws his arm off of the back of the booth and leans forward to pick up his pen, gaze once more dropped to the sheet he'd been adjusting when she arrived.
"You stop in later tonight and I'll have a contract for you. Once that's signed, you can get to work. I'll be checking your progress time to time, so you'll want somewhere to stay while you're working, if you haven't got someplace already."
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
It's crazy. It's so crazy that she had to ask, even, something she usually doesn't do.
And maybe, if Morgan hadn't mentioned a man named Noah once to the effect of 'almost died again' or something to that effect, Gwen would consider walking away. She had considered the idea that this Noah was not the Noah currently in front of her, but the more she looks at the little details, such as the expedition that isn't an expedition at all or otherwise the strangest one ever attempted, the short, almost impossible time frame, the general lack of details? And then, that smile.
It has to be the same Noah. Gwen's going to just jump to conclusions and say it is, without a doubt, the same Noah.
And well, if he doesn't pay her, she'll know who to bug. "My, my, holding back on the details, eh? Well, if the Adventurer's Guild hasn't thrown you out, I'm gonna just assume that sayin' 'yes' is gonna at least give me a lot more of an interesting story than if I did the boring thing and left the offer be." She lazily rubs the back of her neck, looking up towards the ceiling, then back down. So yeah. Sounds good. Got a few deliveries to make in town anyway." She stands up, rolling one shoulder. "Anythin' else I should know before I jump into this deal?"
<Pose Tracker> Noah Hawthorne has posed.
"Sometimes discretion is important," says the man who has been chased out of several dozen ladies' boudoirs in the early hours by their regularly-scheduled love interests, among other transgressions against the very definition of discretionf. He seems to mean it, though.
"Let's both hope it doesn't turn out to be too interesting a story. You don't wanna know what things in my life look like when they get that interesting." In his mind's eye flashes a recent memory: of a Malevolence-warped kraken, tentacles dashing the interior of a cavern to pieces, one of those tentacles particularly deadly on account of the bearcat glued to the end of it--
Strangely enough it's the last question she asks him that gives him pause. He hesitates in his writing, nib of the pen hovering over the page, and after some moments ticks his gaze up to rest on her. There are things in his eyes that he's not saying, and he visibly debates with himself about whether or not to say them.
"It might be easiest for your work if you stay out at the warehouse where the goods are being kept. It's outside of town, but you can rest there in the evenings after you make your deliveries and just head back into town the next day to pick things up. Think about it."
That isn't exactly what he wanted to say. What he wanted to say was, maybe you should think about keeping your valuables outside of Adlehyde, but that would just create more questions than it answered -- and for all he knows, nothing's going to happen, anyway.
<Pose Tracker> Gwen Whitlock has posed.
Noah's answer seems to satisfy Gwen- at least, enough that she chuckles and nods. "As long as it's nothing that'll jeopardize my business." Well, not enough that the money won't pay for it. Ah, if this pays out like it just might, she *could* get a proper wagon, with compartments and maybe a secret storage area, and a seat! She could sit if she wanted to! Maybe one with a COVER, not just a blanket, ah, the possibilities...
Oh right, stories, nothing too interesting, yes.
Tapping a finger to her chin, those grey eyes flicking upwards, Gwen replies, "I think I may have an idea of what you're getting at there." Then quickly, she adds, "Just from what I'm guessing." It seems more amusing to not mention Morgan, especially since, well, this Noah *still* could be another Noah than the one Morgan mentioned.
It just seemed hilarious to think of things ending up that way.
"Really? Well, that definitely makes my job easier, then! As long as there's a spot for Gulliver- er, my horse, that is, that'd be great."
There will be a time when this statement would come to provide Gwen some comfort. Even if it would be temporary, those few nights before the Exhibition would be well-rested, at the very least, before the end finally came.
But right now, with the sun shining outside, people bustling about the streets, and the shouts of an angry carriage rider navigating his horse, it's business as usual. It'd be easy to believe that nothing would happen.
If only that were going to be the case.